Regency Surrender: Notorious Secrets: The Soldier's Dark Secret / The Soldier's Rebel Lover. Marguerite Kaye

death. Lies, all lies, but beneath the glossing over of reality lay one inalienable truth. They had died doing their duty for their country. Their death had a purpose.

      The others, though, the families of those thankfully rare cases where death had been self-inflicted, they had no such truths to console them for what he had once, God forgive him, thought the most heinous of crimes. He searched for Celeste’s hands once more, gripping them tightly. ‘This letter, it’s a great deal more than most have in such circumstances. Will you tell me what she said, and then I will be able to see how I might be able to help you?’

      She considered it, looking at him earnestly, but eventually shook her head. ‘Not yet. I can’t.’ She slipped from his grasp, getting to her feet with an apologetic look. ‘I appreciate you sharing your experience of what is a painful and delicate subject. And for being so careful of my feelings. I do not discount your offer to help—it is most generous, but I must consider it carefully. The emotions involved are intensely private. Do you understand?’

      Much as he wished to, he resisted the temptation to press her, because he did understand that, only too well. Jack got wearily to his feet. ‘I have no other demands on my time or my services, so please take as much time as you need.’

      * * *

      Following a sleepless night, Celeste felt wrung out like one of her painting rags after washing. In the end, she had decided to trust Jack. She could not imagine having the conversation they’d had yesterday with a complete stranger, and she could not expect that a complete stranger would have demonstrated the tact or level of understanding Jack had of such matters.

      It was not really such a leap of faith when she laid it out logically like that, to trust him. But it was not logic which ultimately convinced her. It was only after he had left her, when she had recovered from the dull ache precipitated by speaking of her mother’s death, that she realised how difficult it must have been for him to talk so sensitively on such a delicate matter. Soldiers were men of war. Soldiers were tough, and brave and bold. English soldiers were famous for their courage and their staunchness in the face of adversity. They did not cry. They did not fear. They most certainly did not have a conscience. Or so she’d thought. Assumed, she corrected herself, because until she met Jack, Celeste thought shamefully, she hadn’t actually thought about it much at all.

      She remembered the reports in the newspapers after Waterloo. Death on the battlefield was neither clean nor quick. It was no wonder that the men who fought suffered from—what was it Jack had called it?—an extreme melancholy after witnessing all that horror and suffering. Was Jack suffering from that too? There had been moments yesterday when she thought he spoke from personal experience. But then he did, she reminded herself, thinking of the letters he’d mentioned having to write. The point was he understood and that was why she could trust him.

      ‘May I come in?’

      As if she had summoned him, the man himself stood in the doorway of Celeste’s temporary studio. Dressed in a pair of tight-fitting pantaloons which showed off his long legs to good effect, and a coat which enhanced his broad shoulders, his cravat was neatly tied, and his jaw freshly shaved.

      ‘You look very—handsomely dressed,’ Celeste said, taken by surprise once more by the force of the attraction she felt for him. The clothes of an English gentleman not only accentuated his muscular physique, but they also, somehow, accentuated the fact that the man wearing them was not always a gentleman. In fact he was just a little bit dangerous. And, yes, a trifle intimidating too.

      ‘Which is a polite way of saying I look a lot less shoddy than normal,’ Jack said, closing the door behind him. ‘You, if I may say so, look as ravishing as usual. And believe me, I have seen my fair share of beauties. A perk of the job, working on Wellington’s staff.’

      ‘So his reputation, the French press did not exaggerate it?’

      ‘I doubt it possible.’

      Celeste smiled, but the sight of the letter sitting where she had lain it in preparation made it a forced affair. She picked it up, but despite her resolve, found herself surprisingly reluctant to hand it over. ‘Are you still— Your offer to help, is it still open?’

      ‘Of course. I want very much to—’

      ‘Only I would not wish to presume,’ Celeste interrupted, ‘and it occurred to me that perhaps you offered only because you felt a little sorry for me.’

      ‘No. I understand what you are experiencing, that is all, and I wish to prevent you from— Is that the letter?’ Jack said, holding out his hand.

      ‘Yes.’ Celeste still kept a firm grip on it. ‘I don’t know what people commonly write in such missives...’

      ‘Most do not write anything,’ Jack said, ‘as far as I am aware. Or they merely reassure their families that they love them.’

      ‘Well, in that one regard my mother has followed the custom,’ Celeste said acerbically, ‘though it is the one thing I know for certain to be a lie.’ A brief silence met this remark. She flushed, annoyed at having betrayed herself. ‘It is more of a puzzle than it is a confession,’ she said, gazing down at the letter again. ‘I admit it has me baffled. What we need is someone to make sense of it—what on earth have I said to amuse you?’

      ‘Not amused, so much as taken aback, I am sorry,’ Jack said, his expression once more serious. ‘It’s just that solving puzzles is—was—my stock in trade. I have a certain reputation as an expert in acrostics. My brother would be shocked at your ignorance, for he mistakenly delights in my minor fame.’ He took her hand. ‘Celeste, I was Wellington’s code-breaker.’

      She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘I’m sorry, but I truly am ignorant of these things.’ She broke off, staring as the implications of what Jack had said finally dawned on her. ‘Code-breaker? Do you mean you were a spy?’

      ‘After a fashion, though not, I suspect, in quite the way you are imagining. Not so much cloak and dagger as pen and paper. Information,’ Jack clarified. ‘Contrary to what civilians believe, wars are not won on the battlefield. Obviously, the battlefield is where matters are finally resolved, but getting there at the right time, in the correct field positions, having the men and the horses and the artillery all lined up, and knowing your enemy—his strategies, his positions, his plans, his firepower—that’s what wins or loses a war. Having a retreat planned if required. And knowing what you’re going to do if you break through his ranks—those matter too. You’ve no idea how many battles are lost when a commander in the field gets too far ahead of himself, or finds himself in retreat when no organised withdrawal has been planned.’

      ‘You are right, I have absolutely no idea.’

      Jack laughed. ‘Put simply, information is what an army thrives on. My role was to assimilate that information to allow the generals to plot their campaigns and I did that by cracking codes, by piecing together different snippets from different sources and assembling them in an order that made sense. Solving puzzles, in other words.’

      ‘And that, I am pleased to say, does make sense.’ Without giving herself the chance to rethink the decision again, Celeste handed Jack the letter.

      ‘Thank you. May I read it now?’

      Her nerves jangling, she nodded. Jack sat down on the chaise longue which she had positioned in front of her easel. Unable to watch him, she busied herself, opening her precious box of paints and making an unnecessary inventory of the powders and pigments in their glass vials, of her brushes and oils. Behind her, she could hear the faintest rustle of paper worn thin by her many readings. A squeak, which must be Jack’s boots as he shifted in his seat. Another rustle. He was taking an age. He must have gone back to the beginning. She wondered if she should set about stretching a canvas, but immediately abandoned the idea. Her hands were shaking. She began to rearrange her paints again.

      ‘I’m finished.’

      Celeste whirled around, dropping a vial of cadmium-yellow which, fortunately for her and the floor covering, landed softly on a rug without breaking. Cursing