A Reckless Promise. Кейси Майклс

EXTRACT

       COPYRIGHT

       PROLOGUE

      March, 1814

      Somewhere near Montmort-Lucy, France

      RUMOR HAD IT in the camp that their guards were nervous. That Bonaparte’s victory over the Allies at Champaubert had only served as a temporary delay in toppling the French emperor from his throne.

      Indeed, Jeremiah Rigby had returned from his morning constitutional around the perimeter of the prisoner-of-war camp to report that he’d counted ten less guards than had been at their posts the previous day.

      And eight more bodies. The wounded were succumbing with disturbing frequency over a month into their captivity, thanks to the lack of food, clean water and medicine.

      “The time couldn’t be better for a moonlight flit,” Gabriel Sinclair said as he and Rigby joined Cooper Townsend and Darby Travers inside the sagging lean-to they’d constructed to help shield them from a fading winter and early spring rains.

      Surgeon John Hamilton didn’t look up from his work, inspecting the healing wound sustained when Cooper had taken a ball in his side at Champaubert and they’d been captured along with over a thousand others. “There’ll be a nasty scar, sir, but it’s all healing nicely now that we’re rid of that infection. You’re next, my lord.”

      Darby Travers, Viscount Nailbourne, pushed himself up on his elbows as the surgeon approached, duckwalking across the damp ground, bent nearly in half thanks to the low roof and his tall frame. “No need, John. No angels visited overnight, no miracle was delivered by dimpled cherubs and even the devil hasn’t bothered to tempt me. The eye is all but finished, and that’s that. I’m already fashioning fetching eye patches in my idle moments.”

      That was Darby. He would make a joke out of most anything. Not even his closest friends were privileged to know if he was truly as reconciled to his injury as he seemed. Being his closest friends, they didn’t ask, but only followed his lead.

      The surgeon, however, ignored the levity and began unwrapping the fraying linen bandage that held a clean square of the same material against the viscount’s left eye. “It’s early days yet, my lord, and the swelling was profound. I can only hope I didn’t do more damage by removing the ball, hoping to relieve the pressure.”

      Darby spoke quietly, so that the others couldn’t hear. “I don’t remember any of it, thank God, once I’d supposedly told Rigby I needed to sit down moments before I fell down. I was all but a dead man until you showed up with your scalpel and box of leeches. I have my life thanks to you, and my gratitude is without bounds. Now, I know you overheard the captain. We four go tonight. You’ll come with us.”

      Hamilton shook his head as he began rewrapping the bandage. “I can’t leave my patients, my lord.”

      “Those who can manage have been sneaking off every night for the last week. The guards may not have noticed yet, but soon our thinning ranks will become obvious. At least a few of us will reach our lines, and a rescue will be mounted. But we all know it could come too late. Our skittish captors might dispatch the wounded before they either run off home or go to join Bonaparte. As it is, they’re damn near starving us to death.”

      “My lord, your duty is to return to our ranks in any way you can, as is the duty of every soldier. Mine is to remain with the wounded.” Hamilton looked behind him, where the others were deep in conversation, and leaned in closer. “You say you don’t remember anything, my lord, and I agree that can be a blessing. But you did speak while you were lost in delirium. Only I heard.”

      “Well, goodness me, John, you put me to the blush. Was what I said all that terrible?”

      “You spoke of your childhood, my lord. A particular time in your childhood. I...I only wanted to say that what happened was not your fault. Children often assume guilt that does not belong to them. You’re a good man—you are all extraordinarily good men.”

      “Thank you, John,” Darby said. “I’m sorry you had to hear my ramblings. Truly, I’m long past those years. I can’t imagine why I spoke of them all this time later. I would much rather have regaled you with stories of my adventures with the ladies.”

      The physician smiled. “You were not without amusing anecdotes, my lord.”

      “Well, thank heaven for that. John, if you can’t reconsider and come with us, I want you to know that I’m aware of all I owe you, not the least of which is my fairly worthless, ramshackle life. If there is ever anything I can do for you in return, no matter how inadequate that thing might be, you must not hesitate to ask, because it is yours, on my word as a gentleman.”

      “You have more goodness in you than I believe you realize, my lord.” The physician hesitated, looking out into the camp that was deteriorating daily. “I have every hope of returning home, sir, but if I don’t...”

      Darby pushed himself to a sitting position and held out his right hand. “Yes? Name it, John, and it’s yours.”

       CHAPTER ONE

      London, the Little Season, 1815

      “WHAT DO YOU think of Spain, Norton? I’ve heard intriguing things about the Alhambra, once termed a pleasure palace. But no, you have no interest in pleasure, do you?”

      “I take vast pleasure in my duties, my lord,” the valet supplied in his usual monotone. “Even more so when His Lordship refrains from speaking whilst I am shaving him.”

      Darby Travers, Viscount Nailbourne, longed to inquire as to whether his man’s words could be construed as a threat, but quickly discarded the notion. Until the straight edge moved from his neck, he prudently refused to so much as swallow.

      “And we’re done, my lord,” Norton said in some satisfaction, stepping back even as he handed his employer a warm, moist towel. “Until this evening, that is. I would ask you to consider again the advantages of a well-trimmed beard.”

      Darby wiped at his face, then tossed the towel in Norton’s direction as he got to his feet and walked over to the high dresser topped with an oval mirror. “Not if you’d continue to force your barbering skills on me, no. It wounds me to say this, Norton, but your mustache appears chewed on, and I’m convinced you employ that wirelike appendage on your chin to brush dried mud from my riding boots. The fact that both are shoe-black dark and your hair red as a flame makes me wonder what you do to amuse yourself when I leave you alone.”

      Norton, a man of at least forty summers, smoothed a hand over his hair, parted neatly in the middle and tied back into a tail at least six inches in length, and then tugged at his goatee. “Red facial hair is unattractive, my lord.”

      Darby would have asked his new valet why he didn’t expand his use of the dye pot to include the hair on his head, but then the man might tell him. Norton was his third valet in as many months, and the only one who didn’t perpetually suppress a flinch when he saw his employer without his eye patch. For that small mercy alone, the viscount didn’t really care if Norton sought his jollies by wearing his pantaloons on his head.

      He picked up his brushes and ran them through his own coal-dark hair. “I believe I’ll refrain from comment on that, Norton. But back to Spain. I’m devastated to inform you that we can’t go, much as I’d like to escape my fate. For one, I’m promised to a birthday celebration at the end of the month. Either that or a funeral. Nobody’s quite certain yet. My jacket, if you please.”

      “Yes, my lord. Will we be returning to London today?”

      “Don’t care for my cottage, Norton?” he asked, shrugging into his handsomely cut tan hacking jacket, for he was anticipating a