The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott

the bridge of his nose and tried to fight back the overwhelming wave of disappointment. He’d lost Claire just when he’d decided he wanted her, needed her.

Chapter Eighteen

      Needed her? To need her seemed an understatement. In a practical sense, he didn’t need her. The lessons were about done. Any day now, Owen would hear from his contact in France about the latest leads on Thomas and Jonathon would be ready. He’d comported himself excellently at the bookshop. His flawless spoken French had returned nearly full force of what it had once been.

      As long as she’s with you. You’ve never done it without her. What if you can’t? You still can’t read French out loud.

      Did that really matter? He’d probably never be asked to read French out loud. There was consolation in knowing how much he’d achieved in the last four weeks, but it was a meagre prize compared to what he was giving up: Claire Welton.

      No, it wasn’t the need that bothered him. It was the wanting. The rational mind argued that all dreams had a cost. She was merely his price. Just as committing himself in a politically advantageous marriage was part of that price; a price he had not originally minded paying, had indeed felt it was his due to pay; more penance for Thomas. He still felt it was his due to pay. He’d not realised how keenly he’d feel the toll, however. When he’d made his bargain, he’d not had anything to lose, anything to give up.

      Jonathon climbed the front steps to his rooms at the Albany on the Piccadilly border—bastion of wealthy, young, unmarried gentlemen during the Season. The halls were quiet, everyone out for the evening. Good. He needed time to think, time to figure out what he was going to do. How would he convince Claire he’d fight for both her and Vienna?

      She didn’t think victory on both fronts was possible. She’d made that clear tonight and she knew the price of achieving Vienna. He knew Claire’s consolation. She cared for him enough to pay. She would sacrifice her dream in order to save his. Just as Thomas had. In the end, they’d both left him.

      Those two ideas chased themselves around his mind. Claire cared for him.

      Claire had left him.

      The problem with receiving good news mixed with bad was that one’s brain couldn’t quite decide which emotion to embrace: the elation of the high or the depression of the low. It was even more confusing when the two were inextricably linked: she’d left him because she cared. Thomas had gone down that road because Thomas had loved him, enough to risk dying for him, in place of him.

      He fitted his key into the door of his rooms and stepped inside. The room was dark. He’d given his man the night off, but Jonathon could sense immediately he wasn’t alone. He bent down and withdrew his knife from his boot. That weapon was seeing quite a lot of use tonight. He’d didn’t think he’d drawn it in five years, maybe more. Tonight, he’d drawn it twice.

      ‘Who’s there?’ he called out. ‘I know you’re here. Show yourself. You should know I am armed and in a mood to fight.’

      A rich, rolling chuckle filled the room. A form rose from the chair. ‘It’s me, Jonathon. If you’d leave a lamp on, you’d know who was in the room.’

      Jonathon expelled a breath and sheathed his knife. ‘Owen, what are you doing here? More importantly, how did you get in?’

      Owen stretched. ‘I am here because I have news. How I got in is irrelevant. Come, have a seat. You’re earlier than I expected you.’

      Jonathon sat down, instantly alert. ‘Your man has been in contact?’

      Owen nodded. ‘Yes, and the man in question, the one living on the Lys, is indeed English. The informant refuses to say more without meeting you.’ Jonathon felt his body tense, his hands clench around the arms of the chair. He forced himself to wait, to hide his impatience. He wanted to walk out the door right this minute and head for France. He didn’t want to plan, to talk. After seven years of wondering, alternately hoping and grieving, he wanted action.

      ‘Now, before you go haring off, there are things you must know and consider.’

      ‘Beyond which boat to take?’ Jonathon offered drily.

      Owen scolded him with an arched eyebrow. ‘You don’t need a boat. He’s coming to Dover.’ Here Owen hesitated. ‘You have to reconcile yourself to the fact that the man he knows of might not be Thomas. Second, if it is Thomas, he might not wish to be found. He might not welcome your discovery.’

      ‘He might be held against his will,’ Jonathon retorted. ‘Perhaps he is working the farm under duress.’ He’d heard accounts of such things happening, of men being held captive, even drugged against their will and forced to live another life.

      Owen shook his head. ‘It’s been seven years. If he was being held for ransom, his captors are the dumbest kidnappers alive. They’re making no money on him by keeping him hidden away.’ Owen leaned forward. ‘There are other possibilities, too, Jonathon. If it is Thomas, he might not remember his former life. Combat can do terrible things to a mind that a man will block out no matter what the cost. Have you thought of that?’

      ‘That he has lost his mind? His memories?’ The idea was ludicrous. How could Thomas forget who he was? ‘Amnesia is temporary. Even if he’d been affected by it, his memory would have come back by now,’ Jonathon argued, but he was no doctor, what did he really know about such a condition? Why had he lost his ability to speak French? But that ability had come back, coaxed to life again with Claire’s help. ‘Surely my brother’s condition would have improved.’

      Owen shook his head. ‘Look at you, Jonathon. You’ve already assumed Thomas has been found. Did you hear a word I said? There are no guarantees. This is nothing more than an anomaly one of my men noticed passing through the village—an Englishman working as a farmer who bears a general resemblance to your brother.’

      ‘An anomaly that was significantly different to report,’ Jonathon said staunchly. He would not let go of the hope something had been found at last that explained the lack of a body. ‘I combed the roads, the meadows, the battlefield, the hospitals,’ he began, his voice rising uncontrollably. ‘Thomas wasn’t there. I would know. If he wasn’t with the dead, then he is somewhere among the living.’ His voice broke over the last words. He’d been shot for those efforts, lingered on a deathly threshold with fever for those facts. They had to be worth something.

      Owen gave a near-imperceptible nod of his head. ‘How’s your French these days?’

      ‘Good. Excellent, in fact.’ As long as he didn’t have to read anything out loud or discuss kissing. Owen didn’t need to know that. Either scenario seemed unlikely to occur in the near future.

      ‘You’ll need it. The informant doesn’t speak English. He’ll be in Dover in two days.’ Owen rose and stuck out his hand.

      Jonathon shook it, victory coursing through him. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ Finally, action, a chance to go back and atone for what he should never have done in the first place: he should not have let Thomas go. He should never have left the Continent without answers. Two days was not long. He’d have to leave immediately.

      ‘Do you think I am crazy, Owen?’

      Owen gripped his arm. ‘I think you are hopeful.’ Then added with a wink, ‘Now, what Miss Northam thinks might be entirely different, if you indeed care any longer. I hear that perhaps your attentions may have been redirected. Would you like to verify?’

      ‘Not particularly. Tonight’s been rather rough, Owen, if you don’t mind I’d like to be alone.’

      * * *

      He knew there was no chance of that actually occurring. As soon as he lay down, his thoughts crowded in. He dreamed of Thomas. Nothing as vividly coherent as the usual dream; this was a kaleidoscope of images, snatches of memories, snatches of fears over what he’d learn from the informant. He dreamed of Claire,