Chapter 2
1650 Words
Chapter Two
November 1st, 1808
London
Icarus Reid arrived at the Grosvenor Gate ten minutes before the hour, riding a hired hack. Miss Trentham arrived three minutes later. Her mount was definitely not hired, a dapple-gray mare with an excellent gait.
Behind her, on horseback, was a hulking man in livery. Groom, or guard? Both, Icarus decided.
He watched Miss Trentham approach, and reviewed what Colonel Winton had told him about her. Intelligent. Reserved. Not a lady to indulge in flirtations. Enormously wealthy, but not extravagant. Not tight-fisted, either; her dead mother had established a lying-in hospital for poor women, and foundling homes and a charity school, and Miss Trentham spent a small fortune supporting these enterprises.
Miss Trentham halted. “Good afternoon, Major Reid.”
Icarus bowed in the saddle. “Miss Trentham.”
Miss Trentham’s riding habit was severely plain. She had no knots of ribbon, no braiding, no frogging. No curling ostrich feathers in her hat, no ringlets in her hair. She didn’t look like an heiress. Nor did she look like a woman who gave thousands of pounds to the destitute.
“Do you care to ride with me?” Miss Trentham’s tone was faintly aloof.
“It would be my pleasure,” Icarus said, for the groom’s benefit.
“Shall we canter, then?” Miss Trentham’s voice might be aloof, but her gaze was wary, telling him that she wasn’t comfortable.
A gentleman would have begged her pardon and taken his leave, but Icarus was no longer a gentleman. Honor, integrity, pride, decency, courage—everything that had made him who he was had been stripped from him in Portugal. What remained was this person he was now, a sack of skin filled with blood and bones and single-minded purpose. He would beg if he had to. Hold this woman to her unwilling promise if he had to.
They cantered for several minutes, then slowed to a walk. “Grantham promised to meet me at three thirty,” Miss Trentham said. “Until then, you may test my knack, if you wish.”
Icarus glanced over his shoulder. The groom was a discreet distance behind, out of earshot. “I do wish.” He turned his gaze to her.
Miss Trentham was no beauty—she was too tall, too thin, her nose too long, her mouth too wide, her hair an undistinguished shade between brown and blonde—but she had poise, and a disconcertingly direct gaze. “Tell me twenty things, Major Reid,” she said, “and I’ll tell you whether they’re lies or not.”
“Mister,” Icarus said.
A wrinkle creased her brow. “I beg your pardon?”
“I prefer to be called Mister.” Major Reid had died at Vimeiro.
Miss Trentham examined him for a moment, her eyebrows slightly raised, and then gave a short nod. “Twenty things, Mr. Reid.”
Icarus frowned, and tried to think of something besides Grantham and Dunlop. It was a struggle. “Uh . . . my father wanted me to join the army.”
“False.”
“He wanted me to join the navy.”
“True.”
“One of my uncles was an admiral of the fleet.”
“True.”
“One of my brothers is a commodore.”
“False.”
“He’s an admiral.”
“True.”
“He was wounded at Trafalgar.”
“False.”
“One of my brothers died at Trafalgar.”
“True.”
I have died many times, Icarus almost said. He closed his mouth tightly, and racked his brain, and said, “I had a dog when I was a boy.”
“True.”
“His name was Cerberus.”
“False.”
“His name was Ulysses.”
“True.”
“He had three black paws.”
“True.”
“He died when I was sixteen.”
“True.”
“I buried him in the Home Wood.”
“True.”
That wasn’t twenty things, but it was enough. Icarus stared at Miss Trentham through narrowed eyes. “How do you do it?”
She returned his stare coolly. “I told you last night: I hear lies.”
“But how?”
Miss Trentham gave an elegant shrug, and a wry half-smile. “I inherited it from my mother.”
She glanced ahead, then back at him. “I have a lot of suitors, Mr. Reid. It’s something of a nuisance. So much of a nuisance that my stepbrother keeps a man on retainer to make inquiries about them.”
Icarus blinked. “He does?”
“Strangely, all my suitors prove to have financial problems.” Miss Trentham’s smile wasn’t wry this time, it was more of a grimace. “Grantham was investigated last month. He’s a younger son. Spends beyond his means, gambles too much, drinks too much. He sticks at nothing—the law, politics, soldiering. He left the army under something of a cloud—apparently Wellesley dislikes laziness in his officers.”
Icarus grunted. “Sounds like Grantham.” And Wellesley, for that matter.
“There was no hint of treason.”
“It happened,” Icarus said. “Grantham or Dunlop, one of them passed information to the French.”
Miss Trentham surveyed him coolly, and then glanced ahead again. “Here’s Grantham.”
The Honorable Reginald Grantham had the type of good looks that Letty most disliked: blond, florid, and with a tendency to stoutness. His manner annoyed her, too—the I’m a viscount’s son self-importance, as if he’d be doing her a favor if he married her.
Letty gritted her teeth and smiled at Grantham politely. “Mr. Grantham. How nice of you to join us. I believe you know Mr. Reid?”
Grantham gave a stiff nod. “Major.”
“Grantham.”
“Shall we ride together?” Her suggestion made Grantham bristle slightly, like a dog guarding a bone. Did he see Reid as a rival? Letty almost snorted. There was nothing of the lover about Mr. Reid. He saw her as an instrument, not a woman.
They trotted along the bridle path, Reid to her left, Grantham to her right, the groom two horse-lengths behind. After several minutes, Letty slowed to a walk. Grantham maneuvered himself between her and Reid, as if trying to cut Reid out. The way he sat on his showy chestnut made Letty think of a cockerel strutting in a hen yard, chest puffed, tail feathers on display.
“Nice mare you’ve got there, Miss Trentham,” Grantham said. “My father, the viscount, has a similar one in his stables.”
Letty almost rolled her eyes. My father, the viscount, was one of Grantham’s favorite utterances. She’d heard it times past counting, the last fortnight. “Does he?” she said, and then, before Grantham could elaborate on this subject: “Mr. Reid has been telling me about Portugal.”
“Portugal? Nasty, squalid little place. Nothing you’d be interested in.”
“Actually, I find myself quite interested in Portugal,” Letty said, an edge creeping into her voice. What did this patronizing i***t know of her interests? “Mr. Reid has posed some questions, and I find myself curious to hear the answers.”
“Questions?”
“About what happened the day before the Battle of Vimeiro.”
Color flushed Grantham’s face. “Lord, Reid, you’re not still going on about that? You’re dicked in the nob, is what you are! I told no one!”
Clang.
Letty’s eyebrows rose slightly. She glanced past Grantham. Reid’s silver eyes were fixed on her with hawk-like intensity. He looked tense, taut, unbreathing.
Letty looked back at Grantham. “But you did tell someone, Mr. Grantham.”
“What?” Grantham seemed to swell with indignation. “I did not!”
Letty smiled at him without warmth. “Mr. Grantham, I have a knack for knowing truth from lies, and this knack tells me that you did tell someone.”
“I didn’t!”
Letty reined her horse to a halt. “You did.”
Grantham halted, too, blocked by Reid’s mount. “What’s this about?” he blustered. “My father’s a viscount!”
“We can continue this conversation here,” Reid said, in an iron-hard voice. “Or at a court-martial. Which do you prefer?”
Grantham’s gaze darted right and left. There was a faint sheen of perspiration on his cheeks. “I told Wellesley!”
Clang. Letty caught Reid’s eye and shook her head.
“Dunlop told Wellesley,” Reid said. “Who did you tell?” His hand was on Grantham’s reins, holding the horse in check. The animal’s head was up, its ears back.
Grantham glared at Reid. Reid stared implacably back. The threat in his silver eyes made Letty’s scalp prickle. She found herself holding her breath. This silent staring match was a duel. She had no doubt who’d win.
Grantham looked away. “I told Cuthbertson.”
Letty met Reid’s gaze and nodded.
“Anyone else?”
“No!” Grantham snarled, his color high.
Letty nodded again.
Reid released Grantham’s reins.
Grantham dug his heels into his mount’s flanks, shoving Reid aside. “You have the manners of a yokel!”
Letty watched him ride off. The Honorable Reginald Grantham didn’t look ashamed of himself; he looked puffed up with righteous indignation.
What an unpleasant man.
She looked at Reid, expecting to see contempt on his face. He was frowning.
“Cuthbertson?” she asked.
“Colonel Cuthbertson.”
“A colonel? It wouldn’t be him then, would it?”
Reid said nothing. He continued frowning.
Letty nudged her mare into a trot, then a canter. Reid kept pace with her. After half a mile, she slowed to a walk again. Reid fell in beside her.
“You want me to visit Marshalsea Prison.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
Letty halted. “Mr. Reid, surely you must realize that I can’t.”
Reid halted, too. He looked at her without speaking.
Letty listened to the clatter of a phaeton driving past on the carriageway—and the sound of her lie reverberating in her ears. Of course she could visit Marshalsea. Anyone could.
“Think of the scandal!” she protested. “The gossipmongers will have a field day!”
“Only if they know of it.”
Go secretly? Letty stared hard at him—the gaunt, tanned face, the silver eyes. “Are you after my fortune?” she demanded.
Reid blinked. “Me? No.”
“If I accompany you to Marshalsea, will you give me your word that you won’t compromise me, or damage my reputation in any way?”
Reid’s eyebrows drew together over his nose. “Miss Trentham, I have absolutely no interest in your fortune.” There was hauteur in his voice—and a clear, bell-like tone of truthfulness. “I don’t want a wife. Any wife. If you accompany me to Marshalsea, I won’t compromise you, or damage your reputation—or allow anyone else to do so.”
Letty eyed him narrowly, and then nudged the mare into a canter. Thoughts jostled in her head like dancers at a ball. Should she go secretly to Marshalsea Prison with Mr. Reid? Could she?
After five minutes of mulling, Letty knew that she could; the question was, did she dare? She slowed to a trot, trying to sort through her emotions. Reluctance. Fear. A prickle of excitement. A faint itch of curiosity.
You’re so cautious, her cousin Julia had said once, trying to persuade her to go to a not-quite-respectable masked ball at Ranelagh, and when Letty had replied, My fortune is ten times yours; I have to be ten times more cautious than you, Julia had laughed and said, Nonsense! And while it hadn’t been nonsense, perhaps she was overcautious, because Julia had gone to the ball and not been caught by a fortune hunter.
Letty let the mare drop to a walk, and glanced at Reid. His expression was unreadable.
Dared she go with him?
Julia would have dared, without hesitation.
Letty halted.
Reid halted, too, and met her gaze straightly. He said nothing. No arguments, no persuasions, no entreaties. He didn’t look tense or taut or exhausted; he looked almost calm.
They stared at one another for a long, silent moment.
“Meet me outside Hatchard’s tomorrow at two o’clock,” Letty said.
Reid nodded. No flicker of surprise crossed his face.
Somehow, he’d known she would agree.
- Writer
