Never a Gentleman (11 page)

He saw that Thirsk’s first instinct was to protest. Instead, the older man shook his head and looked around, reassuring himself
with the normalcy of the club. “Well, until we can better assess Hilliard’s information, we’re at an impasse.”

Drake had to agree. “If only his best source hadn’t moved on.”

“The mistress?”

Drake nodded. “Madame Ferrar. I know how hard he tried to convince her to follow him here.”

Thirsk chuckled. “After seeing her, I understand why. Quite a charmer. Seems Hilliard is losing his touch. Did Schroeder at
least come home with him?”

“Babs? You know he wouldn’t move without her. As for Madame Ferrar, I’ve sent another gentleman over to see if he can make
any headway with her. In the meantime, it might behoove us all to keep our information close to the vest. After all, the Surgeon’s
capture was a state secret. Whoever is involved had enough power to set him free.”

That didn’t sit well with Thirsk. “Look to your own little group, Drake. Remember. We still don’t know everything Gracechurch
did in France.”

A remarkably indifferent comment about a man who had sacrificed four years of his life and his memory in the service of the
Crown.

“Jack doesn’t know, either,” he said. “He’s still at his estate in Sussex, recovering from Waterloo.”

And helping his wife recover from injuries she suffered
at the hands of the Surgeon
, Drake thought. Injuries Drake blamed himself for. It was he who’d sent Jack to France to infiltrate the government, and
he who had been responsible for Jack’s and Olivia’s safety after Hillard got them out of Belgium. And even after all that,
Gracechurch had still only remembered some of the information he’d risked his life for and then lost to an exploding shell
on the battlefield.

“We need to warn him,” Drake said, setting down his drink.

“A courier will be sent.”

“No. I’ll go down. As you said, the members of Drake’s Rakes are my responsibility. Maybe I’ll take Diccan with me.”

“No.” Thirsk peered into his cognac. “I’d rather not put Hilliard near any delicate information right now.”

Drake frowned. “Then you
don’t
believe him.”

“Let us say simply that Hilliard is not in good odor with Whitehall at the moment. The Fairchild chit’s great-uncle is old
General Dawes, and he’s raising a ruckus. Almost as much of a ruckus as we’ll get from Viscount Bentley when he hears about
Evenham’s suicide, I imagine. The boy was his only heir.”

Drake wanted to argue. Whitehall was playing right into the enemy’s hands by marginalizing Diccan Hilliard. But Drake had
no real power there. So he would carry out his own mission and do his best to ease Diccan’s way. At least with the government.

Thirsk was already getting to his feet.

“If another attempt is made on Hilliard, should he allow himself to be compromised?” Drake asked, following.

Thirsk paused, his gaze unfocused. “I hate to take the chance.”

“They
will
go after him again. If he doesn’t seem to cooperate, he’ll be putting others in danger. Evenham said the Lions would follow
blackmail with threats to those Hilliard loves.”

Thirsk snorted. “Well, they’ll catch cold at that. There isn’t a soul in England who doesn’t know that his family cut him
off.”

“What about his wife?”

“Difficult to threaten a man with danger to a woman he never wanted in the first place. Hell, they’d be doing him a favor.”

“To let the Surgeon have her?”

Thirsk actually paled. “The threat will come first. When we hear it, we can act. For now, there is a rather troublesome German
princeling we’re depending on for port rights, who is anxious to sample Newmarket. Hilliard will be the perfect nanny.”

Drake shook his head. “He won’t thank you.”

For the first time, Thirsk smiled. “Oh, I think he might. You forget. I’ve seen his wife.”

It was the definition of ambivalence. The last thing Diccan wanted was to ride herd on a petulant royal. He would enjoy the
horse racing, but not with the prince along. There were only so many times a man could hear improbable sexual exploits in
German before he committed homicide.

On the other hand, he was guiltily relieved that he had an excuse to put off his wedding night. He did not like to be confused,
and Grace Fairchild confused him. He had worried over her yesterday. He’d been relieved when she’d turned up safe, and delighted
when she’d shown such
unexpected vulnerability. He’d even been surprised by a stab of fear at the sight of that bandage.

It hadn’t changed his mind about their future, though. In fact, it had cemented it. He didn’t have the time for that kind
of worry in his life right now. He didn’t want to always wonder about her. Hell, he didn’t even want to bed her.

Yes, he had suffered brief episodes of arousal around her. But it hadn’t happened again. He couldn’t imagine that it would.
Not for a woman who dressed like a nanny, fought like a hussar, and couldn’t be coy if her life depended on it.

Two weeks ago, Diccan had had his hands full of Minette Ferrar’s magnificent, creamy breasts. How in God’s name could Grace
Fairchild compare? Wasn’t it a better idea to wait until he could feel more enthusiastic about the whole thing?

It didn’t help that Biddle kept sniffing as he packed. Diccan knew Biddle disapproved of him. No one had a repertoire of resigned
sighs and disapproving sniffs quite like Biddle. These particular sniffs, though, were beginning to sound like a certain defensiveness
for Diccan’s wife, who had taken the news of his leaving with quiet acceptance.

“If you are so unhappy, Biddle,” Diccan said, shrugging into his drab surtout, “I can certainly give you a good recommendation.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, sir.” Sniff.

Diccan took his beaver hat from Biddle’s hand. “While you’re sighing away, don’t forget to keep alert. The Surgeon is on the
loose, and I know how you hate surprises.”

“You have not mentioned his escape to Mrs. Hilliard?”

Diccan shrugged. “I’d hate for her to worry. She will be watched. Besides, she’s already played her part in this farce.”

Biddle’s answer was another sniff. Diccan gave up and
left. He was going to ride. The sun had finally come out, making it unnecessary for him to try and squeeze into a coach with
his corpulent young charge. His mind on the next few days, he walked out of the Pulteney’s front door only to come to an abrupt
halt. His wife was there before him, cooing and stroking Gadzooks’ nose. The horse, usually as foul-tempered as Biddle, was
whuffling into her hair like a besotted suitor.

“God’s teeth, madame,” Diccan drawled, pulling on his gloves. “What are you about with that reprehensible beast?”

She looked up, and he saw that her face was glowing. Oddly, his chest tightened at the sight. “I believe I’ve just recently
seen this fine gentleman,” she said. “Is he yours?”

The groom who held the horse’s reins struggled to keep a straight face. Diccan laughed out loud. Gadzooks was surely the ugliest
horse in Christendom. A raw-boned, jug-headed, dirty roan, he was the laughingstock of the diplomatic corps.

“Methinks you have spent too much time with soldiers, if you call this cart horse a gentleman,” he protested dryly. “Gadzooks’
phiz has been known to frighten children and startle crows.”

Grace laughed, a pleasant, throaty chuckle that did uncomfortable things to his cock. “Gadzooks?” she echoed, leaning her
forehead against the horse’s. “But how perfect! For he would be a complete surprise on a racecourse, wouldn’t he? He has the
heart of a champion, this one. I can see why he means so much to you”—her smile widened—“in spite of his common looks.”

Diccan swore his own heart stumbled. “This piece of dog meat?” he retorted, feeling oddly disconcerted. No one had ever seen
Gadzooks’ potential on meeting him. No one
realized what a loyal and ferocious friend he was. “How could you think that?”

Her eyes sparkled. “I am quite well acquainted with unbeautiful horses, Diccan. After all, Wellington’s Copenhagen would put
this gentleman’s unpretty looks to shame, and he has the greatest heart I’ve ever known. Your Gadzooks has that same look
about him. Tell me you mean to breed him. I have the perfect mare for him.”

Diccan blinked. His heart beat faster. “You?”

She nodded. “A person who has grown up around the cavalry must know her cattle. My Epona would complement Gadzooks to a tee.”

“Don’t tell me. She’s swayback and blind in one eye.”

Grace chuckled again, and damn it if Diccan didn’t smile back. “She’s a solid black beauty my father acquired for me in Spain
for my birthday. Do you know the Andalusian?”

Diccan’s heart all but stopped beating. Did he know Andalusians? He had lusted for one for years, with their great arched
necks and thick chests and intelligent eyes. “But they aren’t allowed out of Spain without approval from the king.”

Her smile grew impish. “My father saved much of the royal herd from conscription into the French Dragoons. The king was grateful.”

An Andalusian. Diccan’s mouth was watering. Gadzooks would die of happiness.

He shook himself to attention. “We’ll see, madame. We’ll see. Right now I must focus on keeping an overweight toddler from
unintentionally mucking up an important treaty.”

He thought she would step back and fade away. Instead she walked right up to him and straightened his coat, then
gave it a pat. “I’ll be busy while you’re gone. I am in need of an abigail, a wardrobe, and a list of available houses to
tour.”

For a dangerous moment, he fought the urge to stay where he was. What was it about her domestic send-off that made him want
to step into her arms?

Before he could be tempted, he stepped away with a brisk nod. “I have seen to your abigail. She arrives today. As for the
rest, wait for Kate. I trust her taste. She has an unerring eye, you know.”

Grace went very still. Diccan felt suddenly unsettled by her silence. “You know,” she said quietly, “there is a difference
between preference and necessity.”

He found himself blinking again. “Pardon?”

But she was already walking into the hotel. “Have a safe trip, Diccan.”

Left standing on the street, Diccan was still struggling with his incomprehensible new wife, when Gadzooks gave him a shove.
“Yes. All right. Let’s be off.” Diccan glared at his horse. “If you don’t mind my riding you, that is.”

Gadzooks snorted, and all Diccan could think was how much it sounded like one of Biddle’s sniffs.

It might have been easier on Grace if Diccan hadn’t disappeared almost as soon as she arrived. Or if he hadn’t looked quite
so relieved to be leaving. She had been nervous enough the night she’d reached the Pulteney. Even the ministrations of a first-class
staff hadn’t soothed her, although they had eased her physical aches. The doctor had pronounced her injury minor, and the
maids had helped her get about three pounds of mud out of her hair. She’d slept
the clock around and awakened ready to face her husband’s attention, only to find him on the verge of leaving again.

She knew her duty. She tried to see him off with every appearance of sympathy and support, only to have him insult her taste,
her judgment, and her capabilities. Disappointment inevitably darkened to anger, and she spent the first day questioning his
parentage in six languages.

And then, to make matters worse, her abigail appeared. When Grace opened the door on Barbara Schroeder, her fragile confidence
crumbled even further. The woman looked no more like an abigail than Grace did a diplomat’s wife. Comfortably past her immediate
youth, the abigail was curvy and blond and blessed with immense blue eyes that seemed to always be laughing.

“My husband hired you?” was all Grace could think to ask.

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Schroeder answered with a hint of a German accent. “My Dieter, you know, was a sergeant in the 20
^th
Foot, lost at Vittoria. But no one wishes to hire a woman with my… accent.”

That seemed to amuse her, too. Grace was not nearly as sanguine. She didn’t really believe that it was the woman’s accent
that kept her out of the homes of jealous women. So if Schroeder’s story was true, it might mean that Diccan had done a laudable
thing. If not…

This new to her marriage, Grace chose to think the best of him. She let Schroeder help prepare her for bed, another new experience
she wasn’t sure she liked. But she wasn’t sure whether that was because she suddenly had an abigail, or because it was
this
abigail.

On the second day, Grace woke to a profound feeling of loss. Nestled amid acres of cotton and goosedown in a
warm room in a lovely hotel, she wondered why. Certainly she’d suffered quite an upheaval, but she had become quite adept
at handling upheavals in her life. Yes, she missed her father, but in truth, she had been preparing for his loss from the
moment she realized what soldiering meant. Her old life was gone, but that, too, was inevitable. Her every need was met, her
feet were dry, and her belly full. What could be wrong?

And then she heard it. Silence.

It surrounded her, cushioned her from the rest of the world. Far below her window, the city clattered along, cart wheels and
mongers’ cries and horse hooves, but the noise sounded almost unreal. It was the silence that was real, throbbing in her ears
like a living thing.

She was reminded of those moments before battle: the minutes when lives balanced on the edge of a frightening future. When
every man and woman paused between preparation and action, waiting for the storm to break over their heads.

At least then she’d known what to do. She’d been able to recognize the threats and respond. She didn’t even have that anymore.
Even after living with Lady Kate, she had no idea what to expect from this new world, and she hated it. Worse, she hated the
feeling that she was unprepared. That no matter how hard she tried, or well she performed, it would never be enough. And how
could it be? Even her abigail seemed to fit into this world better than she.