The Captain's Redemption (Regency Romance): WINTER STORIES (Regency Tales Book 15) Read online

  Annie blinked. “Blunt as usual, Miss Page.”

  “I’d prefer to state things as they are, Annie. Nonetheless, I’m going to invite Mr Adair’s old army comrades to this little get-together.”

  Annie bit her lip—a sure sign that she thought the plan ridiculous and even self-destructive. “Whatever for, Miss?”

  “I’m going to interrogate them, of course!” Lydia rubbed her hands together. “What better way to wrench secrets from men than to load them up with wine and then question them at a series of seemingly innocuous holiday bacchanalias?”

  Annie had worked for Lydia long enough that she felt free to give her honest opinion on her scheme. “This sounds as if it could end rather badly.” The maid took a deep breath, then spoke again. “But if it helps you put this business behind you, Miss…then I suppose it’s worth the risk.”

  Lydia gave Annie a quick wink, before marching off on her walk through the garden maze.

  THREE

  Edmund lay in the back of a cart watching the winter sky overhead. He wasn’t asleep. It was difficult to sleep on such a creaking, rumbling cart piled high with a troupe of slumbering mummers.

  So, instead, he watched the stars and gripped the group’s purse of money tight to his chest. Sometimes, when he was feeling especially lonely, he thought about his old life.

  “What town is this, Tucker?” he asked the slouching man sitting up front beside the driver.

  “This here’s a little village called Spotswood, Mr Andrews,” George Tucker said.

  Edmund paused, then slowly slid back under his scratchy blanket. “Spotswood. Strange name. Well, let’s pick up the pace and get out of here.”

  “What for? We’re stopping here.”

  Edmund popped his head back up. “What?”

  “You heard me.” Tucker scratched his head with his one hand. “We’re stopping here. We’ve got a number of performances lined up in these parts.”

  For a moment, Edmund considered throwing himself from the cart and sprinting off into the cold December night. Fortunately, his calmer nature ruled against that course of action, and he simply clambered to the front of the cart to squeeze in beside Tucker.

  “What do you mean we’re stopping here? We’re headed to Cabell, then London.”

  “Are you jug-bitten? You know that Cabell town’s dangerous.”

  “What if it is? We made a fair bit of money there this fall.”

  “Yes, we did. Then we had half of it stolen from us.” Tucker shook his head. “Cabell, he says. You yourself nearly got thrown in the river there by those ruffians in Cabell.”

  Edmund sighed. That was true. He didn’t actually participate in the mumming performances. As the founder of the troupe, he organised the men, collected money from passers-by, and safe-guarded those payments. This meant that he was often a target whenever a scuffle arose. By design, the mumming troupe exclusively consisted of injured, but still hardy, veterans, so he never had to worry about finding backup if a situation went awry.

  “Don’t want you getting hurt, Mr Andrews.”

  “I can handle myself, Tucker. I was hopelessly outnumbered in that one situation.”

  “Not to mention a trifle tap-hackled.”

  “Yes, you got me. I was drinking a bit.” Edmund rolled his eyes. “So, if not Cabell, why not somewhere else? Why stop in the middle of nowhere?”

  “What’ve you got against Spotswood?” Tucker asked. Tucker was his right-hand man when it came to arranging the troupe. Edmund had met Tucker shortly after arriving back in England.

  Tucker was a young private who had gotten his right arm hacked off during the Battle of Usagre. When he returned home, he found that his family had died, leaving him with nothing. Edmund had discovered him when begging on the streets of London; from that day on, they had worked together to pull more veterans into their group.

  “I haven’t got anything against Spotswood.” Edmund covered his face with his hands, feeling his scarred flesh. What was he worrying about, after all? He looked like a monster now. If he wore a mask the entire time, no one would recognise him.

  Tucker grinned at him. “Got some sweet little bird of paradise perched around these parts? Or a scolding wife that you’re on the run from?”

  “No. Of course not.” It was just that Lydia still lived here. Lydia. Edmund tried to fix his eyes on the inky sky. He had only to think of the stars. Down beneath the swirling constellations, everything was insignificant—sneaking away through the shrub maze in the Page gardens, his limbs shaky, his breath short…Lydia, gazing up at the night sky, whispering about Cassiopeia and Andromeda…Then, when he couldn’t take it anymore, he leaned in and kissed her on the lips…

  “You’ve gone suspiciously quiet,” Tucker said.

  “I’m just thinking—”

  “No, you can’t weasel out of this one. I’ll take your lack of an answer to mean I’m right,” Tucker teased. “You’ve got a lady bird somewhere in these parts.”

  Edmund shook his head. “Tucker, I’m far more boring than all of that.”

  “It’s always the quiet ones, Mr Andrews.”

  Tucker pointed out the dim outline of the village, which loomed ahead on the dark road. “Here’s the deal, Mr Andrews. While you were asleep earlier, a fellow on the road gave me quite the tip. He told me to head to a certain estate in these parts. He said that the wealthy folk there will be hosting a number of parties this Christmas. The area will be positively swollen with visitors.”

  Edmund felt cold. That was far too good an opportunity to pass up; there was no way he could direct the troupe away from such a lucrative opportunity—at least not over his own selfish need to run away from the past. “Did this tipster mention the names of these mysterious beneficiaries?”

  “The Pages, Mr Andrews.”

  FOUR

  Lydia twirled around in front of the looking glass, wearing the amethyst gown her mother had suggested. Its high waist did set off her slender figure quite nicely, and its rich, bluish-purple colour complemented her light hair. Margaret Page had been right—it was a good choice. To complete the delicate look, Annie was now wrangling Lydia’s hair into a fashionable heap and sticking it full of pearl-tipped pins.

  “You look very pretty, Miss,” she said, when she was finished.

  “Thank you, Annie. You do, as well.” Annie had selected her powder-blue Sunday dress for the event.

  “We had better go downstairs. The party has already begun.”

  With that, the heiress and her maid drifted out into the hallway and down the stairs. Once they reached the ballroom, Lydia found that her eyes had to adjust to the sheer cheeriness of the whole enterprise.

  She could barely recognise her own house. The entire first floor of the Page estate, Parkton Hall, was festooned with jungles of ivy and holly, silver and gold paper hung gaily across every available window, and enough flickering candles to burn down the whole village. A thick Yule log crackled merrily in the massive fireplace. Lydia stared at the flames for a moment and considered her mission.

  Her parents might think that she was on the lookout for a potential suitor, but they were wrong. Her heart had been carved from her chest long ago, on the day she received word that Edmund had disappeared in Spain. She had waited for months, clinging to the possibility that he was a prisoner in France, but he never turned up.

  After she had submitted numerous entreaties to the top military unit, Edmund’s commanding officer had written to her, saying that reports indicated that Edmund Adair had been last seen alone and crawling toward a flowering tree. The explanation struck Lydia as rather odd, and she was determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. She couldn’t rest, couldn’t move on at all, until she discovered what had really happened to her Edmund.

  No, Lydia was not on the prowl for a future husband. She was chasing answers tonight.

  As she was staring at the fireplace, a man muscled his way through the crowd and situated himself before her. She turned toward hi
m. He had reddish hair with long sideburns and a ruddy complexion. Lydia’s father, Mr John Page, trailed after him, looking rather worried.

  “Lydia, my dear, allow me to introduce Sergeant John McCormack. He’s a friend of the Adairs.” Mr Page’s voice trailed off with that last sentence, clearly seeking to avoid bringing up his daughter’s late fiancé. Lydia pretended not to hear. This was opportune. McCormack was not one of the men on her list, but if he knew the Adairs, then that was promising.

  “It’s an honour to meet you, Miss Page,” the man said, bowing. Lydia noticed his slight Irish brogue and his threadbare, but otherwise well-cared-for, black jacket.

  “And you, as well, Sergeant McCormack,” she replied, curtseying.

  “Well, then,” Mr Page said. “I’d better go figure out where we’re storing all the wine.”

  “May I have this dance?” McCormack asked, once Mr Page had fled to find the alcohol.

  “Yes, indeed.”

  Just then, the players struck up the first jaunty tune of the night, and the guests all lined up for a cotillion. The dancers twirled and spun across the stone floor. Lydia kept her smile warm and her eyes fixed on McCormack the entire time. His face seemed to acquire a deeper and deeper blush throughout the dance.

  Once the music sputtered to a stop, Lydia leaned in and whispered in her partner’s ear, asking him if he would follow her.

  He nodded, looking flushed and flustered, and trailed her until they arrived in a nearby, deserted parlour. Lydia had specifically ordered that this room be kept clear of guests, for the sole purpose of conducting interrogations.

  “Sergeant McCormack, won’t you have a seat?” Lydia invited, gesturing toward a large, overstuffed armchair. McCormack sank into it, looking rather uncomfortable. Just then, Annie burst into the room, her mouth pinched into a thin line. She would be acting as chaperone, to prevent any untoward rumours from spreading afterwards.

  “What’s all this about?” McCormack asked, with an awkward laugh. “How may I be of assistance?”

  “I have a few questions that I was hoping you could answer for me,” Lydia replied.

  “I’m just the maid,” Annie put in dryly. “Here as a chaperone.”

  “Sergeant, I understand that you knew my…late fiancé, Captain Edmund C. Adair,” Lydia continued, unfazed by the sergeant’s incredulous stare.

  “Yes. We served in the same regiment during the Peninsular War.”

  “And you know his family quite intimately, I take it…”

  McCormack threw his hands up in the air. “There it is. So you’ve found me out.” He ran a hand through his thick auburn hair. “I suppose you’ll be tossing me out now, will you not?”

  “What on Earth are you talking about, Sergeant McCormack?” Lydia asked, puzzled.

  “I…” His hazel eyes flicked back and forth between Lydia and Annie. “I thought… you’d discovered that I’m not supposed to be here? Not under these conditions, in any case. It isn’t as if I’m sneaking around or anything of the sort. When I mentioned to your father at the door that I knew the Adairs, he ushered me in without any other questions. He must be as intoxicated as a wheelbarrow, with all due respect….”

  “So, you weren’t invited to this ball, Sergeant?”

  “Not at all. I must admit, you’ve caught me red-handed. I’m here seeking employment.” McCormack looked around nervously, as if he expected a party to burst through the parlour doors and drag him out at any moment.

  “Please do not think ill of me, Miss Page…Truth be told, I was the late Captain Adair’s valet. I thought I might stop by some of the great houses in the area, to see if anyone else might be in need of my services.” He stood up, straightening his threadbare jacket. “But that’s enough of my nonsense. I’m terribly sorry about this intrusion, Miss Page. When I was let in, I hoped I’d get a free meal out of the evening, if nothing else. I certainly didn’t mean to cause this much confusion…” With those words, he rose, his gaze firmly on the door.

  “Sit down, Sergeant McCormack,” Lydia said forcefully. “Please. There’s no need to rush off in a hurry.”

  The man cast a somewhat alarmed glance at Annie, who just laughed. “I’d do what she says, Sergeant,” the maid advised with a smile.

  “Very well, then,” he conceded, returning to the chair.

  “How may I be of assistance? Are you looking for an additional valet around the household?” he added, sounding hopeful.

  “No,” Lydia said. “I would like to gather your thoughts about Mr Adair.”

  “Mr Adair, Miss?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, yes. You were his fiancée. Our paths didn’t cross too much—Mr Adair would always come up here for the summer, while I used to stay in London taking care of his affairs.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ah…I’m very sorry for your loss, Miss.”

  “So am I,” Lydia replied, her mouth curling into a sad smile.

  “It’s likely inappropriate for me to say, but I’ll say it anyhow…he held you in his greatest affections. He was frequently caught staring at your likeness in the locket he had about him.”

  Lydia could feel hard, glinting tears begin to form at the back of her eyes, but she swallowed and kept pressing. Now was not the time for sentimentality.

  “Perchance, can you tell me what misfortune befell Mr Adair?” she pressed.

  “Certainly. It is a sad tale. What in particular would you like recounted?”

  “Tell me about the time you last saw him.”

  ***

  May 16, 1811

  La Albuera, Spain

  Publically, he’d never admit this, but privately, Sergeant Jack McCormack thought that the Peninsular War was rather ridiculous. Why not just let old Bonaparte keep Portugal? Why did the Crown have to embroil itself in every little spat on the continent?

  He supposed that this was just his Irish blood—which was naturally and righteously very suspicious of all aspects of England’s foreign policy—talking.

  His employer, Captain Edmund Adair, had opted for a military career at his father’s behest. Jack could sit around at home and wait for his master’s return—which would be safe but rather boring. Or, he could join him in the war effort and potentially elevate himself in society through some dashing and valiant effort.

  All that naiveté brought Jack very little comfort now, as he bled out his life’s blood in some forsaken farmer’s field in Spain. He had become separated from his unit and had been shot in the side while trying to reach the English camp.

  “McCormack?” The sergeant twisted his neck to see Edmund galloping toward him on a grey horse. His old employer dismounted in a hurry and came over to kneel with him. “What’s happened to you?”

  Jack grimaced. “Ah, you know how it is. I decided it would be prudent to have a quick sit-down.”

  “I must say, you are bleeding quite a lot. Come along.” Edmund helped Jack clumsily mount the horse. “I think I know where we can find a surgeon.”

  “That is very good of you, sir.” Jack tried to balance on the horse as Edmund led it across the land on foot. Both men flinched as a cannonball sailed overhead. “Any idea of how things are going?”

  “None. I’m still trying to make it back to my regiment. Everything’s quite a mess around here, it seems.”

  Finally, they began to see men in red coats marching past them. They must be getting near some sort of English post.

  Each campsite seemed to have its own frightening, eternally blood-splattered surgeon. They were quite terrifying to behold, but maybe one of them could patch Jack up. At least in this case, there were no infected limbs to tempt an old sawbones into amputating without trying other measures. You could scarcely amputate a man’s side, after all.

  Up ahead, Jack could finally see a small smattering of tents in the distance.

  “I daresay, I think we could turn the tide on the French yet!” Edmund exclaimed.

  “Those French aren’t going to give up without a
good fight.” Jack was growing weaker as they moved; it became more difficult to hold himself on the horse. Fortunately, a pair of soldiers rushed up to take care of the injured sergeant. The two men helped him off his mount.

  Jack could see Mr Adair struggling to come up with something appropriate to say as the surgeon’s assistants carried him off. He managed a rather weak, “Be well, Jack.”

  “Sir, please be careful yourself,” Jack called, before his former employer headed back to his grey horse. “Your Miss Lydia will kill you if you hurt yourself.”

  ***

  When Jack finished his story, he noticed that Lydia and Annie were staring at him, practically open-mouthed.

  “I’m terribly sorry if I upset you ladies,” he said, feeling sheepish.

  “No, no.” Lydia stood up, her hand clamped to her forehead. “Thank you for your candidness. This has been very helpful.”

  “Are you…if you don’t mind me asking, are you just looking to gain some closure, Miss?”

  Lydia walked over to the mirror hanging above the room’s unlit fireplace and began to fix some of the pins holding up her mass of hair. “I’m looking for the truth. Edmund was never found.”

  “It was quite a chaotic battle, Miss Page.”

  She whirled around and fixed him with her sharp gaze. “That may be. But no other Englishman simply vanished like that. The Crown forces controlled the field at the end of the day. If he was one of the dead, why wasn’t he found?”

  Jack looked down at his hands. “I understand your feelings about this, Miss. I really do. But sometimes bad things simply happen to good people like Edmund—”

  He never finished his thought, and Lydia never barked out the retort already forming on her lips. Instead, the parlour door swung open, and a square-jawed, well-dressed gentleman sauntered inside.