reasons daily, and yet I don’t take parasols and flower vases to your person. I am, however, seriously considering packing you off to Ashby Park.”
The butler started. “I wouldn’t dream of abandoning you, your lordship.”
“Pity.” Unable to locate what he was seeking, Ashby moved to search the closet. And the pest still hovered. “Speak your mind, Phipps, before I grow old and gray.”
“It concerns Miss Aubrey, my lord. I believe her purpose in coming here was not entirely impersonal.” Phipps produced a calling card out of his vest pocket.
“So you’ve been eavesdropping. What a shock.” Ashby pushed aside the superfine jackets hanging in the closet and bent down to search the boxes neatly stacked at the bottom. He opened one after another, crushing new cravats he would never wear and tossing them over his shoulder.
Phipps went on. “Miss Aubrey’s reaction upon discovering the charade was…well, she was quite distraught.”
“Obviously. She believed you and Dudley were a pair of criminals, Phipps.”
“That’s precisely my point, my lord. She should have been frightened, but instead, she was furious and—well, I couldn’t help noticing—genuinely grief-stricken.”
Not allowing his butler to see his expression, Ashby rationalized, “She lost her brother not too long ago. He was very dear to her. I was his closest friend, his commander.”
“Then why did you send her away…in tears, your lordship?”
He’d been half tempted to lock her in and swallow the key, but then he would have had to spend the rest of his life behind a mask. Sweet, kindhearted Isabel who took stray puppies off the streets would drop in a dead faint if she saw him unmasked. He was not a bloody charity case!
Gritting his teeth, Ashby confronted his butler. “Where the devil did you put it, Phipps?”
“Which item would that be, my lord?”
Ashby fixed his butler with an exasperated glare. “You know bloody well which item!”
The butler hurried forth. “In the trunk under your bed, where you keep your regimentals and medals, but do you think it’s wise, my lord? The last time you—”
“I’ll decide what is and isn’t wise in this house. Now bugger off!” Ashby nudged him aside and dropped to his knees before the bed. He pulled the heavy trunk and cracked the lid open. He hadn’t touched it in two years and his hands shook as he did so now.
“It’s wrapped in the shabraque, my lord.”
Ashby lunged to his feet. He turned Phipps around, pushed him out the door, and kicked it shut. On second thought, he turned the key in the lock. The daft man thought his duties included those of a nursemaid. It was the story of his life: servants who raised him, coddled him, saw to his every need, and never knew when to leave off. Exhaling haggardly, he dropped on the bed and stared at the open trunk. His regimentals were folded inside, with his fur cap, Mameluke saber, flintlock pistol, and his medals on top. The sight brought back a range of memories, few pleasant, most of them…unbearable. “What precisely are you hoping to find?” he asked himself.
The last time he performed this self-destructive idiocy, he ended up smashing every mirror in the house, except for one—his mother’s hand mirror. Ashby buried his arm in the folds of the shabraque, his ornate saddle cloth, and there it was. He took it out, not yet daring to look at it.
Three different surgeons had refused to operate on him, swearing it would cost him his life. Only an assistant field-surgeon, a diminutive Indian fellow Will had found in a foot battalion camp, agreed to perform the surgery. Later, Ashby was told that the foreigner had saved his life.
He shut his eyes against the old pain and self-recriminations. Will had saved his wretched life and what had he done in return? The memory of a pistol shot resonated in his heart. Ashby shuddered, anguish lacerating his soul. Perhaps this was part of the torture in seeing Will’s sister again. Both in spirit and in appearance, Isabel was a replica of the only true friend he ever had.
How could he help her when he could barely help himself?
He opened his eyes and stared at the gargoyle he held in his hand. “Damn you to hell,” he rasped, as the gargoyle in the hand mirror mouthed the same thing back at him.
Someone scratched the door. Ashby raised his eyes in time to see a calling card sliding in from underneath the door onto the carpet. He pushed to his feet and went to pick up the card. It was elegantly embossed with Isabel’s name and role as chairwoman of her charity.
“Look at the back side,” Phipps suggested. If Ashby didn’t know better, he would swear the pest had drilled eyeholes in the door. Cursing, he turned the card over and a tight fist coiled around his heart. In a neat, slightly florid hand was written, “I need your special skills.”
Chapter Two
Was this the face that launched a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.
—Christopher Marlowe:
The Tragical History Of Doctor Faustus
Seven Dover Street, 7 years ago
“I wonder what’s for dinner.” Captain William Aubrey smacked his lips as they trotted into Dover Street. “I smell oxtail stew, pork and apple pie, and roast beef with Yorkshire pudding.”
“You didn’t notify them that we were coming for three days?” Ashby asked.
“Why spoil the surprise?” Will smiled. “Izzy will shriek and cry and it’ll be splendid fun.”
A smile tugged at Ashby’s lips. “She always reacts that way when you visit.”
Will eyed him sardonically. “When I visit?”
Ashby felt his face warm. “Stop that, Will. She mustn’t know that I know.”
Will burst out laughing. “The entire world knows my little sister has a tendre for you, Ash. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes and ears.”
“No, it isn’t, and her knowing that I know will only embarrass her.”
“The only one who seems embarrassed by this is you, Ashby.” Will chuckled. “I swear, with all these madwomen throwing themselves at you in every town and garrison, not to mention those here in London, my chit of a sister is the one who makes you blush. Bloody capital.”
It was true. Izzy Aubrey made him blush. Furiously. He supposed the reason for his absurd reaction to the little chit had something to do with her reasons for liking him. Women had always liked him. They liked his title, his money, some even his wicked reputation, and mostly how his body made them feel, but a fifteen-year-old chit? Now that was a mystery he was unable to solve.
“Speak of the little she-devil…” Will chuckled as they spotted Isabel sitting on a bench near the rose garden, a tiny black pup cuddled in her lap. “Isabel Jane Aubrey!” Will called out. “Come and
