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, too, hot dreams where her body pressed to his, where he made her climax again and again, her head thrown back, her dark hair falling down, her eyes filled with passion and desire for him. It was all for him and he’d let her go. Or was it the other way around? Oh, yes, he remembered it correctly now. She’d let him go.
He woke sweaty and aching, his head throbbing with that one truth at dawn. She harboured deep feelings for him—feelings that she’d been willing to forego in order to save his dreams. Maybe that sacrifice would be worth it, if he could in turn save Thomas. He found a valise in his wardrobe and began to pack for Dover, starting with his pistols. He’d been down this road before. It could be dangerous.
* * *
It was positively perilous to keep looking at the clock, watching the big hand snake towards the six in proof that Jonathon wasn’t coming. In fact, he wasn’t ever coming again. Lessons were over, her opportunity to attract his attention, over. Claire paced the small sun room, fighting the attraction to the clock, to the hope that perhaps she was wrong. It wasn’t too late yet. It was still possible that he might come. Even now Jonathon could be on his way, stuck in the traffic of London. But soon, she’d have to give up that little fantasy. Once the clock reached eleven-thirty, it would be a ridiculous pretence.
Claire stopped in front of the big window that let in the light, although there wasn’t much light to let in today. The weather was still grey and rain threatened like it had the day before. She leaned her head against the cool panes of the glass. Had it really been only yesterday she’d received his note? That she’d gone to Soho? No matter how old she got, she would never forget the sight of Jonathon fighting in the street. For her. And what had she done? She’d let him go.
No regrets. She told herself. She’d done what was right. He was destined for greatness and she was destined for nothing. She’d set herself on that course years ago just as assuredly as he’d set himself on his. She would only hold him back and he would come to resent her for it.
If she’d known pursuing Jonathon would be this complicated, she would never have embarked on Beatrice’s mission to see each of them launched into happiness. She should have been more careful of what she wished for, but she hadn’t really believed she would succeed. The girls would be scolding her if they knew her thoughts. She could almost hear Beatrice now. ‘Well, you’ve got Jonathon Lashley, what are you going to do with him?’
She desperately wanted to go to her friends
