Page 1 of One Kiss in the Shadows (Singular Sensation #12)

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M ay 18, 1819

Hamilton House

Berkley Square

Mayfair, London

Nathaniel Hamilton, 6 th Duke of Strathfield, gripped the silver head of his cane with his right hand as he peered outside the bowed windows of his drawing room. This room overlooked the Mayfair street where he lived, and after just moving house a month ago, he was still becoming accustomed to the view. The green space from the square itself wasn’t as large as his last residence, but this was safer and easier to secure, since it wasn’t a freestanding townhouse.

He heaved out a sigh. Was the move necessary? Yes and no. With every man belonging to the Rogue’s Arcade club being hunted by an apparently mad countess and her gang of goons, security had become an issue, simply because there were so many club members and many of those men had married and were starting families.

Of course, Nathaniel wasn’t one of them, for he clung to his bachelor state with clenched fingers, or so it seemed on any given day. Did he want to follow his fellows down the path that led to parson’s mousetrap? It would largely depend on the woman. However, he was content in being alone if that was where his life led. Regardless, in this period of upheaval, he was grateful that he’d never found a match.

The sound of bird song nudged him from his thoughts, and as he leaned forward and pushed open one of the panels of window glass, he hunted about for the bird who continued to sing. For once, it wasn’t raining, which meant the spring day was one of those oddly glorious ones and part of him wished he could be out to enjoy it.

“Perhaps I’ll go on a ride,” he mused to himself, for he’d long ago fallen into the habit of thinking out loud. No doubt it was because when he’d been in the military, there was always someone around for him to talk with, and old habits apparently died hard. Sometimes, his valet would answer, but today, Nathaniel was by himself in the drawing room. As he contemplated the navy and ivory striped wallpaper on the wall opposite the cold fireplace, he frowned again. “Or I’ll take the carriage to Hyde Park to sit near the Serpentine.”

“And do what, puzzle over your dull existence?”

With a faint grin, Nathaniel turned at the sound of his friend’s voice. “Why am I not surprised you’ve turned up this afternoon, Edenthorpe?”

The duke was the founder of the Rogue’s Arcade club, and he’d personally hand-picked each and every member therein. In recent weeks, he’d been shot in the left shoulder by someone in Lady Stover’s employ, and for many days, his friends and family waited for news as to his health. But he pulled through, even if he was still somewhat worse for wear.

Edenthorpe came further into the room at a rather slow pace since he walked with the aid of a cane, just as Nathaniel did—a result from an injury during the war. With a wince, he sat heavily on a Louis XIV style chair with gilt legs. “It is deuced difficult to get around with the cane and the sling.”

“Not a day goes by when I don’t curse my damned cane,” Nathaniel said while he came to the furniture grouping and then sat in a matching chair. “However, I am also reminded that at least with the cane, I have survived to see more days than some of my brothers-in-arms.”

“There is always something to be grateful for.”

“Indeed.” As he spoke, Nathaniel studied his friend, the man he’d served with on and off when they were in the same theater of war during their time in the fight against Napoleon.

Edenthorpe had aged since he’d first met the man with lines of exhaustion and worry that framed his eyes and mouth. Threads of silver now ran through his light brown hair, but there was new understanding in his eyes as well as an empathy that hadn’t been there before. Within the past few years, the duke had married and had a daughter with another child on the way.

He had much to lose if Lady Stover and her thugs won this war against the rogues.

“Tell me why you are home alone and talking to yourself, Strathfield.”

Nathaniel allowed a sigh to escape. “Thinking about recent events and the horrors therein. As for me, there simply needs to be more to my existence than going to the club, attending society events, or defending against the scourge that is Lady Stover and her regime of goons.”

Edenthorpe nodded. “I agree, so does that mean you are considering marriage or something along those lines?”

“Only if I have no other recourse or options.” Ever since he came home from the military, he’d suffered from a bit of ennui. There was simply nothing exciting—that wasn’t life-threatening, that was. And even though his military career ended with an injury, he missed that way of living. Additionally, over the years, he’d had lovers and mistresses, for a man had needs, but now at the age of two and forty, it might be a good idea to attend to the future of his title and responsibilities. He’d need an heir more sooner than later. All the members of his immediate family had died in recent years. “There are times when I am lonely, but I feared I’m too broken and too haunted to make an effective husband.”

“I think we have all thought that about ourselves at one time or another, especially when we are survivors of the war.”

I berian Peninsula

Spain

Spring 1813

Well fuck.

This was not going to be good. In fact, the battle in progress had all the earmarks of being nasty and messy, with heavy losses on both sides, but then, that was what war brought, wasn't it? A damned war that no one had wanted but had been needed to put a stop to the would-be dictator Napoleon, who thought he could rule the world and take what he wanted regardless of whether there were other people living in those countries.

As Nathaniel stood surveying the immediate surroundings where various regiments were assembling, and the men were checking and double-checking their weapons seconds before they moved out. There was an eerie silence that rolled over the plains, but that was typical before a battle got truly underway.

Even though he’d been through this exact scenario before in many different locations around the world during his time in the military, cold fear played its long fingers down his spine. Everywhere he looked, there was mud and rain. It seemed that rain and mud were the great equalizers, and no matter where he was sent, the same conditions followed him. From the dismal battlefields of France to the more dismal ones of Spain, he and a few of his fellow rogues had done all they could to assist Spanish regiments in beating back Napoleon’s armies.

Sooner or later, someone would halt the madman’s march. They just had to continue to believe it would happen.

While in France, even though supply lines had often been disrupted, eventually they could receive foodstuffs and ammunition at regular intervals, but here, once those lines were cut, there was almost no hope of seeing them restored quickly. Far from home as the French soldiers were, they were particularly vicious in Spain, and they enjoyed taking out their ire on soldiers who straggled behind or were weak from hunger or dehydration. Hell, monks in monasteries, the poor huddled in villages, it didn’t matter to the frogs, for they tortured or killed without discrimination.

It was maddening.

The earthy scent of mud clogged his nose as he crept forward over the wet and still chilly ground as he led his regiment. The ones who stuck close he considered brothers, and two of them were members of the Rogue’s Arcade with him. The Viscount of Rockwell, who was the Duke of Edenthorpe’s younger brother, was far too pale and no doubt terrified. He’d been distracted of late, which wasn’t good when he should be focused on the upcoming battle. But Nathaniel was confident when push came to shove, the younger man would do the tasks set before him. As for him, it was his goal to see every member of his regiment home—injured or not—but alive. He worked hard to make that happen. Hell, he’d even shoved young Rockwell out of harm’s way once, which meant being grazed by the ball meant for him.

That was an easy injury that had healed—or was in the process of healing—more or less.

To his right was the soon-to-be Earl of Hedgecomb. Rumors that his father lay dying were true, which meant the man’s attention was fractured, but he always remained kind, and they teased him, called him a scarecrow, for his light brown hair was usually in disarray as if the crows had picked on him. The man’s courage in the face of danger never failed. It was an admirable quality, and one Nathaniel relied upon to see the more inexperienced men in the regiment through.

Truth be told, the battlefield was another great equalizer. Balls or cannon fire, sabers or blades didn’t choose a man by class or rank. Men were either enemies or they weren’t, merely due to the country they’d pledged allegiance to.

As their line pushed forward, the mist of the rain was cool on Nathaniel’s face. The acrid scents from spent rifles or the eruption from the cannons ahead infiltrated his nostrils until he tasted those things in his throat. It was galling, and a man never became accustomed to that; it was just part of war.

Smoke obscured parts of the ground, shrouding everything around it, obscuring both friend and foe. Each time a rifle reported, his breathing shallowed and his pulse accelerated as his body braced to feel the bite of a ball in his skin or tearing up his flesh. That was another part of war; almost every man would come out scarred in some way.

Fighting was fierce in pockets, but since his regiment was on the fringes at the moment, clashes with his men were sporadic. Without feeling, Nathaniel plunged the blade of his bayonet into the chest of an enemy here and there; killing a man would take its toll on his soul after the war had ended but not now. There was no time for self-recrimination. Screams from the dying men speared through his brain; he would never purge himself of those sounds, and they would be the stuff of nightmares... once this was all behind them.

Rockwell appeared decidedly cagey. Sweat shone on his brow and face. His hands shook; the damned man would do something stupid soon. “Hold yourself together, Rockwell. We need every man to have a level head.”

“Right.” The younger man nodded. “I’m going to double back and check for stragglers. The last thing we need is for the French to reach our campsite or slaughter the wounded. Besides, I need more ammunition.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Good idea. Report back as soon as you can.”

“I will.”

With a feeling in his gut, he fell back and let the bulk of the regiment go ahead of him, for there had been something about Rockwell that hadn’t rung true. As he glanced through the shifting haze of smoke, he narrowed his eyes when he saw movement toward the latrines in the wooded area. The damned viscount hadn’t gone back to look for stragglers nor had he retrieved ammunition. He was, in fact, deserting, for he had a bag in hand and was stealthily creeping through the trees, running in the opposite direction of the battle.

Hellfire and damnation. What the fuck did the man think he was doing?

Cold disappointment built in Nathaniel’s chest, for he’d thought more of Cecil than that, but in this world, when faced with orders to kill and maim while the men who made the war were nowhere to be found, one couldn’t blame another for objecting to it. “I hope you find the peace you are searching for,” he whispered, and when Rockwell’s form vanished into the trees, he sighed. “God keep you safe.”

After that, he could do nothing except compartmentalize what had just happened. If he allowed himself to worry overly much over Cecil’s fate, he would be vulnerable, and he still had a job to do. Once more, he crept forward with his regiment, and soon he’d plunged into the thick clouds of smoke made from cannons discharging. There was no way to see the enemy charge, but he could hear it, and the sounds of the war cries sent gooseflesh over his skin.

“Keep your wits about you, boys! We’re about to be engaged.” Then he led the way with the point of his saber while he and the line about him surged forward.

A few minutes later, excruciating pain went through his left knee and he fell to the ground. More pain followed as he was stabbed by a French saber in the thigh on that same leg, then he took a ball to his hip. God, never had he been swamped with that much agony, but he fought on as two more soldiers piled on, intent to kill him, but then Scarecrow was there, descending on the French like a bloody angel of vengeance. Between him and his friend, the threat was quickly dealt with, then Hedgecomb dragged his sorry arse back through the smoke and over the muddy field until they were safely behind their line.

“I’ll find the physician, but I’ll wager your career in the field is over, Strathfield.” After Scarecrow propped him up against a broad tree trunk, he ran through the camp calling for the doctor.

Before the flooding pain took him, Nathaniel blew out a breath. “Perhaps now I can find my own damned peace.”

“S trathfield? Are you still with us?”

He startled, both from the sound of Edenthorpe’s voice and the hand on his shoulder that gently shook him. Temporarily disoriented, Nathaniel frowned up into the duke’s face before slowly nodding. “My apologies. I was lost to memories.”

“Ah.” Edenthorpe regained his chair. “There is no telling what will spark the memories... or the nightmares.”

“Indeed.” As if the injury had just happened, Nathaniel rubbed his fingers along the side of his thigh toward his knee. Even though it had been eleven years since he thought he might die in Spain, phantom pain still managed to plague him. Didn’t matter what he’d done in his life since that time, when the haunts from the past came to visit, he was helpless.

“I’m sorry, Strathfield. War is a bitch, but so is life just now.” Concern shadowed Edenthorpe’s eyes. “Which is why I am here.”

“Ah, I wondered when the truth would come out.” He leaned back against the chair then crossed his legs at the ankle. “Please tell me the rogues are still safe and intact.”

“As far as I can tell, they are. I haven’t any news to the opposite.” As he spoke, he tugged a folded piece of stationery from an interior pocket of his jacket. “This was sent to me three weeks or so ago, but due to the flurry of attacks and my own recovery, it was overlooked in the stacks of post until today.”

“Oh?” Nathaniel accepted the missive with a frown. “Who is it from?”

“Lady Mallory Lambert.”

“Lambert.” His frown deepened. “Why is that surname familiar?”

Edenthorpe’s expression was grim. “She is the Earl of Stover’s oldest daughter.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.” The other man nodded. “Read the letter.”

“Right.” After Nathaniel smoothed the paper, he set out to read.

To any member of the Rogue’s Arcade, but especially His Grace, Lord Edenthorpe,

I am Lady Mallory Lambert, the eldest daughter of the Countess of Stover, and I am currently being held against my will in an asylum for mentally deficient people in Surrey. Clearly, there is nothing wrong with my faculties since I was able to pen this letter as well as find a way to have it posted while under heavy guard.

The reason I’m writing to you today is in the hope that one or all of you will come out and help me escape this institution.

Of course, I am well aware of how much the members of the Rogue’s Arcade despise my mother, but take heart, so do I, for I am not my father’s daughter. That was made abundantly clear to me when I came out and asked. Now, I believe I can be a valuable asset in quelling the threat she represents once and for all. Quite frankly, more sooner than later.

If you are of an accord, please respond quickly, for I truly think my days here grow short. Mother is unstable, and I shudder to know what she might do next.

Respectfully,

Lady Mallory

“What sort of gammon is this?” Nathaniel asked as he folded the letter then gave it back to Edenthorpe. “She wants us to rescue her ? The enemy?” Also included in the margin of the letter were directions on where to find her bedchamber and an exact map to get there from the front doors, with a note that all windows in the manor house were secured with iron bars.

“These are the same thoughts I had upon my initial reading.” The other man nodded. “However, this might prove a good thing.”

“I don’t see how. For all we know, she’s in league with her mother.” Unable to stay seated, Nathaniel sprang up from the chair to pace and work off some of his restless energy. “Then it’s true Lady Stover had a child fathered by her lover—the Marquess of Hallerston?”

“Apparently so, for I rather doubt she’d dare such a stunt as to lock away the eldest if the girl belonged to her husband.”

It was appalling. “Did Stover know the true paternity of the child?”

“I couldn’t say, and since he is not a contemporary of mine, I wouldn’t know.”

“Why does Lady Mallory want you to help her?”

“Again, I couldn’t say.” There was decided amusement in Edenthorpe’s voice.

Nathaniel frowned. “Do you intend to rescue her?”

“No.” He pointed to his arm still in a sling. “This would hinder me.”

He snorted. “That didn’t stop you from going out to the Thames, leading a contingent of men to rescue St. Vincent and Hedgecomb a few weeks past.”

Ruddy color rose up the duke’s neck. “The difference is I had a vested interest in that cause. St. Vincent is one of my closest friends... my brother, whereas Lady Mallory is—”

“Only a daughter of your gravest enemy,” Nathaniel responded around gritted teeth. “Then why the devil did you even mention the letter to begin with?”

A slow grin split Edenthorpe’s lips. “I thought you might want to take the lead on this.”

“Me?” A grunt escaped him. “Why? I’m better used here to help protect the rest of you.” Such a ridiculous notion, him going haring off to rescue a woman he’d never met, who could very well wish them all harm.

“While I have had the same thoughts as you, this young woman is Stover’s daughter, er rather she is the countess’ daughter, and Hallerston’s by-blow. That’s nothing to sneeze at. There must be a reason she is writing at this time and to me, no less. Though she doesn’t mention it in the missive, I would wager she wants revenge on her mother.”

One of Nathaniel’s eyebrows slowly rose. “What if she truly is mentally deranged? Won’t removing her from the asylum be the greater crime?”

Edenthorpe’s expression declared him a nodcock. “And what if she was put there to keep her quiet? What if Lady Stover made a mistake and the girl picked up on it and now she wants to talk? Don’t you think the countess would be desperate to keep that private?” He shook his head. “Short of murdering her own daughter, locking her away was the best option, because anything the girl said could be construed as ramblings of a defective mind.”

“True.” Though nothing concerning the countess could ever be taken at face value. “And what will we do with her once she’s rescued? I can’t imagine Lady Stover will take kindly to that.”

“Uh...” Edenthorpe shrugged his good shoulder. “I had hoped you might concoct a plan once we reach that point.”

That stopped Nathaniel in his tracks. “Again me? Why?”

“Well, you are one of the only ones of us who hasn’t gone forward with a future secured, so you have more recreational time than we do. Consider this your last mission as it were.”

Last mission before what? Death? “Damning words, aren’t they?”

“One can never tell, but the countess is a loose cannon. She’s volatile and by now, after not managing to kill the two earls a few weeks ago—or me—she’s desperate.” Edenthorpe blew out a breath. “There is no telling what she’ll do next, and because of that, I want whatever advantage we can gain from her daughter. Who knows, perhaps we’ll secure assistance from the girl.”

That made sense. Eventually, Nathaniel nodded. “Give me back the letter. I shall put together a plan then make preparations to remove her from the asylum.” That was the mission. “No more and no less.”

“Good.” The other duke nodded. “Keep me informed and if I’m not available, send word through one of the other rogues. I have a feeling the tide is turning in our favor, and we can finally put a stop to Lady Stover’s reign of terror.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.” The woman was a scourge, and he was tired of seeing his friends hurt because of her demented thinking.

No matter, it was good to feel useful again.