Page 3 of One Night in Vauxhall Gardens (Singular Sensation #11)

April 30, 1819

Hedgecomb House

St. James Square

Mayfair, London

From the carriage-style clock on the fireplace mantel across his bedchamber, the soft chime of the bells declared the midnight hour.

With a huff of frustration, Harry flopped onto his back to stare at the ceiling. The chintz curtains on the frame around his four-poster bed hadn’t been drawn closed for the night; there simply hadn’t been a need, for the air was already a bit stale. Even with one of the windows partially opened, there was no breeze to speak of where fresh circulation would have been most welcomed.

It had been three days since the Duke of Edenthorpe had been shot, and since that time, he hadn’t regained consciousness. The surgeon had extracted the ball from his chest, and though the iron had done no lasting damage to vital organs—it had come close to puncturing the heart—it had gone deep and had nicked a muscle between the ribs, and the process of removing it had been traumatic. Because of that, the duke had developed a fever. At least the surgeon had been honest when he’d said that if Edenthorpe survived the fever, he would most likely come into consciousness, but as of right now, it was a waiting game.

But the not knowing was the thing that was taking a toll on him.

Not that worry was the sole reason he wasn’t able to enjoy a full night’s sleep. He hadn’t had that for years, and not since he’d been in the war. Oddly enough, there was something about being able to sleep when there was chaos around him. There had been a comforting aspect of sleeping lightly enough to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Yet ever since he’d been home in London—he’d taken two years after the end of the war to relax and try to gather his wits in Rome—it had been far too quiet, too dull, and that meant he couldn’t sleep.

It was dashed annoying.

How long could a man continue to go on without adequate sleep? He didn’t know, but Harry turned onto his side, punched his pillow, wadded it up beneath his head, and closed his eyes once again in the hopes that slumber would come.

October 13, 1806

Somewhere in Bavaria

Eve of the Battle of Auerstadt

The expectation of a man being on the eve of a battle during a never-ending war would be for him to feel far too many nerves that would prevent sleep, but Harry must prove the exception to the rule, for he was never as tired as he was when he knew he’d need to fight the French in the morning.

He lay on his back with his arms tucked behind his head and resting on the rather sad pillow as he stared at the top of this tent. Honestly, the canvas “structure” wasn’t long enough for his nearly six-foot height, so he was forced to bed down at a slant in order to keep his stocking-covered feet inside the tent.

There was an eerie quiet settling over the night where the lonesome hoot of an owl filtered to his ears along with the rustling of various nocturnal rodents who shared the woods with Harry’s regiment. Every once in a while, snatches of low conversation drifted to him when fellow soldiers walked past his tent. Clearly, they couldn’t sleep, but already his eyes were closing and soon he’d be in dreamland.

Hopefully without the dreams.

He’d no idea how long he’d been dead to the world, but the sharp snap of a twig was a sound that wasn’t part of the cacophony of the night. Immediately, he was awake and alert, springing from his pallet and shoving his legs into his breeches simultaneously.

Cries of alarm rang out and tore through the silence—an attack was happening on the camp.

With a pounding heart and a tight chest, Harry left his uniform coat behind in favor of grabbing his saber and pistol as he exited his tent. The sounds of fighting were unmistakable, so he ran toward the source of the friction. No matter what, he would defend his fellow brothers-in-arms. Each time he swung his saber or stabbed at a French solider, it gave him no pleasure to see men fall around him. War meant there would be casualties and many lives would be lost while the men who’d called for the battles were safe and tucked away from harm in their London homes.

By dawn, the ambush had been quelled and the straggling intruders had retreated, but at what cost? Many of the members of his regiment had been wounded or even found dead, and he’d lost a good friend during that dark attack. When he’d found the man’s body, overwhelming grief had gone through him and for a long while, Harry had sat with his fallen brother-in-arms, passing vigil until his commanding officer had gently told him to go back to his tent and finish dressing; they needed to resume the march.

“I can’t do that; he’ll be alone,” he said in a soft voice as he peered up at the newly minted Duke of Strathfield. His father had died a couple of months ago, and the letter containing that information had only just reached him, but since Strathfield was far too honorable a man, he refused to leave his regiment, intended to see them through to the end. “He didn’t deserve this.” His heart and gut felt as if they’d been wrenched from his body.

“While I agree, there is nothing you can do for him.” He laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder, squeezed it in support. “Listen, Scarecrow, he’s in a better place than this stinking battlefield. There is no more pain for him, no more hunger or wet socks or uncomfortable boots.”

He frowned at the use of the nickname all his friends used. “I don’t mind telling you that I hate this damned war. It’s never-ending, keeps going so that rich men grow richer while the rest of us are considered an expendable loss.”

“That is the way of things, I’m afraid, but take heart in this moment. You and I are both still very much alive, and while that is true, we have a purpose and a responsibility to keep going.”

Harry nodded. Finally, he stood. “Perhaps you’re right. We need to win this war, so Philip won’t have died in vain.”

But it was a jagged pill to swallow, indeed.

Present day

“Your Lordship, the Earl of St. Vincent is here, asking for a moment of your time.”

The sound of his butler’s voice roused Harry from the memory. With a frown, he rolled over in his bed and wondered why it was light beyond the windows. “What time is it?” Sweat plastered his sleep shirt to his back, and his heart raced as if he’d run all the way here from France.

“It is just past noon.”

“What?” He must have been truly lost to the dream about the war. It sometimes happened, and he never knew how long such things would hold him. Sometimes the dreams were more ferocious and horrid than that one had been. Throwing off the bedclothes, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. At least he’d gotten some sort of sleep, but he still felt quite exhausted. “St. Vincent is here?”

“He is, Your Lordship. Shall I show him into the drawing room for some luncheon while you ready yourself?”

“Thank you, Lancaster. That would be just the thing.” As he stood, he waved off the thin, older man. “I appreciate that.”

“Of course.”

Once the butler left him alone, Harry stumbled across the room to yank at the bell pull that would summon his valet. He had to do better about finding sleep and staying away from the nightmares.

When he finally entered the drawing room, he’d indulged in a couple of cups of strong coffee, which helped him wake up a bit more, but St. Vincent had apparently made good use of the luncheon tray that had been brought in for him if the detritus was any indication.

“Welcome, St. Vincent. It’s good to see you again.” Yet knots of concern pulled in his gut. “Is there word of Edenthorpe?”

“Not as of yet.” The earl dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. “I shall call on him after I’m done here.”

Then the anxiety would continue.

Harry dropped into a chair near St. Vincent’s location. “What brings you here today?”

“I came to ask you if you would like to go out to Vauxhall Gardens tonight. I require a distraction from the somberness we’ve been under right now, and I want to make certain my sister has an opportunity to remove herself from the house. There should be a night circus entertaining during this time of year, we can eat from handcarts, browse the stalls.”

“God, I haven’t been out to Vauxhall in ages.”

“Then you’ll come?” Interest showed on the earl’s face. “I’m not certain if my mother will accompany me and Theresa, but even if she joins us, there is plenty there to keep her occupied and her criticism to a minimum.”

“Ah.” Harry snorted. “I well know your struggles, for one of my grandmothers was like that. But yes, the outing sounds intriguing.”

“Indeed, it is.” Then St. Vincent’s expression turned sly. “Besides, there is some intelligence that a handful of rogues are narrowing down the spy within the club ranks. While at Vauxhall, I intend to run surveillance on the man, and he’s expected to be there tonight.”

“Good idea.” Harry flashed a grin. “I’ve missed having missions. If you’ll include me, then I’d be delighted to accompany you tonight.”

“I’m glad for that.” St. Vincent stood. He brushed the odd crumb from his waistcoat. “Honestly, you should leave the house more, man. Go beyond the club.”

“Ha.” He snorted again. It seemed that most of life now was much a derision wrapped with ennui. “There is nothing out there for me, and I think you know that. Of course, there is nothing inside either except fretting and nightmares.” His shrug only lifted one shoulder. “Life is just a series of dull days where there is no purpose. I won’t say that I miss the war for its many and varied activities, but I will say I miss being needed.” Once he had finished with battlefields, his superiors had employed his skills as a spy and an informer for a couple of years before Harry had finally retired from service and had come home.

“I can well understand that sentiment, for I felt that way too.” For long moments, St. Vincent was silent. “However, everything changed for me when I met Rachel, or rather, found myself reacquainted with her.”

Harry briefly rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

“Don’t’ be like that; it’s true. Perhaps the answer for you is to find a woman to marry. Or at least one to bed. No shame in that either.”

Ah, the subject of women. He’d wondered when one of his friends would bring that up, since many them had been matched and married over the past few years. “I’ve had women in my bed. Those liaisons or relationships usually end when I wake from a dead sleep thinking she’s an intruder and then I almost kill them as a reflex.” Which was why he’d kept himself aloof from that sort of thing for the past year. It was too much of a risk, and no one deserved that. “Word travels fast and my choices grow limited, which prevents me from concerning myself with the petticoat line.”

Compassion reflected in St. Vincent’s eyes. “I’m sorry, and I do understand that all too well. War does no one any favors; least of all our friends in the Rogue’s Arcade. Some of us have suffered more than others.”

That was one of the things he liked about the club’s members. They understood the struggles former military men went through once the war ended. Remnants of some sort were always left behind in one’s mind. “More and more I feel that my only life of value was there on those battlefields. That I have no use in London. That there is no place for me here.”

“Such gammon, Hedgecomb. Though I understand, you’re wrong. You just need to look harder for your place and your reason. And don’t discount your presence in the drama we’ve all been through concerning the villains we’ve put down over the years.”

“While that is true, and I’ve found satisfaction in those fights, I am doing just fine by myself. It’s safer this way.” He rubbed a hand along the side of his face. “Trust me on this. I couldn’t live with myself if harm came to a woman I was with because of how damaged my mind is these days.”

“Well, don’t discount the possibilities, my friend. Anything might help at this point.”

Vauxhall Gardens

London, England

Harry breathed in deep lungsful of the fairly clean, fresh air as he strolled through the exhibits and stalls set up within the gardens themselves. After meeting up with St. Vincent and his party of friends as well as his sister Theresa and greetings had ensued, before they’d all moved on to the entertainments offered. In one of the clearings, a huge maypole was being readied for May Day celebrations, and there were many distractions from foods offered by handcart vendors and various stalls roasting nuts or offering flavored ices.

Though St. Vincent’s sister strolled with them, she remained fairly quiet and didn’t go out of her way to speak to him. Perhaps she had demons of her own to fight, and for that, he understood. Still, she was attractive enough. Of average height, she had brunette hair that gleamed beneath the gaslights. The most arresting of her features, though, were her brown doe eyes, and when she glanced his way for a few seconds, there were far too many secrets held there that one person could possibly hold. A part of him was curious about her, for he hadn’t heard much about St. Vincent’s sister, but then he told himself he wasn’t there for such a distraction, and he promptly put her from his mind.

Also, there was a crush of people on the popular paths and for the entertainments, so there wasn’t truly an opportunity for conversation anyway.

Soon enough, St. Vincent pulled him off to the side. “I’m going to reconnoiter around the stalls and near the theatre. Reports have said the man we’re seeking is a patron of the arts.”

“And a crack shot?” It still aggravated him that Edenthorpe had been shot.

“So it seems.” He shot a glance around the immediate area while his lips turned downward into a frown. “If you see a man who acts far too nervous for the area, when he sees you, tail him then tackle him when appropriate. I’ll find you.”

“I will be quite happy to do so. I’ll take to some of the more darkened paths.” At least then he’d feel he had somewhat of a purpose. “Good luck on your search as well.”

“Much appreciated, my friend.”

“Will your sister and the others be all right by themselves?” If Lady Stover and her gang truly wished to harm the rogues, would they go after families out there in the open?

“They should be. Besides, they know to stay on the lit paths and with other people. I shouldn’t be away from them for too long.”

“Very well.” Harry nodded. “I’ll seek you out in about an hour.”

Then he loped his way into the darkened part of the gardens and soon left behind the lit paths. Everyone knew Vauxhall was considered pleasure gardens for a very specific reason—carnal pursuits—and there had been talk of lightskirts seeking out clients and customers within the shadows and hidden paths.

The smell of blooming things and newly turned earth infiltrated his nostrils, and everywhere he looked, leaves on the shrubberies and trees were just beginning to burst into life. In the next few weeks, the whole area would teem with new growth and be completely transformed. To say nothing of the fact that it was rather peaceful out there. When was the last time he’d felt content in his life?

I could grow used to this.

Though he kept himself on the alert with his muscles primed for action, he also thoroughly enjoyed the time alone. Traversing the nearly empty paths was good exercise for his mind and the shadows that clung to it still from the lingering nightmare.

But he didn’t spot his quarry. Low, throaty laughter floated to his ears as he passed clusters of trees and shrubberies, but he wasn’t accosted by anyone.

When someone darted out in front of him on the path in the darkness, he startled, and because his mind was as broken as it was, the sudden unexpected happening sent him right into a place in the war where he and his company were ambushed. It was very much the same dream in which he’d been trapped earlier that day, and the last thing he wanted to relive was that particular moment, but there was nothing for it.

With a cry of dismay, Harry stumbled off the path. Blindly, he crashed through some brush and shrubbery, stumbled over the ground, made his way through the trees and went farther into the darkened parts of the gardens. Stuck in the happenings of his mind, he wasn’t aware of where his feet were leading him, so it was only logical that he fell into a grouping of bushes. After rolling out the other side, he curled into a ball. It was just as well, for until his mind settled, he would be no use to anyone. Whether it was in days or hours or mere moments, only God knew. It was never the same.

When will it end? What I wouldn’t give for just a few hours of peace.