Page 10 of Rake in Disguise (Wicked Widows’ League #33)

Chapter Eight

Blythe had talked about herself last night. She wanted to know more about Orlando but also didn’t want to argue about who would talk about their family first.

It was a shame she could not tell him everything. But her family had secrets that could not be shared, such as the fact that a good deal of their wealth came from smuggling.

“I am one of ten living children.”

He sat forward, grey eyes wide. “Are you serious?”

Her family wasn’t so large that anyone should be shocked.

Though, perhaps it was.

“I am also one of ten,” he said.

“Ah, so you can certainly understand the difficulties of siblings always about.”

“Most definitely. Especially when one followed me all the way here,” he laughed.

Yes, Isabella. “She claimed to have shared a chamber with three sisters. Are the rest brothers?”

“That, I will not tell you because I asked you first.”

“Very well,” she chuckled. “First there is Wesley, Marquess of Epworth, then Seth and Cecil. There was a sister, Amelia, but she succumbed to the measles when she was fifteen. Her mother died as well.”

“Your mother?” Orlando asked.

“No. My father’s first wife. He then married my mother and three sons and four daughters were born. I was the first of those daughters. Now, tell me about your siblings.”

“Oh, no. That is not good enough. You must tell me something interesting about at least one of them.”

Blythe leaned back and tried to find the most interesting piece of information and then remembered what had been written to her. “Wesley’s wife, Miranda, formerly Vail, sees ghosts.”

“Ghosts?”

“Yes, ghosts.”

“Does she see them everywhere or in one location?” His tone had taken a serious turn. Blythe had only mentioned it because it was an amusing anecdote and had expected Orlando to laugh.

“She had one in the home she was raised in.”

“But you did not see it.”

“No. They married after I came to the Continent. But it has been described to me by Wesley and my sisters.” Her eyes widened. “Oh dear!”

“What?”

“They do not know where I am. They write regularly but I will not receive their letters.”

“I will speak with the soldiers in charge of the Post and retrieve any missives meant for you.”

She just hoped that John did not claim and destroy them first.

“You could write and tell them where you are,” he suggested.

She stared into his grey eyes. “By the time that letter reached them, I may no longer be here.”

* * *

She could be gone tomorrow if she so chose and there was nothing he could do or say. Blythe’s choices were now her own.

Selfishly, Orlando wanted her to remain. He needed her to stay.

She was a comfort to what he had experienced since he first became a surgeon in Wellington’s army. Other than Isabella, and even when they were not fighting battles, he was surrounded by illness and injuries. Men everywhere, except for the camp followers.

Blythe was sweet and gentle and smelled of the lilacs that bloomed in his aunt’s garden.

She was an escape and one could almost forget that there were hundreds of soldiers only a few miles away ready to go into battle while he was sitting in this quiet, clean chamber.

Perhaps he had been with the army too long.

Maybe he should have gone home when Napoleon first abdicated. But, if he had, he would not have been here to rescue Blythe.

But the years had also taken their toll.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts. “Were you thinking about ghosts?”

He looked into her blue eyes and though he sensed that she was teasing, it wasn’t her full intention but also searching.

He wasn’t thinking about ghosts then, but he had often.

“You do not believe in them?” Orlando asked quietly.

“I am not certain.” Blythe shrugged. “There is enough unexplained or not understood in this world that perhaps there is a possibility. Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Perhaps,” he answered. Maybe what he had seen was a trick of light or his imagination, but he did not believe so.

“Sometimes in the smoke and fog following a battle, or when I am surrounded by the wounded, I will see someone walking but when I approach, they are gone…vanished. I have often wondered if they were soldiers who had not yet realized they were dead or if being transported to heaven or hell was not always immediate.” He shook his head and pushed his fingers through his hair.

“Or maybe they were not a ghost but a person who had simply wandered off and I did not see where they went.”

Blythe stared into his eyes. “But you do not believe that is it.”

“No. I think they were spirits of the dead shocked to realize they were killed.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed.

“Yes, well, we will never know.” He did not want to spend the rest of the evening discussing such a depressing topic. “Tell me about another sibling.”

“No.” Blythe stood. “I will tell you nothing more until you have told me something.”

“I have little to tell.” Which was a blatant lie but he would never know her well enough to share his deepest secrets.

“Then you will hear nothing else from me.”

Orlando chuckled then relented and told her about Isabella, the second born of his sisters, and who had followed him to the Continent and that his youngest brother, Bertram, was not far away, a foot soldier in Wellington’s Army.

He worried about Betram more than his sister, because soon his brother would be fighting the French, and Orlando could only pray that he survived unscathed.