Page 14 of Rake in Disguise (Wicked Widows’ League #33)

Chapter Twelve

When Orlando arrived shortly before dinner the next day, Blythe noted his exhaustion immediately. Of course, he had suffered nightmares the two nights prior, but his eyes were also etched with worry and his mouth tight, grim.

“What has happened?” she asked once they were alone.

“It has been a trying day,” he answered without providing specifics.

“I would understand if you would like to make an excuse to return to your tent.”

“I would rather make an excuse to avoid dinner and the other guests,” he grumbled.

A smile pulled at her lips. “I can claim that you are not feeling your best and request a tray,” Blythe suggested. She wasn’t certain if the proprietor of the inn would allow such an indulgence, but it did not do any harm to ask.

Besides, she had traveled and stayed in inns previously and often took meals in her room.

“It would not be a lie,” Orlando assured her. “I am far from being my best.”

“Then let me see what I can arrange.”

She slipped out of the chamber before he could stop her and found Mrs. Desmit, the wife of the owner, cook and laundress.

“Is all well, Mrs. Valentine?”

Blythe blinked at her because she had not even uttered a word, let alone made a request.

“I noticed your husband when he entered. He did not appear well. He barely greeted anyone and that is not like him, so of course, I am concerned.”

“He is not feeling his best,” Blythe responded. “It is the reason I came down. Would it be possible to dine in our chamber this evening? I promise to return the dishes right away.”

“I will have my husband deliver a tray as soon as it is prepared.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Desmit.”

“Think nothing of it, dear. Now, you go see that your husband is rested. We cannot have an army surgeon become ill right before there is need of him.”

When she returned to the chamber, he was on the bed, pillows stacked behind his back and head so that he could sit up.

“A tray will be delivered.”

“Thank goodness.” He sat up to remove his boots and set them by the side of the bed, then returned to his repose.

“What was particularly trying about today?” she asked.

“Sir James McGrigor has been appointed Director General of the Medical Department. He is giving directives to all medical staff to prepare for the upcoming campaign. We have been organizing at his instruction.”

“Do you have an objection to him?” she asked.

“No. Not at all. He has been responsible for many improvements in the medical departments, but we are not prepared for what is to come and only half of the surgeons here have had surgical war experience.”

“Is that not enough?” Blythe asked.

“I fear twice as many may not be enough,” he offered grimly.

“Maybe the battle will not arrive before the medical staff is prepared.”

“We could be organized, all medical tools by our sides, the tables waiting, but it still won’t be enough. It never has been.”

Her heart ached for Orlando. She wished she could ease his concerns, but there was nothing she could do but be there for him.

At the knock at the door, she answered it to find Mr. Desmit, a tray laden with food. “Thank you,” Blythe said as she took the tray.

Mr. Desmit glanced past her to Orlando. “You take care. Rest. You will be needed soon.”

Orlando nodded. “I will.”

After Blythe shut the door, she carried the tray to the bed and sat it in the center then settled on the side where she slept.

They ate in silence because she did not know what she could say to ease him. As for Orlando, he ate so slowly, almost as if he was too exhausted to lift the fork to his mouth.

When he was done, he lay back against the pillows again and she took the tray back downstairs.

“How is your husband?” Mrs. Desmit asked.

“Tired, exhausted. I expect him to be asleep before I return.”

Except, he wasn’t, much to her surprise.

“Are you feeling better?”

“I am certain sleep is all I need.”

“Then that is what you shall do.”

“I fear that if I sleep so early, that I will wake too early and not get a chance to rest before the ball.”

That was to be tomorrow night.

“We could play a game of Cribbage,” Blythe offered.

“You will only beat me, like you always do.” He chuckled.

“I simply have better luck.”

Blythe crawled onto her side of the bed and lay on her side, the pillow beneath her ear. “Why did you not return to England after Napoleon first went to Elba?”

“There were still wounded that needed care, then there were illnesses. Besides, even without battles, with so many people there was still illness and injuries and being a military surgeon is not so difficult when there are no battles.”

“Will you remain when this next campaign is over?”

“No. I will stay to treat the wounded and ill until most have recovered, but I think it is time to go home.”

Her heart squeezed in reaction given the ache.

“I suppose I will eventually need to go back as well.” She couldn’t stay in this inn forever; she just wished that she could.

* * *

Screams, blood, bodies, limbs. The acrid smell of fires and gunpower. It surrounded him.

Orlando jerked awake and sat up.

“Another nightmare?” Blythe asked.

He nodded.

“Is it the same one each time?”

“Similar enough. Always wounded and dying while a battle rages.”

She sat up in bed and brushed the hair from his forehead as she had done before. “Have you always had it?”

“During the Peninsula War, on occasion, but it had gone away these past months.”

“Until now,” she prompted.

“I know what is coming and we have been preparing, and likely because it is what I have been thinking about, but most of all dreading.”

The nightmare still left him shaken but Blythe was comfort and he pulled her close as he had done the night before and lay down with her head on his chest while he smoothed her hair.

He needed to hold her tonight more than at any other time and likely because of underlying panic and because he knew that his time with Blythe was short.

She wasn’t his and never would be and it wasn’t even right that they were lying in bed in this manner, but he wasn’t ready for this to end.

“What will you do when you return to England?” she asked.

She was likely trying to take his mind off the nightmare and what was to come, which he did appreciate.

“My aunt and uncle live in Hampshire with my sisters. I may settle there and be a village doctor.”

“You never did tell me much about your family.”

That had been intentional and he had avoided the topic for nearly a month. It was one thing to mention a sibling in a snowball fight or racing a brother across the fields. The background of how they came to be was not something he shared with anyone.

“Why were you raised by an aunt and uncle? What happened to your parents?”

“They died,” he answered simply.

“I am sorry. Of course that would be your answer.” She tilted her head back to look up at him. “If you will not tell me about your family, tell me a secret.”

“A secret?” he asked.

“It occurred to me that you hold my secret—about how my marriage ended. Two secrets,” she corrected. “The other about my family being smugglers. I trust that you will never tell anyone, but I hold no secrets of yours. I think it is only fair that I do.”

What she didn’t realize was that his secret was the truth about his family.

What harm would it do to tell her? He knew that he could trust Blythe. That was one of the few things that he was certain. She would understand the harm and embarrassment if the truth was ever learned, otherwise she would not be hiding and afraid of seeing someone from Society.

“You are correct, but you must swear to me that you never ever tell anyone.”

“I never would, Orlando.”

The sincerity in her blue eyes was deep.

She settled back against his chest. “Only tell me what you wish and I will never speak a word of what you tell me.”

Orlando found that he had a deep need to tell someone the secret that his family held near.

“My mother was the daughter of the Marquess of Wingate. She was betrothed to a viscount but fell in love with a stable hand. The two ran off to Gretna Green because they knew that her father would never approve. When they returned, my mother was disowned and the stable hand was sacked. His name was Timothy Jones and just like your husband, believed that marrying her would better his circumstances.”

“Did he love her or did he spin lies?”

He smoothed a hand over her silken black hair. “I am not certain. I was only a child but I remember that he was often angry and drunk.”

“I am sorry for that,” she murmured.

“My parents have five sons, Demetrius, Benedick, Me, Mercutio and Petrucio. My father died before Petrucio came into the world.”

“Did she return home and remarry?”

“No. Her father wouldn’t let her return, nor would he support her and my mother was forced to…forced...”

“Do your younger siblings have different fathers?”

“Yes. She was given little choice or we would have starved.”

She gave a slight nod and he knew that Blythe had concluded that his mother had turned to prostitution for survival.

“Why do you go by the name Valentine when your surname is Jones?”

“My mother passed right after Perdita, was born. Demetrius and Benedick did their best to provide, by way of being pickpockets and stealing from fruit vendors, which they were very good at, while I watched over the youngest.”

“How old were they?”

“Demetrius was nine at the time, Benedick eight and I was seven.” He paused for a moment. “Ten siblings born in ten years. I think that is what hastened my mother’s death, along with near starvation and illness.”

For a moment he was lost in the memories of the shabby one room in a boarding house where they lived.

“My brothers picked the wrong pocket and was caught by Vicar Grant. He insisted on taking them to speak to our mother. They tried to run but he held on tight to the two of them, so they took him to where we lived. He was appalled, especially when he realized that we had no parents and were doing our best, even taking care of a newborn.”

“He took you in?”

“He first tried to return us to our grandfather, who would not have us. But, to keep him quiet, it was arranged that the vicar be given a parish far away, so he and his wife raised us.”

“That was very kind of them but still does not explain Valentine.”

“Vicar Grant’s wife had a sister who had married a Valentine.

They were missionaries who had gone to India.

Right before we were found, and before Vicar Grant had learned, Mrs. Grant received a letter informing her that her sister, brother-in-law and children were killed in an uprising, so they decided to tell everyone that we were the orphans of her sister so that we would have better opportunities instead of facing a hard life because half of us were the sons of a stable hand and the other half didn’t know who the fathers were.

The only difficulty was that we had to remain hidden for a time because with Perdita being newly born, nobody would believe that she was a niece born in Indian when it usually took four to five months to sail from India. ”

“Was it difficult being hidden away?”

Orlando snorted. “We had soft beds, warm food and a clean place to live, something none of us had ever experienced. We did not care if they intended to keep us in their attic forever because we were safe for the first time in our lives.”

That was the secret they all held and he waited for Blythe to recoil in disgust. She was the daughter of a duke and even though she had followed the drum, Blythe couldn’t know what it was like to suffer hardships of not knowing when or where her next meal would come from.

She sat up and placed at hand against his cheek. “I am sorry that you carry this burden, and the same for your siblings.”

He placed a hand over hers.

Sympathy was in her eyes, and he wanted to trust in her words, but he also believed that once she had time to really think about his past that she would likely leave him. He was even less worthy of her than he ever was before. Not that she could have been his, but Orlando wanted her to be.