Page 15 of Rake in Disguise (Wicked Widows’ League #33)

Chapter Thirteen

Blythe knew that she would not see Orlando until very late, but she was determined to wait up for him. She wanted to hear all about the ball. A few of the couples at the inn had also received invitations and she had bid them a good night as they left.

It only occurred to her after they were gone that they may see Orlando with Isabella and would likely return to gently tell her that Orlando had escorted another woman to the ball.

Neither had mentioned that his sister had followed the drum mainly because it would be too confusing to have a wife and a sister and then they would wonder why the sister wasn’t given a room at the inn and just the wife.

This was what came from telling falsehoods.

But she was prepared with answers when they came.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and it wasn’t Orlando who woke her, but loud excited voices from below.

“News arrived near midnight, I believe,” Blythe heard one of the women say as she came down the stairs.

Oh, she wished she could remember their names but they had not been committed to memory after introductions and she hadn’t heard names since.

She also did not spend much time with the other guests either but stayed in the gardens or in her chamber and read.

“What news?” Mr. Desmit asked.

“Napoleon! He is here.”

Blythe clutched the balustrade because she feared that her knees would give way.

“He is here, in Brussels?” Mrs. Desmit cried.

“No. Not Brussels,” one of the husbands explained. “He is near. The Prussian army encountered the French near Fleurus and was pushed back and the French have crossed the Sambre River and were advancing and nearing Quatre Bras.”

“There was such a flurry of activity after it was learned. Anyone in uniform rushed from the ball until only some of us were left standing, not certain what to do,” the woman said.

“The courtyard and streets were full of military men trying to make their way back …or to battle,” the other woman said. “We waited until there was enough room for passage on the streets.”

The campaign had begun and all Blythe could do was wait until it was over.

Wait for Orlando to return.

The following day they received reports that the French had defeated the Prussian army at Ligny, but the British had held Quatre Bras.

On the seventeenth, Wellington ordered a retreat to the village of Waterloo, which made everyone nervous.

Then on June 18 th , the French fought the Allied Forces, and in the end, the French had been defeated, but not without hundreds, if not thousands of casualties on each side.

On the following day, some of those staying at the inn ventured out to view the battlefield. Blythe couldn’t understand the morbid curiosity. It was not possible that the deceased had been buried and were likely still there. Why would anyone want to view that?

For four days Blythe waited and hoped that all was well with Orlando, but no news came and she finally set out to find him or Isabella.

Except, the first person she encountered that she knew, was a cavalry officer who had been with her husband’s troop.

“Mrs. Clay, I am terribly sorry for your loss.”

Blythe blinked at him and realized that she hadn’t even given a thought to John. Only Orlando.

“It happened quickly and I assure you that Lieutenant Clay did not suffer.”

“John?”

He straightened. “Have you not been told?”

“I have heard nothing of John.” Not since he sold her, which she refrained from stating.

“He was caught near Ligny…We were trying to ride ahead, to warn Wellington, but Lieutenant Clay was shot in the back and fell from his horse. I stopped to help, but he was already dead. I think he broke his neck in the fall.”

Blythe blinked at him again. “John is dead.”

“Yes, Mrs. Clay. I am sorry that I am the one to tell you.” He glanced around. “Would you like to sit? I am certain this must be a shock.”

“It is, but no…I…um…I was looking for someone. Miss Isabella Valentine. Do you know her?”

“I am sorry. I do not.”

“Do you know where the wounded are being treated?”

“The Farm at Mont St. Jean,” he answered. “There is a surgeon called Valentine there. Maybe he knows where this Isabella is.”

“Thank you.” She walked past him and in the direction of where the man had pointed.

John was dead.

She was a widow.

John was dead.

No matter how many times she repeated it to herself, she still could not believe that it was true. John was never supposed to die. He had managed to stay alive these past years.

Was it because…Guilt ate at her. Yes, she had wanted to be free of him by nearly any means, but she hadn’t meant for him to be killed.

She stopped a soldier and asked where The Farm of Mont St Jean was and was sent down the proper road.

The nearer she came, the more men she saw waiting to be treated. Moans and cries filled the air along with the smell of rotting…she wasn’t certain what it was, but her stomach wanted to revolt.

How many men had been injured if hundreds were still waiting to see a surgeon four days after the battle.

How many had died?

What if Orlando had been killed too?

Panic seized her heart. Surgeons worked behind the lines, but that didn’t mean they also did not encounter danger.

She needed to see him. She needed to know that he was safe.

The building was just beyond the courtyard and as she stepped in, Blythe nearly recoiled at the sight of amputated limbs stacked in corners.

She took a step back and then another and continued until they could not be viewed any longer, yet she still needed to know that Orlando survived.

And just when she was about to face the horror of the courtyard once again, he stepped outside. His face was pale, cheeks sunken with circles beneath his eyes and his clothing was covered in blood.

She watched as he reached behind and massaged his neck before leaning against the stone wall as he lit a cheroot.

He was exhausted but there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t even cross the courtyard to go to him because of what else lay there—the limbs that he had probably helped remove.

Out of necessity, of course, but in that moment, she realized how much more important he was than she would ever be.

Her life, up until this moment, had been insignificant in comparison to his.

Her father may be a duke, but she was nothing.

Her connection was all she could offer anyone.

Even the women she had met during the Season had befriended her because she was the daughter of a duke with marriageable brothers.

That was all anyone cared about and she had failed in securing her husband the position he coveted and her friends the husband they hoped to gain.

What was her worth compared to Orlando who saved lives and worked tirelessly to heal the injured.

He may have genuinely liked her, but he had also rescued her. And what they had shared in a chamber in an inn on the outskirts of Brussels had not been real. It was an insulation from the world…from reality. One he stepped into every day, while she had hid herself away because of embarrassment.

Why would he want her?

He was needed. She was not. His work was important, and she had little to offer.

He saw the horrors of the world and suffered the nightmares.

She had worn pretty dresses and had gone to balls before she followed the drum, but even then, her life was not so difficult and being sold was a minor inconvenience when compared to what surrounded her.

She would always cherish what they shared in the chamber at Desmit Inn, but none of it was real, and she had been as much a coward as John. He wanted to avoid battle, she had feared gossip and embarrassment.

The only thing that had been real was her and Orlando’s friendship, or he would not have visited each night.

And friendship was all they would ever have even though she was a widow now because Orlando Valentine was so much more than she could ever be and once the world had settled and they no longer were sheltered away, hiding in a chamber, he would realize that too.

Orlando never looked over or saw her, for which she was thankful and instead of speaking with him, she returned to the inn to write him a letter, then packed her valise.

It was time to free Orlando from his perceived obligation to her and go home.

If he could face the reality of the consequences of war, then she could face her family with the truth.