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T he next morning, Crispin took himself to Bond Street to his appointment with Jasper’s tailor.

He wore old clothes plucked from his wardrobe, which should not have felt strange—they were his clothes, after all—but nevertheless, made him feel like an imposter.

Like he was playing at being a civilian. Trying it on. And it chafed.

He carried his new togs wrapped in paper to keep them clean.

He expected to be at the tailor’s a good while, but the man was waiting, ready to tend to him, and quite efficient.

He measured, snipped a few threads, chalked a few seams, then promised to have the altered clothes delivered to Grosvenor Square that very night. Jasper must pay him exceptionally well.

It amused Crispin to think he would be a swell of the first stare at Olivia’s wedding. Perhaps that could be his new persona. Rather than cynical soldier/spy, he might be an idle, devil-may-care dandy.

In keeping with that unlikely scenario, he went straight from the tailor to Truefitt’s Barbershop on St. James Street to sample colognes.

The shop was chock-a-block with adornments for men: neckcloths and pins, cuff links, snuff boxes, soaps, and colognes.

He presented to the cologne counter where an unctuous clerk pressed several vials at him, declaiming the advantages of each.

All Crispin could smell was sandalwood and citrus.

“Have you nothing different?” he asked. Everything he’d sniffed had the air of the ballroom or gentlemen’s club. That was Jasper, not him.

“ Different ?” The clerk’s nostrils quivered as though he was appalled. “My lord, they are all different.” He held up one of the vials. “Notice the light notes of pepper and orange. And the hint of Lily-of-the-Valley.”

“My mother wears Lily-of-the-Valley.”

The clerk frowned, then said in a wheedling tone, “Have you a particular scent in mind? I’m sure we can match it.”

He had no idea what he wanted. Just something more suited to a soldier. Or ex-soldier. Something more defining. The way Jasper…everything about Jasper was all of a piece. Reg, too. That was what he wanted. Consistency of self. But he wasn’t going to find it in a barbershop.

At that moment, another salesman approached. He was older and carried himself with the stiffness of a wealthy cit’s butler. He made a flicking motion toward the young clerk and addressed Crispin.

“Perhaps I may suggest a new offering. A musk with woody notes. Hints of spice. You might think of a forest floor.”

He’d slept on too many damp forest floors to find that appealing. But he nodded, ready to be done. “That sounds more to my liking.”

“Step this way, if you please.” They moved to the opposite end of the counter. The man opened one of the cabinets on the wall to remove a small jar. He plucked out the stopper and waved it under Crispin’s nose. “This is ‘Spanish Leather.’”

It didn’t smell like leather, which was too bad. But it had a complex, rich scent of musk, pine, humus, and perhaps vanilla, that did put him in mind of a forest. Pleasantly so.

“It will do,” he said. “Send it to 8 Grosvenor Square, on the Earl of Iversley’s account.” That would please Jasper. Crispin truly believed his brother was secretly delighted to be taken advantage of.

He left Truefitt’s without being persuaded he needed anything else. A glance at his watch showed it was not yet noon. He’d accomplished too much too quickly for an idle man-about-town—he shouldn’t even be awake at this hour. Which proved he was not cut out to be one.

All in all, he was glad to be done with frippery.

He had a more important task he’d wanted to accomplish this afternoon while his family engaged in pre-wedding chaos.

His old commander, Colonel Harrington, was a patient at the Royal Chelsea Hospital, which was only a short walk away.

In the heat of the battle at Vitoria, Old Harry had been fallen upon by his horse.

His legs and hips shattered. Had he not been a colonel, the surgeons in the field would have loaded him with rum and laudanum and let him die.

But being a man of rank, he’d been carted to various hospitals on the peninsula until—as Crispin had recently learned from some of their fellows—he’d been deemed well enough to survive transport home.

It was surprising that he’d made it, given the extent of his injuries.

Nevertheless, the call Crispin meant to pay was not a charitable one.

Or not solely a charitable one. Harrington had broken him in back when he was just another green peer’s son with no understanding of warfare.

Crispin hoped Old Harry might be able to provide some direction now as well.

What was an old soldier to do now that Boney was defeated?

*

Although he had never been there before, Crispin could not possibly have missed the place.

The Royal Chelsea Hospital was a three-story, three-winged, brick structure fronting on the Thames, partially enclosing and surrounded by gardens.

A long, tree-lined drive led up to the main, central wing.

The building would be majestic if it were not malodorous with the stink of the river and so melancholy in its purpose.

Crispin strolled up the drive, pausing to examine the market stalls encroaching on the property, where sellers of meat pies of dubious origin, bruised fruit, stale bread, and watery ale hawked their wares.

Although he was hungry, nothing appealed to him.

Here and there, dotting paths leading into the gardens, were more tempting offerings: colorfully dressed women who tried catching his eye, the bolder among them even calling out to him with crude invitations.

And this was midday. At night, the place must be crawling with whores.

Convenient, but he preferred a bit more privacy.

He went through the main doors and found a clerk with a register. “Major Crispin Taverston to see Colonel Neville Harrington.”

The clerk turned a few pages of a large book, then said, “Room 112. West wing.” He pointed at a hallway with his quill.

Crispin was not much acquainted with hospitals and hoped never to be.

The hallway had a medicinal smell: alcohol, he supposed, but with a smack of urine and vomit.

His heels clicked along the floor like a Dutch metronome, setting the tempo for the synchronized moans, coughs, and snores that accompanied his walk down the hall.

He caught glimpses inside the first few rooms, then kept his eyes focused straight ahead.

He wasn’t squeamish. He’d seen blood, dismemberment, and death on the battlefield. He’d caused men to bleed and die. But this was different. This lingering suffering when there was nothing more to accomplish.

Room 112. He paused, drew a breath, and peered inside.

The first thing he noticed was an old woman, swathed in black.

His initial impression was of a medieval nun like those in paintings, but it was a mourning veil draped over her bonnet, shrouding the sides of her face, not a wimple.

A fringe of white hair peeked out over her forehead.

A nurse, then. Military hospitals hired widows to help care for the wounded.

She stood beside the farthest bed and fussed over the man lying in it.

A sweep of the room revealed six beds, three along each wall.

Only three were occupied, but the others had a mussed appearance suggesting recent use.

The closest held a man whose head was wrapped in bandages, who might have been sleeping or dead.

A one-armed man sat in the middle bed, reading a book in his lap.

The man in the far bed, with the morbid-looking woman leaning over him…

Crispin blinked and stifled a groan. That was Old Harry.

Colonel Harrington was probably in his mid-forties, but now he looked at least two decades older. His hair was thin and completely gray. And he’d shriveled like a peeled apple left out in the sun.

Crispin adjusted his expectations. Poor Harrington could provide no insight into life after the army. The man was not recuperating, but dying.

He strode into the room. The woman glanced up, then straightened, her movement and posture that of a young woman not an elderly one. Harrington called out in a hoarse, weak voice, “Lieutenant! I’ll be damned.”

Crispin reached the foot of the bed but could go no closer because a chair fitted out with wheels blocked his path. He saluted. “Colonel.”

Harrington’s face was lined with pain, but he smiled.

“It’s good to see you. Let me…” He pushed against his mattress, trying to sit up straighter.

The woman tucked her hand into his armpit to help, but he scowled and brushed her away.

“Lieutenant, this is my sister, Miss Camellia Harrington. Camellia, this is Lieutenant Taverston.”

Miss Harrington. So not a widow. Crispin faced her.

She seemed startled, peering questioningly at him as if she were trying to place his name.

For his part, he knew Harrington had a sister; Old Harry used to speak of her from time to time.

Yet seeing her up close disoriented him completely.

Through the gauzy veil, he noted that her bonnet sat atop sheeny, black-as-ebony tresses.

Still, he had not mistaken the white fringe of hair at her forehead. That was odd.

And if Harrington was forty-something but looked sixty, this lady looked at least a decade younger than her years—what he assumed her years to be, given she was Harrington’s sister.

She could rather be Harrington’s daughter.

Her ivory skin was unlined. She had dark-brown eyes rimmed by long black lashes.

And her lips were plump and bow shaped. She was objectively pretty.

Very pretty. She could have used a lead comb to darken that white patch, but he respected the fact that she didn’t.

He bowed quickly, hoping his studying of her had not been prolonged enough to be impolite. That was an army habit he needed to break—assessing everything and everyone as though scouting the terrain before a battle. “Miss Harrington. It is a pleasure.”

She nodded slightly. “Lieutenant.”

“Oh. Ah…” He shook his head. This should not be awkward, but it was. “Major. I am Major Taverston.”

Harrington snorted. “That was a quick climb. But deserved, I’m sure.” He turned to his sister. “You’ve heard—well, you’ve read about my visitor.”

Miss Harrington looked puzzled. More than puzzled, her cheeks had pinkened. “I don’t recall the name,” she murmured.

“Because I called him Lieutenant Cheatdeath when I wrote to you.” He laughed, then coughed. Crispin tried not to grimace as Harrington choked out a compliment. “Bravery verging on recklessness. Led from the front.”

“Yes, I recall Cheatdeath,” Miss Harrington said, eyes cast down.

“And I recall the sister you boasted of,” Crispin said, addressing the colonel, trying to turn the topic away from himself. “A faithful correspondent. And caring for your aged parents if I’m not misremembering.”

“Both deceased,” Harrington said, drawing a deep breath. “But it was her mother and our father she cared for these past few years. And now, she is cursed with me.”

“Blessed with you!” Miss Harrington protested.

A second marriage. So the age difference made more sense.

As did the mourning clothes. Their deaths must have been recent.

He wondered what her story was. He didn’t recall Harrington ever saying anything about her being courted, and she was a “Miss” not a “Mrs.” That was unfortunate for her, but it meant Old Harry would be cared for.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your visit,” he said.

Miss Harrington fluttered her hand. “You are not interrupting. I’m sure Neville is more interested in visiting with you than with me. I’m here all the time.” She cast a look around the room, her face falling. “If Mr. Cooper were here, you might go out to the terrace.”

“Mr. Cooper?” Crispin asked.

“One of the attendants. Mr. Frye took the others out.” She indicated the three empty beds.

But not the colonel? Crispin didn’t understand. Was it some hospital rule? Only three men could go out at a time with one attendant? He looked at the wheelchair, sitting empty. “It’s a fine day. If the attendants are all busy and you’d like to go outside, I can take you.”

Harrington grumbled and Miss Harrington made some inaudible protest, shaking her head.

Having no desire to remain in that depressing room, Crispin tried again. “Why did Mr. Frye take the others out but not you?”

“Mr. Frye is a brute,” Miss Harrington said, clearly this time, with a touch of anger. “He tosses Neville around like a sack of dirt. He says it’s less painful to do it quickly, but if you saw—”

“Camellia! Enough of that.” Harrington went red to his ears, and muttered, “You’ve already given Frye an earful.”

Soldiers did not complain about pain. They endured. But Crispin could put the pieces together. Miss Harrington had refused to let her brother be manhandled by Frye— good for her! Except that meant he’d been left behind.

Crispin took hold of the handles on the chair and pulled it into the aisle. Then he stepped to Harrington’s side, opposite his sister. “Arms around my neck, Colonel.”

Miss Harrington gave a startled chirp. Harrington scowled, but lifted his arms as Crispin bent down and pushed away the sheet.

Crispin remembered him as a stocky man, meticulous about his uniform.

Now, the colonel wore a grayed white shirt and very baggy navy-blue trousers.

Pretending not to notice the wasting, Crispin slid one arm beneath his commander’s legs and another around his shoulders.

Harrington held his breath. Crispin scooped him up, carried him to the chair, and placed him in it.

Harrington let out a sigh. His face relaxed.

Miss Harrington gaped, then composed herself and said, “Thank you, Major.” She snatched up a blanket and spread it over her brother’s knees.

Crispin grasped the handles again. “Will you show me the way to the terrace, Miss Harrington?”

She nodded, but the colonel said, “I’ll direct you. Camellia, there must be something else you’d like to do. The major and I will bore you with our reminiscences.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, of course.”

Crispin couldn’t tell if she was pleased or hurt by the dismissal. Not by her tone. But she’d said she was “here all the time.” He wagered that was no exaggeration. Poor girl. He turned the chair toward the door, hiding his grimace from her. The war had ruined too many lives.