When he said nothing more, Penny looked away, into the darkness broken by the constant curtain of the rain. She knew without doubt that he’d spoken the truth; he might be able to lie to others, but he’d rarely succeeded with her. Tone, inflection, and a dozen tiny hints of stance and gesture were still there in her mind, still familiar—still real. Looking back, between them there never had been deceit or lies; misunderstanding or lack of perception yes, but those had been unintentional on both sides.
What he’d revealed in the past minutes, over the past day, had reassured her, made her believe she could trust him. More, his words, his attitudes, had convinced her the man he now was was stronger, more hardheaded and clear-sighted, more committed to the values she valued, more rigid in adherence to the codes she believed important than the hellion of his youth had been.
But she couldn’t yet speak; she still needed to think about what she knew to tell. That was still not clear in her mind. So she let the silence stretch. They were comfortable in the quiet dark; neither felt any need to speak.
A light winked, far out in the night.
“Did you see it?” she asked.
“Yes. The Gallants are out.”
She thought of Granville, thought of the nights he must have spent out on the waves. She could imagine him clinging to the side of a boat, a wild and reckless light in his eyes. If ever there had been a care-for-naught, it was he. “At Waterloo, did you hear anything of Granville?”
“No.” After a moment, he asked, “Why?”
“We never really heard, just that he’d died. Not how, or in what way.”
She could almost hear him wondering why she’d asked; on the face of things, she and Granville hadn’t been all that close. She kept her counsel. He eventually asked, “Were you told in which region he was lost?”
“Around Hougoumont.”
“Ah.”
“What do you know of it?” It was clear from his tone he knew something.
“I wasn’t close, but it was the most fiercely contested sector in the whole battle. The French under Reille thought the farmstead an easy gain. They were wrong. The defenders of Hougoumont might well have turned the tide that day. Their defiance pricked the French commanders’ collective pride; they threw wave after wave of troops against it, totally out of proportion to the position’s strategic importance.” He paused, then more quietly added, “If Granville was lost near there, you can be certain he died a hero.”
She wished—oh, how she wished—she could believe that.
She asked no more, and he volunteered no more. They remained on the walk, watching the rain, listening to the steady downpour, the constant drum on the lead above, the merry gurgling in the gutters, the splatter as spouts of water hit the flagstones far below. Three more times they spotted flashes out at sea, out beyond the mouth of the estuary.
At last, she stood; shaking out her skirts, she regarded him across the shadowed space. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He considered her for an instant—an instant in which she had no idea what he was thinking. Then he swept her a bow, all fluid masculine grace.
“In the morning. Sleep tight.”
She turned and left him, going through the archway into the west wing.
At eight o’clock the next morning, she walked into the breakfast parlor, sat in the chair Filchett held for her, smiled her thanks, then looked up the table at Charles. He’d looked up when she’d entered, was watching her still.
“Granville was involved.”
Charles’s gaze flicked to Filchett.
He stepped forward and lifted the coffeepot. “I’ll fetch some fresh coffee, my lord.”
“Thank you.” The instant Filchett had left the room, closing the door behind him, Charles transferred his gaze to her. “What precisely do you mean?”
She reached for the toast rack. “It’s Granville I’m protecting.”
“He’s been dead for nearly a year.”
“Not him himself, but Elaine and Emma and Holly. And even Constance, for all that she’s married. Myself, too, although the connection is less direct.” Elaine was Granville’s mother, Emma and Holly his younger, still-unmarried sisters. “If it becomes known Granville was a traitor…” Charles had unmarried sisters, too; she was sure she didn’t need to spell it out.
“So Granville was the
link to the smugglers.” He looked at her, not uncomprehending yet clearly not convinced. “Start at the beginning—why do you think Granville was a traitor?”