The softness of youth had yielded to an assured elegance, lending her features confidence and poise, yet the essence of her remained infuriatingly unchanged.
Miles had always presumed her to be far from Town and settled in the countryside, along with Locksley’s large botanical garden, and he glared at her for not being so.
“No,” she replied with a gulp. “I don’t sketch flowers anymore.” Those eyes glanced up and his guts lurched, likely from too much medicinal whisky since being stitched. “And I was sorry to hear of your brother’s death.”
Miles gave a nod. He missed his brother greatly. Though so different from one another, they’d been close and Cameron had stood by him when his grand plans had crumbled all that time ago.
An uncomfortable silence writhed and he had no wish to make idle talk with the treacherous Verity Seymour so–
“Well, isn’t this pleasant?” said Mrs Tait with a wide smile.
No. It wasn’t. It was akin to being stripped naked, tarred, feathered and left to fester in Piccadilly.
Verity mumbled to herself, obviously in accord with his sentiments. “And how was the army?”
“Much as one would expect.”
A low groan seemed to escape her, and he tapped his cane upon the gravel with impatience. “How do you all come to know one another?”
“We are neighbours with Mrs Tait,” said the cousin, a comely woman with auburn hair and bright-blue eyes.
“You live near St James’s Park, then?”
Verity nodded and straightened her shoulders. A gown of cotton with long sleeves clothed her, patterned with scarlet swirls of flowers, and a memory rudely intruded, one where his bared fingertips had traced such a similar pattern when they’d kissed in a summer meadow.
“Yes. On Queen’s Square. At the townhouse that belonged to my father.”
Uncomfortable silence writhed once more, rather like the odorous waft in an officer’s bell tent, before Mrs Tait patted his arm. “Well… ’Tis a shame my daughter missed you, my lord. I believe she was headed for the glasshouse.”
“A shame indeed, Mrs Tait. Please tender her my regards as I must depart. Matters require my attention but we shall talk another time.” He minimally flicked the direction of his eyes. “Miss Seymour. Miss Nash. I wish you…both well.” His smile was thin as a groat as he tipped his hat.
All the ladies curtseyed and he twisted to depart when delicate fingers half-gloved in lace touched his forearm. The protruding thumb had a blob of grey paint attached to the nail.
“Yes, Miss Seymour?”
“I’m glad… I’m glad you’re well, my lord.” She frowned at her own hand and then peered up. “Home safe.”
Did she seek to beguile him once more? It would be for naught.
He was now a battle-hardened soldier, seven years wiser and changed beyond recognition from that foolish youth she’d known. He also now recognised the value of loyalty and honesty – attributes which Miss Seymour lacked.
“As am I, Miss Seymour. Good day.” And he felt her hand slip as he walked away without a backwards glance. He marched with regimented gait towards the garden’s exit and Lupin, who was stabled at the hostelry opposite.
Returning from his appointment with the dragoon’s clerk, he’d thought to briefly visit the Kensington glasshouse, but after happening upon Miss Seymour, he moreover felt the need to settle his gizzards with a tankard of ale.
When Miss Seymour had unceremoniously jilted him for a large botanical garden in Devon – or Cornwall – a ferocious anger had held sway, all his hopes and dreams crushed like flowers within a press.
War, however, had taught him anger to be a futile and uncontrollable emotion.
If left to its own devices – a little like love – such a lack of control could kill you. Swift. Or slow. Only a fool did not learn from experience and Verity Seymour had taught him valuable lessons in trust, love and…
He shook his head. Should cease thinking upon it as more urgent matters pressed.
Of the two men that Miles suspected might have cause for grievance against him, the clerk had solely recalled one: a Mr Cecil Webb.
Court-martialled after a statement from one Captain Miles Firth, he’d lately pleaded for backpay and hence his file had been dug out. In need of funds and obviously living in London, Webb required further investigation, so Miles was to arrange a privatecarriage for the hobbling Mr Gallagher and have him conveyed to the central dragoon’s office on Tuesday. There, they could inspect both Webb’s file as well as that of the other soldier.
His boots ate up the ground at a fair clip but his turbulent thoughts once more returned to Miss Verity Seymour. He’d spoken to her, suffered her hand upon his arm and felt naught but indigestion. All good.
