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As the carriage moved forward, agitation set her stomach churning. Behind Lady Charlotte's doors would be a cacophony of voices, most of them false and flattering. A press of people, pressing her to call on them, dine with them. Elegantly dressed men who might mask their assessing glances and avarice behind a smile.
No, she simply couldn't face it.
She rapped on the carriage wall. As the vehicle slowed, she jerked open the door, jumped down and darted into the night.
Guiding his skittish horse through the press of vehicles on Park Street, Tony contemplated once again the wisdom of accepting Lady Charlotte Darnell's invitation.
On the one hand, Tony could count on partaking of a handsome dinner. On the other, he'd probably encounter a number of old codgers who would want him to regale them about Waterloo-an engagement he'd been trying his best for nearly six months to forget.
If he was truly honest, he had to admit the strongest reason for attending was the hope of encountering Jenna Fairchild. He'd heard she was fully recovered from her fall, though after calling once again at Fairchild House, he'd still not managed to see her.
Her decision to avoid him was not unexpected. Still, he couldn't seem to drive from his head the image of her lying motionless on the roadway. Once he saw with his own eyes that she was well, he'd be able to put her from his mind and concentrate on repairing his precarious fortunes.
The congestion increasing as he approached the corner of Mount Street, Tony decided to proceed on foot. But as he started to dismount, Pax whinnied and reared up, nearly throwing him out of the saddle.
"What ails you, old friend?" he chided as he regained his seat. "No cannon or muzzle flashes to spook you here."
Even as he spoke, a shimmer of light passed between two carriages, sending a zing of alarm through him.
'Twas surely not a specter from Waterloo come to attend the festivities, he reassured himself. So what had it been? Dismounting, he paced toward the elusive glimmer.
And saw, as he reached the spot where he had seen it, the cloaked figure of a woman, speeding away as if truly pursued by ghosts.
Even illumined by moonlight, the park toward which she was fleeing was no place for a woman alone, especially not one whose fur-trimmed cloak proclaimed her wealth.
Was she a wife running from an argument with her spouse-or sneaking off to an assignation with her lover?
Should an eager swain be awaiting her, she'd not thank him for interfering. Still, outlined by moonlight, she would surely catch the eye of any drunken lout or cutpurse who happened to be lurking down those shadowy pathways.
No help for it, he thought with a resigned sigh. Until she reached safe escort, he'd have to follow her.
Though his leg had improved, he was still no match for a female traversing the park at nearly a dead run. Thanks to the reflections off her satin cloak, Tony managed to keep the lady in sight, but she'd reached the Serpentine when at last, sweating from his efforts and the pain in his knee, he managed to close the distance between them.
She'd halted on the bridge over the stream, a silver-edged silhouette above a silver mirror of water.
Not wishing to frighten her, he called out as he approached, "Madam, may I be of assistance?"
Then a gust of wind blew back her hood, revealing the lady's face.
Jenna Fairchild's face.
Shocked, he stopped short, wincing at the jolt to his knee. What could have sent her running off into the night unattended? She'd campaigned with the army long enough to know how reckless such an action was.
"Lady Fairchild!" he called, edging cautiously closer. "What are you doing out here?"
Though he was certain she must have heard him, she remained still and silent, her face so expressionless another shock of alarm rippled through him.
"Jenna, what is wrong?"
Again, she made no reply. Uncertain what to do, he'd reached out a hand when she at last looked up.
"I expect you heard I lost the child," she said matter-of-factly. "Garrett's son, as it turned out."
Surprise swept through him, followed by dismay. "No-no, I hadn't heard. I'm so sorry."
Words, meaningless words, he thought, wishing he had something better to offer. Even one with as little experience of love as he could imagine what a double blow this must have been, coming so close after Garrett's death. He thought of their long, slow journey from the park back to Fairchild House. Might the physician have been able to save her child, had he been able to tend her sooner?
Disturbed by the thought, Tony said, "I wish I could have gotten a doctor to you more quickly."
Her eyes flickered up. "You brought the doctor?"
"I sent the groom once we reached Fairchild House."
"You helped Hobbs bring me home?"
"Yes. Did no one tell you?"
"No!" She wrinkled her brow. "Sancha brought up a book she said you'd left, but I had no idea you'd assisted after the...the accident. I don't remember any of it."
"You took quite a blow to the head."
"I suppose I should thank you, then." She laughed shortly, the bitter tone surprising him. "Though it might have been more merciful to have left me there."
As she spoke, her voice faded and the fire drained from her face. The comment and her blank expression were so unlike the serene, courageous Jenna Montague he'd known that Tony was at a loss what to reply.
For long moments he heard only the sigh of the wind and the lapping of the water against the bridge.
Searching for something, anything to break the silence, Tony said, "You were going to the soiree at Lady Charlotte's?"
Her gaze on the water below them, she said, "Play the rich widow, on display for all the marriage merchants of the ton like another prize of war? No, I cannot bear it."
At this second, most uncharacteristic comment, Tony's alarm deepened. "I imagine such attention might be distasteful. Show them the tart edge of the tongue with which Jenna Montague deals with scoundrels, and you'll quickly send the rascals to the rightabout."
That remark failed to earn him even the exasperated look so poor a jest deserved. Something about the downward cast of her head, her expressionless face-and her rapt fixation on the water flowing beneath the bridge was making the hair at the back of his neck bristle.
More spooked than he'd been by the thought of prowling Waterloo ghosts, he cast about for something to prod her out of this unusual, disturbing lethargy. "So you've lost the child. What do you intend to do with yourself now?"
"With them gone-Papa, Garrett, our babe, there's nothing left worth doing."
"Nothing? Why, you could..." His voice trailed off. Barely knowing what to do with himself, how could he presume to advise her?
With a deep sigh, she leaned on the bridge rail, her torso extended so alarmingly far over the frigid water, he had to clench his hands to keep from pulling her back. Of course she didn't mean to throw herself in-certainly not with a potential rescuer standing right beside her.
Once she had rescued him. If a purpose was what she needed, surely he could think of some project with which to challenge her. Then a sudden inspiration occurred.
'"Tis true that far too many good men died to keep England out of the Corsican monster's grasp. Since you were the instrument of saving my carcass, why not take it upon yourself to redeem my sad character as well? Look upon it as retribution to all those better, finer men who died."
She looked over. "A man should redeem himself."
"Undoubtedly. But you should know me well enough to judge how likely I'd be to accomplish that feat."
She tilted her head at him thoughtfully. "I've always wondered-if I had not have escaped you, would you have held me there by force, three years ago at Badajoz?"
He let his gaze rove over her figure. "Oh, I don't think I'd have needed force."
She stiffened. "You conceited blackguard. As likely could the devil reform himself!"
"You have your new calling, then. Here I stand, while Garrett lies in a Belgian grave. An outrage, is it not?"
"Indeed it is!"
"Then do something to change it. Or has Jenna Montague, the colonel's daughter, turned craven?"
"Were I slime in the gutter, I would have more courage than you!"
Truer words than you could ever know. Shaking off the shame that scoured him, he said, "Prove it!
Swear you will work until my character is well and truly reformed."
"Nay, sir, I'll not pledge that. Redeeming you would take a miracle!"
"Until Christmas, then," he said, desperate to wangle some sort of promise from her. '"Tis the season of miracles, after all. And while you expend your best efforts upon my character, I can shield you from other toadies and fortune hunters."
"You being one of the most notorious?"
"Exactly. A mutually beneficial bargain."
She shook her head. "I don't know."
"Why not? You claim to cherish the memory and sacrifice of the men who died, yet you refuse to stir yourself to attempt redeeming even one sorry soul in their honor? I see your vaunted love for them is only empty, pious talk."
She gasped in indignation. "How dare you!"
"What is it you fear, then?" he pressed, trying to goad her beyond resistance. "That your character isn't up to the task of reforming mine? That I might succeed in seducing you before you succeed in reforming me?"
"Never!"
"Are you so certain?" And to prove just how desperately in need of reform he was, before Jenna could realize his intent, he swept her into his arms and kissed her.
