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Later
It must have been close to dawn. Sebastian had shared supper with Mrs Chandler, and she had been more forthcoming than he’d dared to hope. She was, he suspected, rather honourable herself.
Mark had been right to be worried, he told himself, as he strolled toward his brother’s house, breathing the chill air and deep in thought. Tomorrow he needed to speak to Lavinia. She might refuse but he would force her to listen. It may be the last time he had anything to do with her but at least he could walk away knowing he had done his best to carry our Patrick’s wishes.
Not for Patrick’s sake, although they had been friends once, but for Oliver. Everything they had done—Patrick, Sebastian and Lavinia—had been to secure Oliver the Richmond inheritance, and if that failed then what had been the point?
A heavily laden dray rumbled past him, and a moment later there was a crash as one of the boxes fell off the back and smashed onto the cobbled street. He threw himself to the ground, forgetting everything but the need to take cover. His heart was beating so hard he couldn’t hear anything but the rush of blood through his body.
Over the past year Sebastian had learned to control his reaction to sudden noises. Unfortunately this was not one of those times. Taken unawares, he found himself catapulted backwards.
Seven
The Battlefield at Waterloo, 1815
The clamour of the battlefield was unbearable. He could feel the ground shaking as the cannons roared out their displeasure, sending death into the air, and then thumping back to earth. Men and horses screamed. The air was filled with the acrid, eye watering stench of war.
“Longhurst!” The call came from the melee to his right and he turned, searching through the smoke.
He had been sent to find Lord Richmond, which in the circumstances was ironic. The two men now avoided each other whenever possible. One night they had been forced to sit opposite each other at Wellington’s supper table and the atmosphere between them had been noticeably hostile.
“I don’t like to see my men at odds,” Wellington had said, when he drew them aside later. His eyes had been as cold as stone. “Whatever the trouble is, deal with it.”
They hadn’t dealt with it. Patrick had given him one glaring look, turned his back and walked away. Sebastian hadn’t gone after him.
Now they were in the heat of battle, Patrick had gone to give instructions to a subordinate and hadn’t returned. Sebastian had been sent to find him.
“Richmond is one of my most conscientious and reliable officers,” Wellington had said to Sebastian with a frown, before he sent him out. “He should be here. I need you to find him, Captain, and bring him back. I’m sure Lady Richmond would be grateful to have her husband returned to her in one piece.”
Would she, Sebastian wondered? He no longer knew what Lavinia thought. He had only seen her once since the child was born, when he had paid a visit to Mockingbird Square to enquire after her health. H
e’d timed his visit when Patrick wasn’t there because their once close friendship had cooled so drastically. Should he blame Patrick for asking him to sleep with his wife or himself for agreeing? Well it was too late now to change what had been done. Nor, it seemed, could any of them forget it.
He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with Lavinia. That had never been part of the plan. And yet he had, and although they had never acknowledged it aloud, Patrick knew the truth.
At least he’d seen his son, Sebastian told himself, eyes stinging from the smoke. Oliver might go by Patrick’s name but he was every inch a Longhurst.
“Here! Captain Longhurst!”
The voice came from his left.
“Lord Richmond? Is that you?”
There was no answer and Sebastian stumbled on the uneven ground and paused a moment to get his bearings. He was remembering his one and only sight of the boy. Oliver had been red faced, his tiny body tightly bound in his blanket, but his voice was loud enough to wake the dead. Hearing him wail, seeing the living proof of their union . . . Sebastian had felt as if something inside his chest had turned to jelly, and he’d had to clear his throat to speak.
“What are you calling him?”
Lavinia stood near the door, as if she didn’t want to be too close to him, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Patrick wants him named after his grandfather, Oliver.”
Sebastian nodded as if it was no matter to him, while the knot of jealousy grew tighter and tighter.
“Patrick says there is a battle coming,” she added softly. “He says he must fight Napoleon one last time.”
Sebastian looked across at her, this woman he had fallen in love with and could never have. “I think he’s right,” he said with a grimace. Then, he spoke the words that seemed to come from out of nowhere. Words he hadn’t known he was going to say until they spilled out of his mouth. “What if Patrick was killed in the battle?”
Her dark eyes were enormous, her face pale. He wished he could take the question back. Despite the rift between Patrick and himself he would never wish him ill. But he knew why he’d asked it. It was seeing the son he could never claim and the woman he loved and who had never really been his.
After a moment she recovered, smoothing her hands over her skirt and turning her head toward the window so she didn’t have to look at him. “If Patrick died I’d mourn him. He is my husband.”
