And then he would have returned to London to collect the final payment that would enable him to buy that little tavern on Cheapside.

Now, he'd have to return and report failure. He'd hung around the area too long already. Accidents took too damn long to arrange.

In the breakfast room the earl was all affability and proved himself an entertaining and sympathetic conversationalist. Edward warmed to him even more. It was only toward the end of the meal that he realized they'd talked only of his own experiences of the Peninsular campaign. Stoneridge made political and military observations aplenty, but he offered no reminiscences of his own, although he had been in this war and its two preceding ones, and Edward had little more than a year under his belt.

The man couldn't be a coward. It seemed impossible. Edward had an image of a man who'd do what Major Gilbraith was said to have done, and this man before him, filling his tankard with ale, tactfully encouraging him to talk of his wound, of how he felt about being crippled in this way, didn't fit that image.

Theo said little throughout the meal. She could see how Edward was responding to Sylvester, how he needed to talk to someone who would really understand what it was like out there. His parents would want him to talk, but he'd have to edit the tale. His father would want to hear only of successes, of valor and glory; his mother only of the comfortable billets and the kindness of the villagers and the brave support of the partisans. Neither of them could endure to imagine the reality of battle, the terror and the noise, the heat and the thirst and the screams of the wounded.

They seemed to have forgotten her presence, but she was glad to be forgotten. Unlike Edward, she didn't notice how little Sylvester said of his own experiences. All she could think was how little she knew of the man who was her husband and how little he was prepared to reveal. He'd given her only the skeleton of a barren childhood that she assumed was responsible for the barriers he'd erected around himself. Was the packless peddler the accomplice of someone who wished to hurt him, someone the earl had wronged in the past? He'd wronged her, after all; why shouldn't he have harmed someone else?

Theo put down her coffee cup and suddenly pushed back her chair. "If you'll excuse me, I have some things to do. Edward, will you and your parents dine with us tomorrow? I'll ask Mama and the girls, and we can have a family dinner just like the old days."

"Rosie's bound to insist I reveal my fascinating scars," Edward said with a mock groan.

"Just box her ears," Theo responded with a grin. "You always used to."

"She's rather less of a scrubby brat now," he observed, chuckling. "I'll check with my mother, but I'm certain she'll be delighted."

"I'll see you tomorrow, then." She moved to the door as both men rose politely.

"Theo?"

"Stoneridge?" She paused, her hand on the latch.

"There are a few matters I'd like to discuss. Would you join me in the library in half an hour?"

She hesitated, wanting to say that she had another appointment. But what good would that do? "If you wish it, sir."

"I do." He resumed his seat as the door closed on her departure.

"Forgive me, my lord, but…" Edward stopped, flushing slightly.

"No, please continue," Sylvester said, taking a deep draft of ale, leaning back in his chair, his eyes sharp as they rested on his visitor's face, his body as taut as a bowstring as he waited.

"It's none of my affair," Edward said awkwardly. "Forget I spoke."

"So far you haven't," Sylvester pointed out. "Spit it out, man."

"Theo seems unhappy," Edward said in a rush. "I know her very well."

"Better than I do, I'm sure," his host agreed evenly, no sign of his relief showing on his face. He could deflect questions about Theo, but he had nothing to say about Vimiera.

"No… no, I'm sure not," Edward stammered, his face on fire.

"Not in the same way, perhaps," Sylvester said in the same tone.

Edward's color deepened, and he buried his nose in his tankard. "Forgive me. As I said, it's none of my affair."

"No, it's not," Sylvester agreed. "However, you're right, she is unhappy at the moment. But content you, my friend, I don't intend that state of affairs to last. May I carve you another slice of sirloin?"

"Thank you, no. I should be going." Edward pushed back his chair, feeling as if he'd been gently but firmly rebuked by a senior officer for a minor faux pas.

Sylvester accompanied him to the front door. "I trust we'll meet tomorrow evening," he said, smiling with no trace of the hauteur of a minute before. "My compliments to Sir Charles and Lady Fairfax."

Chapter Sixteen

Sylvester watched his guest out of sight, then turned back to the house, a slight frown between his brows. Edward Fairfax had shown no sign of having heard of the scandal of Vimiera. But sooner or later he might hear of it from some friend at Horseguards.

The scandal would dog him to his dying day. The bleak recognition seemed harder to accept now than ever before. He went into the library and stood staring into the empty grate. Was he going to live in terror that his wife would hear of it? Hiding out in the sleepy Dorsetshire countryside, shaking and shivering every time some visitor from London crossed his path?

The sound of the door opening brought his head up. Theo stood in the doorway.

"What happened to you yesterday?" she asked without preamble.

"It's an old wound, that's all. It acts up occasionally."

"How?"

He dismissed the question with a brief gesture. "I get a headache, Theo. There's no need to discuss it further, there are more important matters to address."

She was not satisfied, but it seemed it was all she was going to get. Again she reflected that there was so much about his life he refused to discuss.

But what did it matter? Why should she care what happened to him? Or what had happened to him in the past? Her face was set, the expression in her eyes that of someone who didn't know whether she was hunter or hunted.

"Lock the door," Sylvester instructed.

"Lock it? Why?"

"Because I don't wish to be disturbed. You may leave the key in the lock, however. I don't intend to keep you in here against your will."

"That makes a change," she said with heavy sarcasm, turning the key and stepping away from the door.

Stoneridge was leaning against the big mahogany table in the center of the room, his legs crossed at the ankles, his hands resting on the edge of the table. His eyes were quiet and assessing as they rested on her tense face.

Poor little girl, he caught himself thinking. The compassionate reflection startled him, he was so used to feeling he had to meet her as a combatant, never giving an inch, even when they were in charity with one another. But she was so very young and vulnerable in her uncertainty and her hurt. Somehow he must lead them through this thorny thicket, ignoring her barbs, treating them as the desperate defenses they were.

"Come here, Theo," he said, holding out his hands.

She made no move, merely stood in the middle of the room, her arms crossed over her breast. She had on one of the holland smocks she wore when she went racketing around the estate on her gypsy pursuits, her bare feet thrust into open sandals, her hair in two thick plaits hanging over her shoulders.

He pushed himself away from the table and seized her hands, pulling them away from her breast as he drew her toward him.

He cupped her chin, turning up her face, and a quiver ran through the slender frame, an instinctive response to a gesture that always preceded his lips on hers. He ran his flat thumb over her lips in another familiar gesture, and he saw the light change in her eyes.