Highlander Undone Page 13

  “—artist,” Jack supplied smoothly. “I was much more vigorous as a lad.” He slid his mug over to the bartender, motioning for it to be refilled. “Take care of my young friend here and any other comrades of Charles Hoodless who might be present,” he added in a voice pitched to carry.

  The words had a magical effect. The belligerence drained from the younger man’s expression, leaving it simply sullen. He held out his shot glass for the bartender to fill. Several men who’d been watching from the nearer gaming tables abandoned their posts and gathered at the bar.

  “Young Holmes isn’t putting on like he was a chum of Charles, is he?” asked the bald, battle-scarred veteran Jack had noticed earlier. He leaned over the bar and grabbed the bottle of scotch from the other side. “Doubt whether he ever even saw the man.”

  “Didn’t say I did, Ingrams!” said Holmes. “But I sure as hell know Paul Sherville! And that’s who this bloke is looking for.”

  A man with a thick, dark mustache gave a short bark of laughter. “Oh, you won’t find Sherville down here anymore,” he told Jack. “We’re a bit too common for his tastes nowadays. Not that his presence is missed.”

  “Potter has the right of it,” another man said, jerking his head in the mustachioed man’s direction. “Sherville plays for higher stakes these days.”

  Jack took a sip of ale before asking in a bored voice, “Why’s that?”

  “Ah.” Potter plunked his empty mug down in front of the whiskey bottle the bartender had left in front of Jack and glanced questioningly at him. Jack tipped two fingers of whiskey into Potter’s mug. He took a deep draught before continuing. “Major Sherville came back from North Africa with a little nest egg he’d managed to hatch.”

  “Nest egg?”

  The bald veteran, Ingrams, grinned. “A tidy sum, a bit of ready, don’t you know. He came back with some money and has since parlayed it into real wealth, canny beggar that he is.”

  “How incredibly vulgar,” Holmes muttered. “Talking about a man’s personal assets.”

  “Ye mean his wealth?” Potter asked, grinning unrepentantly. “Aye, that’s us at The Gold Braid, vulgar and poor. But then . . . we work for our commissions.”

  Holmes flushed hotly.

  “Nest egg?” Jack asked, trying to steer the conversation back to Sherville. “And how would one achieve that in North Africa? I thought all they had there was sand and camels.”

  Ingrams shrugged. “Rumor says Sherville plucked a ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg off a statue.”

  “I heard he took a jeweled dagger off a dead prince,” Potter said.

  “No,” Holmes broke in with the smug expression of a man who knows more than the company he keeps. “Sherville and Hoodless found some sort of heathen stash.”

  Potter snorted. “Hoodless and Sherville, you say? Not bloody likely. They had a falling-out in North Africa, just before Hoodless was killed, God rest his black heart.” Potter slanted a look in Jack’s direction. “Sorry, old man. Speaking ill of the dead and all, but certainly you must know what type of man Charles Hoodless was.”

  Jack willed himself to a noncommittal expression. He knew. His investigations always seemed to skirt back to Charles Hoodless. Piece by piece he had learned just “what type of man Charles Hoodless was” and each new bit of knowledge nearly choked him with rage. Because of Addie. Addie, whom he mustn’t think of, couldn’t think of, because to do so hurt worse than any physical pain he’d ever endured.

  Potter had turned back to the young lieutenant and was regarding him sardonically. “But seeing how you are so chummy with Sherville, I’d have thought you’d know that, Holmes.”

  Holmes straightened, gripping the side of the bar to keep his balance. He glared at Potter. “I did know that, Potter. I know a lot of things.” He smiled mysteriously. “For example, I know that whatever Sherville and Hoodless found in Africa, they did so together.”

  Ingrams leaned close to Jack and muttered, “And how the hell would this pup know that, eh? He weren’t never in North Africa.”

  Jack didn’t reply; his thoughts were careening wildly.

  Holmes swung on Ingrams, his face suffused with color. “You think you’re so much better than me, all of you, just because you’ve seen more action than I!”

  “More action?” asked Ingrams, his brows climbing in mock astonishment. “Make that any action!”

  The little group around the bar burst into appreciative laughter. Apparently young Holmes’s hubris made him a regular target amongst this lot.

  “To blazes with you, Ingrams! Paul Sherville has seen more action than the entire sorry lot of you put together!”

  “Oh, yes. Paul Sherville loves ‘seeing action.’ As did Charles. And if there weren’t any about, they made sure they found some . . . or created it.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Holmes demanded.

  “Nothing. Just that the number of wounded amongst Sherville’s command far exceeded those in any other company.”

  “Because he doesn’t run away from trouble.”

  “Careful, boy,” Potter advised softly into the shot glass he had lifted to his lips.

  Ingrams, however, seemed inclined to charity. After a second’s hesitation he guffawed lightly and clapped Holmes on the back. “You’d do well to pick a better figure to model your career after than Paul Sherville or Charles Hoodless, son.”

  The boy swept the older man’s hand from his shoulder. “Why?” he demanded. “Because they have fashioned something more from their careers than a bunch of tired old war stories?”

  At this insult, Potter started forward, but Ingrams stopped him.

  “No,” Ingrams said mildly. “Because Sherville and Hoodless fashioned their careers on brutality and exploitation.”

  Holmes stood stock-still, quivering with rage. One of the other men gathered around the bar barked out a short, clipped, “Hear, hear,” and several others nodded solemnly.

  “Sherville shall hear of this!” Holmes backed away, slamming his mug on the counter and, with a last sputtering oath, stomped from the room. With Holmes gone and no more free rounds being offered, the men drifted away.

  “He’ll be running to Sherville’s side, John,” Potter cautioned.

  “Ah, well,” Ingrams said. “I shan’t fret overmuch. I doubt Sherville will even allow Holmes into his new club’s anteroom. It wouldn’t do to acknowledge a little would-be pissant like Holmes.”

  Potter nodded and headed back to the gaming table. Jack’s gut twisted and he forced himself to ignore the hot burn of acid in his throat. He did not want to think what he was thinking, suspect what he was suspecting. The idea of the scandal Addie would have to live through if, indeed, her dead husband had been involved in the slave trade was incomprehensible. She would never escape the ignominy.

  Paul Sherville and Charles Hoodless. Always, whatever avenue he explored, the two were linked.

  He took a deep breath, light-headed and ill. All of his career he had tried his damnedest to do right by his men, his rank, and his queen. He’d never put personal concerns above duty. Not once.

  He placed his palm flat on the counter, pushing himself upright. The tremor in his left hand had grown into a shake. His legs felt oddly boneless. He could leave now. He hadn’t heard any real evidence of Hoodless’s involvement. If he left, he wouldn’t have to.

  Damned be duty and to hell with debt if it hurt Addie—

  “I’d say Arabi,” Ingrams murmured softly.

  “Excuse me?” Jack’s head snapped up so quickly his vision swam. For a few minutes he’d been so absorbed in trying to see his way clear of this hellish dilemma, he’d forgotten where he was.

  “Your skin.” Ingrams nodded at Jack’s hands, clenched tightly about the mug of beer until the knuckles showed ivory beneath the saffron-tinted skin. “I’d say you last served under an Arab sky. Fellows always get that yellowish color, even after the tan fades. Never does quite fade, though, does it?”

&
nbsp; “Served?” Jack tried to sound casual.

  Ingrams turned and narrowly studied Jack. “Cameron, isn’t it?”

  Jack simply lifted an eyebrow.

  Ingrams continued studying him thoughtfully. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. “I might be mistaken,” he said slowly. “You look something like a man I once met. Fine man. Valiant.” He tested the word to see if it fit. Apparently, it did. He nodded. “Yes, a very valiant man. Knew the meaning of words like honor and duty.”

  How burdensome that word had become, how inexplicable, how nebulous its meaning. He didn’t doubt that Ingrams would find him a worthy sort of chap. Addie, however . . . yes, Addie might have another term for Jack Cameron. Traitor? Hypocrite? “Sounds a tiresome sort of chap,” Jack finally said when he realized Ingrams was awaiting a reply.

  “An uncomfortable sort of chap, perhaps,” he said.

  “You appear to find Paul Sherville an uncomfortable chap, too.”

  Ingrams’s expression went flat with dislike. “Paul Sherville is an opportunist.”

  “You know him well?”

  Ingrams shrugged. “Not really. He’s with the Black Dragoons. I’m with the 60th Rifles.” Once more he flashed a piercing glance on Jack. The 60th Rifles had also seen action at Majuba Hill, the scene of Jack’s nightmares.

  Jack ignored the question in Ingrams’s gaze. “Your young friend Holmes seems quite taken with him.”

  “He does, doesn’t he? Poor little bugger. Sherville is the type of man who demands constant attention. Surrounded by a little coterie of fawners. Holmes was one of them.”

  “Was Charles Hoodless?”

  “Hoodless?” Ingrams snorted. “Acting the sycophant to any man? Surely as his ‘old, boyhood chum,’ you know better than that,” he said. “Hoodless wouldn’t have kowtowed to God. No. Those two were cut from the same cloth. They were bound by their . . . appetites, not by affection.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Suffice to say, Hoodless and Sherville loved having native commands.”

  “Are you suggesting that Sherville and Hoodless used military authority to extort money from their native commands?”

  Ingrams laughed. “Good God, no! I haven’t any idea of where either man got his money. But I can assure you the natives hadn’t a raw penny to give anyone. Nor would Hoodless, at least, have wanted it. No . . . the price he extracted from his command was paid in the coin of suffering.”

  What sort of husband would a man like that have been?

  Jack clenched his teeth, incapable of concentrating on what role—if any—Sherville had had in the illegal slave trade out of North Africa. Every piece of damning information about Hoodless’s character turned Jack’s thoughts away from the task at hand.

  He shook his head, forcing himself to attend what Ingrams was saying.

  “Simple abuse of power is ugly, but abuse of power over those helpless to protect themselves is appalling.” Ingrams looked up from his glass. “But you weren’t asking about Charles Hoodless. Why should you? You knew him. You were asking after Paul Sherville.”

  Jack nodded a jerky assent, the picture Ingrams’s unspoken words had conjured paralyzing his tongue. Small wonder the sight of a uniform made Addie tense.

  Ingrams went on. “As Potter said, Sherville isn’t about here much anymore. He’s acquired expensive taste since his return from North Africa.”

  “Ah, yes. ‘The jeweled dagger.’”

  Ingrams snorted. “There is no jeweled dagger.”

  “No extortion, no jeweled dagger. What could account for his wealth, then?”

  “My, you artistic fellows are an inquiring lot, aren’t you?” Ingrams downed the dregs from his mug and pushed himself away from the counter. “It wouldn’t be gentlemanly to speculate now, would it?”

  Jack forced a casual smile.

  “But I will say that whatever wealth Paul Sherville discovered in exotic climes, Charles Hoodless found, too. And it seemed to put a strain on that . . . relationship. A great strain.”

  Jack stopped on his way through the door to Lady Merritt’s morning room, trying to erase the fatigue from his face. He had spent the morning trying to make sense out of a shell-shocked veteran’s rambling account of a failed offensive against local slavers in North Africa. It hadn’t taken Jack five minutes to realize the poor bastard would be useless in providing any pertinent information about the traitor Jack hunted, but he hadn’t been able to abandon him, staying for the better part of the day at his side, keeping vigil. It had worn on him, on his conscience. He needed to do more to discover who was possibly responsible for this man’s fate—and any number of others’ fates as well.

  “Jack? Is that you?”

  Taking a short breath, he relaxed his features into a pleasant mien and plucked a lily from the vase on the hallway table before entering, twirling it between his forefinger and thumb. “Dear lady! I have heeded your call and present myself ready to do your bidding. Now, how might I assist you?”

  “It’s Addie.”

  She wouldn’t have noticed the way his fatuous smile slipped. “And what can there be about dear Mrs. Hoodless that causes a line to mar your snowy brow?”

  Lady Merritt picked up a sheaf of paper from her desk.

  “Addie’s mourning is officially over and she is now free to attend the reception I have planned for her brother.”

  “And how is this vexing?”

  “It’s a question of delicacy, not decorum. I do not know whether I should include her dear, departed husband’s fellow officers in the guest list.” Lady Merritt tapped a finger against the list of names in her hand.

  “I am very fond of Addie. Very fond. Her family and mine have known each other for generations. Our properties adjoin, as you know. Addie quite doted on Evan when he was a lad.” Her voice dropped and she gazed inwardly a second at some remembered charm, and for a small space Jack could see the tender pride and real affection she had for her son . . . and Addie.

  She cleared her throat, casting a furtive glance at him, as though she suspected she’d been tricked into a sentimental mood. “She encouraged the most unruly behavior in him.”

  “Really?” Jack asked. He didn’t want to hear anything about Addie. He needed to find proof that her dead husband was a slaver. He needed to ruin her life.

  “She was quite an energetic girl. But she—how shall I say?—seems to have grown fragile these past few years. Not at all the rambunctious, wayward little harridan she used to be. One would never expect that imp of Satan would have developed into such a retiring young lady.”

  “Mrs. Hoodless seems quite animated to me,” Jack said, aware his tone was stiff.

  Lady Merritt patted his hand. “With you she is. With her brother and his friends, she is quite recognizable as the little dickens who ran through my rose beds beheading them with her brother’s toy sword.”

  She smoothed her skirts. “But in society she is so restrained, so subdued. Particularly, I have noted, in the company of Her Majesty’s officers.”

  Jack stared stonily at her.

  “I think”—she lowered her voice solemnly—“they are an acutely painful reminder of her loss.”

  Could she be that unperceptive?

  “I don’t think I should invite any military persons.”

  Of course you shouldn’t, Jack wanted to shout. Instead, he raised his brows. “Really? Do you think that wise . . . what with Teddy’s clientele being so predominantly that sort of fellow?” He felt bile rise in his throat, but not enough to choke him. Not that much. He was still well capable of this. Damned be his soul. “I understand your tender concern for the lady, but, after all, this reception is to promote Ted.”

  Such a smooth voice, such a perfect imitation of compassion; just a soupçon of distress, a hint of confusion. Satan could be no better a dissembler. “I am certain Mrs. Hoodless would not want you to risk even one bit of Ted’s future success on her account.”

  Lady Merritt absen
tly tapped the end of her pen against her lips, not yet convinced. She might be a narrow-minded, silly, spoiled, and unobservant woman, but she had heart.

  Jack’s earlier frustration with her fled. He could like her. He could like her for putting Addie ahead of her brother’s—and her own—success. It was a noble sentiment.

  One he couldn’t allow.

  “Besides,” he went on, “don’t you think that—for her own good, you understand—she ought to look the past squarely in the face?”

  Lady Merritt spent a thoughtful moment staring at the list of names in front of her before sighing. “I expect you’re right, Jack. Someone as young and lovely as Addie should not spend the rest of her life pining. She must eventually reconcile herself to her loss. She cannot do that by hiding.”

  “No, indeed.”

  “Exactly,” she said, pleased with the outcome of their talk. “Now, we’d best hurry so as not to keep the others waiting. Didn’t I tell you? We are expected for lunch.” She tugged sharply at the embroidered bell pull. “I’ll have the footman fetch our coats.”

  Then, almost shyly, she added, “Thank you for your help, Jack. I was quite at a loss, but I suspected that you, being as close to Addie as you are, would know what to do.”

  Somehow, he contrived a smile.

  Though Jack had fled from her the other night, the way he had kissed had suggested much to Addie. There had been desire in his kiss: restrained, unwilling, but there. The thought made her smile with pleasure and anticipation because in a few minutes, they would meet and he would take her arm as they strolled along the park. He would look at her and she would once more experience that complete accord she always had when she was with him.

  She hurried along the sidewalk, past the window displays and the street vendors, her head tucked down as she made her way toward Regent’s Park. At the street crossing, she waited for a carriage to rumble past, exhilarated by the cold, by the occasional snowflake melting against her warm eyelids, the silky brush of her sable collar against her chin, the winter sun dazzling off a patch of black ice near the curb.