Chapter 2 #2
He was not a coward on a battlefield, no—any lily-livered man couldn’t make the rank of a colonel, even with all the proper connections. But when it came to facing the demons of his past, Richard couldn’t help but wonder if he was.
Memories flashed—Catherine’s serene smile, mingled with screaming soldiers, gunshots, and blood—so much blood. Richard closed his eyes.
“Have a care.” A firm hand tugged him backwards by the elbow.
Richard’s eyes shot open. Any teasing looks on his cousin’s face had been wholly replaced by concern.
“Did I—did I swoon?”
“Far be it from me to accuse you of something so unmanly.” Her smile was kind. “But you very nearly knocked down Lady Beckham just now—turban and all.”
Richard turned to apologize to the countess, only to find her already half a room away.
“I suppose we are truly boring you too much,” Cousin Sarah offered kindly. “It’s a pity Lady Beatrice had to beg off tonight due to a megrim.”
Richard had no desire to do the pretty to Lady Beatrice or anyone at all, in truth. But he nodded at his cousin’s cue. “It is a pity. Please allow me to offer my apologies to your mother. I am poor company tonight and appear to be in need of a good night’s respite.”
It was the best excuse he could offer, even if he knew, more than anyone, how unlikely it was for him to get any sleep at all.
Cousin Sarah’s expression was sad, though understanding. “Perhaps next time.”
“Perhaps.”
The crisp, cold air bit his cheeks as Richard stepped onto the familiar London pavement.
The daylight hours were lengthening incrementally nowadays, but it was still dark by an ungodly hour most days.
If he were lucky, he could pick his way back to Avington House before the sky was well and truly black.
Why anyone would leave a soirée before it properly began was a bit inexplicable, but Richard was fast growing accustomed to his entire life being inexplicable these days. No longer did he belong on the battlefield, but neither did he belong in London.
He could, he supposed, go visit his eldest brother and his family at Beniton Hall again, just as he did upon first returning to English soil. But even there, in the bosom of family, Richard had felt restless and out of place.
Determined to outwalk the haunting images that tended to encroach upon his consciousness the moment he allowed his thoughts to wander, Richard set his course and pulled forward.
A few years in His Majesty’s army had made sure he travelled easily on foot, regardless of temperature or time, and Richard soon had Avington House in sight, with the merry mansions of Mayfair closing around him.
It was not difficult to guess which families were hosting tonight.
A good two-thirds of the homes remained dark and quiet, while the remaining third had enough candlelight to fool one into thinking it was broad daylight.
Chatter and laughter cut through the open windows.
The frivolous merriment only sent Richard sighing.
Ten paces away from home, the unexpected combination of two genteel, female voices arguing hit his ears.
Richard paused. Even the safest parts of London could easily be rendered unsafe at the wrong hour, particularly if womenfolk were out unaided. He leaned his ear to the side, wondering for a moment if he had once more conjured voices out of thin air.
“It might be best if we return, Aunt,” a young voice spoke in a pressing tone, her diction crisp.
“Nonsense, this is mere streets from all the men’s clubs! Surely, a proper gentleman would be heading home in a matter of minutes,” an older, shriller voice responded.
“It is growing dark—”
“The streets are well-lit in London. Do stop sounding like a country bumpkin. Need I remind you of our purpose here, you ungrateful wench?”
The words concerned him, and Richard found his steps turning towards the source of the conversation before he could think his actions through.
This was not the battlefield, where playing the Good Samaritan might easily mean saving a fellow soldier’s life.
And yet a part of him felt the need to intervene, or at least to render himself available to lend a hand.
The older woman had just begun spouting another insult when Richard approached.
The two ladies—for they did appear to be gentlewomen—stood like two slender columns in the deepening darkness.
The aunt planted herself on the pavement, reed-thin, her silhouette as angular as her voice had sounded.
The other lady, a slight, young soul, stood with her face askance, her bonnet obscuring her features.
Yet her shoulders showed a subtle, defiant strength that belied the demure tilt of her head.
“I beg your pardon,” Richard said upon reaching them. “I cannot help but overhear sounds of distress. I beg you—may I be of assistance?”
The older woman met his eye with a sharp, assessing gaze.
But one quick perusal of his person later, her face split into an avaricious-looking grin.
“Ah, how kind of you, sir. Perhaps, if we—” Her niece set a quick hand on her arm, no doubt a gesture meant to communicate warning.
The woman shook the small hand away. “My niece and I happen to have lost our way back to Picadilly, you see. It would be a great help if you could extend your escort to our poor souls.”
“Picadilly, I see.”
“Yes, for we are visiting for the Season, as is fashionable.”
“Quite.”
“Now, if you would but provide us a name—”
“Richard Avington, at your service, madame. Colonel of His Majesty’s army.”
“Oh, a military man then?”
Richard couldn’t help the wry twist of his lips. “Formerly of His Majesty’s army.”
“Ah—with a fortune, no doubt.”
“Aunt Dinah!” the niece barked.
Richard turned towards her.
His breath caught, all the air in his lungs pulled out in one fell swoop. Every inch of his body stilled.
No, it could not be. It had to be another hallucination.
And yet those eyes, those familiar eyes of Catherine Pershing, blinked back at him in a mixture of wariness and apology.
Catherine was tall. This woman was small. And yet, and yet—his mind shifted like a storm, unable to comprehend what was happening.
“I see you’ve met my niece.” The old woman preened. “Allow me to present Miss Adelaide Pershing, lately of Essex.”
Suddenly, his tarrying in London felt entirely fated.