Chapter 7 #2
Alistair looked up from his breakfast as his sister burst into the dining room, her cheeks flushed with the sort of theatrical distress that would have sent most brothers into alarm.
He, however, merely dabbed his mouth with his white linen napkin and braced himself.
Years of Charlotte’s dramatics had taught him the wisdom of measured reactions.
“What happened?” he asked, taking another sip of tea.
Charlotte flung herself into the nearest chair with a sigh worthy of the stage. “I was named the diamond of the Season by the queen.”
He paused mid-sip. That, he hadn’t expected. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes,” she said emphatically, leaning forward as if daring him to challenge her. “But in the same article, Lady Jane was mentioned as Lady Cosima’s heir.”
Now Alistair was baffled. “I’m afraid I don’t see what the problem is.”
Charlotte huffed in irritation. “No one will talk about me now. They will talk about Lady Jane and her newfound fortune.”
“And that is a problem because…?”
“Because Lady Jane was ruined,” Charlotte said with relish, lowering her voice as though scandal might seep through the very walls. “And now she is not only rehabilitated but a staggering heiress. Compared to her, we are beggars.”
His brow furrowed. “We are not beggars.”
“Perhaps I should offer to sweep her chimneys,” Charlotte muttered.
“I daresay you are exaggerating… again,” Alistair remarked, setting down his cup. “You got what you wanted. You are the diamond.”
Charlotte’s fingers curled around her teacup. “But not like this.”
He studied her for a moment. “Are you upset with Lady Jane?”
She shook her head immediately. “Heavens, no. I’m happy for her. I truly am. I just…” Her voice faltered. “I don’t know what I feel, honestly.”
Alistair pushed back his chair. “Well, as illuminating as this conversation is, I have matters that require my attention.”
“How can you leave when my whole life is falling apart?” she demanded.
He chuckled as he rose. “Your life is hardly falling apart.”
Her eyes darted to the long clock in the corner. “And where, pray tell, are you going at this hour?”
His expression sobered. “To visit the family of my fallen comrade.”
Charlotte’s vexation melted into quiet sympathy. “I suppose my complaining can wait, then.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, leaning down to press a brief kiss to the crown of her head before striding from the room.
As he crossed the hall, his thoughts returned to Charlotte’s earlier words. Jane… an heiress. The transformation of her circumstances was extraordinary, and he would need to pay her a visit—if only to offer congratulations and see for himself whether the shadow of her scandal had truly faded.
The coach rocked gently as it joined the morning traffic, but his mind drifted far from Lady Jane. He rehearsed, silently and without satisfaction, what he might say to Lieutenant Austen’s family. Words always seemed inadequate when standing in the wake of grief.
The streets narrowed as the coach entered a less fashionable part of Town. When it halted, he stepped down, the air here tinged with coal smoke and damp stone. He mounted the steps of a modest building and knocked.
A white-haired housekeeper opened the door, her lined face polite but cautious. “May I help you?”
He offered his calling card. “I was hoping to speak with Mrs. Austen.”
Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly as she read his name.
“Yes, my lord. Please come in.” She led him through a plain but tidy hall into a drawing room where a dark-haired matron sat beside a young woman who so closely resembled her that she could only be Mark’s sister. Both were dressed in mourning black.
Alistair bowed. “Mrs. Austen.”
The older woman smiled faintly. “My lord. Allow me to introduce my daughter, Miss Mary-Ann Austen.”
He inclined his head to the young lady. “A pleasure, Miss.”
Mrs. Austen gestured to a chair. “Please, sit with us.”
He did so, folding his long frame into the proffered seat. “I wanted to extend my most sincere condolences on the loss of your son, Lieutenant Austen.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “He fought so hard on the Continent… to return home only to die here—it is a cruel twist of fate.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Which is why I would like to pay for his funeral.”
“That is not necessary—” she began.
“I know,” he interrupted gently, “but it is the least I can do. If I can lift even a single burden, I will.”
Her composure faltered and tears spilled freely. “Mark spoke highly of you.”
“And I of him. You raised a fine son.”
Miss Austen, who had been silent, spoke up. “We had a visitor—Rosalie—who said we should expect you.”
The name struck him like a blow to the chest. Rosalie.
He kept his expression neutral, though the air seemed to thin around him. Surely it could not be the same woman. The one he had left behind on the battlefield.
Miss Austen crossed to a writing desk. “She left a note for you.”
Mrs. Austen smiled faintly. “A most charming young woman.”
“Did she say how she knew Lieutenant Austen?” Alistair asked, careful to keep his voice even.
“She said they met during the war. Weren’t you acquainted?” Mrs. Austen asked.
“Yes,” he forced out, stretching a smile over the unease coiling in his gut. “Of course.”
Miss Austen returned and handed him a folded scrap. “Here is the letter.”
He opened it and read the note silently to himself, “The Shewrock Tavern. Room 2.”
He resisted the urge to crush it in his fist. What was she doing here? She was supposed to be part of his past—buried, forgotten, never spoken of again.
“Is everything all right, my lord?” Miss Austen asked.
He summoned the same false smile. “Yes, I was merely… surprised. I haven’t heard from Rosalie in some time.”
“Charming young woman,” Mrs. Austen repeated.
Alistair rose abruptly, bowing over Mrs. Austen’s hand. “It was an honor to speak with you both. I will be in touch regarding the funeral.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Mrs. Austen said.
He saw himself out, giving brisk instructions to his driver before climbing into the coach. The door shut, and he let his head fall back against the seat.
Rosalie. Here.
Had they made a grave mistake in letting her live?
The coach lurched to a stop outside The Shewrock Tavern, its weathered sign swinging in the brisk wind.
Alistair pushed open the door, the smell of stale ale and damp wood seeping inside.
He reached beneath the bench and slid out the small wooden box, flipping the latch with practiced precision, and retrieved the pistol from within.
He tucked it into the waistband of his trousers, the familiar weight pressing against his hip. He wasn’t certain he would need it today, but uncertainty was a luxury he could not afford. Better to walk in ready than to leave in a coffin.
The moment he stepped inside, the tavern swallowed him in noise—loud laughter, tankards slamming on tables, the rasp of boots scraping the floor. His eyes flicked over the crowd, cataloguing faces without lingering. No one here mattered except the one he had come for.
He cut across the room, moving along the side wall towards the narrow staircase.
Each step groaned beneath his boots, the old timber complaining under his weight.
He ascended quickly, pulse steady, senses sharp, until he reached the upper corridor.
The air here was warmer, quieter, the floorboards creaking faintly with every shift of his stance.
He stopped before room two.
His fingers brushed the butt of the pistol as he drew it free, the smooth wood and cool steel grounding him. Raising his hand, he knocked once—firm, deliberate.
The door opened almost at once.
Rosalie.
She stood there—a young woman with dark hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck, freckles dusting her pale cheeks. The very same girl he had left behind on the Continent… alive. She regarded him with unnerving calm, not a flicker of fear in her gaze.
“Why are you here?” His voice came out hard, clipped. The pistol was aimed squarely at her.
Instead of flinching, she took a measured step back, holding the door open. “Do come in, my lord.”
Alistair hesitated, then stepped inside. He closed the door behind him without lowering his weapon. “How do you know who I am?”
Her lips curved in something between a smile and a grimace. “After you left… that night, sparing me,” she began, faltering for just a moment, “I made it my mission to discover your identities. Yours, and your comrades’.”
“For what purpose?”
“You let me live. That was a mistake.” Her voice dropped lower. “My brother forced me to tell him who killed our father, and I came to warn you that he will not rest until you are all dead.”
His grip on the pistol tightened. “It was not personal. It was our assignment.”
“My brother doesn’t care.” Her chin lifted. “He will hunt you down, one by one.”
“Did he kill Lieutenant Austen?”
“Yes,” she replied. “And he tried to kill you in the alleyway. He failed, and he does not take failure well.”
Alistair lowered the pistol slowly, though he kept it at his side. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”
“You don’t,” she said. “But I had to do something. He was on his way to kill John Wiley when I slipped away.”
He stepped towards her, closing the space between them. “Tell me where your brother is.”
Her jaw set. “I may have betrayed him by warning you, but I will not let you kill him. He’s all the family I have left.”
“He is killing innocent men.”
Her eyes sharpened. “Are any soldiers innocent? They kill, then return home as if nothing weighs on their conscience.”
“Not me. I feel the weight of every man I killed,” he said, and was surprised to hear the truth in his own voice.
“Then you are one of the rare ones, my lord.” She brushed past him and placed her hand on the door. “I wish you luck.”
He caught her arm before she could leave. “I could have you arrested.”
“You could.” She met his gaze, unblinking. “But you won’t.”
“How did you arrive in England?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
She tugged at her arm, and he let her go.
“Be on your guard, my lord. My brother is a vicious man who will have vengeance for our father.”
“Your father was responsible for the slaughter of thousands of our troops.”
“Then you know exactly the kind of man my brother is.”
With that, she slipped out into the corridor. He did not follow.
Alistair stood there for a long moment, listening to her footsteps fade. Finally, he turned his attention to the room—bed neatly made, no belongings in sight, not even a stray cloak or valise. She had never intended to stay.
Only to warn him… and to disappear.
Blast it!
A sharp curse tore through his mind as the weight of Rosalie’s words settled in. John Wiley. If her warning was true, the man’s life was hanging by a thread.
Alistair strode for the door, his pulse quickening with every step. The din of the tavern seemed to fade into a dull roar in his ears, replaced by the pounding of his own heartbeat. He pushed through the crowd, shoving past a drunken man and ignoring the slurred protests that followed.
The air hit him like a slap—cold, damp, bracing. “Driver!” he bellowed, striding towards the waiting coach. The startled coachman straightened at once.
“To King’s Street, near the river—make haste!” Alistair barked, his voice edged with command. He yanked open the door and climbed inside, slamming it behind him.
The wheels lurched into motion, rattling over the cobblestones, and Alistair gripped the edge of the bench to steady himself. Every second felt stolen. If he was too late…
No. He couldn’t afford to think that way. He would reach Wiley in time.
He had to.