Chapter Six
Aside from some obvious airing out, everything was right where he left it, his bedchamber untouched by man or time other than with a broom.
Mud-grey woolen drapes hung heavy next to windows crossed by iron bars.
The last vestiges of the fading sunlight clung to the sharp edges of the room.
Against the wall he shared with Cassandra, a bare-bones bed was smothered by a blanket cut from the same cloth as the drapes.
Or so he had sworn when he was a child, after the fibers scraped his fragile skin raw when he curled them tightly around himself on countless freezing nights.
That he had a bed at all to sleep in should have made him grateful.
Many others in his situation had been less fortunate.
Boys like him found their way into work-houses, or selling cigar butts and stolen buttons on the streets—or selling something much worse.
They didn’t end up on the second story of a nobleman’s mansion with tutors, barred windows, and an accelerated path to a commission in the Royal Army.
Lord Bolderwood had been generous, but never lenient.
Study and rigorous adherence to orders earned comfort and amenities, but the slightest mishap resulted in revoked privileges if he was lucky, and bread and water punishments if he was not.
And often, he was not. Back then, all he wanted to do was escape.
Now that he was back in this room as an adult, he felt overcome by the same sensation.
I’m not a prisoner here, Seth reminded himself. I can leave whenever I want.
A functional writing desk and stiff-backed chair stood close enough to the window to allow for light in his long days of study, but not so close that he could see out and get distracted.
Seth placed his rucksack on the chair and rummaged through it until he found his shaving kit.
He set it to the side and pulled his sketchbooks and pencil roll from the bag, placing them on the desk for later use.
His first order of business would be to discuss the rooming situation with Cooper.
Selfish as Seth was for more time with Cassandra, her reputation was already at risk by his affiliation with her brother alone.
Their close living arrangements would be fodder for gossip behind fluttering fans, if the rumors hadn’t started already.
In Cooper House, Seth slept in another wing, separated by vacant rooms and multiple walls, and he thought that to be indecently close.
But this? Tonight, he would lie in bed, less than the length of his hand away from Cassandra while she slept.
Only a brick wall would prevent him from reaching out to her.
If she were to talk in her sleep, would he hear it?
Did she snore? Would she be able to hear him in the bath?
Would he be able to hear her?
No. Distance. He needed her to be down the hall, on another floor, far away from temptation. Far enough that he would have time to ponder his actions on the way to her door, decide against going to her, turn back and go to bed.
How could he turn back with all of five steps between them?
Cassandra was right. Rules were in place for a reason, and this was the one place he couldn’t afford to break them. Not under Lord Bolderwood’s nose, not with so much riding on the line and not if he hoped to live when Cooper found out that Seth was head over heels in love with his sister.
A cursory check in the armoire revealed what he had suspected.
Precisely seven matching sets of shirts and trousers that were fashionable, but not flashy, hanging in a row.
He flipped through the hanging garments, a morning suit, an evening suit, and at the back his fingers grazed against a wool different from the drapes and the blanket.
Military issued. Soft from use. Singed. Ripped.
Laundered.
Seth’s heartbeat quickened, and his breath caught. No. He forced in one shuddering inhale at a time. Focus. Why was it here? It should have been in the bottom of some rubbish heap in Sicily, rotted down to nothing.
What are you doing, old man?
With a final steadying breath, Seth pushed his uniform back into the recesses of the armoire.
He selected a black evening suit, brass cuff links, and a waistcoat with small buttons even his dexterous fingers couldn’t fasten.
With rising frustration, he remembered he was to spend the next seven days ringing a bell to summon another man to help him dress.
Seven days. One week, and freedom.
***
“I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
Oh no, no! It would have to be tonight!
“I know that I keep imposing on you.” Cooper gave him a sheepish smile and a shrug. “It’s been a long day, for all of us. Couldn’t you watch over her for tonight? I’m sure the housekeeper can sort it out in the morning.”
“Cooper,” Seth began, but then cut off his words when he heard a loud scoff from a passing gentleman.
The portly fellow had a handlebar mustache that smothered his lips, his face choked by a deep purple cravat.
With his sour expression, he gave the appearance of a squished plum.
The man held his head high as he walked into the dining room, though he was two full feet shorter than both men in the hallway.
Cooper looked at Seth apologetically, as if to say what he already knew.
Rules are in place for a reason. Seth had gotten complacent over the summer.
An equal partnership did not make him equal to Cooper.
“My lord,” he corrected, the words rolled off of his tongue like slime.
“Hasn’t she seemed off lately?” Cooper shifted his eyes toward Cassandra being led into the dining hall by a tall hourglass of a Spanish woman with shining black hair intermingled with flashes of silver, appearing as if a jewel atop a flowing carmine dress.
She could only be Lady Dorchester, or, as the Cooper family referred to her, Aunt Valentine.
The two women whispered intently, exchanging short sentences, followed by deliberate nods.
Seth had sat through too many strategy meetings to not see what was occurring.
Cassandra was jumping the chain of command.
“You’ve seen it. She’s acting strangely. She is determined to find a husband, and save the family.” He turned back to Seth. “Between you and me, I’m concerned about the lengths that she may go to accomplish that goal.”
There were several strategies that a woman might employ in order to make a match, but there was no faster way to the altar than two lovers caught in a compromising position.
Some young ladies were not above entrapment, but Cassandra?
She wouldn’t force her way into a marriage.
Or would she? She had set an uncompromising time-limit on her future nuptials.
With a singular focus, a person was capable of a great many things.
Still.
“It’s not a good idea,” Seth said.
“Nonsense. I trust you to watch over her far more than anyone else in this place, Aunt Valentine included. Well. Especially Aunt Valentine, to be fair.” Hands open, he begged, “One night, Reeves. Let a man get some rest.”
One night…. He could handle one night out of ten.
Resigned, he followed Cooper into the dining hall and a servant escorted him to a seat in the middle of the table.
The sound of chattering filled the room as hordes of nobles reacquainted themselves under tall ceilings painted with a mural of heavenly clouds and floating cherubs.
Servants poured champagne into crystal glasses with practiced precision over a table that spanned the length of the room, donned with a white damask tablecloth.
Candles weaved through perfectly placed plates of fine china, and silverware glistened in the dancing light.
Some of those seated he knew, most he did not.
At the end of the table was Lord Bolderwood, standing vigilant as his staff showed the guests to their chairs.
To the right of his father sat Adrian Hollingsworth, Viscount Blackmoor.
Dark and brooding, he surveyed the room with a bored expression.
Adrian’s blue eyes paused briefly on Seth’s before resuming his scan of the table.
A bell of laughter came from his left as Lord and Lady Dorchester’s daughter made faces across the table at Cassandra, who responded with pointed glares of reproach before returning to a conversation with the man next to her.
This new version of Cassandra was charming, hair falling about her shoulders in cascading waves.
A far cry from the severe chignons that she wore in Cooper House.
With a wide smile, she was like sunlight, especially in that sky blue dress.
A man’s voice tugged at his awareness. A deep timber, pompous and appallingly familiar.
Seth turned his attention to the man helping Cassandra into her chair, and his blood ran cold as ice.
With a smug smile and perfect teeth, striking in the red coat of his dress uniform, a golden-haired aristocrat sat next to Cassandra.
Rage burned at Seth’s skin when he met the green eyes of Colonel Adam Bishop, and it was like no time had passed.
Seth last saw Bishop three years ago in an Italian infirmary. Bandages covered Seth, the skin underneath searing with inescapable agony. Lucky, they had called him, but he hadn’t felt lucky. He spent every second wishing he had died, and that was before they told him the news.
Ensign Charles Thomas was dead.