Chapter 10
Slade concluded his toilette in his colonel’s quarters as dawn’s noisy chorus of birds outside echoed indoors.
He pulled on a white shirt, donned his inky black breeches, then tugged on winter hose and a pair of tall caramel leather boots.
As he buttoned his embroidered waistcoat and tied the silk cravat in a barrel knot with military precision, Slade glanced out the window.
The fiery trail across the sky begrudgingly dropped golden hues into the early morning’s grayness.
From the way the branches of the alder tree swayed, it was going to be a windy day.
Today would have been Sylvia’s twenty-eighth birthday.
It had been a warm spring day under a similar alder tree in the Highlands when he’d proposed to her a decade ago.
The sweet scent of wildflowers and resin drilled into his memory.
Sylvia’s shy but brilliant smile had rivaled the marigold sun.
His heart had been beating so fast it had almost broken free of his chest. He’d asked her to be his wife.
Her cinnamon brown eyes had sparkled with emotion as she’d flung her arms around his neck with a breathy yes.
Oh yes, she’d said. He could still hear that enamored voice in his dreams just before the blackness of nightmares took over.
He now pulled on his dark greatcoat as he headed for the door.
His eyes glanced over to the plain wooden table with its folded parchments, quills, ink pots, and a stack of leatherbound books.
Atop the stack was Minister Raghnall’s folded missive.
He’d read the heartbreaking missive so many times its ends were curling outwards.
Isaac, Raghnall’s only son and Slade’s friend had died in a skirmish with the redcoats at Claigan village.
His hands fisted. The redcoat’s cleansing of rebels in the Scottish Highlands had long since changed from viciousness to malicious glee.
Slade reached for the door’s handle just as footfalls sounded outside. Seconds later his door swung open, and Reginald Seymour stood in the doorway dressed in his uniform.
“A word, MacLean.”
General Reginald Seymour, his direct report, wasn’t what Slade would call a kind man, but he wasn’t a contemptable arsehole either.
From Slade’s experience, one had to be a contemptable arsehole to advance to the rank of General, thus it said something about the man.
Seymour was approximately ten years Slade’s senior, always clean shaven and in fit form, with those discerning brown eyes revealing a casual omniscience.
The general had an exceptional combination of hardness and approachability, giving one the impression of trustworthiness. And mayhap he was trustworthy, but Slade didn’t know enough of the man to make the determination yet.
Slade stepped back, folded his hands at his back and squared his shoulders to face his superior.
He hiked a brow at the other man. “Is there a problem, sir?”
General Seymour stepped into the chamber and closed the door behind him.
Seymour’s eyes narrowed. “Are you meeting with General Bolingbroke again today?”
“Not today. But I will be soon.”
The general grimaced. “I don’t make it a habit of interfering with the personal lives of my officers, Colonel, but you ought to know you will make a number of enemies in this garrison if you continue to keep company with Bolingbroke.”
Interest sparked inside Slade’s gut. Did Seymour not get along with Bolingbroke?
Slade banked the information away.
“Why, may I ask, sir?”
His superior’s mouth twisted, as if he’d tasted rancid milk. “Bolingbroke has a less-than-savory reputation after unjustly transporting several of our men to the colonies, among other things. And one becomes tainted by association.”
What was the army doing about said less-than-savory reputation? And what did he mean by among other things?
“Are you alluding to questionable actions by Bolingbroke?” Slade asked.
The other man nodded with a scowl. “I am.”
The curt nod suggested he wasn’t prepared to discuss it further. But Slade pushed the issue.
“I take it, sir, disciplinary action against Bolingbroke would be difficult?”
The general fixed his gaze on Slade. “Yes, it would be. Without evidence and testimony, impossible.”
A smile tugged on Slade’s lips, not unlike the one a cat would have upon locating the hiding place of a rat. “I am obliged to you for letting me know, sir.”
Slade then inquired about the procedure for the sale of a colonel’s commission. Despite the general’s clear surprise, the other man provided the necessary information, after which Slade departed his quarters, and left the garrison on horseback.
Two hours later Slade loosely held Destroyer’s reins as he strolled beside the beast. The horse let out a disgruntled neigh.
He patted the animal’s shoulder in a soothing manner. “You’d rather be racing across open fields instead of walking through a herd of chattering attendees at the St. Michael’s Church fête, wouldn’t you?”
Destroyer gave a light toss of his head in the affirmative.
The smell of roasted meat from the food vendors mingled with the scent of fresh hay and the stench from the paddocks of ponies, pigs, and goats.
The church’s organ played, its notes escaping the open stained-glass windows and filling the grounds with one of Isaac Watts’ popular hymns.
It reminded him of visiting Raghnall’s church during his childhood and finding a measure of peace.
And acceptance. Something he’d never had at home after his mother’s death.
How was he to find Fifi in this discordant gathering?
Several minutes later, he spotted a trio on the other side, stopping to admire the horses for sale.
A young couple with a pleasant countenance, dressed in Sunday best clothes.
The lanky young man looked very much like a valet he’d seen at Bolingbroke’s.
But Slade was more interested in the lass standing beside the couple. Fifi.