Chapter Nine
Saturday, April 28, 1821
W olf stood at his bedroom window at Aldbury Hall on Grosvenor Square, watching the sunrise. He’d been standing there all night waiting, planning what to say to Christina. He raked his hand through his hair and began preparing for the day.
He sat practicing what to tell her as his valet, Theo, shaved him.
I felt unwell. It must have been something I ate. No, no, Christina would see through that. I started speaking to a friend and lost track of time. Three hours? No. Bloody hell, what should I tell her?
He glanced at his reflection in the mirror as his valet finished. The truth. Tell her the truth. He stared at the image in the glass. Dare he?
I went for a walk and lost track of time. You see, I’d rather not speak of my time in the service. It brings back memories I’d rather forget, especially about Tommy. We were close friends since childhood, Tommy and me. He had a habit of getting into trouble and having me get him out of it. When he pinched a tart from Cook, and she caught him, it was me he sought out to convince her not to tell his mother. We took care of each other, except…
His valet took the towel away and stepped back. Wolf turned his head to the left and then right. “Good work,” he told him.
“Thank you, my lord.” The man stood ready with his coat. He put his arm in one sleeve.
We looked out for each other, but I couldn’t save his life. We were outnumbered, facing a superior force. Yet, he ventured out before anyone could stop him. He maneuvered to the enemy’s right flank. To shield his move, we engaged the French, sacrificing men in the process. When he attempted the ambush, they were prepared. Bloody hell, why didn’t he listen? This wasn’t some mere game in a London garden.
He slid his arm into the other sleeve and focused on Christina. Why did he care what she thought? He had only accompanied her to several events—nothing more. He quickly glanced at the mirror. This time, it reflected his inner turmoil.
You are a fool, Wolf. You feel guilty, as you rightly should. All you had to do was explain. He didn’t want to explain. But he didn’t want to think about Barrosa, about that day.
Unable to win the argument with himself, he straightened his shoulders and headed for the door.
“Will you be taking this, my lord?” The valet offered him Christina’s shawl.
He took it from his man without a word and left. He had one stop to make before he visited Gower Street.
Mrs. Hartfield waited for Christina to select her food from the sideboard and take her seat before she handed Christina the morning edition of the London Chronicle .
Christina glanced at her mother and let out a deep breath. She could only imagine what was in store.
The article was easy to find. It took up the entire gossip column under the title, Secrets Unveiled at the Concert Hall. Rather than leave it for later, she decided to read it now and get it over with.
She folded the paper so only the article was visible. Stirring her warm chocolate, she began to read the article out loud.
“In the latest twist of intrigue, whispers echo through the corridors of high society, swirling around last night’s concert at The Royal Pavilion Concert Hall. Attendees were left stunned as Lord Wolfton, known for his aloof manner and penchant for mysteriously vanishing from events without a trace, was there one moment and gone the next. Rumors abound as to the reason for his sudden departure, leaving tongues wagging and eyebrows raised.”
Christina stopped stirring her chocolate and put the spoon down, as well as the paper.
“Excuse me, Mr. St. John,” Mr. Murthy announced.
Mrs. Hartfield and Christina both turned toward the door as Richard entered.
“Please excuse my barging—”
“Nonsense. Family needn’t make any apologies. Do join us,” Mrs. Hartfield gestured to a seat, then glanced at Mr. Murthy, who was already providing Mr. St. John with a place setting.
“Some tea? I was just starting to read the London Chronicle ,” Christina held up the paper.
“You’ll need something a bit stronger than tea.” He glanced at Mr. Murthy, who gave him a choice of tea or coffee.
“Coffee, if you please.”
“Richard, I want to thank you for…”
He reached across the table and put his hand on hers. “You do not need to thank me. I was very fortunate. I had you all to myself.” He smiled as Mr. Murthy placed his coffee in front of him.
“Then I will refer to you as my Sir Galahad for your gallantry as the most perfect of all knights.” She raised her teacup. “Sir Galahad.”
“I see you have the Chronicle ,” he said as he sipped his coffee.
“What could the gossip have said about last night? It was a very moving award ceremony. Some in attendance were in tears.” Christina went back to reading.
“Adding fuel for the wagging tongues, observant patrons noted the unexpected sight of Miss Hartfield in a lovely shimmering silk gown accompanied by another gentleman, who was spotted in the viscount’s private box. Was this a mere coincidence or a hint at deeper entanglements? Was Lord Wolfton simply a casualty of unforeseen circumstances, or was the ‘other gentleman’s’ presence the cause of his sudden disappearance?”
“My presence? His sudden disappearance? He accompanied me to the event. Nothing more.” She glanced at her mother, her eyes begging for support.
“There’s more,” Richard said, holding his own copy of the paper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
Christina took a calming breath and returned to the London Chronicle .
“Adding to the intrigue, Lord Reynolds, typically reserved and self-absorbed nature, stunned the audience with an unexpected display of humility and emotion as he spoke of Lord Wolfton’s role in Lieutenant Thomas Reynolds’s final act of duty. Could it be that beneath Lord Wolfton’s mysterious facade lies a deeper, more compassionate soul?
“Whoever is writing this dribble is idle and has too much time on their hands.” Mrs. Hartfield, Christina, and Richard turned toward the door.
“I am sorry. I didn’t want to intrude while you were reading.” Wolf stood at the door, a copy of the London Chronicle and her shawl in his hand. “I came here to return your shawl. You left it at the concert hall.”
Christina stared at him, and some of the puzzle pieces began to fit in place. Wolf became distant when the Reynolds’ coach drew up next to them. Few knew his part in the war and, most likely, fewer still about the Battle of Barrosa. She should have realized it last night. But that didn’t excuse him from leaving without a word.
“My lord, please join us.” Mrs. Hartfield gestured toward an available chair where Mr. Murthy was already setting another place at the table.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hartfield.” Wolf took his seat.