What Memory Forgets, Nostalgia Improves
“Wot the bloody hell is goin’ on, Captain?”
Miles shrugged. “Damned if I know, Lynch.” And he took a swig of whisky. The knife had slashed a ragged tear in his forearm, shallow but lengthy, and would no doubt require–
“Stitches,” growled Lynch, poking at the wound with stubby fingers.
So Miles took another swig.
He’d entered his townhouse via the kitchens in order not to bleed on the hall rug and cause consternation for the housekeeper.
Fortunately, Lynch had been supping an ale at the table and so they’d repaired to the study with all necessary wound accoutrements gathered from their years in the dragoons.
“Reminds me of old times,” Lynch said with rather too much glee, gold tooth aglitter in the desk candelabra light as he selected needle and thread from his satchel of horrors.
A murmur was Miles’ sole response, as those old times for both of them had largely consisted of mud, blood and cannon fire.
Mind you, when all was said and done, the dragoons had been the right path for Miles.
Such a disciplined but uncertain life was not suited to all yet the comradeship had been unique and the acquired skills of survival would stay with him forever.
Now, even lost within the exotic wildernesses he one day hoped to explore, he could likely get by with just a pocketknife, flint and pencil.
Though medicinal whisky never went amiss.
He’d first purchased a commission at minimal rank – not solely due to lack of funds but also his preference to learn from scratch – yet he’d soon risen and finally made captain in the 13th Light Dragoons.
As a higher-ranking officer, he’d been assigned the army’s equivalent of a valet – Lynch, a soldier-cum-orderly who’d looked after everything from his uniform to his horse, tent and maps.
They’d survived everything together, from frostbite to fleas, until the terror of Waterloo had seen Lynch invalided home.
Miles himself had never intended to end his army career quite so soon but…
All had changed.
In this life, nothing was immutable, he knew that, but never had he imagined his elder brother Cameron departing this earth before himself, a brother who had been born for the earldom with his prosaic demeanour, mathematical acumen and fondness for starched cravats.
As youths, they’d been chalk and cheese.
Yet now it was Miles who’d ended up as earl.
And the first thing he’d done on his return to England was seek out Lynch.
Second had been to abscond to the estate in Derbyshire for a year and work out what the hell being an earl entailed.
He and Cameron had endured the same education but Miles’ restless nature and fondness for the outdoors had led him to… miss the odd lesson.
Lynch had become Miles’ general factotum over the last year and an indispensable member of the household, as although there was a plethora of servants – more than he recalled as a youth – Lynch still treated him as an army man and not some pampered earl who couldn’t remove his own boots at night.
“Like, d’ya remember…” Lynch stabbed at Miles’ flesh as though sewing up a coal bag – finesse not really a soldier’s trait.
“Toulouse. When yer took on those three Frenchies about ter skewer me and Flanagan. Burst from the smoke on that horse like St George himself, yer did, sword slashing and hooves trampling.”
“Also got skewered in this same arm by a bayonet.”
“Aye, whole battle were a bloodbath. But yer got us through it.” Lynch tightened the thread. “And we snaffled that regimental standard, French eagle atop and all, yer remember? Apparently, it were in the papers back here.”
“A different life to this one, Lynch.” And though perilous, one he’d been more comfortable with, truth be told.
“Right yer are, C’tain. I make no bones. Better than ducking that damn cannon fire.”
Miles nodded. Couldn’t argue with that.
Over this past year, Miles had found the estate to be in fine nick and had just tried to improve efficiency in the agricultural lands with some more modern machinery, then overhauled the village amenities, swapped out the French brandy stocks for Scottish whisky and commenced reinstating the gardens on the estate as his brother and father had paved the lot so their Hessians could remain unsullied.
Plans were also afoot here in London – the garden to be fringed with saplings while the old greenhouse was scheduled for reglazing. Even now, he’d begun to fill it with some specimens that the Horticultural Society fellows had gifted him.
The sole aphid on the rosebush was the conflict between his duties as earl and his passion to travel, to discover new flora as he’d always wished to, but with competent stewards on the estate and ordered planning, surely both could be achieved?
Having survived Waterloo, anything could be achieved.
Lynch tugged through the last stitch. “Needs a bandage,” he murmured, “and some of m’granny’s ointment. Thanks to her, yer’ve nary a scar from that French bayonet.”
’Twas true, although Miles considered it likely that Granny’s ointment had seared off any skin likely to scar. “You never tell me what’s in that stuff.”
Lynch knotted the thread. “Old Romany recipe. Take it to m’grave, I will.” He sloshed an inordinate amount of expensive whisky on the wound. “And yer’ve no idea of who them coves were that came to help yer?”
“None.” Miles sloshed more whisky, but this time into two glasses, and slid one over the desk to his comrade.
“One of them had some odd black feather in his lapel but I couldn’t make out his features too clearly.
The other was swarthy, similar in complexion to yourself.
Eyes black as powder-burn, scarred cheek and wearing a scarlet jacket.
Scarlet? I ask you, as…” He paused. “Lynch, are you ailing?”
Because his factotum and friend had chugged back the whisky in one and was now hauling his granny’s lucky rabbit foot from a pocket. He crossed himself with it.
“Stab me in the squinters, Captain, but that one were the Prince.”
“No, no.” Miles frowned, refilling the glass. “I’m quite sure I would have recognised the Prince, portly chap with lots of gaudy rings and–”
“Not that jackanapes! The Prince. One wot owns half o’ London, along with all those gambling hells. He’s many a title – Scarlet Diablo, Black Angel of Hades, Slewfoot of Hell.” Lynch sniffed. “And them are jus’ the polite ones.”
Ah. It seemed Miles had much to catch up on as regards London. “Well, I owe him a favour.”
Lynch groaned. “Yer never wanna owe him a favour. The Prince hoards favours like a fox hoards dead chickens. Some say he sleeps in a coffin with ’em.”
“The chickens?”
Lynch smirked.
“Well,” continued Miles, “more comfortable, I daresay, than a tent on stony French ground.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Lynch rubbed his chin. “But wot with all these goings-on, yer take care, C’tain. This ain’t the first, is it?”
Miles nodded. “I’ll carry a pistol. Could be a coincidence but…”
“Once is chance, twice is coincidence, thrice should have been a dead earl.”
Indeed.
Since arriving in London three weeks past, there’d been two further goings-on: a strapping on the carriage wheel that held the spring to the dumb iron had torn, which at speed could have caused quite an accident.
As it was, they’d simply listed like a foxed goat whilst held up behind a delivery cart in Leicester Square.
Then last Tuesday, he’d been clattered into upon the pavement and nigh impelled into the path of a hell-for-leather stagecoach.
And those rattling whips never stopped for anyone.
“Those thugs tonight didn’t want coin, only my blood.
” Perhaps to supply the surgeons with a corpse for dissection but…
He rose to his feet, obliged to march as he considered his recent ill luck and if there might be more to it.
Naught of this nature had taken place whilst he’d been at his estate, so it was solely in London where his presence could have antagonised someone.
The chess board caught his eye and so Miles directed his march towards it, drawn by the need to arrange his thoughts with the tangible pieces. He positioned the king in the centre, there being no earl, before his hand shifted to the rook. “First motive for murder, Lynch: the lust for wealth.”
A snort. “Yer cousin Master Jeremy Firth would inherit the earldom but he’s a…”
Miles raised a brow.
“I’ll try not to offend, Captain, but…a frolicking milksop. Tied to his mother’s apron strings. Fella has less ballocks than yer gelding.”
Miles chuckled whilst knocking the rook over with a knuckle – for his indispensable factotum spoke the truth – and located the knight.
“But his younger brother,” muttered Lynch into his whisky, “is an altogether different kettle of fish.”
“My cousin Alasdair?”
“Aye. Gamester, libertine, sly boots, ne’er-do-well and…er…cheat.”
“Alleged cheat, Lynch.” Because Alasdair’s good fortune at the card table was indeed infamous and he’d heard the occasional whisper in London that it could not all be through legitimate endeavour.
Some years back, for reasons unknown, Alasdair’s father had utterly cast his youngest son off, so he’d fled to the Continent.
But after Alasdair’s father had died, a different man had returned from the young cousin Miles had known – sardonic and detached.
One who amassed money and then spent it like a sailor on leave.
But there was one problem with Lynch’s suggestion.
Miles could not help but like him. “No. Not Alasdair.”
“Shared blood don’t mean they won’t slit yer throat fer all this.” Lynch glanced around, waggling his glass at the opulent study.
“No, indeed.” He slugged a good measure. “But I know Dair.” And the knight was toppled.
“It’s yer own grave,” Lynch mumbled, before a grin cut his dark features. “Well, since yer ain’t leg-shackled… Any miffed ladybirds?”