her along the edge of the ballroom and then held open a white-painted door. Cordelia stepped beneath the gilt pediment, feeling like Anne Boleyn on her way to her execution.
Oh, that was absurd. She wasn’t a fanciful girl anymore.
It was a small room hung with cream silk and lit by a candelabrum and a couple of additional tapers. She caught a whiff of brandy in the air, overlaying the wood polish and lemon oil.
Harry stood on the far side of the room. Though his face was in shadow, she’d have known the mocking angle of his shoulders anywhere. For a moment she was a girl of twenty, her eye caught by the broody-looking young man with disordered brown hair and intense blue eyes, hovering on the edge of the Devonshire House dance floor. A quadrille that had been all the rage that season had been playing, and she’d wanted to avoid dancing with Toby Somerton. How different would their lives have been, hers and Harry’s, if she hadn’t crossed the room to speak with him that night?
“Thank you for coming.” He stepped forward as she pushed the door to. The light from the candelabrum fell across him, and she saw that his face had hardened into sharper planes and angles and that lines she didn’t remember bracketed his mouth. He wore riding dress, not his uniform. His coat and breeches were splashed with mud and—Good God, was that blood?
“Harry—” She crossed to his side in three quick steps, her hand extended. “Are you hurt—”
“No.” His voice forestalled her before she could touch him. “The blood isn’t mine. It belonged to a poor French bastard who was selling us information and got caught. At least that’s what seems to have happened.”
She let her hand fall to her side and clasped her gloved fingers together. “That’s why you’re back in Brussels.”
“Yes, in a roundabout way. I’m sorry, I don’t suppose you expected to see me.”
“I knew it was a possibility. But then we’re foolish to think we can avoid each other forever. At some point you’ll come back to England.”
“I suppose anything’s possible.”
“Perhaps it’s easier to see each other first here rather than in London with the ton staring at us like fish in a bowl. Was that why you asked to see me?”
“No.” He ran a hand over his hair, an uncharacteristic gesture. “Cordelia—Perhaps you should sit down.” He reached out a hand as though to take her arm, then let it fall to his side and instead pulled a shield-back chair forward.
There was something in his eyes that was suspiciously like pity. She jerked away from it and from the proffered chair. “For God’s sake, Harry, don’t be silly. I’m not some missish girl. Whatever it is you have to tell me say it straight out.”
Harry swallowed. She saw that beneath the grime and blood and the layer of tan from years in the field his skin had gone pale. “I went to a château just outside Brussels this evening to warn Malcolm Rannoch and this agent of ours that our communications had been rumbled. We were caught in a French ambush. It was only afterwards that we realized someone else had been in the château and had died in the cross fire. A woman.” His gaze fastened on her face with a gentleness she had never thought to see again when he looked at her. “It was Julia. I’m sorry, Cordy.”
For a moment the room swam before her eyes, a dark void she could not look into. A roaring filled her ears and a silent scream echoed in her head.
Strong fingers closed on her arms. She clung to him, her fingers digging into the cloth of his coat. The smell of blood and stale sweat washed over her, and beneath it a whiff of spice, a scent she had not smelled in so long it was half forgot.
His quick intake of breath stirred her hair. Then he steered her to the side and pressed her into the chair. A moment later he put a glass into her hand and guided it to her lips. She choked down a sip of brandy.
“You’re sure it was Julia?” Her sister’s laughing
Oh, that was absurd. She wasn’t a fanciful girl anymore.
It was a small room hung with cream silk and lit by a candelabrum and a couple of additional tapers. She caught a whiff of brandy in the air, overlaying the wood polish and lemon oil.
Harry stood on the far side of the room. Though his face was in shadow, she’d have known the mocking angle of his shoulders anywhere. For a moment she was a girl of twenty, her eye caught by the broody-looking young man with disordered brown hair and intense blue eyes, hovering on the edge of the Devonshire House dance floor. A quadrille that had been all the rage that season had been playing, and she’d wanted to avoid dancing with Toby Somerton. How different would their lives have been, hers and Harry’s, if she hadn’t crossed the room to speak with him that night?
“Thank you for coming.” He stepped forward as she pushed the door to. The light from the candelabrum fell across him, and she saw that his face had hardened into sharper planes and angles and that lines she didn’t remember bracketed his mouth. He wore riding dress, not his uniform. His coat and breeches were splashed with mud and—Good God, was that blood?
“Harry—” She crossed to his side in three quick steps, her hand extended. “Are you hurt—”
“No.” His voice forestalled her before she could touch him. “The blood isn’t mine. It belonged to a poor French bastard who was selling us information and got caught. At least that’s what seems to have happened.”
She let her hand fall to her side and clasped her gloved fingers together. “That’s why you’re back in Brussels.”
“Yes, in a roundabout way. I’m sorry, I don’t suppose you expected to see me.”
“I knew it was a possibility. But then we’re foolish to think we can avoid each other forever. At some point you’ll come back to England.”
“I suppose anything’s possible.”
“Perhaps it’s easier to see each other first here rather than in London with the ton staring at us like fish in a bowl. Was that why you asked to see me?”
“No.” He ran a hand over his hair, an uncharacteristic gesture. “Cordelia—Perhaps you should sit down.” He reached out a hand as though to take her arm, then let it fall to his side and instead pulled a shield-back chair forward.
There was something in his eyes that was suspiciously like pity. She jerked away from it and from the proffered chair. “For God’s sake, Harry, don’t be silly. I’m not some missish girl. Whatever it is you have to tell me say it straight out.”
Harry swallowed. She saw that beneath the grime and blood and the layer of tan from years in the field his skin had gone pale. “I went to a château just outside Brussels this evening to warn Malcolm Rannoch and this agent of ours that our communications had been rumbled. We were caught in a French ambush. It was only afterwards that we realized someone else had been in the château and had died in the cross fire. A woman.” His gaze fastened on her face with a gentleness she had never thought to see again when he looked at her. “It was Julia. I’m sorry, Cordy.”
For a moment the room swam before her eyes, a dark void she could not look into. A roaring filled her ears and a silent scream echoed in her head.
Strong fingers closed on her arms. She clung to him, her fingers digging into the cloth of his coat. The smell of blood and stale sweat washed over her, and beneath it a whiff of spice, a scent she had not smelled in so long it was half forgot.
His quick intake of breath stirred her hair. Then he steered her to the side and pressed her into the chair. A moment later he put a glass into her hand and guided it to her lips. She choked down a sip of brandy.
“You’re sure it was Julia?” Her sister’s laughing
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