Page 3 of The Untamed Heart

“Sit down, Miss Foxworthy,” the colonel said brusquely. “Whilst I did not see fit to invite you, you are here now, and this affects you too. Stay, but do me the courtesy of vowing that nothing that is said in this room will be repeated elsewhere.”

Eustacia blinked, at once irritated by the command inherent in his words and flattered that he should put so much faith in her discretion. “You have my word of honour that I shall speak of it to no one outside of this room.”

He nodded, accepting her promise with the same solemnity that he would have done another man’s, which touched and surprised her.

“Then you had all better read this,” he said, and passed a letter to Hawkney.

Eustacia watched the duke’s reaction keenly as he read the words and marked the fury that ignited in the man’s eyes, the subtle tightening of his mouth. “The blackguard! Who wrote this, Marcus?” he demanded, thrusting the missive towards Sheringham.

“If I knew that, I would not be standing here speaking to you, now would I?” the colonel replied dryly.

Sheringham reacted in a similar vein. “How dare he! What a cowardly scoundrel. Marcus, what does this mean?”

Eustacia, who was vibrating with curiosity, restrained herself from snatching the note from Lord Sheringham before it was offered to her, but only just. The stark, accusing words almost leapt from the page.

You are no hero. Withdraw from the exhibition or I shall ruin you.

“Oh, my,” she murmured, glancing up at the colonel who stood stoically, facing them with the same rigid posture with which she suspected he would face a firing squad.

She wondered what it cost him to reveal this. That his pride had taken a battering of late was obvious to the meanest intelligence, but to have his honour called into question must have pained him greatly. Yet she remembered the vehemence with which he had spoken about the portrait, his refusal to be seen as a hero, only as a man who had done his duty. He had chosen her so the world would see the truth, even though that truth terrified him, which cast this threat in an interesting light.

“Whoever wrote this letter knows you despise the legend that has attached to your name. They are banking on you using this as an excuse to withdraw.”

Three sets of eyes swivelled to look at her. Eustacia flushed a little but put up her chin.

“Quite so, Miss Foxworthy,” the colonel said with a taut nod. “And he is relying on the fact that I would rather let things lie and slink away rather than kick up a fuss about events which are likely lost in the mire of that chaotic and bloody day. Sadly, he is out on that count. I want the truth, even if that truth exposes me in the worst possible light.”

“The truth about what, Marcus?” Sheringham asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

The colonel clenched and flexed his fingers. “About the order sent to me to withdraw from the Hollow Road, as it came to be called. An order I never received.”

“Which was why you held the position,” Hawkney said quietly.

The colonel nodded, his face white, his eyes haunted. “My initial order was to hold no matter what. I could not retreat without a direct order which never came, and that was why far too many of my men died. Yet the rumour persists that I held the position out of sheer vainglory.”

“But that position was crucial,” Sheringham cut in, his expression fierce with indignation. “Wellington himself said you helped turn the tide that day.”

“But at what cost?” he exploded, the fury in his voice making Eustacia jump.

“We’ll never know that, but the chances are the cost would have been far, far higher if you had not done so,” Hawkney said.

Eustacia watched as the colonel swept an impatient hand through his closely cropped hair. “The rumour that an order was sent, that I ignored it, has dogged me ever since that bloody day. I had believed my word of honour that I never received it was enough, but if I’m to be blackmailed over it, well, I want proof. I know that’s likely impossible after all this time, but I want to know where it went, why I never received it. I waited and waited for the accursed thing, prayed for it during each passing second, and I swear to you, upon my honour, it never arrived.”

Hawkney reached out and grasped the man’s rigid shoulder. “We believe you, Marcus, and we shall help you prove it.”

Marcus sat glowering down at the cup of tea in his hands. He’d insisted upon making it, needing to escape the room for a moment. Now he glared at the dark brown liquid, which was probably far too strong for the likes of Miss Foxworthy, but was the kind of bracing brew he’d grown used to in the army. He usually took it devoid of milk and sugar, a luxury seldom seen on campaign. Not that Marcus often indulged. His childhood had been a spartan one and anything resembling a treat was one he tended to view with suspicion.

‘Everything has a price,’ his dour father had been fond of saying. Well, the old devil had been proven right often enough for Marcus to become almost superstitious about allowing himself anything resembling comfort. Whenever he relaxed, something less than pleasant usually raised its ugly head.

Still, today had been ugly enough to begin with, and therefore an exception, so he’d dosed the tea liberally with sugar and even added a splash of milk. It was vile.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sheringham sip the tea and wince, hurriedly setting the cup down on a side table.

“Well, then, what are we to do?” he asked, as everyone looked to Hawkney, who was usually the one who took charge of things, whether they liked it or not.

“As far as I can see, we have only one option if we want to get to the bottom of this little mystery quickly and with no fuss,” the duke replied. He met Marcus’s eye, his expression one of apology. “You won’t like it, I’m afraid, but he’s our best hope.”

Marcus stiffened. “Oh no. No, I utterly forbid it.”