But where Patrick had been an eager young man, his brother was far more arrogant and bitter.
What should Killian expect after the sudden loss of Alfred’s younger brother? Alfred’s undisguised derision was completely justified. In some ways, his hatred was easier to bear than Lord Cavendale’s forgiveness, as Killian deserved the former and would never be worthy of the latter.
Despite the cool breeze washing in from the open window carrying a sweet scent of hyacinth, sweat gathered and trickled down the small of Killian’s back.
‘Lieutenant General, I say, are you quite alright?’ Alfred raised a brow and lifted his chin, managing to look down at Killian though he was several inches shorter. ‘You’ve gone quite pale.’
Killian swallowed the disgrace rising like bile in his throat. He straightened his posture, surreptitiously wiping away perspiration from his upper lip and gave Alfred a curt nod.
Lord Cavendale and his surviving son were the only reasons Killian hesitated to accept this mission. Facing the family of a soldier he had so horrifically failed threatened to unman him. Unfortunately, when the prime minister asked a favour, the only acceptable answer was, ‘Yes, sir.’ And surely Killian deserved this penance for a sin he could never hope to absolve.
Lord Cavendale jumped in, saving Killian the need to respond. ‘I was just speaking to Bradford about your work in the House of Lords, Killian, trying to get the Wounded Soldiers Relief Bill passed this session.’ Lord Cavendale turned his back on his son and clapped Bradford on the shoulder. ‘We’re rather impressed, aren’t we Geoffrey?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Lord Bradford nodded at Killian. ‘Jolly good of you tokeep the fight up for our boys who’ve come back from the war so broken.’
Before parliament recessed for the summer season, both Bradford and Cavendale had put pressure on several of their cronies in the House of Lords to back Killian’s proposed law.
Killian tipped his chin down. The Wounded Soldiers Relief Bill was the least he could do for the men he had failed. He didn’t deserve anyone’s praise.
Lord Cavendale laid a heavy hand on Killian’s shoulder, inadvertently dropping ash from his cigar on the inky blackness of Killian’s jacket. Acrid smoke choked Killian. He needed to get away from these men and all the memories they were stirring up.
Killian cleared his suddenly tight throat. ‘We all do what we can. Speaking of soldiers, Major General Drake looks like he could do with some rescuing from the whist tables.’ He tipped his chin in the direction of the gaming tables. ‘Perhaps I should lend a hand to a brother in arms. Excuse me, gentlemen.’ Retreat was sometimes the best option as courage failed him once more.
Brushing the ash off his shoulder, Killian strode across the drawing room, taking deep breaths through his nose, focusing on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as he traversed the polished, parquet floor. Control was a tenuous strand he clung to with a death grip.
The ladies were bunched together at the whist tables like a bouquet of wildflowers in multihued dresses. Major General Drake stuck out like a thorn amongst the petals. A massive scar cut through his face, enhancing his monstrous appearance.
As Killian strode closer to his friend, he couldn’t stop his gaze seeking out Miss Simmons. She sat several paces away from the other young ladies. Perched on the edge of a hardback chair set against the wall, she wouldn’t be expected to join the titled ladies as they played cards. Lady Philippa Winterbourne, the Duchess ofDorset, reclined next to Miss Simmons on a chaise, flicking her fan like a cat might flick its tail.
If the seemingly demure lady’s companion was trying to fade into the background, she couldn’t have chosen a more advantageous spot than adjacent to the duchess.
While the ladies at the whist table were a garden in bloom, Lady Winterbourne was an exotic hothouse orchid. A renowned beauty, despite her years, she drew the attention of any man with breath still in his lungs and blood pumping through his veins. Jet-black hair with a few streaks of silver was piled high in an intricate coiffure, contrasting starkly with the simple chignon worn by Miss Simmons. Lady Philippa wore a tailored gown of silk and lace, resplendent in deep tones of black and purple, while Miss Simmons was draped in a shapeless dress the colour of the earth. Yet it was the plain Miss Simmons, not her glamorous patroness, who captivated Killian.
Leaning closer to Lady Winterbourne, Miss Simmons whispered something low, her mouth barely moving. Killian was caught by the full shape of her lips.
No one in the drawing room would guess the dowdy lady’s companion kept a wicked blade somewhere on her person. Or that she swore like a man and fought like a hellion. They wouldn’t know she smelled of citrus and cream. He wanted to pass by the whist tables and stand next to Miss Simmons. Close enough to feel the heat of her. Close enough that she couldn’t ignore him. But that was beyond the pale. He was a gentleman. He never broke the rules of propriety. Unless he were in the heart of battle where no rules existed beyond survival.
He called upon years of discipline to force his steps away from Miss Simmons and toward his friend at the whist table.
Lord Drake saw his approach. ‘Ladies, I hate to unbalance our numbers for the game, but I believe Lieutenant General Killianand I have important matters to discuss.’ He stood hastily, nearly knocking over his chair as the table shuddered.
Rich laughter erupted from one of the women. ‘By all means, take your leave, sir. There’s no chance of you winning here.’
‘Indeed,’ he gritted. He towered over the women, executing a bow of military precision before facing Killian. ‘Dear God, man. Please tell me you’ve come to rescue me.’ Drake spoke under his breath as he shook Killian’s hand. ‘That woman,’ he nodded toward a lady skilfully shuffling cards, ‘is a harridan, for certain.’
Killian followed his friend’s gaze. The woman in question looked to be firmly on the shelf. She had flaming red hair in a riot of curls. Her figure was too generous, and her features too bold to be considered beautiful. Still, her voice was pleasantly low, and mischief sparkled in her chocolate eyes as she leaned over to speak to the pale blonde lady sitting nearest her at the table.
‘Things must be desperate when you seek rescue from such a bountiful gathering of feminine grace and beauty.’ Killian smiled at his old friend.
‘Hardly.’ Drake touched his scar in a habitual gesture. ‘More like a gathering of feminine spikes and daggers. I can’t believe I let you drag me to this dinner party. I could be sitting in front of my fire, sipping whiskey in blessed silence.’ As a counterpoint to Drake’s words, the ladies broke into loud laughter.
‘You’ve spent too long sitting in front of your fire. You’re getting fat and lazy.’ Killian glanced at his friend’s flat stomach and shook his head in mock disgust. ‘The prime minister needs us to ferret out a killer, and that’s exactly what we shall do. Have you no sense of duty left?’
‘None. It was stripped from me along with my dignity and any possible happiness.’ Drake stretched his lips into the semblance of a smile made gruesome by the pulling of skin and scar tissue. The stark resentment in his glare belied any humour in his words.
Anger and depression were constant companions for soldiers returned from war. Especially those who experienced the kind of torture Killian and Drake endured in Afghanistan. Killian’s torment was of the mind, Drake’s was of the body, but neither had healed without being irrevocably altered.
Killian knew inactivity and brooding was food for the fire that would consume him. Activity and distraction afforded some relief from the constant memories. He suspected it was the same for Drake. At least this mission would give them something to focus on beyond the monsters in their past.
