Flint stared at her and then Reed. “John Harvester? Why?”
It seemed they hadn’t run out of surprises. Winnie straightened, still holding Miss Chase’s hand as if it were a lifeline. “Because John Harvester was my son.”
Flint found himself dropping into the settee next to Felicity. “I beg your pardon?”
For the first time in his life, he saw real despair in the old woman’s eyes.
“Your grandmother protected me. Gave me a place when it became apparent that I...that...” She shook her head and gulped down a sob. “After John was sent away to be raised by the vicar and his family, I just...stayed.” The tears were coming much faster now. “He never knew, of course. But Francis here did. He kept me apprised of John’s doings. He has been so very kind to me.”
Flint felt as if he’d been bludgeoned. John Harvester. Laughing, brash, madly courageous John who had died in that fiery hell that was Hougoumont.
“Francis said that John died from a gunshot wound to the head,” Aunt Winnie said, her eyes pleading. “Quickly, before he knew it.”
Screaming, screams Flint would hear until the day he died. He swore his arm started burning all over again.
“Yes,” he lied without blinking, because lies were the only comfort left. “He did.”
And suddenly, Felicity was holding his hand. Not a gentle touch, a fierce grasp, as if she were holding him up away from that fire. As if she knew all of it. He looked over at her and saw the truth in her eyes. He wanted to feel ashamed. He had lost them all in that holocaust. His men. And yet reflected in her eyes was certainty, sympathy, sorrow.
She should have accused him. They all should have. And yet, somehow, she gave absolution. For the first time since June, the bands of suffocating guilt began to loosen, just a little.
And then something Winnie said struck him.
“John didn’t know?” he asked her as gently as he could.
She lowered the handkerchief she had been using on her eyes. “Only your grandmother and the vicar knew.”
Flint turned to Francis. “If John didn’t know,” he said, “how did you?”
He hadn’t thought Francis could look worse. But one glance at Winnie had the man all but collapsing.
“They told you about John, didn’t they?” Flint asked. “To get you inside the house.”
Francis closed his eyes again. “They wanted to know about the various people the duke ran through here. Especially the girls.”
Those vulnerable, frightened girls who had thought they were going on to safety. Oh, sweet God. “What did you tell them?”
Francis’s smile was tragic. “The truth. That I saw no girls at all. I came to visit Winnie, and I made sure never to see any but regular staff.” He shrugged. “It was an excuse to come. And I hurt no one.”
That brought a bark of laughter from Aunt Winnie. “You mean those girls they traipsed through here they didn’t want me to know about?” she demanded. “Fah! Of course, I knew. They were frightened enough without having to meet me. You’ve straightened that out with that pompous father of yours, I assume?”
Flint was fast losing what equanimity he had left. “I did. You never mentioned them to Francis here?”
She glared at him. “Why should I? Not his business, was it?”
Flint almost smiled at that. Leave it to his Aunt Winnie to recover at double speed.
“You have the list, Flint,” Felicity said. “And Mr. Reed didn’t do anything else. You can help him, can’t you?”
Flint squeezed her hand. “If I can’t, the duke will.”
“He will not,” Flint heard from the open door and sighed. He should have known.
“He will,” Flint said, not facing his father.
“And why should he, when you are attempting to cover up treason? Will there ever be a time you don’t disappoint me?”
Flint was about to correct him when he lost hold of Felicity. Suddenly she was on her feet, bristling like a cat.
