I bowed again without a word and took my leave of both of them.
* * *
In the morningas I breakfasted, I found not an answer to my letter to Brandon, but Colonel Brandon himself.
Chapter 20
Colonel Aloysius Brandon had never deigned call on me since I’d been married, though he’d attended Donata’s soirees and suppers at the South Audley Street House with his wife, Louisa. Therefore, I was astonished when Bartholomew admitted him to the dining room.
Brandon had always been a hearty man, large without being soft, with a big voice, firm handshake, and loud opinions. I noted a bit more gray in his dark hair today and a few more wrinkles on his forehead, but his blue eyes were as bright and vigorous as ever.
“Did you ride all night?” I asked as I rose to shake his hand and gesture him to a seat.
Bartholomew, without prompting, set a place for Brandon, poured him coffee, and checked the dishes under silver covers on the sideboard. He hurried out, likely to shout at those in the kitchen to replenish the food.
Brandon sat down, lifting the cup of coffee, eyes pinching at the steam. “Left early this morning. Fine weather for riding, and I wanted to reach Brighton before it grew too hot. Easier on my horse.” He spoke with the consideration of a cavalryman for his mount.
I set aside the newspaper I’d been reading, more uncomfortable with his presence than I wished to admit. My turbulent relationship with Brandon had calmed in the last year, but there remained a bit of strain between us.
“How is Louisa?” I asked, keeping my voice light. “Is she well?”
Brandon took a sip of the coffee, an excuse to not meet my eyes. “She is right as rain. Can’t drag her out of the gardens most days. She loves summer in the country.”
“I cannot blame her.” The Brandons’ large house in Kent was indeed a lovely place, the gardens lush under Louisa’s care.
“And Mrs. Lacey?” Brandon asked in return. “She is well?”
“Donata enjoys the sea bathing. Has insisted we go several times a week, claiming the salt water is good for us. Gabriella likes splashing about, and Peter swims like a fish,” I finished proudly.
“Excellent.” Brandon’s tension eased at my answers. “I received your letter, of course, and decided to come down. Easier for me to explain face to face.”
Brandon had never been one for letter writing. He could agonize an entire afternoon over a single paragraph.
“Explain what?” I asked. “That Isherwood was a boor? And what of this fantastic idea that Mrs. Isherwood was a spy for Bonaparte?”
Brandon started to answer, then clamped his mouth shut as Bartholomew and a footman returned with more platters for the sideboard. Bartholomew offered to serve Brandon, but Brandon waved him away, climbed to his feet, and moved to pile food on his plate. I signaled Bartholomew to withdraw, which the young man did with reluctance, taking the footman with him.
Brandon clumped back to the table and thunked down his plate. He resumed his seat, lifted knife and fork, and attacked the mound of bacon, sausage, eggs, toast, and meat pie.
“In truth, Louisa thought I’d do better to speak to you,” he said around a mouthful of sausages. “She remembers Salamanca. She was taken with the place, has suggested we return and hire a house there.” His expression told me he thought Louisa had run mad.
“The warmth is nice.” I recalled balmy Spain with nostalgia, particularly whenever the weather turned cold and dank in London. “The French chose well when they garrisoned in Salamanca.”
“Yes, they made good use of the place.” Brandon assumed the look of admiration he wore when discussing tactics and battles. “But I have not come to reminisce about the war. I need to tell you about Armitage and Isherwood. Two more self-serving gentlemen I have never met. I suppose that is the sort the Forty-Seventh Light attracts.”
I nodded, sharing his disdain for any regiment but our own. “I barely knew anything about Isherwood, except for what he did to his wife. I never realized Armitage was even in the Forty-Seventh.”
“Because you did not attend the senior officers’ suppers and soirees and all that nonsense.” Brandon tore apart his eggs. “I had the displeasure of dining with Lord Armitage, Colonel—then Major—Isherwood, and Comte Desjardins on several occasions. Desjardins was more a hanger-on. He was brought in by Armitage, who’d known him for years, to advise Wellington about the Frenchmen he fought. But Desjardins was useless, in my opinion. Most of the Corsican’s marshals despised emigres like Desjardins and wouldn’t have moved in his circles, but Armitage insisted. I do not know if the two men were simply old friends or Armitage owed him something. The latter, probably.” Brandon paused to take a noisy sip of coffee.
“You were alarmed enough by my letter to ride to Brighton,” I said.
Brandon nodded and set down his cup. “If there is perfidy, Armitage is behind it, trust me. He killed his own brother, you know.”
I started at his bluntness. “A rumor, I thought. Unproven.”
Brandon snorted. “He did it, all right. Lady Armitage married him quickly enough—angling for it, a few fellows who were in Austria at the time tell me. Armitage had the money, the prestige, the title, and the composure to give Miss Randolph a grand house and a soft life. His brother was a wastrel and she knew it—she chased him only in order to gain Armitage’s attention.”
“Lady Aline told me she was increasing at the time of the brother’s death. She’d have leapt at any offer of marriage, I’d think.”
