I released him, awkward. “There is nothing to forgive.” We stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment, then I cleared my throat and asked my question. “Mr. Bickley, you told me that you’d lost a brother, in the war. Tell me, was he killed on the Peninsula? … At Salamanca?”
Bickley stared at me, stricken, then his expression became one of horrible guilt. “He was a cavalry officer,” he said in a near whisper. “He died as his troop charged a French one.”
My heart gave a painful throb. I hated that I’d guessed correctly. “His name?”
“Ensign William March. He was my half-brother, much younger than I was. He was not Quaker—my mother remarried years after my father died, and she left the Friends.”
I scarcely heard the last part of his statement. I recalled Ensign March, a young man, sandy-haired and restless, with plenty of jokes and a fondness for port and the ladies. He’d never mentioned his family beyond the usual remarks, and I could not remember if he’d ever stated where his home was. He’d had a south coast accent, and never said that his mother had once been a Quaker.
At Salamanca, we’d engaged with French cavalry, driving apart the line that had already been ragged so Wellington could make his sudden attack. March had raised his carbine, yelling and laughing, and he’d been shot out of the saddle.
“Ensign William March, of the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons,” I said in a hushed voice. “Killed in courageous assault on Clausel’s division. One of my men.”
Bickley nodded, the bleakness in his eyes heartrending. “And so I was persuaded to take my revenge on thee. Anger was in my heart, opening the way to evil. Please forgive me.”
“You drugged me,” I said with conviction.
I had concluded that the only place I could have been given the concoction to render me insensible was when I’d halted to speak to the Quakers. Every other drink I’d taken that night had been shared with others or at a public place where someone could have seen it doctored.
“I did. They knew my grief, and fanned my anger. And I obeyed.”
“I understand,” I made myself say. “But I wish like the devil you hadn’t.”
“As do I. I thought remaining with the Friends would take the evil from me. But it did not.”
“How long had you plotted this revenge? Salamanca was seven years ago.”
Bickley looked confused. “I hadn’t. I was angry with my brother for joining the army, but I had fixed blame for his death on no one but war itself. But then they came to me, a few weeks ago, told me thou had been William’s commander and were a terrible man. They knew all about it—thee, William, that I was William’s brother—and said they would help me punish thee for not keeping Will safe. I said I’d take no part in any violence, but they assured me I did not need to. All I must do was give thee a cup of tea and make certain thou drank it. They would do the rest, and thou would be hanged ...” He trailed off, his voice breaking.
I reined in my anger with effort. Bickley had been a dupe, like me—like Isherwood—used and discarded. I could argue about his actions loud and long, but for now, I needed to turn to practical matters.
“What’s done is done, Bickley. But you are a witness to it. Are you willing—”
A sound behind me cut off my words. I felt a rush of air, and as I turned to meet the threat, pain exploded through my skull, sending me to my knees.
My head and left leg seared in agony, but I managed to draw the sword from my walking stick. I only needed to hold off the enemy until Brewster arrived.
I struck out but missed the booted legs that sprang out of the way. Dizzy, I pulled back, but another blow landed on my temple.
I fell back, blackness taking me. The last thing I saw was the butt of a beautifully made Purdey fowling piece, heading straight for my face.
Chapter 22
Iwoke to damp, a briny smell, and sharp air. I shivered.
“Close the window, Bartholomew,” I tried to say.
The wind took my breath away. It was cold, damned cold, as though a gale had burst through my bedchamber. I reached for the blankets and touched only the stiff prickle of what felt like hemp.
I cracked my eyes open. Sunlight poured into them—I was outside, and lying on a hard surface. The world rocked and pitched.
A slap of cold water stunned me awake. I tried to sit up in alarm, but found myself bound fast to something unyielding.
“What the devil!” I shouted as loudly as I could, both in fear and the hope someone would hear.
Prying my eyes open all the way, I saw that I was in a boat, a small one, my hands and arms lashed behind me to a board on the bottom. My feet, I discovered as I tried to move, were likewise bound. My boots were gone, my ankles tightly gripped by thin rope.
“Bloody hell.”
