He grimaced, picked up the letter, and pushed it into my hands. “Then you open it, Duchess. Give me my orders straight. No softening. If Markham and Lady Bodonel know my inabilities, everyone does.”
The scripting on the front didn’t say Wellington or anything military. There was no franking from Spain.
My fingers fumbled on the wax.
The duke clasped my hand, his big palm covering the letter. “I asked you to go with me to the battlefield. You’re my wife now, but you’re not—”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’ll go with you. I’ll march beside you. I’ll follow you anywhere. You’d need to promise me that you’ll be safe, never reckless.”
“Reckless is your forte.”
His smile returned for a moment, but my stomach spun. Hamlin had begun to feel like home, my only home now, and we’d have to leave it.
The duke released me. “Go ahead, soldier, read it.”
My heart pounded. I broke the seal. “It’s from my father’s solicitors. Markham is questioning you as guardian and if you even have custody of Lionel. The solicitors are asking you to bring the baby to London.”
The duke slumped in his chair. He hugged my yawning son. “It’s not from Wellington.” He slapped the side of the chair. “I’ve more time.”
I should be glad for the duke, but my fragile heart shriveled. “See? Markham is still out there, still trying to gain custody of Lionel. He’s not done.”
“This is all wrangling. I’ll have my solicitor tackle this.”
Crumpling the paper, I backed away. “You put the baby to sleep. Guard him, so that evil man will have none of him.”
“Patience, wait.”
There was no staying or waiting. Fleeing was the only option. Saluting, I turned and ran.
I kept going until I was down the stairs and in the nook, hiding behind the useless marble gods. They weren’t moving, so no one could see me be so weak.
For I was weak.
Wellington wanted Busick’s mind.
Lionel, his arms and song.
But I wanted him—his mind, body, and soul—safe. Busick was my home, the place I felt secure.
We needed to leave England. Retreat now and win this war later.
Was I woman enough to tell the commander directly to retreat—not in a letter or in sleep talk, but aloud?
This Demeraran rabble would let my father’s blood stir, my mother’s bravery brew. I would tell Busick what I needed. All these feelings in my heart had to win.
CHAPTER 31
TRUST ANDOBEY
Busick rolled the wheels of his chair back and forth in his bedchamber, moving from the window to the chest of drawers. He’d done this trek for the past two hours, watching the closed door leading to Patience.
He heard movement. Things being dragged but no door opened.
Lionel’s cry was the excuse he needed.
