Chapter One
June 27, 1817
London, England
The Honorable Phineas Allan Storme—or known in polite society and perhaps in another lifetime as Major Storme—perused correspondence in the morning room. He’d been back at his childhood townhouse with his mother for nigh on three weeks, and while it wasn’t a bad life, it certainly lacked the excitement or purpose that he’d had during his military career.
Of course, he’d been in England for longer than that. Hell, had it really been over two years since the battle of Waterloo and the horrors seen—and incurred—therein? He stared, temporarily unseeing, at the post in his lap, the dates blurring, but it was true. Two years ago, his life had changed permanently and had landed him into a Bath chair, but for long months following his injury on that bloody battlefield, he’d laid in various beds in various hospitals throughout England. Barely alive and weak from blood loss through the trip across France, he’d lingered for half a year or more at the first hospital, where they’d removed the fateful ball. No doubt that was the reason for his paralysis. Perhaps if it had been taken out earlier instead of left to fester and play havoc… well, no sense thinking upon the “what ifs.” Finally, when he had been deemed well enough to go to a rehabilitation facility in Bath, they’d given him a wheeled chair.
And basically wished him good fortune in the new life he now lived, for there had been nothing further they could do for him.
With a shake of his head, Finn shoved away his maudlin thoughts and put himself back into the present, concentrated on the bright sunlight that streamed in through the open windows where a summer breeze carried familiar scents of London: savory aromas of roasted foods that vendors sold from handcarts on the streets, the sharper scents of horseflesh and excrement from the same, the heady smells of the blooming flowers in the small garden below. No, this life was as different from his military days as night was from day.
Then he glanced once more at the correspondence he held in his hand, actually began to comprehend some of the words printed on the thick card stock as his vision sharpened. “Good Lord.” He held up the missive. “Another invitation to yet another rout or ball or musicale evening.” Honestly, he didn’t give a fig for what it was. “And it’s addressed to Major Storme.” Anger slashed, hot and sharp, through his chest. “I haven’t been that man for two years.”
No matter how much he’d give anything to return to those days, a continuance of his military career was well beyond his ken. Hell, some semblance of normality before his body had turned on him would be welcomed, but without a miracle, it simply wasn’t possible.
The Dowager Countess of Hadleigh—his mother—glanced up from her own letter, but her face had drained of all color. She flashed a smile that had no strength behind it. “Give the ton time. They only know you as the major—war hero and courageous young man.”
Finn snorted, and as bitterness climbed his throat, he swallowed it. “I’m no longer young either.” As for being courageous, he had his doubts. If that were true, he wouldn’t be sitting in a Bath chair and his best friend in the world wouldn’t have perished on that damned battlefield. “No doubt the ton wishes to gawk and whisper.” He wanted to chuck the lot of letters into the fireplace and set them ablaze, but it was too much effort. The last thing he desired now that he was finally home in London was to make the societal rounds, do the pretty, or put himself on display for the haute ton to gape at and wonder about. At the ripe old age of seven and thirty, he’d become an oddity, fit for curiosity shows or menageries. No longer was he a man.
Damn my eyes.Why did he care about what anyone thought? Because, regardless of his injury, he retained dreams and hopes for the future.
“Don’t worry over such things, Phineas.” Did his mother refer to his formal address or his fears? Not that she could even guess at what he struggled with, for he took great pains in only showing emotion in front of his valet—never his family.
Unless, of course, it was his arrogant older brother Drew. Then he could never quite manage to shutter the anger that his sibling always brought out.
As if sensing the twisted warrens of his thoughts, his cat, Wellington, announced herself with a soft meow as she jumped off the window seat and moved toward his chair. When he patted his leg, she hopped into his lap, stretched to touch her pink nose to his, and then settled into a tight ball, purring all the while.
He sighed and forced himself to take a few deep breaths to quiet his musings. Wellington—named after the famed duke of Waterloo and one of Finn’s personal heroes, and had been given the moniker before he realized what sex she was—had come to him while he’d been in France following that battle. The long, tortuous journey to England had been made better by the young kitten, who refused to leave his bedside, no matter how many times he’d tried to encourage her away. For whatever reason, the blue-gray, sleek-furred animal had adopted him. Over the weeks during his travel through France and finally into England, he’d discovered that her particular breed had originated in Persia but had proliferated in France over the years.
Since then, he and Wellington the cat had been inseparable. She always knew when he was upset, and she certainly helped bring him back from the edge whenever the nightmares assaulted him, or depression intruded.
That was how far he’d come… or fallen. The only female in his life was a cat, and sometimes she didn’t bother to concern herself with his presence unless it suited her to do so.
“I think you might wish to look at this,” his mother continued as she passed the letter to him with a shaking hand. “This is from your brother.”
“Brand?” Finn rather missed his younger sibling and couldn’t wait to see him again… whenever that was. Brand wasn’t exactly one to haunt London’s hallowed halls ever since Father gave him that ultimatum after his brother had caused enough scandal for two lifetimes with his rakish ways.
Before they’d both gone to war and were forever changed…
“No, Andrew.” Speculation clouded her eyes as she watched him. “I’m not certain what to make of him at the moment.”
He grunted. “What more do you need to know, Mother? He’s an arse, and we’re better off without him underfoot.” Drew had always been on the commanding side. Favored as their father’s heir, he took to the attitude of an earl quickly, made sure the brothers fell into his plans and machinations else he’d throw a tantrum. Father had indulged him calling it leadership qualities.
And he hadn’t found grace as he’d grown older. In fact, before Drew had run from London in a foul temper, he and Finn had had a fight. Hurtful words had been said that couldn’t be retracted, and even if he regretted them now, it didn’t matter. Drew was gone; it was highly unlikely he’d return to London any time soon.
“Behave, Phineas.” But the corners of his mother’s lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile. “Please, read the letter and tell me what you make of it.”
Finn settled into looking over the missive while idly stroking Wellington’s sleek head. Drew’s strong handwriting filled the page, as arrogant and priggish as his brother’s personality. There wasn’t much to tell, honestly, once he’d moved past the pleasantries, but the news contained therein was shocking, to be sure. With a slight uptick of his pulse, he glanced at his mother. “Drew is engaged?”
What the deuce did that mean? It was as if the words jumbled together on the page to create a mystery he couldn’t fathom.
“Apparently he is, yet the letter is already a week old.” A slight trace of annoyance filtered into his mother’s voice. “What’s more, the ceremony was two days ago.” She threw up a hand in exasperation. “I can’t believe this!”
“Neither can I.” His brother engaged—nay, married—and to a woman they’d not met. Hell, from the words in the letter, Drew barely knew her. What had brought him to that pass? Even more, would it help or hinder his already volatile temper? “What are your thoughts? I must confess, I’m a bit nonplussed at the moment.” He passed the letter back but saw the offense in her eyes.
Damn you, Drew! Why must you be so selfish that you hurt others?