Betrayal

Pippa suppressed a grin at his lumping her with the ‘men’, while she digested the information. ‘Then why have I never seen her?’

Jones slanted her a knowing look. ‘Fine woman, but not fer the likes of me ‘n’ you, lad. Besides, she comes in the late afternoon. You’re with the Major making rounds.’

Accepting Jones’s assumption and explanation, Pippa went to her next patient. At least her disguise was perfectly safe. If the man she spent the most time with, and who did all the really personal care of the wounded, thought she was male, then everyone else did too.

Many hours later, Pippa walked the darkened streets of Brussels. Her back ached, her feet hurt, and she’d cried enough tears to float one of His Majesty’s ships. The man had lost his arm, screaming in pain in spite of all the rum she and Jones had forced between his clenched teeth. She hated it when these things happened.

Her reaction made her question her commitment to healing. She should be strong and not cry. She should be able to focus on doing what was necessary and go on. The local surgeon had said she felt too much of her patients’ pain, that she needed to distance herself emotionally—and that was before she came here and saw all this carnage.

She raked her fingers through the short length of her hair, her hand running on even after the strands ended. A month since she’d whacked off her waist-length hair, and she still tried to comb it as she had for many years. Another tear slipped.

Pippa stopped in the middle of the road and stomped her foot. She was acting like a watering pot. This would never do. She had things to do. Sick men to help and a brother to find.

Philip.

Somewhere her twin still lived. Instead of spending all her time worrying about the man lying in her bed or crying over things that had to be done, she should try again to see Wellington. Last week was the most recent time she’d sought an audience with the Iron Duke, and last week was the most recent time her request had been denied. Tomorrow she would try again.

Finding Philip was her sole reason for being here in Brussels, disguised as a boy and unchaperoned. Nothing else mattered.

Her grandfather thought she was here with Aunt Tabitha, but Aunt Tabitha was in London, blissfully unaware that Pippa was supposed to be under her chaperonage in Brussels. That was the way Pippa wanted it.

She had cut off her hair and taken the clothes Philip had worn as a youth. They were no longer in fashion, but a country man might still wear them. Disguised as a boy, she had booked passage on a packet crossing the channel and made her way here.

A young woman would never be told anything but what was proper, and she had a funny feeling that what had happened to her twin was less than respectable. Nor would a woman have been allowed the freedom to come and go as she had been while asking about her twin in the hopes that some clue to his whereabouts would emerge.

But if someone ever found out what she had done, her reputation would be gone. No one in Polite Society would ever receive her. No decent man would ever ask for her hand, no matter how wealthy she was. Not that she wanted to marry. She wanted to heal the sick and had turned down numerous offers from Aunt Tabitha to come to London for the Season. Still, she did not want to be beyond the pale.

She sighed. She had to stop this useless worrying, it did her no good. Shaking her head to clear the melancholy thoughts, she squared her shoulders. Spirits somewhat under control, Pippa strode purposely to her lodging.

She paused just inside the door of her darkened room, allowing her eyes to adjust. The moon shone through the lone window like a silver flame in a big lantern. A splash of white light fell across the bed where Deverell St Simon lay, his face flushed and glistening from sweat.

‘Patrick! Damn it man, where are you?’ His anxious words cut through the night. ‘I can’t see you!’

A nightmare. Pippa forgot her earlier resolve to have him gone as soon as possible and rushed to his side.

She put a hand to his forehead. Fever. She should have prepared another draught of bark and left it with the landlady with instructions to give it to him. Instead, she had let her attraction to him make her careless. Guilt twisted her stomach even as she wrung a damp cloth in the nearby bowl of water which she had placed just for this type of occurrence.

Remorse brought still more tears. She dashed them away with the heel of her hand and concentrated on cooling and soothing her patient. She was overly tired and needed a good night’s sleep, something she would get shortly.

‘Deverell,’ she murmured, ‘everything is fine. You’re in my bed, not on the battlefield. Patrick is not here.’

Her voice seemed to calm him. He stopped thrashing and no more words came.

Pippa crossed to her bag of herbs, lit a single candle and prepared more bark. Kneeling at the bed, she dripped it into her patient’s mouth.

His eyes opened, catching her in their brilliance. ‘Angel,’ he whispered. ‘My angel of mercy.’

Pippa started, nearly dropping the half-full glass. ‘No! That is…’ She took a deep calming breath. He was delirious. “Tis me. Pippen. The boy who is taking care of you.’

‘Pippen?’ Bewilderment replaced the admiration in his eyes. ‘Oh, yes. I remember now.’

Pippa lifted his head and tipped the rest of her concoction down his throat. ‘That will help you,’ she said as he sputtered.

‘Choke me, more like,’ he said with a faint smile that did dangerous things to her equilibrium.

She let his head fall. ‘Some laudanum will ease the pain in your leg and help you sleep.’

‘You should take some for yourself, Pippen.’ His hazel eyes, full of compassion, held hers. ‘You look exhausted. I’d wager a monkey that since I’ve been here you have not gotten a decent night’s sleep.’

His words were too close to the truth for comment. Instead, she held out the opium.

‘I need to go back to my own rooms,’ he said. ‘There is no reason you should have to give up your bed and your privacy for me.’

He took the small glass from her. Pippa didn’t fight him, understanding that he needed to show he was not completely helpless. His hand shook, and he very nearly spilled the contents before getting it to his mouth. The small act exhausted him, and she grabbed the empty glass as his arm fell.

‘You will get stronger every day.’

‘Can I be transported to my rooms?’

‘Most probably. But it would not be comfortable.’

His eyes darkened. ‘I can stand pain, Pippen. I am not a milksop to be constantly coddled. I am a man who has taken care of himself for many years.’

‘Tell me where your rooms are, and I’ll find out tomorrow if they are still available.’ Now it was her turn to frown. ‘But I’m not sure this is a good idea. You need someone to care for you.’

He grinned. ‘You can check on me. It isn’t right that I have taken your bed. Where have you slept while I’ve been here?’

Pippa nodded to a screen. ‘Behind that is a pallet. It’s big enough and comfortable enough.’

Dev gave the tiny room a cursory look. A single window provided what cooling breeze there was. There was a plain oak wash-stand, a small stool and table. A single candle illuminated the area around the bed. Nothing was expensive, but it was utilitarian. The screen took up space, but he understood why Pippen would want it. No one, not even family, liked living this close together.

‘This room isn’t big enough to house my father’s hunting dogs, let alone two men,’ he said.

‘Your father must be very grand, indeed.’

‘The Duke of Rundell.’

Pippa sat abruptly on the stool. ‘The Duke of Rundell?’

Even she had heard of the most powerful duke in Britain. That meant Deverell was definitely an officer. He might know her twin. Excitement clenched her hands and made the breath catch in her throat.

‘Do you…do you know Philip LeClaire?’

His brow furrowed. ‘No. I’ve heard of the LeClaire name, but that’s all.’ He gave her a narrowed look. ‘Why do you want to know?’

She took a deep breath and plunged into her rehearsed lie. ‘He is a distant cousin and we were told he was dead, but I know better.’ For once the words came easily to her tongue. ‘I am searching for him because his grandfather—my great uncle—is ill and needs him home.’

‘Who told you he was dead?’

‘The Home Office sent a letter two months ago saying Philip was dead. But it isn’t true. I know it.’

‘Steady,’ Dev said.

Pippa took a deep breath and just barely kept her voice from catching. ‘Earl LeClaire suffers from apoplexy. He had a seizure just six months ago, and the letter nearly brought on another. The doctor has ordered complete bed rest. I fear that if I cannot find my t—cousin soon, the Earl will have another. One that might be the end.’ Only sheer will power kept her from more tears. ‘I have to find Philip. I have to.’

‘I will help you,’ Dev promised. ‘When I am able to walk we will go see Wellington. If anyone knows where an officer is, and I assume an earl’s grandson is an officer, the Iron Duke will.’

Gratitude overwhelmed Pippa. ‘Do you know Wellington?’

A lopsided grin eased the lines of pain around his mouth. ‘Not really. But he’s a crony of my father’s and my commanding officer. I think he will see me.’

‘Thank you so much.’ This man would finally get her into the illustrious hero of Waterloo. The barely checked tears flowed. ‘You must think me a sissy to be crying like this.’

‘I think you a young man who has carried too much responsibility and needs a good night’s sleep. Something I doubt you’ll get on that pallet.’

Pippa gave him a watery smile. ‘That’s where you are wrong. I am so tired I could sleep on a heap of rocks.’

‘Then go to bed,’ her patient said, ‘and let me get my rest.’

Pippa went behind the screen and sprawled on the blankets. Excitement made her pulse speed. Deverell was going to do for her what she had been unable to accomplish. He would get her into Wellington. But tonight she had to put the hope aside and rest.

The room was close and humid. The discomfort from the heat was intensified by the binding she wore around her breasts and the fact that she was still in her shirt and breeches. She had slept this way since Deverell had regained consciousness, but the lack of rest was finally wearing her down.

This constant crying was not like her, and she realized that if she did not get some rest, she would not be able to keep going. It was a thought she could not bear. Too many people needed her healing skills.

She had to undo her breasts and sleep in less restrictive clothing in the hopes of being cooler. But what about Deverell? Did she dare? What if he needed her in the night? She sighed. She could give him more laudanum.

‘Deverell,’ she whispered, ‘are you awake?’

‘Yes,’ he whispered back. ‘You need to sleep. I need to think.’

‘You are fighting the laudanum,’ she scolded gently. ‘I can give you more. You need rest.’

He snorted. ‘You have already given me enough to fell an opium eater. No, thank you.’

She heard him shift. ‘Do you need help getting comfortable?’

‘No, thank you again,’ he said. ‘Will you take a message to Wellington’s headquarters tomorrow? Tell him I’m alive and find out where Patrick is? Ask him to meet with us.’

‘Of course, if that will make you sleep tonight.’

‘It will certainly help.’

‘Consider it done.’

Now perhaps he would sleep so she could put on her loose nightshirt and be able to rest herself. Within minutes she heard his light snoring, a sound that strangely enough did not bother her.

She gave him several minutes more before acting. Freeing her breasts from their restraint was like taking a deep breath of fresh air. Comfort eased some of the ache in her back and legs as she laid down.

She would feel better in the morning. Tomorrow she would be her old self.

The next day, Pippa wondered how she ever thought she would be her old self while Dev still lived with her. Even taking off his bandage was an ordeal she dreaded nearly as much as he seemed to. Most patients faced anxiety when bandages were removed, and normally she dealt with their emotions better. But this was Dev. She was beginning to realize that when he was uncomfortable so was she. And for some reason she did not understand, he was very upset about this. There was no underlying excitement or joy as she was used to seeing.

She looked down at his strained face. ‘This shan’t take long. And it should be relatively painless.’

He nodded, his mouth white around the edges. ‘Pain isn’t the issue, Pippen.’

She stopped unwrapping the linen bandage that covered his lower right leg. ‘Then what is?’

‘Nothing.’ He turned away.

Dev gritted his teeth to keep from telling Pippen all his fears. The boy had no idea what it was like for a man to look into his future and see himself as an invalid. He was used to being active and doing what he pleased when it pleased him. Much as he might tell himself differently, he knew his wounds would make a difference. The knowledge was like a sore that ate at his peace of mind.

‘Dev?’

Pippen’s enquiry pulled Dev from his melancholy thoughts. There was no reason to burden the lad with his problems. Pippen was doing more than necessary for many British soldiers here in Brussels. He was just another one of the youth’s patients—or would be if he hadn’t ousted Pippen from his bed.

Dev released the breath he’d unknowingly held. ‘Never mind, Pip, just unwrap the blasted thing so I can see just how ugly it is.’

Pippen’s too green eyes darkened in something suspiciously like pity. ‘It will be like any other wound that’s healing, but not completely well.’

It was an effort not to snap at the boy. With carefully measured tones, Dev said, ‘I don’t need your pity, lad. Your skill as a sawbones has been more than sufficient.’

Pippen nodded, refraining from a response.

Under the bright afternoon light of a hot Brussels afternoon, Dev’s leg was slowly revealed. In much less time than Dev had thought possible, his limb lay stretched out on the sheets. Vivid red lines slashed across his flesh, interspersed with splotched welts where the skin was healing after being burnt.

‘Not a pretty sight,’ Dev said softly.

‘No worse than many others I’ve seen. You are fortunate that it has healed cleanly and you still have your leg.’

Pippen’s gentle words did nothing to assuage the bitterness knifing through Dev’s gut. Exhaustion smashed into him, and he fell back on the pillows, one arm flung across his eyes. The last thing he wanted to see right now was his deformity.

‘The swelling is almost gone.’

Dev nodded.

‘I think it looks fine,’ Pippen stated.

Dev ignored Pippen’s attempts to gloss over the wound. He didn’t want to talk about his leg. Maybe in a couple days, after he got used to the looks—like he’d got used to the pain and then later the constant ache—he would be interested in talking to Pippen about what the scars would look like after the redness went away. Maybe. Not now.

He said nothing while Pippen bathed the leg.

‘I think we can stop wrapping it,’ Pippen said, his tone thoughtful. ‘The fresh air will be good for it.’

Dev grimaced. Without the bandage he would be able to see the carnage that was his leg. When it was wrapped, he could fool himself that it would return to normal. Even with the discomfort, he had been able to tell himself the leg would be fine when it healed. But seeing it, with the scars and puckered flesh, would be a constant reminder that it would never be normal again.

He stared at the dingy wall, wishing Pippen would go away.

‘Dev?’

‘Go away, Pippen. Go see if you can get a message to Wellington. See if anyone knows what happened to Captain Patrick Shaunessey.’ He managed to keep from saying, Go away and let me wallow in my self-pity.

For long moments, the lad said nothing and Dev could feel his gaze. ‘As you wish, Dev. I shall tell the landlady to bring you something to eat. Stew, if you like, and a big chunk of fresh bread.’

Dev forced himself to smile and meet Pippen’s eyes. ‘That would be more than welcome. Now, please go.’

He heard, rather than saw, the door close. With a grunt of pain, he pulled himself up in bed. His leg lay spread out, immobile and stiff. He looked his fill, willing himself to accept the disfigurement. He bent at the waist and carefully ran one finger along the line of the worst scar. The welt twisted and buckled, the angry red trail ending just above his knee. He barely felt his touch.

Growing braver, he ran his palm along the damaged skin, noting the roughness. Little pricks of pain darted along the length of his leg. At least he could feel something. That had to be good.

Exhaustion ate at him. This was more movement than he had done since regaining consciousness. Yet he gritted his teeth and continued to study his leg.

He had always been active. The army had been the ideal place for him. As the youngest son, many had expected him to join the clergy, but he was too energetic. Knowing he would never be happy in so sedate a position, his father had bought him a commission. Dev had never regretted that decision. Not even now.

He could have crippled himself riding to hounds or in a coaching accident. At least he had gained his wounds by fighting for his country, by protecting something he felt strongly about, by defending England.

Determination clenched his fists and tightened his shoulder muscles. He would heal. He would do everything he always had. He would ride a horse. He would dance the night away. He would bed a woman.

So help him, he would not waste away into the life of a cripple. He would not.

Chapter Three

Deverell’s previous landlord shrugged his ample shoulders, that perennially Gallic motion expressive of great regret. ‘I am sorry for it, but Monsieur St Simon never returned from the battle. I am a businessman. I rented his rooms.’

Pippa felt like crumbling. This was the second piece of bad news today. Just minutes before, she had been denied access to Lord Wellington and anyone else who could have answered Deverell’s questions. The setback would not please Dev.

Now she was being told that Deverell would have to stay in her small, cramped room. He would continue to disturb her in ways she was unaccustomed to. Desperation gnawed at her. ‘Do you have any other rooms available?’

‘Non. The English are coming like the droves of sheep they raise.’ A grin split his thick, wide lips. ‘Very profitable, to be sure.’

Pippa nodded. She had spent all morning preparing herself to move Dev. She had told herself it was for the best. Being the son of the wealthiest duke in Britain, he could easily pay someone to watch him around the clock. She didn’t have to be that person. She had squared her shoulders and girded her loins, so to speak. And now this.

She felt an inexplicable mixture of emotions. Regret, apprehension…elation. As much as she had known closer proximity to Deverell would not be good for her peace of mind, she found herself glad that he would have to stay with her. At least, for a while longer. This way she would know he got expert care, and she wouldn’t have to worry about someone harming his leg, which was not entirely healed. Why, he couldn’t even use a cane yet, so could not walk.

They were paltry excuses for the real reason she was glad, but she refused to acknowledge any other.

‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘do you still have his things?’

The portly landlord drew himself to his full height, which was several inches shorter than Pippa. ‘But of course. When I let his rooms, I had all his belongings packed away in case someone came to claim them. I have, also, a note. Sent from London,’ he finished, a sly, curious gleam in his dark eyes.

‘From his family, no doubt,’ Pippa said. ‘I would like his possessions, please.’

It was a short matter of time before Pippa’s errand was completed, and she was back in her room. With Dev’s possessions, her meagre space was more cramped than ever. Having been raised on a country estate where all of the public rooms were large enough to train horses in, and the private chambers were not much smaller, Pippa found herself feeling claustrophobic. There was too little space and too many objects in this single room. Not to mention Deverell.

Trying to stow his gear under the bed, she accidentally knocked the mattress. Dev opened his eyes, their usual bright clarity muddy from sleep. His light brown hair lay like thick satin across his broad forehead. He grinned and Pippa thought her knees would fail.

‘You’re back from the hospital early,’ he said, grimacing as he pulled himself up in bed until he lay propped up against the pillows.

‘You should not do that yourself,’ Pippa scolded, rushing to help him get comfortable.

‘I have done this before.’ His gaze darted to her, his knuckles white where he gripped the sheet. ‘Did you find out about Patrick?’

Pippa gulped. He wanted so badly to find out what had happened to Patrick. ‘I know you’re eager for information, but no one I could reach knew anything. I couldn’t get into Wellington or even his aide.’ She sighed and added softly, ‘As usual.’

Dev frowned, but his grip on the sheets eased. ‘Well, no news is good news, or so the saying goes. Patrick is very likely doing better than I am.’

‘I would not be surprised,’ Pippa said, wanting to ease his anxiety about his friend. ‘I understand how it is when you are worried about someone.’

He smiled at her. ‘I know you do, and we’ll do something about that. Wellington will see me. I promise you that.’

She returned his smile, her stomach doing funny things. ‘I know. I wish I could have helped you today.’

‘You helped by trying. How about my rooms?’ He gave her a devilish grin. ‘If I remember right, that was another errand I asked you to do for me.’

Chagrin pulled her mouth down. ‘And again I have no good news. The innkeeper gave your rooms away.’

Dev fell back into the pillows. ‘That is not surprising. I shall just have to find others.’

Pippa shook her head. ‘There are none to be had. Brussels is filled with every Englishman and woman who wanted to travel to the Continent in the past years but could not because of Napoleon.’

‘I should have thought of that,’ Dev said. ‘Oh, well. We will make do.’

‘That we will,’ Pippa said, picking up the concoction of bark and water she had left on the table by the bed and giving him a purposeful look. ‘You were supposed to drink this.’

He returned her gaze complacently. ‘It tastes bitter.’

Without conscious intent, she assumed her position of hands on hips. Exasperation made her voice breathy. ‘You are like a child about this medicine. If you don’t drink this for the pain, you won’t be able to rest. If you don’t rest, you will be longer healing.’

Dev cocked one devilish brow. ‘You fuss like an old woman, and you’re not even old enough to grow a decent beard. And speaking of which…did you get my gear? A shave would be the very thing to make me feel human again.’

Pippa’s heart, which had speeded up at his reference to an old woman, eased as her patient’s thoughts turned to his grooming. ‘I have all your things, and a heavy load it was. Most of it is in your trunk in Madame’s cellar. Only a portmanteau is here. Are you one of those dandies who must dress to perfection for everything? Although you certainly weren’t dressed correctly for the battlefield.’ She shook her head in private amazement at the fact that he had fought in evening dress.

Dev smiled, a rakish baring of perfect teeth. Memories of enjoyable times sparkled in his eyes. ‘I dare say I wasn’t the only one out of uniform. A group of us went directly from the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball. And I’d do it again.’

Pippa left him to his memories while she pulled his portmanteau from under the bed and rummaged through it, looking for his shaving equipment. She found his razor, a small mirror, a lathering brush and finally a tin in which she found his soap. The exotic scent of bergamot, an ingredient for perfumes distilled from the rind of certain oranges, surrounded her. It was a very distinctive smell, and Pippa found herself entranced by it.