His barb went wide. She merely met his mocking glance with a gentle smile.
‘They say confession is good for the soul, Major. I feel there is some great bitterness in you when you think of Deforge, as if he has done you a great wrong. It cannot be good for you to keep such a thing to yourself.’
Jack did not reply immediately. At last he shrugged.
‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said at last. ‘I will share it, since Deforge is our common enemy.’ He placed a clean wad of cloth against the wound in Alex’s shoulder and concentrated on strapping it into place with the bandages. ‘It goes back a long time—five years or more—and concerns Lady Deforge.’
‘His wife? She died three years ago, did she not?’
‘Deforge killed her.’
Eloise gasped.
‘Do you have evidence for that?’
‘I do not, but knowing the man, and the lady, I believe it to be true. Oh, I know he was not at Redlands at the time of her death, but if he did not actually commit the deed I believe he drove her to it. Clara and I were childhood friends—more than friends, I thought. I believed she loved me as I loved her. True, she was a little wilful, but who could wonder at it if her parents spoiled her, for she was such a beautiful, delightful girl. Her father was against our marrying. I thought at the time it was because we were so young. She was her father’s only child and I was a lowly captain, but later…’ He paused, conscious that in his anger he was pulling the binding far too tight about Alex’s shoulder.
Eloise reached across him and gently took the bandage from his hand.
‘Here, let me.’
He watched her for a moment, part of his mind noting how deftly she readjusted the dressing. He walked to the fireplace and stared down at the hearth.
‘Five years ago Clara’s father died and I came home thinking that there would be no impediment now to our marriage, but when I arrived in London I found she was already betrothed. To Sir Ronald Deforge.’ The story had been locked inside him for years, but now he had started he knew he must finish it. He said, ‘I think, I believe, that when I first joined the army she intended to wait for me. We had agreed that there was no possibility of our marriage until I had achieved some promotion and could afford to keep a wife. She was far too good, too innocent to deliberately mislead me. When her father died she became the target of any number of men looking for a wife, and I suppose I was just too far away.’ He shrugged. ‘By the time I returned to London Clara had been swept off her feet by Sir Ronald. He was a wealthy, fashionable man of the town; by comparison I must have seemed a very callow youth of four-and-twenty, and how could I compete with a baronetcy? When I met her in London she seemed very happy with her choice.’ His face darkened. ‘I knew nothing of Deforge, save that he was a gambler, and that is a common enough trait. So I wished her well and went back to the Peninsula, where I tried to forget her.’ He exhaled slowly. ‘Wine, women and war—I survived them all. I fared better than my poor Clara. Two years later she was dead, drowned in the lake at Redlands, her family home. There was talk that she was not happy, that Deforge had married her only for her fortune. I do not know, but I can well believe it. After that one meeting in London I never heard from her again.’
‘It is common knowledge that Sir Ronald’s wife died soon after giving birth to a stillborn son,’ said Eloise slowly. ‘If the poor woman was unhappy, that would be cause enough, I think.’
‘Of course, but I cannot believe he ever really cared for her. What I do know is that when Deforge married Clara he had already run through his own fortune and within two years most of Clara’s money was gone. Since her death he has been selling off his properties and is almost at a stand. I have no doubt he is now looking for another rich wife.’
Eloise thought of her meetings with Sir Ronald Deforge and a cold chill ran through her. He was a cruel man: he would certainly publish the journal if she refused to marry him, but if she gave herself into his power, what then? Would he make her life so miserable that she would be willing to end it? She looked down at her shaking hands.
‘Perhaps you could finish binding up Alex’s shoulder,’ she said, moving aside.
Jack returned to the bedside and she watched his strong, capable fingers take up the bandage. She screwed up her courage. It would be better to tell Jack Clifton the whole truth, to let him deal with Deforge. Even as she searched for the words to begin, the valet returned and the opportunity was lost.
Jack tied the final knot in the bandage around Alex’s shoulder and straightened, easing his tense shoulders. ‘There,’ he said. ‘I have finished.’
He wiped his hands on a cloth and dropped it on to the pile of bloodied rags on the floor.
‘You may leave him to me now, Major.’ Farrell tenderly pulled the covers over his master. ‘I will clear up here and watch him until morning. I was obliged to explain to the housekeeper why I needed to disturb her, so I did as you suggested and told her my master had been attacked by poachers. I took the liberty of saying that it was you who found Mr Mortimer in the gardens and brought him upstairs, Major. No one need know of Lady Allyngham’s part in any of this.’
‘Thank you, Farrell.’ Jack looked at Eloise, who was hovering beside the bed.
‘I think it is time you returned to your own room, madam. Come, I will escort you.’
She hesitated, smoothing the sheet and straightening the covers until Farrell said quietly, ‘You should leave now, my lady. Our situation will be much worse if you are discovered here.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
With a final look at Alex she turned and accompanied Jack out of the room. The lamps burning in the corridors made it unnecessary to carry a bedroom candle but their low light threw black, wavering shadows against the walls. He sensed rather than saw her step falter and put his hand under her arm.
‘No need to be afraid, ma’am, you are safe enough here.’
‘I am not afraid. It is just—after all the excitement, I feel a little…’
She collapsed against him. Jack caught her up as she fainted. For a moment he stopped, staring down at the lifeless figure in his arms. Her head was thrown back, the dark lashes fanned out across her pale cheeks, the fine line of her jaw accentuated by the flickering light. What the devil was he to do now? They were in the part of the house known as the bachelor wing. The main reception rooms lay between here and the other guest rooms. To carry her all the way to her bedchamber would be to court disaster, for there were at least two flights of uncarpeted stairs to negotiate as well as a number of long passages. It would only take one light sleeper to open a door and look out…
With sudden decision he turned and carried her to his own bedchamber at the end of the corridor. It was similar to Mortimer’s room, a square, panelled chamber with a fireplace in one wall, a window in another and a large canopied bed taking up most of the floor. He laid Eloise gently on the covers and turned to throw a couple of logs on the smouldering fire. He lit a candle from the glowing embers and placed it beside the bed.
She was lying as he had left her, pale and still against the dark coverlet, her hair in wild disorder and gleaming in the soft light. She was still wearing the blue gown she had put on for dinner but the embroidered skirts were in disarray and displaying her shapely legs in their fine silk stockings. As he reached out to straighten the skirts he noted that her shoes were stained and wet. His mouth twisted as he looked at the elegant satin slippers. They were designed for dancing ’til dawn on polished floors, not walking at night through wet grass. He began to untie the ribbons, his fingers shaking a little when they brushed her slender ankles. As he eased the wet satin from her feet Eloise stirred.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Your shoes are wet through so I have removed them.’
‘Where am I?’
She put up one hand and he caught it in his own.
‘You are in my room—do not be alarmed. You fainted, and I did not want to risk being seen with you in my arms.’
She sat up, but made no attempt to release his hand. If anything, her grip tightened.
‘I am sorry; I do not know why I should suddenly have become so weak.’
He smiled at that.
‘A reaction to the excitement of the night.’
‘Where is your valet?’
‘Gone to bed. When I went out I told him not to wait up for me.’ Jack leaned a little closer. ‘You are very pale. Shall I fetch you a glass of wine? I have a decanter here.’
‘Yes, thank you.’
As Jack turned away Eloise glanced around the room. Everywhere there was evidence of the major’s presence, illuminated in the golden glow of the firelight. His shaving kit spread out on the wash stand, silver-backed hair brushes lying on the dressing table. Even here on the bed beside her was the garishly coloured silk banyan he would wear over his nightshirt. Her fingers reached out and touched it. The silk was cool and smooth beneath her fingers. She imagined Jack wearing the banyan, the thin silk fitting snug across his broad shoulders—directly against his skin perhaps, since she knew some men did not wear nightshirts. Eloise snatched her hand back, quickly pulling her mind away from the sensations such thoughts aroused in her. Nervously she slid off the bed and stepped across to sit in an armchair drawn up beside the fire. She perched nervously on the edge of the chair. She should not be here. Everything in this room was alien to her. Masculine. She and her husband had always had their separate apartments, and she had never entered Tony’s bedchamber when he was there. She swallowed hard. Jack Clifton was not Tony: he was very much more dangerous.