Beatrix blinked. “Tell him what?”

That earned an exasperated little huff. “I’m not a half-wit, Bea. Prudence is in London at this very moment, attending balls and soirees and all those silly, trivial events of the season. She couldn’t have written that letter.”

Beatrix felt herself turn scarlet, then bone-white. “She gave it to me before she left.”

“Because of her devotion to Christopher?” Audrey’s lips twisted. “The last time I saw her, she didn’t even remember to ask after him. And why is it that you’re always the one delivering and fetching letters?” She gave Beatrix a fond but chiding glance. “From what Christopher has written in his letters to me and John, it’s obvious he’s quite taken with Prudence. Because of what she has written to him. And if I end up with that ninnyhead as a sister-in-law, Bea, it will be your fault.”

Seeing the quiver of Beatrix’s chin and the glitter in her eyes, Audrey took her hand and pressed it. “Knowing you, I’ve no doubt your intentions were good. But I rather doubt the results will be.” She sighed. “I have to go back to John.”

As Beatrix went with Audrey to the entrance hall, she was overwhelmed by the knowledge that her friend would soon have to endure the death of her husband.

“Audrey,” she said unsteadily, “I wish I could bear this for you.”

Audrey stared at her for a long moment, her face flushing with emotion. “That, Beatrix, is what makes you a true friend.”

Two days later the Hathaways received word that John Phelan had passed away in the night. Filled with compassion, the Hathaways considered how best they could help the bereaved women. Ordinarily it would have fallen to Leo, the lord of the manor, to call on the Phelans and offer his services. However, Leo was in London, as Parliament was still in session. Currently a political debate was raging over the incompetence and indifference that had resulted in the Crimean troops being so appallingly ill supported and badly supplied.

It was decided that Merripen, Win’s husband, would go to the Phelan home on behalf of the family. No one had any expectation that he would be received, since the mourners would undoubtedly be too grief-stricken to speak with anyone. However, Merripen would deliver a letter to offer any manner of assistance that might be needed.

“Merripen,” Beatrix asked before he left, “would you convey my affection to Audrey, and ask if I might help with any of the funeral arrangements? Or ask if perhaps she wants someone to sit with her.”

“Of course,” Merripen replied, his dark eyes filled with warmth. Having been raised with the Hathaways since boyhood, Merripen was very much like a brother to all of them. “Why don’t you write a note to her? I’ll give it to the servants.”

“I’ll only be a minute.” Beatrix dashed toward the stairs, pulling up great handfuls of her skirts to keep from tripping as she hurried to her room.

She went to her desk and pulled out her writing papers and pens, and reached for the top of the inkwell. Her hand froze in midair as she saw the half-crumpled letter in the drawer.

It was the polite, distancing letter she had written to Christopher Phelan.

It had never been sent.

Beatrix went cold all over, her knees threatening to give out from beneath her. “Oh, God,” she whispered, sitting on the nearby chair with such force that it wobbled dangerously.

She must have given Audrey the wrong letter. The unsigned one that had started with “I can’t write to you again. I’m not who you think I am . . .”

Beatrix’s heart pounded, straining with the force of panic. She tried to calm her buzzing thoughts enough to think. Had the letter been posted yet? Perhaps there was still time to retrieve it. She would ask Audrey . . . but no, that would be the height of selfishness and inconsideration. Audrey’s husband had just died. She did not deserve to be bothered with trivialities at such a time.

It was too late. Beatrix would have to let it be, and let Christopher Phelan make what he would of the odd note.

“Come back, please come home and find me . . .”

Groaning, Beatrix leaned forward and rested her head on the table. Perspiration caused her forehead to stick to the polished wood. She was aware of Lucky leaping up to the table and nuzzling her hair and purring.

Please, dear God, she thought desperately, don’t let Christopher reply. Let it all be finished. Never let him find out it was me.

Chapter Five

Scutari, Crimea

“It occurs to me,” Christopher said conversationally as he lifted a cup of broth to a wounded man’s lips, “that a hospital may be the worst possible place for a man to try to get well.”

The young soldier he was feeding—no more than nineteen or twenty years of age—made a slight sound of amusement as he drank.

Christopher had been brought to the barracks hospital in Scutari three days earlier. He had been wounded during an assault on the Redan during the endless siege on Sebastopol. One moment he’d been accompanying a group of sappers as they carried a ladder toward a Russian bunker, and the next there was an explosion and the sensations of being struck simultaneously in the side and right leg.

The converted barracks were crowded with casualties, rats, and vermin. The only source of water was a fountain at which orderlies queued up to catch a fetid trickle in their pails. As the water was unfit for drinking, it was used for washing and soaking off bandages.

Christopher had bribed the orderlies to bring him a cup of strong spirits. He had sluiced the alcohol over his wounds in the hopes that it would keep them from suppurating. The first time he’d done it, the burst of raw fire had caused him to faint and topple from the bed to the floor, a spectacle that had caused no end of hilarity from the other patients in the ward. Christopher had good-naturedly endured their teasing afterward, knowing that a moment of levity was sorely needed in this squalid place.