A rumble of amusement came from the old man’s throat before he could prevent it. His brows lowered again. “You conducted yourself with honor, it seems. There is talk of a knighthood being bestowed on you. To that end, you might try being receptive to the queen’s invitations. Your refusal to stay in London upon your return from the Crimea was not well regarded.”

Christopher gave him a baleful glance. “I don’t want to entertain people like some trained monkey. I’m no different from thousands of other men who did what they were supposed to do.”

“Such modesty is new for you,” his grandfather observed idly. “Is it genuine, or merely for my benefit?”

Remaining morosely silent, Christopher tugged irritably at his cravat, untied and unwound it, and let it hang on either side of his neck. When that didn’t serve to cool him, he went to the open window.

He looked down at the street. It was crowded and quarrelsome—people lived out in public in the warmer months—sitting or standing in doorways, eating, drinking, and talking while vehicles and hooves stirred up hot fetid dust. Christopher’s attention was caught by a dog that sat in the back of a little cart as his master guided a swaybacked pony along the thoroughfare. Thinking of Albert, he was wrenched with remorse. He wished he had brought the dog to London. But no, the hubbub and the confinement would have driven poor Albert mad. He was better off in the country.

He dragged his attention back to his grandfather, realizing that he was saying something.

“. . . have reconsidered the question of your inheritance. I had originally set aside very little for you. The lion’s share was, of course, for your brother. If there was ever a man who deserved Riverton more than John Phelan, I have not met him.”

“Agreed,” Christopher said quietly.

“But now he is gone with no heir, which leaves only you. And though your character has shown signs of improvement, I’m not convinced that you’re worthy of Riverton.”

“Neither am I.” Christopher paused. “I want nothing that you had originally intended for John.”

“I will tell you what you will have, regardless of what you want.” Annandale’s tone was firm, but not unkind. “You have responsibilities, my boy, and they are not to be dismissed or evaded. But before I lay out your course, I want to ask something.”

Christopher regarded him without expression. “Yes, sir.”

“Why did you fight as you did? Why did you risk death so often? Did you do it for the good of the country?”

Christopher snorted in disgust. “The war wasn’t for the good of the country. It was for the benefit of private mercantile interests, and fueled by the conceit of politicians.”

“You fought for the glory and the medals, then?”

“Hardly.”

“Then why?”

Silently Christopher sorted through possible answers. Finding the truth, he examined it with weary resignation before he spoke. “Everything I did was for my men. For the noncommissioned ones who had joined the army to avoid starvation or the workhouse. And for the junior officers who were experienced and long-serving but hadn’t the means to buy a commission. I had the command only because I’d had money to purchase it, not for any reason of merit. Absurd. And the men in my company, the poor bastards, were supposed to follow me, whether I proved to be incompetent, an imbecile, or a coward. They had no choice but to depend on me. And therefore I had no choice but to try and be the leader they needed. I tried to keep them alive.” He hesitated. “I failed far too often. And now I would love for someone to tell me how to live with their deaths on my conscience.” Focusing blindly on a distant patch of carpeting, he heard himself say, “I don’t want Riverton. I’ve had enough of being given things I don’t deserve.”

Annandale looked at him in a way he never had before, speculative and almost kind. “That is why you will have it. I won’t pare a shilling or a single inch of land from what I would have given John. I am willing to gamble that you will care for your tenants and working-men out of the same sense of responsibility you felt for your men.” He paused. “Perhaps you and Riverton will be good for each other. It was to be John’s burden. Now it is yours.”

As a slow, hot August settled over London, the coagulating stench began to drive the town dwellers to the sweeter air of the country. Christopher was more than ready to return to Hampshire. It was becoming apparent that London had done him no good.

Nearly every day was fraught with images that leaped at him from nowhere, startlements, difficulty in concentrating. Nightmares and sweats when he slept, melancholy when he awakened. He heard the sound of guns and shells when there were none, felt his heartbeat begin to hammer or his hands tremble for no reason. It was impossible to lower his guard, regardless of the circumstances. He had visited old friends in his regiment, but when he had tentatively asked if they were suffering from the same mysterious ailments, he was met with determined silence. It was not to be discussed. It was to be managed alone, and privately, in any manner that worked.

The only thing that helped was strong spirits. Christopher dosed himself until the warm, blurring comfort of alcohol quieted his seething brain. And he tried to measure its effects so that he could be sober when he had to. Concealing the encroaching madness as well as he could, he wondered when or how or if he was going to get better.

As for Prudence . . . she was a dream he had to let go of. A ruined illusion. Part of him died a little more each time he saw her. She felt no real love for him, that was clear. Nothing like what she had written. Perhaps in an effort to entertain him, she had culled parts of novels or plays, and copied them into the letters. He had believed in an illusion.