‘Indeed, Monsieur Trestain was saying to me before dinner that he would not be surprised if the Duke became your Prime Minister,’ Celeste said, drawing him a meaningful look. ‘He will be a Tory, no? And not a Wig? I mean Whig.’
‘I heard you’d resigned,’ Carruthers said to Jack. ‘I must admit, I was surprised. Even in peace time there’s a need for a chap with your skills. Trestain here was a bit of a legend, Mademoiselle Marmion, as I expect you’ve heard a hundred times tonight.’
Sweat broke out on Jack’s back like a squall of summer rain. His hands were clammy. ‘
Carruthers nodded. ‘I’m sure. Difficult to believe though, after all these years, that we’re really at peace. Do you think it will last?’
‘Oh, I think so. Yes.’ Jack nodded furiously, relieved that Carruthers had been diverted. Now if he could just close the whole conversation down and escape. He wiped his brow surreptitiously. The room had become stiflingly hot.
‘You know, it was a bad business, that fiasco in the north of Spain.’ Carruthers’s voice broke into Jack’s thoughts, his tone sombre. ‘I haven’t seen you since that day, but I think of it often. Don’t talk about it of course. Had to be hushed up, as you know only too well.’
Jack’s heart began to race. ‘I don’t think...’
‘A rotten trick, using women and children in that way, like some sort of shield. Not the sort of tactic I could ever imagine an English army indulging in.’ Carruthers shook his head gravely.
He could see them. The huddle of women. The children clinging to their skirts. The silence. The smell. Dear God, the smell. Jack took a deep breath. Another. Another. All he had to do was get away from Carruthers. Or shut him up. ‘I don’t think this is a fit subject for Mademoiselle Marmion’s ears,’ he said. His voice seemed to boom, but either he was mistaken, or Carruthers didn’t notice.
‘No, no, you’re quite right.’
‘Good.’ More deep breaths. He wiped his brow surreptitiously. He caught Celeste eyeing him with concern, and straightened his shoulders. She pinned a smile to her face and turned her attention back to Carruthers, though she also slipped her hand on to Jack’s arm. ‘I think, if you’ll excuse us...’ Jack said.
‘You know, I’ve always wondered,’ Carruthers burst out, ‘where the devil did the enemy forces go? Your intelligence seemed so watertight. And yet they seemed to melt into the landscape. It preys on my mind, keeps me awake at night sometimes, that we didn’t capture them.’
Jack’s jaw dropped, shock abruptly dispersing the fog in his head. ‘That’s what keeps you awake at night? Our failure to capture those men? Not the slaughter of innocents?’
‘Casualties of war, Trestain, that’s what they were. Of course, I wish it hadn’t happened but—as an officer, the fact the mission failed is what pains me most.’
Jack began to tremble violently, not because he was in danger of fainting, but because he wanted to smash his fist into Carruthers’s face. He was icy cold with fury. Sweat trickled down his back. He could still see them, those huddled casualties of war, struck dumb with fear. ‘Innocents,’ he said in a low growl.
‘Oh, I doubt that very much,’ Carruthers said. His brows snapped together. ‘Dammit, Trestain, that is the kind of loose talk that the British army will not tolerate. That is the very reason why that whole episode was—well, I should not have brought it up. I see that now.’
Jack’s fists clenched. With immense difficulty, he uncurled them. Lights danced before his eyes. He wanted to wipe that pompous, callous look off his senior officer’s face. It took him every inch of willpower to hold out his hand. ‘You will wish to talk to his Grace. He is over there, holding court. Don’t let us detain you.’
Carruthers hesitated only briefly, before giving his hand a brief shake. ‘Your servant,
* * *
Jack stood rooted to the spot. His eyes were glazed. Sweat glistened on his brow. Here, Celeste had no doubt, was the story at the root of his condition. He was glowering at Colonel Carruthers, as if he wanted to run him through with his sword. Though he was not wearing one, his hand was hovering over where, she presumed, the hilt would lie.
‘Jack.’ He stared at her as if he didn’t recognise her. ‘Jack!’ She yanked hard on his arm. ‘We should leave. Now. I am no expert on etiquette but I am sure it is poor form to attack a man—a superior officer—in the middle of a regimental dinner.’
He blinked, but her words seemed to penetrate. Celeste began to walk, keeping a firm hold on his arm, towards the first door she could find, slamming it closed behind her. Jack slumped against the wall. She gave him a shake. His eyes were blank again. ‘Jack!’ Another shake, to no avail. Muttering an apology, terrified that at any moment someone would open the door, Celeste gave Jack a hard slap across the cheek.
‘What the hell?’
