Theresa Romain: It Takes Two to Tangle

“Mr. Middlebrook!” Lady Stratton cried, extending her left hand to him. “How wonderful that you have come. I was hoping to see you.”

“You honor me.” He inclined his head—thank God, he remembered not to bow his greeting—and handed her the flowers. The heavy scent of the roses around her punched him in the nose.

“Violets! Oh, delightful. I haven’t been given violets in ever so long.” She held them to her nose, her eyes closing as she breathed their faint scent. “How lovely. Thank you very much.”

Henry noticed Mrs. Whittier sitting in a straight-backed chair tucked into a discreet corner. At Caro’s speech, the companion winked at him, her hazel eyes merry and rebellious in her demure face.

Henry suppressed a grin. “I’m glad you like them.” He shook Caro’s hand, admiring the ease with which she had accomplished the small social trespass of left hand rather than right.

With that, his moment at court was over, and he turned to find a seat. Caro was boxed in between the determined forms of Misters Crisp and Hambleton, cousins who often dressed identically for effect. They stared back at Henry with identically set jaws over their leaf-green cravats: Don’t even think about it. Very well—next time he would call earlier, so he might claim a closer seat.

He found his way to a chair by Bart Crosby, a mild-mannered baronet who had been one of his closest friends before Henry went to war.

“Hal,” Bart murmured as Henry settled down next to him. “About the ball yesterday. I didn’t know about your…” His dark eyes didn’t meet Henry’s as one of his hands flailed.

“Don’t give it another thought, Bart.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder in their old reassuring habit. “I’m the same man I always was.”

The lie was kindly meant, so perhaps Henry could be forgiven it. He wasn’t the same man he had been before Quatre Bras. Four arms , the name meant. The place was a crossroads. Ha. He was only twenty-six; he might live another five or six decades with the damage Quatre Bras had wrought.

Not that Bart wanted to hear about that. Nor did beautiful Lady Stratton. Nor did Jem, who had never wanted Henry to purchase an army commission in the first place, who had offered him a lordly allowance to remain in England.

Henry couldn’t bear to be the type of man who stayed home and stayed safe, taking money from his brother. But if he had, at least he’d have been able to take it with both hands. Fist over fist, taking and taking.

“Would that were so,” Bart said at last in reply to Henry’s assurance. “If you’re the same as ever, we could go out on one of our adventures, just as we did when we were boys. Unless… unless you have had enough adventuring lately?”

Henry shook his head. “I would not say I have had any adventures at all.”

He tried to smile, to reassure Bart, who had looked up to the Middlebrook brothers. Bart was the youngest in his family, and his mother and three older sisters had always been brimful of schemes for his betterment. Bart had been more interested in hunting and fishing, muddy boots and windy gallops.

“But we can certainly remedy that,” Henry added. “I must get to know the city again. You’ll have to be my guide.”

Bart’s expression turned relieved. “Certainly. I’ve got a new curricle and pair. We’ll take it out sometime, shall we?”

“If your horses are up to the task,” broke in a new voice. Lord Wadsworth, a viscount with whom Henry’d once had an uneasy nodding acquaintance. Wadsworth had sauntered over unnoticed and perched on the arm of a tapestry-covered chair. “Oh, wait. I forgot. Your mother helped you select them, didn’t she, Crosby? In that case, they must be marvelous.”

He grinned at Bart, who returned the smile hesitantly. Henry only watched Wadsworth, wondering whether the man meant to be rude or polite. It was always hard to tell with Wadsworth.

“Lady Crosby has an admirable knowledge of horseflesh,” he finally ventured. “One that her son shares.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Bart’s shoulders shift. “Of course,” Wadsworth said blandly, and Bart’s shoulders relaxed.

The viscount squinted at Henry, his gray eyes bright. “Haven’t seen you for a long time, Middlebrook. You look well. Except for your arm, of course.” He made a tutting sound. “Did a Frenchie do that to you? It must be the very devil to have a coat tailored with your arm like that.”

His voice was sympathetic, and Henry saw Bart nodding along. But Henry had grown accustomed to looking for weapons, and he considered his reply for a careful second. “I find the tailoring of coats to be a matter of insignificance. You are fortunate indeed if this is all that occupies you, Wadsworth.”

The viscount slid his feet in an impatient gesture. “Nonsense, Middlebrook. That’s not the only thing on my mind. I merely—well, I know you want to fit in again, and I fear it won’t be easy for you.”

“How thoughtful you are to fear on my behalf,” Henry said just as sympathetically as Wadsworth had.

Wadsworth waved a hand. “Simply condoling with you, Middlebrook. I thought you’d have enough fear for two, coming home from war all mangled.”

His eyes were narrowed, scrutinizing Henry. With his dark hair brushed forward over his forehead, Wadsworth looked vulpine, and Henry remembered why he had always felt uneasy around the viscount. Wadsworth always studied people a little too long, a little too closely. His words were barbed, but not so pointed that any injury could be deemed deliberate.

And maybe it wasn’t deliberate.

Maybe.

“As I’ve come home alive and well, I can’t imagine what you mean by mangled ,” Henry replied carelessly, leaning back in his chair. It was another spindly gilt contraption, far too frail and feminine to allow him to lean his full weight against it. So he held his abdomen tensed, supporting his weight with his own muscles as he strove to keep his expression bland and calm.

“If you don’t, I can’t imagine who does. Such a serious injury must positively unman you.” Wadsworth smiled again. “Come now, Middlebrook, we’re all friends here. I’m only offering my… sympathy.”

If there had been anything warm and friendly in his eyes, as there was in Bart’s, Henry would have believed him. Actually, Bart was looking stricken. Pitying, almost.

Enough of this. Bart already felt wounded enough on Henry’s behalf. It was time to go on the defensive.

“And what’s been occupying you during the three years I’ve been away, Wadsworth? Have you made any worthwhile conquests?”

Wadsworth shrugged and pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. “Worthwhile? No. Not yet. But I aim to catch Lady Stratton if I have my way about it.” He spun the timepiece, twirling it one way, then the other on its short gold chain. “Want to see something really amusing? Watch this.”

He winked at his audience, then turned toward the corner of the room. “Mrs. Whittier, could I have a word with you?”

Henry scanned the room, noting how Caroline still spoke with her bookend dandies; how a plate of sandwiches was handed from man to man, laughter spilling forth at each gesture; how Mrs. Whittier rose from her chair and walked toward them with a companion’s dutifulness and a great lady’s hauteur.

“Lord Wadsworth.” She inclined her head. “Sir Bartlett. Mr. Middlebrook.”

“I was just telling my friends,” Wadsworth said, “that I’m pursuing Lady Stratton. Have you any opinion to express?”

She opened her mouth, then slammed it shut again and shook her head. “Any opinions on the subject of her courtship are best expressed by the countess herself.”