Chapter One
August 1815
London
‘Jilt him!’ Susanna Hunter repeated the stranger’s demand in utter disbelief. ‘You wish me to end my betrothal to Sir Jason Mountjoy!’
She eyed the soldier seated on the edge of one of the gilded chairs which were set in carefully casual clusters around the large drawing room of her parents’ London town house. Captain Lamont’s uniform was ragged, hanging far too loose on his large frame. His boots were much patched and covered in a film of dust, as if he had marched here all the way from Waterloo, for goodness sake. His hair was cropped, auburn and what there was of it stood up in short, angry spikes. Aside from the vivid red welt of the scar on his forehead, his skin had the ashen pallor of suffering, stretched so taut over his cheekbones as to give him the look of a cadaver. His eyes though, a strange colour between tawny and gold, burned with the light of a man on a mission.
Susanna peered nervously over her shoulder at the drawing room door. Charles, her father’s footman would be hovering just outside it, she knew, for he had been loathe to leave her alone with Captain Lamont in the first place. Was he dangerous? He had obviously been grievously ill. In fact, he looked as if he should be on his sickbed still. Despite the outrageous demand he had made of her, she softened. ‘May I get you some refreshment?’
‘I did not come calling to take tea, Miss Hunter,’ he replied, drawing her a scornful look. ‘I came to tell you…’
‘Not to marry the man to whom I have been betrothed for two years,’ Susanna interrupted tartly. So much for compassion.
Surprised by the sharpness in her tone, Fergus Lamont surveyed the young woman afresh. In her pale yellow gown, with her dark hair scraped back from her face, she had seemed to him every bit the prettily insipid debutante Mountjoy implied. He was no expert of feminine furbelows, but even he could see that the colour of her gown made her olive skin seem sallow, and now that he looked more closely, it looked as if her blue-black curls were fighting to escape their pins. There was, however, nothing at all insipid about her eyes. No longer demurely downcast, they were her best feature, a grey that was almost silver, thickly fringed with black lashes. And right at this moment, flashing fire. Perhaps after all he could rile her into the defiance he so badly needed in order to exact his longed-for revenge on Mountjoy. ‘He calls you his sweet-tempered heiress, did you know that?’
His tone was deliberately insulting, and Fergus was rewarded with a flush which might well be temper, staining Susanna Hunter’s pretty neck. His hopes rose as her lip curled, but fell as it just as quickly straightened. ‘Jason says it is one of things that he loves most about me, that I am not the type of female who must forever be hearing my own voice.’
‘’Tis a pity he does not feel the same about his own,’ Fergus responded bitterly. Those big grey eyes had lost their spark. He was losing her. ‘Do you love him?’
‘Jason is handsome and charming. Mama assures me there could be no better match.’
‘Don’t you care that he is marrying you for your money?’
‘It would be foolish of me to pretend that my fortune is not significant, but men like Sir Jason Mountjoy do not marry for money,’ she replied with a dignity that would have impressed Fergus were he not certain she was simply parroting her mother. She smoothed the folds of her gown, once more refusing to meet his eyes.
The flush had crept up, staining her cheeks now. Her eyes were bright, not with defiance but unshed tears that under any other circumstances would have given Fergus pause. But not today. Fergus thumped his fist on his knee, and leapt to his feet. ‘Do you know what he’s really like, this man you intend to marry? An aide, he calls himself. A messenger boy is what he actually is, and a damned poor one at that. Do you have any idea of the carnage he
August 1815
London
‘Jilt him!’ Susanna Hunter repeated the stranger’s demand in utter disbelief. ‘You wish me to end my betrothal to Sir Jason Mountjoy!’
She eyed the soldier seated on the edge of one of the gilded chairs which were set in carefully casual clusters around the large drawing room of her parents’ London town house. Captain Lamont’s uniform was ragged, hanging far too loose on his large frame. His boots were much patched and covered in a film of dust, as if he had marched here all the way from Waterloo, for goodness sake. His hair was cropped, auburn and what there was of it stood up in short, angry spikes. Aside from the vivid red welt of the scar on his forehead, his skin had the ashen pallor of suffering, stretched so taut over his cheekbones as to give him the look of a cadaver. His eyes though, a strange colour between tawny and gold, burned with the light of a man on a mission.
Susanna peered nervously over her shoulder at the drawing room door. Charles, her father’s footman would be hovering just outside it, she knew, for he had been loathe to leave her alone with Captain Lamont in the first place. Was he dangerous? He had obviously been grievously ill. In fact, he looked as if he should be on his sickbed still. Despite the outrageous demand he had made of her, she softened. ‘May I get you some refreshment?’
‘I did not come calling to take tea, Miss Hunter,’ he replied, drawing her a scornful look. ‘I came to tell you…’
‘Not to marry the man to whom I have been betrothed for two years,’ Susanna interrupted tartly. So much for compassion.
Surprised by the sharpness in her tone, Fergus Lamont surveyed the young woman afresh. In her pale yellow gown, with her dark hair scraped back from her face, she had seemed to him every bit the prettily insipid debutante Mountjoy implied. He was no expert of feminine furbelows, but even he could see that the colour of her gown made her olive skin seem sallow, and now that he looked more closely, it looked as if her blue-black curls were fighting to escape their pins. There was, however, nothing at all insipid about her eyes. No longer demurely downcast, they were her best feature, a grey that was almost silver, thickly fringed with black lashes. And right at this moment, flashing fire. Perhaps after all he could rile her into the defiance he so badly needed in order to exact his longed-for revenge on Mountjoy. ‘He calls you his sweet-tempered heiress, did you know that?’
His tone was deliberately insulting, and Fergus was rewarded with a flush which might well be temper, staining Susanna Hunter’s pretty neck. His hopes rose as her lip curled, but fell as it just as quickly straightened. ‘Jason says it is one of things that he loves most about me, that I am not the type of female who must forever be hearing my own voice.’
‘’Tis a pity he does not feel the same about his own,’ Fergus responded bitterly. Those big grey eyes had lost their spark. He was losing her. ‘Do you love him?’
‘Jason is handsome and charming. Mama assures me there could be no better match.’
‘Don’t you care that he is marrying you for your money?’
‘It would be foolish of me to pretend that my fortune is not significant, but men like Sir Jason Mountjoy do not marry for money,’ she replied with a dignity that would have impressed Fergus were he not certain she was simply parroting her mother. She smoothed the folds of her gown, once more refusing to meet his eyes.
The flush had crept up, staining her cheeks now. Her eyes were bright, not with defiance but unshed tears that under any other circumstances would have given Fergus pause. But not today. Fergus thumped his fist on his knee, and leapt to his feet. ‘Do you know what he’s really like, this man you intend to marry? An aide, he calls himself. A messenger boy is what he actually is, and a damned poor one at that. Do you have any idea of the carnage he
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