Lady Whistledown Strikes Back by Julia Quinn

brother’s death.
    But instead she just wished she’d brought cotton for her ears. The battle was loud, and what’s more,
    she’d found herself standing next to Robert Dunlop, who had obviously found it his duty to offer a running commentary of the scene.
    And all she could think was, It should have been Peter. It should have been Peter standing next to her, Peter explaining what the battle maneuvers meant, Peter warning her to cover her ears when it grew too loud.
    If she’d been with Peter, she might have discreetly held his hand, then squeezed it when the battle grew too intense. With Peter she would have felt comfortable asking him to tell her at what moment Harry had fallen.
    But instead she had Robbie. Robbie, who thought this all a grand adventure, who’d actually leaned down and yelled, “Great, good fun? Eh?” Robbie, who, now that the battle was over, was chattering on about waistcoats and horses, and probably something else as well.
    It was too hard to listen. The music was loud, and frankly, Robbie was always a bit hard to follow.
    And then, just as the music reached a quiet moment, he leaned down and said, “Harry would have liked this.”
    Would he? Tillie didn’t know, and somehow that bothered her. Harry would have been a different person if he’d come home from the war, and it pained her that she would never know the man he’d become in his last days.
    But Robbie meant well, and he had a good heart, so Tillie just smiled and nodded.
    “Shame about his death,” Robbie said. “Yes,” Tillie replied, because really, what else was there to say?
    “What a senseless way to go.”
    At that, she turned and looked at him. It seemed an odd statement for Robbie, who wasn’t one for fine points or subtleties. “All war is senseless,” Tillie said slowly. “Don’t you think?”
    “Well, yes, I suppose,” Robbie said, “although someone had to go out there and get rid of Boney. I don’t think an if-you-please would have done the trick.”
    It was, Tillie realized, quite the most complex sentence she’d ever heard from Robbie, and she was wondering if there might be a little more to him, when she suddenly … knew.
    It wasn’t that she’d heard something, and it wasn’t that she’d seen something.
    Rather, she just knew that he was there, and sure enough, when she tilted her face to the right, she saw him.
    Peter. Right next to her. It seemed stunning that she hadn’t sensed his presence earlier.
    “Mr. Thompson,” she said coolly. Or at least she tried for frost. She rather doubted she succeeded; she was just so relieved to see him.
    She was still furious with him, of course, and she wasn’t at all certain that she wanted to speak to him,
    but the night felt so strange, and the battle had been discomforting, and Peter’s solemn face was like a lifeline to sanity.
    “We were just talking about Harry,” Robbie said jovially.
    Peter nodded.
    “It’s too bad he missed the battle,” Robbie continued. “I mean, all that time in the army, and then you miss the battle?” He shook his head. “Bit of a shame, don’t you think?”
    Tillie stared at him in confusion. “What do you mean, he missed the battle?”
    She turned to Peter just in time to see him shaking his head frantically at Robbie, who was responding with a loud, “Eh? Eh?”
    “What do you mean,” Tillie repeated, loudly this time, “he missed the battle?”
    “Tillie,” Peter said, “you must understand—”
    “They told me he died at Waterloo.” She looked from man to man, searching their faces. “They came
    to my house. They told me he died at Waterloo.”
    Her voice was growing shrill, panicked. And Peter didn’t know what to do. He could have killed Robbie; did the man have no sense? “Tillie,” he said, saying her name again, stalling for time.
    “How did he die?” she persisted. “I want you to tell me right now.”
    He looked at her; she was starting to shake.
    “Tell me how he died.”
    ‘Tillie,