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  Iain glanced at him, grinning. “Definitely. Where are they?” Something about his grin hit James right in his stomach. James felt winded by it, though in a good sort of way. Breathless and like he wanted to laugh at the same time.

  “At the back of the boathouse,” he said, clambering to his feet. “Come on, I’ll race you there.”

  He turned on his heel and began to run as fast as he could, laughing out loud when Iain gave a whoop and followed him.

  Chapter Two

  Now: 1824

  22nd May, 1824

  London

  Iain sat and stared at the deed in front of him. Once he’d signed this paper, his career in the military was over.

  He’d be Captain Iain Sinclair no longer.

  It was silly to think of it in those terms, of course. To think that this signature was all. In truth, his career was already over. It had been over from the moment he set this in motion, approaching his commanding officer four months ago to tell him he would be resigning his commission.

  Still.

  On the other side of the desk, Major Bradley gave a short laugh.

  “Not having second thoughts, are you, Sinclair?”

  Iain’s head snapped up, and he met the older man’s gaze. The hint of sympathy in the major’s pale, slightly bulbous eyes surprised him.

  “No,” he lied. “No second thoughts.” He reached for the pen in the inkpot, smoothing the nib over the lip of the pot to get rid of the excess ink before appending his signature to the end of the deed with a slashing flourish. Then he held the pen out to the major and pushed the paper towards him.

  The major dipped the pen again. “How long was your period of service in all?” he asked as he put pen to paper, tutting at a little blot his pen made as he began to scratch his name.

  “Twelve years,” Iain answered. “First as cornet, then lieutenant, then captain.”

  “Ah, you’re a mere pup, then,” the major said, reaching into the box next to him for a handful of sand to cast over the wet ink. “Plenty of time to set yourself up as a country squire, what? Get yourself some land—some tenants too, if you don’t fancy the life of a gentleman farmer and just want an income.”

  The major briskly shook the sand off the paper and laid the deed down, reaching for a stick of sealing wax and lighting its wick from the candle that burned beside him. Iain watched as the wax dripped, the fat red drops looking like nothing so much as blood.

  “I bought my commission over twenty years ago,” the major said, rolling the stick of wax between his fingers to encourage some to melt from the other side. “And I daresay I’ll remain in service for another twenty or so before I’m done, even if it’s only to push bits of paper around.” He sighed heavily.

  “The army is a very different beast in peace than in war,” Iain murmured.

  “It is that,” the major agreed, laying the stick of wax down and reaching for his brass seal. He did not stamp the seal down, as some men did, but pushed it gently into the already cooling wax, holding it there patiently till the wax had hardened round the brass. Only then did he ease it away.

  Placing his seal neatly to one side—a fastidious man, the major—he lifted the deed to the light, examining his work before nodding with satisfaction.

  “All done,” he said and smiled at Iain. “My secretary will have a bank draft ready for you next door.”

  All done.

  Iain forced himself to smile, even as his gut cramped and the oddest feeling of grief swamped him. So this was it. His army career—his very life these last twelve years—was over.

  He stood up, offering his hand to the major. “Thank you for your time today, Major.”

  The major stood too, taking Iain’s hand in a firm grip. “You’re welcome,” he said, then he smiled and added, “Mr. Sinclair.”

  Mister.

  Hell. That was going to take some getting used to.

  They walked to the door together, the major stretching forwards to open the door for Iain.

  “And what will you do with your capital, do you think?” he asked conversationally. “It’s a goodly sum you’ve got for your commission. As I said, enough to buy some land. Or are you the sort that prefers to gamble your money on the ’Change?”

  “I don’t know,” Iain lied. “I haven’t thought much beyond today.”

  The major laughed, jovial. “Then what do you plan for today?”

  “I’d like to go to the nearest tavern and get drunk”—that part was an honest answer anyway—“but I’ve got a dinner engagement this evening, so I daresay I’ll go home and spruce myself up for that.”

  The major gave another bark of laughter and slapped Iain on the shoulder. “Ah well,” he said. “You can decide the rest of it on the morrow, I daresay.”

  THE MAJOR’S SECRETARY, a dry, elderly fellow, was not as friendly as his master. He bade Iain sit on a hard, uncomfortable chair while he located Iain’s bank draft. Took his time about it too. The task seemed to require an absurd amount of checking and crosschecking. One by one, he fetched three separate ledgers down from the shelves behind him, making an entry in each one before painstakingly reshelving it and fetching the next. At last, though, he reached for a key ring fastened at his waist, using one of the keys dangling from it to unlock his desk drawer. The sealed envelope he withdrew bore Iain’s name, or rather his old name, Captain Sinclair. The secretary handed it over with all the reluctance of a man parting with his own worldly goods, his only response to Iain’s pleasant farewell a chilly nod.

  In some ways it was a fitting end to his army life, Iain thought as he made his way down the four flights of stairs to the front door—an indifferent farewell from a dead-eyed pen pusher. Iain had joined the army with a young man’s naïve fervour, dreaming of doing heroic deeds. The thought of his dying had not particularly worried him then, at least not in the abstract. In truth, he’d imagined from the first that he’d leave the army—his very life—in some sort of heroic blaze.

  He’d learned, of course, that real-life battles were very different from his boyish imaginings; learned that courage was something much more difficult, and far less glorious, than he’d once thought. He’d lost half his comrades at Waterloo. Good men. It had been his first real experience of combat, and he’d come out the other side changed forever, having discovered that the easy glory he’d dreamed of as a boy was an illusion. The true worth he’d found in the army had been the brotherhood he’d shared with the men he’d served beside, both on and off the battlefield.

  That sense of worth had been sadly lacking these last few years. Returning to England in peacetime had led to postings in industrial towns where civil dissent was rife, where factory workers were demanding better conditions and the masses were calling for universal suffrage. After quelling several skirmishes with protestors—Iain and his men on horseback with bayonets against men and women armed with sticks and stones—he’d been ready to resign his commission there and then. But, as fate would have it, unexpected orders to assist at the visit of a minor European royal had led to Iain being chosen to guard the royal personage. Before long, he’d become one of the King’s favourites, and that had made him a favourite of his own masters too, for they liked to know what happened in the King’s circle, no matter how trivial.

  Perhaps someone had suggested to the King that Iain could stay on as part of his personal entourage, or perhaps the King had made the request himself. However it had happened, that had been the result. And somehow, three years had passed.

  But life in the King’s service was not what he’d imagined when he’d joined the army. The trivialities of court politics bored him, and the constant need to cater to the King’s quixotic moods and petty demands was tedious.

  And then, a few months ago, he’d been invited to a nondescript building in Whitehall and offered a new position by a nondescript-looking official, one Leonard Burton. A position that was not unlike being in the army, although without the scarlet regimentals and the military title. A
position that was steeped in secrets and intrigue and danger.

  It hadn’t been a difficult choice. In his present life, Iain was bored and miserable. Burton was offering something new and exciting and filled with adventure.

  Of course, he’d agreed.

  Yet now, today, after signing that paper, it suddenly felt very real and very final. He really was going to India. The thought made him feel faintly sick.

  As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Iain realised he was still holding the bank draft envelope in his hand. Folding it carefully, he tucked it inside his coat before approaching the soldier manning the vestibule. The man stood to attention, then opened the door for him, and Iain nodded at him as he walked out. His first steps in the world as plain Mr. Sinclair again.

  Soon he’d have another name. He’d have an invented history too, one that he’d have to learn inside out, that he’d have to live as if it were his own.

  The sound of the door closing behind him sounded oddly, painfully, final, and Iain found himself swallowing against a sudden obstruction in his throat. It was an effort to make his leaden feet move, to descend the steps from the front door to the street below and start walking away, back to his rooms.

  THE FIRST THING IAIN saw when he returned to his rooms was the invitation to Holmewell that he’d received from the Porters a whole month before. It lay in the middle of his desk, staring at him accusingly. He walked over and picked it up, weighing it absently in his hand. The heavy parchment was dry against his fingertips, the edges of the opened wax seal crumbling a little

  Lady Kate Porter was James Hart’s second oldest sister. She invited Iain to visit Holmewell every year, but it had been several years since he’d accepted an invitation from her. Usually he dashed off a polite refusal within a few days of receiving the invitation, but this year, he’d held off. Every night he came home and looked at the invitation, and every night he put off replying for another day.

  James would almost certainly be there.

  Iain stared at the invitation, but he wasn’t seeing the parchment, ink and wax he held in his hand. He was seeing serious grey eyes, fine features. A hesitant smile that made his chest ache with longing.

  At last he sighed, tossed the invitation back onto the desk and strode to the sideboard, reaching for the whisky decanter and pouring himself a generous measure that he downed in two throat-searing gulps. He rarely drank like that—it reminded him too viscerally of his father—but after today’s events, he needed it.

  He was out of the army now, for good and all. His immediate future consisted of seven weeks during which he had nothing to do, followed by an unspeakably long sea journey to Madras, where his new life would begin. Once he was in India, England would be behind him, as would everything and everyone England held.

  Everyone.

  Iain turned his head back to the desk and stared at the invitation.

  He wanted to see James Hart. There was no point denying that to himself. It was hardly surprising, was it? James was his dearest friend, and it had been two full years, after all. True, he’d made no attempt to see James since that last disastrous encounter at Kit Redford’s, but as of today, things were different. As of today, Iain knew for certain he was going to India and that there was no telling when he’d be back in England.

  If he ever returned.

  Sighing again, Iain turned on his heel, bypassing the whisky and making for his wardrobe, from the bottom shelf of which he dragged a heavy metal box. Dropping it on the counterpane of his bed, he drew out his keys, then sat down beside it to fiddle with the lock. Carefully, he lifted the lid off and drew out a sheaf of loosely bound letters he’d not looked at for months.

  James’s letters.

  He loosened the ribbon, cast it aside, then picked up the first letter. James’s handwriting was small and neat. Economical. The precise formation of the words on the page belied the sprawling emotions in those lines.

  Iain began to read them, one by one, starting with the ones from when they were boys, before anything else happened between them. Things had been so much easier then.

  Eventually, though, he reached the more recent, more painful ones.

  Let me come to see you, Iain. Let me talk to you...

  If nothing else, can’t we at least try to salvage some part of our friendship? I give you my word I will not press you for more...

  I miss you so much. Write to me. Let me know how you are...

  He hadn’t answered any of those pleas—oh, he’d sent some brief missives in response, a few dashed-off lines about what he was doing at the time—but no reply to any of those difficult questions James had asked him. No acknowledgement, even.

  Iain gazed at the letters, at the unanswered questions that lay scattered over his bedcovers. The last time he’d seen James, weeks after the last letter James had written to him, they’d argued. Bitterly argued. And since then—nothing. A silence that had come to feel impossible to breach.

  But now, the thought of sailing to India, with all that anger and resentment still between them...

  No.

  In that moment, a sudden, swift certainty pulsed through him: he couldn’t board that ship till he’d seen James Hart one last time. He couldn’t go to India leaving matters as they presently stood. If he never saw James again... A distinct wrenching pain knotted his gut, and his throat ached at that thought.

  He stood abruptly, leaving James’s letters where they lay, and strode to his desk. He dropped into his chair and yanked open the drawer, snatching up a sheet of notepaper, which he slapped down on the blotter. He dipped his pen in the inkpot and, careless of his handwriting, scratched out a note to Sir Edward and Lady Kate, accepting their kind invitation. Then he sanded it and sealed it, ready to be delivered.

  It was done.

  He was going to Holmewell.

  He would see James Hart one last time before he set sail.

  Chapter Three

  Then: 1811

  14th October 1811

  Herdstone House, Northumbria

  The final blow, the twentieth by Iain’s reckoning, was the worst one. He could tell the difference in the instant before the cane fell, in the swiftness and volume of that whistling thwiiip. And then it slammed into him, striking him above his buttocks this time, at the lowest part of his back.

  He hadn’t wanted to make a single sound, shed a single tear. But he couldn’t stop a grunt of pain at that final, agonising impact, and when he squeezed his eyes even harder closed, he felt a betraying leak at the corner of his left eye. His nose was running from the effort of keeping his tears back, and he kept his lips pressed tightly shut, scared that if he opened them, all the grief and shame that was clogging his chest would pour out.

  “Pull your breeches up and make yourself presentable,” his father snapped. “I expect to see you in my study in exactly five minutes.”

  Iain heard his father stalk out of the library, his boots clicking over the parquet floor. The door opened; slammed shut. Finally, Iain was alone.

  Slowly, he raised himself up off the desk. With a shaking hand, he explored his damaged flesh, his fingertips meeting raised welts. He could already feel the more profound ache of deep bruising.

  His arms felt almost too weak to hitch up his smallclothes and breeches, his fingers trembling as he did up the buttons. The brush of the fabric against his skin made him wince. Eventually, he was decent again, and he reached for the coat he’d hung over the back of a chair before his thrashing began.

  As he fastened his coat, he wondered what had happened to Sid. Had he already been turned off and sent away? The thought caused him a pang of guilt, even though it was Sid who had initiated their encounter.

  Caught with the second footman by the butler—how could he have been so stupid? He supposed he should be grateful that Prosser had been with the Sinclair family for over thirty years and was almost fanatically devoted to them. Having marched sixteen-year-old Iain to his father’s study and haltingly explained what he�
��d witnessed, he’d seemed relieved when Iain’s father had informed him that her ladyship needn’t be troubled with this unpleasantness, that he would deal with the matter personally.

  Well, at least the thrashing was over. There was only the interview to get through now, though Iain dreaded this part more. He didn’t see a great deal of his father these days, but when he did, he found him difficult and unpredictable. Although his father was occasionally affectionate, more often he was angry, and sometimes he was downright mean-tempered. It depended how deep in his cups he was, and Iain had learned—they had all learned—to stay out of his sight for the most part. Today, though, Iain had spectacularly failed to follow that simple rule.

  He walked slowly to his father’s study, wishing it was further away, wishing he could delay the inevitable. All too soon, though, he was staring at the closed door. He paused briefly to collect himself before lifting his hand to knock.

  “Enter.”

  His father sat behind his desk, the cane he’d just used resting on the polished walnut surface in front of him, as though he wasn’t quite done with it yet. Iain felt sick just looking at it.

  Iain stopped in front of the desk and put his hands behind his back, waiting. He didn’t attempt to take a seat, and his father didn’t invite him to do so. Despite his shaky legs, it was a relief—sitting would have been too painful in his present condition.

  For several minutes, his father just stared at him.

  They looked really quite alike, Iain and his father. Both tall and broad shouldered, with the same dark brown hair and blue eyes. His father’s hair was greying now, though, and his once bright blue eyes were red-rimmed and rheumy from too much brandy and too little sleep.

  Right now, his eyes looked blazingly angry.

  His first and only question after Prosser had left them earlier, had been short and to the point: “Just tell me this: did Prosser see what he thinks he saw?”