Oliver had been there, too. At Waterloo. Unable to enlist, he’d gone to Brussels to be a part of it all, like so many others. Brussels had been filled with the British aristocracy and British tourists at the time. On the day of the battle he and other spectators rode to the site where the troops were amassed. Never had he felt so helpless as he watched the carnage unfold. Cecilia would have witnessed horrors no woman should ever see.
She took a long sip of her wine, and her voice turned to a mere rasp. ‘So many men killed.’
Oliver had done what he could to pull wounded men off the field, but it had never felt like enough. After he’d returned to London from Brussels, it had taken him a long time to again lose himself in the pleasures of Vitium et Virtus. In fact, he’d never quite managed to free himself of Waterloo. A part of him always remembered the sights, the sounds. The agony.
‘I saw the battle, too,’ he told her.
Her eyes turned wary. ‘Oh? You were in the army?’
‘I was not.’ He pushed the food around on his plate. ‘My friend Frederick was, though.’
‘Did he live?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ He lifted his glass to his lips. ‘Thank God.’
They had barely touched the oysters and sausage, but the waiter removed those dishes and brought the beefsteak, smothered in sauce. Another bottle of wine was opened and new glasses poured.
‘And your husband?’ he asked. ‘What happened to him?’
She shrank back as if his question had been an attack. ‘In the battle, do you mean?’
‘Yes.’ He had meant in the battle, but suddenly realised he wanted to know so much more.
‘He came through without a scratch.’ She sounded disdaining.
Oliver cut a piece of his beefsteak and brought it to his mouth.
She tapped the stem of her wineglass with her fingernail, making the crystal ring. ‘My husband died here in Paris. In a duel.’
‘A duel?’
‘Two years ago.’ She did not say more about the duel. ‘Since I was no longer welcome at home, I stayed in Paris.’ She drank her wine.
Oliver knew she was not the only British expatriate to find living in Paris more affordable than London.
She turned her attention to her food, apparently consumed by her own thoughts, but it seemed that she was pulling away from him. Perhaps she’d regretted confiding this much to him. He would not press her for more, no matter how he yearned to know.
Finally, she spoke again. ‘But what of you, Oliver?’ Her tone was defensive. ‘I have said all there is to say about me.’
He doubted that. ‘There is little to say about me.’
She smiled, but he still felt she’d gone back into hiding. ‘Surely you do not expect me to believe that.’
‘It is true. I’m a simple man with simple tastes.’ He lifted his wineglass, filled with fine, expensive wine, in an ironic salute.
‘Come now, Lord Oliver.’ She wagged a finger at him.
He frowned. ‘I am not Lord Oliver.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘But you said your father was a marquess.’
‘He is, but I have no honorific.’ He was admitting himself to be a bastard.
Understanding dawned on her features. Understanding. Not distaste.
He went on. ‘My father was not married to my Indian mother, as you have no doubt surmised.’ He was a bastard son—his father’s only son. ‘But he brought me with him to England when he assumed the title.’
His mother had been an Indian bibi, a mistress. A prostitute. The love of his father’s life, his father had often said. But his father left her behind when he unexpectedly inherited the title, something his British wife had insisted upon. His wife had also promised to raise Oliver as if he were her own son—a promise she broke as soon as she could.
‘Did you ever see your mother again?’ she asked.
‘No.’ He poured himself more wine. ‘She died.’
Oliver’s mother died shortly after he left India. She died before the ship Oliver sailed on even reached England. His stepmother told him she’d lost her life giving birth to another of his father’s bastards. So he’d believed he’d lost a mother and a brother or sister.
It wasn’t until he was a young man that his father told him that story was not true. His father had to show him the letter he’d received from India for Oliver to believe him. His mother had died, but from a fever—or perhaps from a broken heart.
Cecilia’s face filled with sympathy. ‘I am so sorry! How very sad for you.’
He took a gulp of wine. ‘It was long ago.’
She had not commented on him being a bastard. She’d hardly blinked at that information. He was not sure why he’d even told her. He never spoke about that. Or about his mother.
He had the illusion that they were old friends who knew each other well and could trust each other. As he knew and trusted Frederick, Jacob...and Nicholas, wherever Nicholas might be. Not dead. He’d never believe Nicholas was dead. The fourth founding member of the gentlemen’s club had simply disappeared from Vitium et Virtus one night six years ago, leaving only a pool of blood in the alley and his signet ring.
‘I still miss my family.’ Her voice turned low. ‘Even though—’ She stopped abruptly and stabbed at her meat. ‘Never mind. It is foolish to wish for what one can never have.’
‘I could not agree more.’ He lifted his glass as if in a toast.
He turned the conversation to something less emotional for them both—the sights they had seen that day, their favourites and least liked.
Pretty soon the dessert was served, profiteroles and éclairs and finally coffee and liqueur.
When they left the restaurant, the shops were still open. To walk off the sumptuous dinner they strolled under the galleries and through the gardens. The Palais-Royal was filled with people and the shops were busy.
Oliver was accustomed to giving gifts to ladies whose company he enjoyed and all the ladies he knew received his gifts eagerly. He wanted something to commemorate this day, this companionship that had been unlike any other he’d experienced.
When they came upon a jewellery shop, he stopped. ‘Let us go in.’
She accepted the idea impassively and he was surprised. Most ladies would surmise they were about to receive a gift.
They gazed at necklaces and bracelets with diamonds, emeralds, rubies and garnets, but he could not discern any special interest on her part.
‘Beautiful, are they not?’ he tried, hoping she would give him a clue as to what she might like.
‘Oh, yes,’ she agreed dutifully. ‘Quite beautiful.’
He pointed out several other pieces, but she showed less interest than she had gazing at the paintings in the Louvre or at the stained-glass windows of Notre Dame.
Finally, he faced her. ‘Do you not realise, Cecilia, that I wish to buy you a gift? I am trying to discover what you would like.’
‘A gift?’ Her voice turned wary. ‘Whatever for?’
‘To commemorate our day together.’ So she might remember him as he would remember her.
She stepped back. ‘And what will you desire in return?’
He was startled. ‘In return? Why, nothing. It is a gift.’
Her