from the fight. His arm where the bullet had hit him stung like hell, but in a strange way, he was glad he had been wounded, because at least he could feel that . Otherwise there would only have been this terrible, cold numbness.
He led his horse over to the post beside the weathered mounting block, glancing at the gray stone farmhouse as he lashed the reins to the iron ring. He walked slowly to the front door, but behind his steely facade he was soul-sick with the hollow, shaky feeling that came as a predictable aftereffect of having gone on the rampage. He pounded out an implacable knock with the heel of his fist, since he had split his knuckles open during the fight.
As he waited for someone to answer, his thoughts drifted back to the events following the bloody melee. He had returned to the barracks after his damsel in distress had fled in horror of him. By that time, fortunately, his army chum, Morris, had returned. Damien had recounted the attack, how he had intervened and had, perhaps, overreacted. The officers had been outraged by the assault on the theater girl and had commended him for his quick response to her plight. While the regiment’s surgeon had seen to his wound, Colonel Morris had sent a squad of soldiers out to patrol the area around Bordesley Green, another to remove the bodies.
Their subsequent search of the dead men’s clothes had provided no clues to their identities but had revealed a strange tattoo on the left arm of the hefty one. The tattoo had depicted a bird of prey gripping a dagger in its talons. Morris had suggested that perhaps the outlaw had once served as a sailor. It mattered little now. They had shared a drink, toasting Sherbrooke, their most lately fallen comrade. Morris had ordered one of the men to drive Damien back to the Royal Hotel, assuring him he need not worry—the whole incident would be discreetly swept under the carpet.
“And tell that girl not to walk past there anymore,” Morris had added with a scowl.
But even if Damien had known where to look for the mysterious Miss White, he never wanted to see her again. He was glad he had not told her his name. There was no need for her to know that the ferocious madman who had come to her rescue was the same distinguished officer the nation had hailed as a hero. No one in the civilian realm understood what it was really like on the front lines, nor ever could; but that girl, whoever she was, had gotten a taste of it last night. He only hoped it did not scar her too badly—but, no, he thought, staring at nothing. She’d be all right. He knew a survivor when he saw one. Yet he could not get her face out of his mind in that last moment before she had bolted—the way she had looked at him, the terror and revulsion in her eyes, reflecting back to him the full horror of the monster he had become. It made him wonder if he really should destroy himself and do the world a favor.
Just then, the door opened behind him. “May I 'elp ye, sir?” a ruddy, round-faced servant woman asked.
“Yes. I am here to see my ward, Miss Miranda FitzHubert.”
Under the ribbon brim of her house cap, the woman’s eyes widened. She quickly curtseyed. “Do come in, sir! Major Sherbrooke, is it?”
The mistake pained him. “No, ma'am. I am Major Sherbrooke’s colonel and friend, Lord Winterley. I have been appointed as Miss FitzHubert’s guardian.”
“Oh, dear,” the woman murmured, taking in his hard, meaningful stare. “Oh, dear me. Do come in, my lord. Miss FitzHubert is at chapel with the others girls. Shall I fetch her?”
“No, there is no need to hasten bad news. I will wait.” He stepped into the gloomy entrance hall. At once he was aware of the cold, vaporous damp rising from the flagstones. It could not be healthful, he thought with a frown. He hoped the child had a hardy constitution. “Is the headmaster available? I would speak with him.”
“No, my lord, the Reverend Mr. Reed is our minister as well as headmaster. He is