Free Twice Fallen by Emma Wildes Page B

quietly, but his gaze was speculative.
    Damien might have returned from war, but he didn’t go home.
    Duty was one matter, but he declined to stay at the ducal mansion in Mayfair. After all those years of quietly pursuing the French in his own way, frequently behind enemy lines, sometimes hundreds of miles into occupied territory, catching very little sleep, always on his guard, Damien found it disconcerting to be in such a busy household. There were not only servants around every corner, but now that his younger brother, Robert, his lovely wife, Rebecca, and their twin daughters also had a suite in the family wing, the sounds of children laughing and playing were pleasant, but distractingly different than his normal life.
    Perhaps he should refer to it as his
former
life.
    A part of him wondered if he would ever quite acclimate to civilian existence.
    “You took your time.”
    He registered the voice with unerring recognition andcouldn’t help but break into a grin after the first startled moment. “My apologies,” he said in a moderate tone that conveyed no emotion. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight. You worked quickly.”
    “Bloody right it was quick. Isn’t that what you paid me for?” The familiar silhouette of Alfred Sharpe, a friend from the war, took shape in the shadows. “You know you’ve a bloody easy house to break into here with the windows and all?”
    “Well, houses in London generally do have windows,” Damien murmured. He’d thought the same, but then again, there was no need to be on his guard. Still, old habits took time to fade. “I don’t keep much money on the premises, and if anyone is that determined, they are welcome to the strongbox. Let’s hope they haven’t stolen all the whiskey. Would you like a glass?”
    “Am I breathing, sir?”
    “Seems to me you are.” Damien gestured down the hallway, stifling a laugh. “My study is the third door down.”
    “I know,” Alfred informed him. “I’ve already sampled the whiskey. Damned fine stuff.”
    He had anticipated just that answer, so he was amused, not annoyed. Damien knew better than to keep important documents in such an obvious location, so the notion of someone prowling his study didn’t alarm him. He led the way. “Thank you. You can use the same glass, then.”
    Sharpe made no sound behind him in the dark. No surprise. They’d learned that technique in Spain together and both knew it well. Damien already had seen that his silent movements startled and unnerved the housekeeperhe’d hired and needed to remind himself to clunk around a bit more when he got up in the mornings. With his pronounced limp, that should be easy enough.
    Stealth did nothing but alarm the servants. He needed to adjust.
    His study was a bit impersonal, the furnishings new, only one painting on the paneled walls; he hadn’t gotten that far. A miniature of his father, done the year of his unexpected death, sat on top of a glass-paneled bookcase, but aside from those two items, there was nothing personal in the room.
    Pouring himself a glass, he handed the bottle over to Sharpe with a wry smile. “Well? What did you learn?”
    “This wasn’t a challenge.” The young man lounged back, his nose poised over the glass as he inhaled sharply and then took a long sip. He was a bit of an enigma as he was obviously well educated but there was a slight Welsh lilt to his voice and he had the dark hair and coloring of a true Celt. One of the other operatives had once told Damien that Alfred claimed to be from a farm near Cardiff. The polished speech belied the latter, but what really mattered to Damien was that Sharpe had been an invaluable asset during their time in Spain. The man was a wizard at obtaining well-guarded objects, and that included information. In London and at loose ends, he worked for various solicitors on a strictly private basis, investigating everything from adultery to murder.
    “I didn’t think it really would be difficult,