Free Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense by Amanda DeWees

improved greatly since our last meeting,” he said presently.
    I straightened in surprise. “We have met?”
    “Yes, indeed. You were crying as if your heart was broken, and I remember asking if I could stuff a piece of sponge cake in your mouth to silence you.” Seeing my confusion, he relented. “You were two weeks old,” he explained, the deep voice solemn although his eyes shone with mischief. “I would be greatly surprised if you remembered.”
    “I am surprised you yourself remember,” I commented. “You must have been very young.”
    “Oh, the incident is etched in my memory: my father scolded me so roundly for my lack of chivalry that my whole character was altered. Now I am a notorious pest for flinging my coat over puddles for ladies to walk on. May I offer you a seat? Father and Miss Yates should be down soon, but I am afraid we may have a long wait before Felicity and Aunt Gwendolyn join us.”
    “Oh? Why?”
    His eyebrows quirked in exasperation and amusement. “I thought perhaps you could tell me. I have often wondered why it takes them a full hour to change gowns. Doubtless it is a mystery best not inquired into.”
    I took one of the armchairs by the hearth, and when I was seated he resumed his seat in the other. I noticed the way his knuckles whitened on the handle of his stick as he lowered himself into the chair, and scolded myself for having kept him standing; he must find it a strain to be on his feet for long, although he had said nothing.
    Now that I met Felicity’s paragon in the flesh, I found that the reality bore little resemblance to the creature I had envisioned. This was no dandy with drooping moustaches and macassar oil in his hair. Charles was indisputably moustached, to be sure, but this adornment was neatly clipped, and his straw-colored hair innocent of pomade. He was tall, but his height was balanced by the breadth of his shoulders, so that he was nothing like the languid weed I had envisioned. The loose fit of his suit suggested that he had grown thinner from his illness, but he seemed utterly unconscious of being an invalid.
    He also seemed unaware of his own good looks, which Felicity, to my surprise, had not exaggerated. He had a narrow, fine-boned face, with expressive blond brows and eyes the wide and candid blue of the sky. Except for being so handsome, he seemed a fairly ordinary fellow, and one whose camaraderie was very welcoming. Already I felt more at ease; his manner was so like a brother’s, although more courteous.
    As if he had read my thoughts, he said, “I hear that you have lost your brother, and recently. I am very sorry.”
    “Thank you.” I sounded abrupt, even to my ears, and added without intending to, “I still cannot quite believe it. He was away such a short time.”
    “He was in the Crimea, I believe.” There was both understanding and concern in my cousin’s voice.
    “Yes. At Inkerman.”
    I could feel his eyes on my face, gauging whether to change the subject. “Would you prefer not to speak of him?” he asked quietly.
    “Not at all; I wish I could speak of him more, in fact.” All at once I wanted to confide in him. It would be a great relief to me, and I felt that Charles would understand. “But nobody will discuss it with me or tell me what I want to know; it isn’t right for young ladies to know about war and killing. No one will let me bring up the subject. You would think it was something indecent.”
    “What is it you wish to know? I’ll gladly help if I can.”
    “My brother was shot,” I said in a rush. “We were told that he died almost instantly. And everyone tells us what a mercy it was, that he would have suffered so if he had survived to be taken to a hospital. What I need to know is if that is the truth, or if they are only trying to make his death easier to accept. Would he have suffered so? Were the hospitals so dreadful?”
    He was silent for a moment, and dropped his eyes so that I could not read them. He