Free Anne Barbour by A Dedicated Scoundrel Page A

“Such is the case with many ladies, I understand.” He turned back to Catherine. “But you were saying about Dr. Beech?”
    “Only that he is my dearest friend. He showed me a great deal of kindness when—when I needed it the most. I owe him a great deal,” Catherine concluded in a rush.
    Mmm, thought Justin. So much so that if he urges you to dislodge your unwanted guest, you would follow his suggestions unquestioningly? For there was little doubt in his mind that the doctor was not in favor of a prolonged convalescence on the part of his latest patient in the home of his dearest friend.
    Again, Justin was intrigued by the mystery of Miss Catherine Meade. Where, he wondered again, had he heard her name?
    Ah, well. He shrugged philosophically. If he stayed at Winter’s Keep long enough, all might be revealed to him. Otherwise, the lady would remain in his memory as a pleasant enigma.
    “By the by,” Catherine was saying, “I sent a message to our local constable about you.”
    Justin turned to her, a startled question in his eyes.
    “I asked him if he knew of anyone reported as missing in the area. If not, I asked him to pursue the matter further—to send to London for information.”
    Justin shook his head a little at this unwelcome piece of news. Certainly, Lord Justin Belforte would not have been reported missing, since he was believed to have been killed in Spain. However, the man or men who knew him to be still alive might well be interested should they come across the information that an unknown person had turned up in a small village outside London; a man, further, who seemed to have no knowledge of his identity.
    One could only hope that should Miss Meade’s inquiry proceed farther afield than the office of the local constabulary, it would be received with indifference at Bow Street and therewith die a natural death with no further ado. Since this seemed like the most likely outcome of a request for investigation instituted by a reclusive spinster living in the hinterlands beyond the metropolis, Justin allowed himself to relax.
    It was rather pleasant, relaxing—something he had not managed for longer than he cared to consider. He should have been bored, for the range of conversation that might have been expected from three single ladies living on the edge of oblivion was certainly not what he was used to. He was surprised to discover, however, that they kept abreast of current events and their observations were in turn keen and acerbic.
    “Really,” commented Lady Jane. “It appears that the behavior of our troops after their long-postponed victory at Badajoz was disgraceful. One might expect raping and pillaging from the French, but it has always been my understanding that Wellington will not put up with that sort of thing.”
    Justin flushed. He had not been a part of the madness that had descended on the troops after Badajoz, but the bestial shouts of the men and the screams of terrified women still rang in his ears. He opened his mouth, but Mariah was before him.
    “I understand that the fortress of Badajoz was taken only after days of unimaginable hardships to the men,” she said quietly. “The reports said that many died in unspeakable torture from the methods used by the French in defense of the stronghold. Men—even the best of them—can sometimes give way under such stress and behave in a way they would not normally.”
    “Did you follow the drum, Mrs. Bredelove?” he asked curiously.
    “Yes.” Her eyes were moist and her look faraway. “William and I were married when he first purchased his commission. I went to Oporto as a bride.”
    “Lord,” Justin said, startled. “What an introduction into the state of matrimony. That is,” he added hastily, “I have heard that conditions for the women in Oporto were dreadful.”
    “They were.” Mariah grinned. “It had been raining for a month before our arrival, and I spent my first week there trying to keep the water out of our