Free Anne Barbour by A Dedicated Scoundrel Page B

tent. Despite my best efforts, it was rather like living at the bottom of a river. I don’t know what I would have done if it were not for Mrs. Canfield, our colonel’s wife. She was an old hand at army life and took me under her wing.”
    Justin smiled sleepily. The next moment, he was obliged to stifle a yawn. Lord, the fresh country air hereabouts must be having more of an effect on him than he realized. In a few moments, he made his excuses to the ladies and retired for the evening.
    Silence fell among the women after Justin’s departure. Mariah spoke at last.
    “He’s a likable chap, isn’t he?”
    “Mm,” replied Catherine.
    “You don’t like him, dearest?” asked Lady Jane, her brows lifting in surprise.
    “I don’t know him well enough to like or dislike him.”
    “But, you don’t precisely trust him.” This from Mariah. “I must own, I feel the same way. He’s charming as he can hold together, but I get the feeling he’s not being completely honest with us. For example, for all his claims of memory loss, he remembers that he served in the Peninsula?”
    “What?” exclaimed both of the others.
    “Did you not observe the expression in his eyes when Lady Jane mentioned Badajoz. There was a lingering horror in them that I think would only be felt by someone who had been there. And, when I spoke of Oporto, he knew right away what a hellhole it had been. I’d be willing to wager a great deal he was there.”
    “But if he says he cannot remember ...” said Catherine slowly.
    “It may be,” put in Lady Jane, “that he is only aware that the battles took place, without any personal recollection.”
    “I suppose so,” admitted Catherine. “Still ...” She shifted in her chair. “Do you know, he reminds me of Francis.”
    A shocked silence greeted her remark, and she hastened on.
    “Please don’t take my words amiss. It does not bother me to speak of him, you know. That would be the height of foolishness. Just because I made a complete fool of myself over a conscienceless rascal like Francis Summervale, doesn’t mean that I cannot bear to hear his name. I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life repining.”
    “I’m glad to hear that,” said Mariah briskly. “But,” she added tentatively, “in what way does Mr. Smith make you think of him?”
    “Oh, the charm you mentioned. And the fact that I feel there’s something he’s hiding. Of course, he did put himself in jeopardy to save Silk and me in that shed—something Francis never would have done. It’s just that I can’t escape the feeling that it would be a mistake to put out one’s hand in wholehearted friendship with Mr. John Smith—or whatever his name is.”
    The three ladies nodded in accord, and conversation became general. It was not long before they dispersed to seek their beds. In her chambers, Catherine gave herself up to her maid and grew reflective as she gazed in the mirror while the woman brushed her hair.
    She had changed in the years since she’d returned to Winter’s Keep. Not only was she older, but she had matured in a hundred subtle ways. She had said that she did not repine over the matter of Francis Summervale, and that was true. She would never entirely dispel the regret she felt, however, at her blind stupidity at the time.
    At the ripe age of three and twenty, she should have known better. She had become accustomed to masculine attention from the time she had left the schoolroom. Her birth and breeding were unexceptionable, and she was not unattractive. Also her fortune was generous. Thus, she had garnered her share of proposals for her hand. She had refused them all, for none of the gentlemen who buzzed about her like bees to a honey pot had touched her heart.
    Until Francis.
    The Honorable Francis Summervale had appeared on the London scene during Catherine’s third Season, after a sojourn on his family’s estate in the West Indies. Though tall and well formed and with hair the color of the sun,