Page 6 of Isabel and the Rogue

Lieutenant Colonel Walter Green was not one for small talk. He wanted Sirius’s report, and preferred it in as few words as possible. It was a quality Sirius always admired about the man. The son of a decorated Waterloo hero, Green had served in the Crimea before an unfortunate injury had him sent from the front lines back to England. But not one to slip into an easy retirement, Green had turned his attention from serving the Crown on the battlefield to serving it through covert assignments within Britain’s borders.

When Sirius had returned from the peninsula himself, physically hale but mentally and emotionally broken, Green visited him. Sirius had been touched that the taciturn former officer had gone out of his way to inquire after him, and when Green offered him a position at the Home Office, he’d accepted. Perhaps the lieutenant colonel knew Sirius would benefit from staying busy. Perhaps he sensed Sirius ached for some way to actually earn the honors that had been heaped upon him. Whatever the case, his work for the Home Office had saved his life in many ways.

“Not much. It was a bore”—Sirius studied the trim on his hat—“but well attended.”

Lieutenant Colonel Green’s expression remained as neutral as ever. “Was Westhope in attendance?”

Viscount Westhope was Sirius’s most recent mark. The young lord had a positive reputation about town for being witty and amiable…but whispers of his French familial connections had drawn suspicion among Home Office officials.

Sirius nodded. “I said hello. Exchanged some small talk about the pair of high-steppers he recently acquired.”

The other man continued to hold his silence, his expression giving away nothing of his thoughts. Stifling a sigh, Sirius continued.

“And that was it. He had secured dances from several young ladies, and no other opportunity to speak with him presented itself.”

If he had not been so distracted by Miss Luna and her continued subterfuge, he might have found another opportunity to engage with the viscount, who seemed a friendly enough fellow.

A slight pucker appeared in the center of the lieutenant colonel’s forehead. “That is unfortunate.”

Sirius managed to contain his wince. The show of disappointment from the normally unflappable Green cut Sirius to the quick. Licking his lips, he plowed on, words tumbling from his mouth with no forethought.

“But I planned on cornering the viscount at the club. I learned he visits in the early afternoon for billiards and drinks. I figured I could continue our association over a few games.”

“Very well,” Green murmured, and Sirius released a breath. “It’s imperative we learn what the viscount knows. It may be nothing, but it could be everything.”

Moving forward to perch on the edge of his chair, Sirius tentatively asked, “Is there a specific reason we should be suspicious of the French now? And why would we assume Westhope’s cousin would tell him anything?”

“There’s always reason to be suspicious of the French.” Green scowled before quickly easing his expression back into placidity. “Britain will always keep close watch on any ruler named Napoleon, and for good reason. With much of the world’s attention fixed on the States, the French are pushing their advantage wherever they can. Now it’s Mexico, but who is to say they’ll stop there? It behooves us to be vigilant, and if that means we surveil our own, so be it.”

Sirius straightened his spine, allowing a bit of the man’s resolve to soak into his own blood.

Green pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He met Sirius’s gaze with his own. “Our fallen brothers deserve for us to expend every ounce of our energy to ensure we protect Queen and country.”

“Of course they do, sir,” Sirius said, raising his chin.

The older man’s parting words played in Sirius’s mind as he made the short trek from Whitehall to St. James’s Street. He tried to save the memories of his men—his comrades—for when he was alone, in his study, with a glass of brandy in hand.

Yet soon Sirius found himself at a table in the corner of the dining room at his club, an empty tumbler in front of him. He thought he’d only had one glass, but he couldn’t be sure. His gaze swept over the other members seated at tables nearby, their loud laughter crashing through his skull like the peals of a church bell. Several men had stopped at his table to say hello, and while Sirius had been polite, he had not been particularly welcoming, and his acquaintances eventually left him at peace.

But he wasn’t at peace. His mind was roaring with an influx of memories he did not want to entertain but was helpless to fight. Guilt had brought him here, when he should have brought it home to indulge.

“You’re not usually here at this time.”

Glancing up, Sirius met the cool blue eyes of his oldest friend, Sebastian, the Duke of Whitfield. Without waiting for Sirius to respond, the duke pulled out the chair on the other side of the table and took a seat, ordering a glass of whisky from the footman who appeared promptly at his side.

“How kind of you to join me,” Sirius said tartly.

“It is.” Whitfield reclined back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other, the perfect picture of a haughty duke. “I don’t even know why I’m here now. Only the obnoxious second sons and doddering elders are here at this ungodly time.”

“I’m a second son, as you well know,” Sirius pointed out.

“Thank you for proving my point.” The duke inclined his head. “How is Harcourt anyway? Busy filling his nursery?”

“Last I heard, a spare had joined the heir.” Sirius shrugged. “I’m sure Samuel is delighted.”

Whitfield narrowed his eyes. “Have you seen him since your return to London?”

Sirius scoffed. “After his initial visit to me in the hospital? No. According to his letters, it’s either the business of the earldom, or his pregnant countess, or some other plethora of excuses that have kept him away.”