“The wounded ones are often the most dangerous.”

His hand moved in a soothing stroke along her spine. “We’ll keep a close watch on her, monisha.”

Beatrix kept pace easily with Christopher as they headed toward the forest. It nagged at him to have someone else holding Albert’s leash. Beatrix’s assertiveness was like a pebble lodged in the toe of his shoe. And yet when she was near, it was impossible to feel detached from his surroundings. She had a knack of keeping him anchored in the present.

He couldn’t stop watching how her legs and h*ps moved in those breeches. What was her family thinking, to allow her to dress this way? Even in private it was unacceptable. A humorless smile curved his lips as he reflected that he had at least one thing in common with Beatrix Hathaway—neither of them was in step with the rest of the world.

The difference was that he wanted to be.

It had been so easy for him, before the war. He had always known the right thing to do or say. Now the prospect of reentering polite society seemed rather like playing a game in which he had forgotten the rules.

“Will you sell your army commission soon?” Beatrix asked.

Christopher nodded. “I’m leaving for London in a few days to make the arrangements.”

“Oh.” Beatrix’s tone was noticeably subdued as she said, “I suppose you’ll call on Prudence.”

Christopher made a noncommittal sound. Inside his coat pocket rested the small, tattered note he carried with him always.

I’m not who you think I am . . .

Come back, please come home and find me.

Yes. He would find her, and discover why she had written those haunting words. And then he would marry her.

“Now that your brother is gone,” Beatrix said, “you’ll have to learn how to manage the Riverton estate.”

“Among other things,” he said curtly.

“Riverton encompasses a large part of the forest of Arden.”

“I was aware of that,” Christopher said gently.

She didn’t seem to notice the touch of sarcasm. “Some estate owners are overcutting, to supply the local manufacturing businesses. I hope you won’t do that.”

Christopher remained silent, hoping that would quell further conversation.

“Do you want to inherit Riverton?” Beatrix surprised him by asking.

“It doesn’t matter whether I want it or not. I’m next in line, and I’ll do what is required.”

“But it does matter,” Beatrix said. “That’s why I asked.”

Losing his patience, Christopher said, “The answer is no, I don’t want it. It was always supposed to be for John. I feel like a bloody impostor trying to assume his place.”

With anyone else, the burst of vehemence would have put an end to the questioning. But Beatrix persisted. “What would you have done if he was still alive? You would still sell your commission, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. I’ve had enough of the army.”

“And then? What would you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are your aptitudes? Your talents?”

Their footsteps slowed as they reached the woods. His talents . . . he could hold his liquor, beat a man at billiards or cards, seduce a woman. He was a crack shot and an excellent rider.

Then Christopher thought of the thing in his life he had most been lauded for, and showered with praise and medals.

“I have one talent,” he said, taking Albert’s leash from Beatrix’s hand. He looked down into her round eyes. “I’m good at killing.”

Without another word, he left her standing at the edge of the forest.

Chapter Nine

In the week after Christopher had returned to Hampshire, the discord between him and his mother became so pronounced that they found it difficult to occupy the same room for more than a few minutes at a time. Poor Audrey did her best to serve as peacemaker, without much success.

Mrs. Phelan had fallen into a habit of relentless complaining. She couldn’t go through a room without tossing out nagging comments like a flower girl flinging handfuls of petals at a wedding. Her nerves were acutely sensitive, obliging her to lie quietly in a dark room in the middle of the day, every day. A collection of aches and pains kept her from supervising the household, and as a result, nothing was ever done to her satisfaction.

During Mrs. Phelan’s daily resting period, she reacted to the rattling of plates in the kitchen as if she had been stabbed with invisible knives. The murmur of voices or the thud of feet on the upper floors were agony to her nerves. The entire household had to tread upon eggs for fear of disturbing her.

“I’ve seen men who had just lost arms or legs and complained far less than my mother,” Christopher told Audrey, who had grinned ruefully.

Sobering, Audrey said, “Lately she has become fixed in her mourning rituals . . . almost as if her grieving will keep John with her in some way. I’m glad your uncle is coming for her tomorrow. The pattern of her days needs to be broken.”

At least four mornings a week, Mrs. Phelan went to the family burial plot at the graveyard of the Stony Cross church, and spent an hour at John’s grave. Since she did not want to go unaccompanied, she usually asked Audrey to go with her. However, yesterday Mrs. Phelan had insisted that Christopher escort her. He had waited for an hour in grim-faced silence while she knelt by John’s headstone and let a few tears fall.

After she had finally indicated that she wished to rise, and Christopher had gone to help her to her feet, she had wanted him to kneel and pray as she had.