Introducing Miss Joanna (Once a Wallflower #2) - Maggi Andersen Page 0,61

in her voice. “She and Virden planned to get their hands on my father’s money. Either Virden was to kidnap me and demand a ransom, or she would entice my father into marriage. And then,” her voice lowered, “kill him.”

His arm tightened around her. He had no words.

When they arrived at the Mayfair townhouse, candlelight shone from all the downstairs windows and the servants’ quarters below. The door opened, and Mr. Dalrymple rushed down the steps, followed by Jo’s aunt and the butler.

“Jo! Dear heaven, are you all right?”

“Yes, Papa,” she said wearily. “Lord Reade saved me.”

Her father seized Reade’s hand and shook it vigorously. “I’m so grateful, my lord. Come inside, share a meal with us.”

“I regret I cannot stay, sir, as I’m needed elsewhere. I will call tomorrow afternoon.”

“Please do, my lord. I cannot thank you enough for saving my daughter.” He cleared his throat, his eyes watering. “Jo is precious to me.”

Jo stood silently by, swaying on her feet. Reade feared she would fall, and he would catch her. And when he did, that would be it. He doubted he’d let her go again. And while the lord knew he wanted her, he needed to think hard about what was best for her. And understand what she might want for herself.

He bedded Ash down in his stall and hailed a hackney to Bow Street. Knowing Black, he expected to find him still there. It was a delicate situation. Once he learned all that Black had got from Rivenstock, he would relay the information to the Home Office in the morning. The news would not be well received, but it was out of his hands.

Prinny would be irate, although Reade suspected he already knew. He was glad to be finished with the dirty business. It left him with a nasty taste in his mouth. His work for the crown had been rewarding, but recent events made him feel jaded and disenchanted.

Black, reliable as ever, awaited him there. Rivenstock had cracked and confessed to his and the Virdens’ culpability but clamped his lips on any mention of Lothian. Perhaps he feared the viscount more than the law.

Some hours later, after a meal and a stiff whisky, Reade wearily climbed into his bed. The fear of losing Jo had almost ripped him apart. He never wanted to suffer that again. Cartwright had accused him of leaving his heart on the battlefield. Brutal, but it held a degree of truth, although he wouldn’t take it from anyone but Cartwright.

Reade didn’t consider himself a hero. And not after the last decisive battle which won the war. A family friend had written to implore Reade to watch over his impetuous young heir, Miles, who had taken the king’s shilling and joined up without his father’s consent. Reade had failed. It was two years ago, but the sickening memory of what happened that day never lost its grip on him. And the nightmares persisted, making him wake up in a sweat every morning.

While the candle sent dancing shadows around the room, he lay back and placed an arm over his eyes. He invited it back. Maybe if he dealt with it now, he could sleep.

It might have been yesterday, not 1815. Sunday, June 18th. Two hundred thousand soldiers met on a few acres of land near the small Belgian town of Waterloo. Reade had struggled to support his men, who were in constant fear of gunfire and saber fights, while blinded by smoke from gunpowder, and deafened by cannon blasts. All that day, they had fought, and by evening, the wounded, dead, and dying covered the battleground.

The news that the Allied forces, led by the Duke of Wellington and the Prussian General von Blücher, had defeated Napoleon’s Grande Armée brought little peace to Reade as he squatted beside the injured. Miles, Lord Warren’s son, lay mortally wounded by a musket ball. Miles died before they transported him to the infirmary, and they buried him where he lay.

He was only one of many thousands to die that day. So many heartbreaking letters to write. But Reade could never forget bringing the news to Miles’s father and helplessly watching hope die in his eyes. It brought back in vivid recall the intense grief of Reade’s young self when he lost his mother and his older brother after their yacht sank close to shore.

At ten years old, he’d waded out into the water, but could not reach them and could only watch them drown. The way he