Lady Tallow, willing himself to ignore the glinting lights invading his vision. He refused to show any reaction to her words. Refused.
Sickeningly, he was no more in control of his body and brain than Viola had been. She had been about to vomit; he was on the verge of collapse.
Lady Tallow’s bosom was heaving under the napkin as if a live animal were concealed there. “Hiding behind a tree, as I heard, with no survivors to say different!” she spat.
The London Times had reported on the loss of his entire platoon, hailing him as a hero. He thought about his men every day—every hour—yet he’d fooled himself into believing that perhaps society didn’t think of him in the same cruel terms he thought of himself.
“In fact, I heard on the best of authority that Thomas Cromie let it be known on his deathbed that you were nowhere to be seen. Thomas deserved better than that; he was a baron’s son!”
“Actually, Thomas didn’t die on a bed,” Jeremy said, feeling his face twist into some horrible semblance of a smile. “He died in my arms. And do you know what he did say? His last words?”
Lady Tallow’s mouth fell open slightly and she began blinking rapidly, but he was caught in the horror of that memory.
“He apologized to me. He said he was sorry that he couldn’t keep going. ‘Sorry to fail you.’” Jeremy cleared his throat. “That’s what he said. ‘Sorry to fail you.’”
Beside him, Betsy stepped into his vision. He was used to seeing her look like a ceramic doll, but just at the moment she looked like a warrior.
Her face resembled the sky when a thunderstorm is on the horizon. She was about to destroy her reputation for placid, ladylike behavior.
For nothing. For him, who deserved every unkind word.
Before he could croak something to cut Betsy off, a deep, calm voice intervened. Every head in the room turned to Thaddeus. He was now standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Betsy.
They looked like a golden couple, paired by the shimmering beauty that comes with noble family trees and layers of silk.
“Lady Tallow, you are beside yourself,” Thaddeus stated. “A true Englishwoman never maligns those who have served our country. Those aristocrats among us who stayed at home, mere moths of peace, owe everything to the men who risked all to defend our shores. I count myself among them.”
Betsy opened her lips, and Thaddeus put a hand on her arm.
Jeremy realized with a thump of his heart that every person in the room would assume they had an understanding. Perhaps they did have an understanding. Perhaps Thaddeus had found Betsy before breakfast and returned to his knees.
Without realizing it, Jeremy took a deep breath of air.
“I am ashamed that I did not see service in the Americas,” Thaddeus continued. “Tommy Cromie was failed not by Lord Jeremy, but by me. Every able-bodied man in this room who stayed home shares my feelings.”
Jeremy very much doubted that, but no matter.
“Anyone who tarnishes the name of one of the king’s men, whether he died in the service of our country, or survived with the burden of grieving for those lost . . . that person will never be an acquaintance of mine. Ever.”
A moment of silence hung over the room.
Betsy cleared her throat. “I speak for my family.” Her voice was as calm as Thaddeus’s but more forceful. “Lady Tallow, you are no longer an acquaintance of mine, or of any Wilde.”
A man stood at the next table. “Or mine.”
“Mine, mine, mine, mine . . .” The sound came staccato, falling on Jeremy’s ears like . . .
Like a benediction.
Which was ridiculous. He twisted his lips into a sneer. Lady Tallow was looking about her, tight red spots high in her cheeks, a touch of uncertainty in her long upper lip. Presumably she could read the mood of a room.
Or the mood of the calls that came now from every corner.
Thaddeus stood calmly, his eyes moving from person to person as they spoke, with the air of a man who would expect no less of his fellow mortals. Jeremy could have told him how often his fellow aristocrats had tried to comfort him by discounting the lost men as mere cannon fodder.
Yet Thaddeus was a leader, and just at this moment, every damned man in the room was following him. If Lady Tallow had cared to count, she would have seen her welcome in polite society shrinking, voice by voice, house by house.
Thaddeus still had