The wrought-iron sign denoting the workplace ofHardinge & Sonscranked gently in the breeze. Philip headed inside to book an appointment with the family solicitor for later that week. His land manager from London had already been in contact with Mr. Hardinge.
There were properties in the area, outside of Mr. Hill’s domain, that his father had refused to sell for fear of dividing his estate. The farms were decaying from abandonment and would fare better in the hands of a local baron. His father would be rolling in his grave over the sale, and the thought made Philip smile.
Intending to make his way back to the carriage and collect himself before Anna and Elinor returned, he paused when a window display caught his eye.
“The Queen’s Gardens,” he read aloud from the shop’s banner overhead, his gaze drifting from the lettering to the instruments on display behind the glass.
There hadn’t been time to properly review the furnishings at Cotoneaster, but none of the Wilmingtons had been willing, let alone proficient, musicians, and he suspected none of the instruments at the manor were in tune. The Wells music collection was to be seen and not touched, precious artifacts that his forebearers had accumulated for want of something to do.
His mind turned to Anna, the Alder pianoforte in the shop window reminding him of her. A crude doll with brown pigtails sat on a stool in front of the piano, its straw arms hanging limply at its sides.
If Anna is to make Cotoneaster a proper home for herself,it will need to be equipped to satisfy her every whim.
The shop bell rang overhead as Philip pushed the door open. But before he could enter, someone called, “Colonel,” from the street behind him.
“By Jove, it is you,” said the man when Philip turned to look at him.
Philip stooped on the edge of the steps leading to the music shop, squinting as the stranger stepped into the shade before him.
The man was of middling height, dressed for function rather than fashion. His lips curled into a smile beneath his thick mustache. A fair-haired woman stood beside him, hanging onto his arm, closer in age to Elinor than Anna—though not nearly as comely as his wife, in Philip’s eyes.
It took Philip longer than it should have to put a name to the man’s face, memories of his time at war rising unbidden with the realization. It was Wellington’s aide-de-camp, the man who had pulled Philip off the battlefield and saved him from being trampled to death.
“Roger Courtenay,” Philip returned, extending a hand for the man to shake.
“Forgive me for the disturbance, Colonel.”
“Not at all. We may be far from our cantonment, but you have every right to address me with the familiarity of two brothers at war.” Philip inspected the man, navigating his surprise at seeing him again. “What has brought you to Brighton, Officer? Last I heard you were still serving Wellington in London.”
“Ah, I recently got married and I am visiting my new family,” Roger confessed, looking sheepishly at the woman beside him. “This is my wife, Elisabeth. Allow me to introduce His Grace, the Duke of Wells. We served together under Wellington. It is an honor to see you again, Colonel.”
“The honor is mine. Your husband saved my life,” Philip said to Elisabeth, his stomach tightening as more memories of the battlefield surfaced. Roger didn’t react to his scar. He had seen the injury at its worst. “Though such a story is hardly suitable for a woman on her honeymoon.”
Elisabeth blushed, shifting her gaze to her husband. She looked at him fondly, and Philip couldn’t help comparing Roger’s marriage to his own.
“I had been meaning to visit the War Office for many weeks,” Philip said, addressing Roger. “But London society has a way of sweeping a soldier off his feet the second he disembarks. I am certain you can sympathize.”
“Yes, I have read about your recent marriage, Your Grace. My congratulations to you and the duchess. Likewise, I do not bemoan the tide that swallowed me.” The smile on Roger’s face was genuine as he pulled his wife closer. “The commander was most gracious, relieving me from duty so I could enjoy these first weeks of marriage. We are vacationing a few weeks here by the sea.”
“I can think of no better place to christen what seems to be an exceptionally happy union.” Philip forced a smile, disquieted by the jealousy that surged within him. He slipped his calling card out of his pocket to distract himself.
“You might indulge me by calling at the house. We are in residence at Cotoneaster Manor for the time being, just outside of Crawley, to the north. I believe a dinner party shall be held there shortly. You would be most welcome to attend—both of you.”
Roger took the card and smiled. “An invitation from a duke? One could hardly refuse.” His expression shifted, rousing Philip’s concern. He looked much older than his years as he took on a serious air, passing for forty rather than thirty. The war had worn on him like so many others. “That reminds me… Though, truly, it is no business of mine. I should allow the commander to tell you himself.”
Philip waited as long as he could for Roger to continue, glancing cautiously at his wife. “What is it?”
“Before I took my leave from the War Office, there was a pressing matter concerning Wellington. It had been His Grace’s wish to schedule a meeting with you posthaste. He has made no efforts to contact you?”
Philip frowned in thought. “Not here in Sussex, but it has been a tumultuous few weeks, and I have been a difficult man to locate. If what you say is true, a letter likely awaits me in London. But you mustn’t be coy with me now. Wellington will forgive you for spoiling the surprise. What had he wanted to ask of me?”
Roger grew quiet. His wife took it as her cue to leave, stepping aside to admire a shop window further down the street. Alone now, the men slipped into a familiar pattern of speech—two soldiers discussing war matters.
“The commander has been collaborating with the Foreign Office,” Roger began. “They have ordered a new ambassadorial post to assist the French. There are attachés on the ground in Paris naturally, but the commander believes an envoy with direct military experience would better serve the cause. And given your rank, Colonel… But then, of course, things being as they are…”
Philip let Roger trail off, all too aware of what he couldn’t dare to say. His marriage to Anna had riveted the ton, but the political forces of England would have heard about his engagement too. If Wellington was calling him away from his new wife and the duchy, it had to be serious.
But Philip had his doubts.
