“Would that were so,” Bart said at last in reply to Henry’s assurance. “If you’re the same as ever, we could go out on one of our adventures, just as we did when we were boys. Unless… unless you have had enough adventuring lately?”

Henry shook his head. “I would not say I have had any adventures at all.”

He tried to smile, to reassure Bart, who had looked up to the Middlebrook brothers. Bart was the youngest in his family, and his mother and three older sisters had always been brimful of schemes for his betterment. Bart had been more interested in hunting and fishing, muddy boots and windy gallops.

“But we can certainly remedy that,” Henry added. “I must get to know the city again. You’ll have to be my guide.”

Bart’s expression turned relieved. “Certainly. I’ve got a new curricle and pair. We’ll take it out sometime, shall we?”

“If your horses are up to the task,” broke in a new voice. Lord Wadsworth, a viscount with whom Henry’d once had an uneasy nodding acquaintance. Wadsworth had sauntered over unnoticed and perched on the arm of a tapestry-covered chair. “Oh, wait. I forgot. Your mother helped you select them, didn’t she, Crosby? In that case, they must be marvelous.”

He grinned at Bart, who returned the smile hesitantly. Henry only watched Wadsworth, wondering whether the man meant to be rude or polite. It was always hard to tell with Wadsworth.

“Lady Crosby has an admirable knowledge of horseflesh,” he finally ventured. “One that her son shares.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Bart’s shoulders shift. “Of course,” Wadsworth said blandly, and Bart’s shoulders relaxed.

The viscount squinted at Henry, his gray eyes bright. “Haven’t seen you for a long time, Middlebrook. You look well. Except for your arm, of course.” He made a tutting sound. “Did a Frenchie do that to you? It must be the very devil to have a coat tailored with your arm like that.”

His voice was sympathetic, and Henry saw Bart nodding along. But Henry had grown accustomed to looking for weapons, and he considered his reply for a careful second. “I find the tailoring of coats to be a matter of insignificance. You are fortunate indeed if this is all that occupies you, Wadsworth.”

The viscount slid his feet in an impatient gesture. “Nonsense, Middlebrook. That’s not the only thing on my mind. I merely—well, I know you want to fit in again, and I fear it won’t be easy for you.”

“How thoughtful you are to fear on my behalf,” Henry said just as sympathetically as Wadsworth had.

Wadsworth waved a hand. “Simply condoling with you, Middlebrook. I thought you’d have enough fear for two, coming home from war all mangled.”

His eyes were narrowed, scrutinizing Henry. With his dark hair brushed forward over his forehead, Wadsworth looked vulpine, and Henry remembered why he had always felt uneasy around the viscount. Wadsworth always studied people a little too long, a little too closely. His words were barbed, but not so pointed that any injury could be deemed deliberate.

And maybe it wasn’t deliberate.

Maybe.

“As I’ve come home alive and well, I can’t imagine what you mean by mangled,” Henry replied carelessly, leaning back in his chair. It was another spindly gilt contraption, far too frail and feminine to allow him to lean his full weight against it. So he held his abdomen tensed, supporting his weight with his own muscles as he strove to keep his expression bland and calm.

“If you don’t, I can’t imagine who does. Such a serious injury must positively unman you.” Wadsworth smiled again. “Come now, Middlebrook, we’re all friends here. I’m only offering my… sympathy.”

If there had been anything warm and friendly in his eyes, as there was in Bart’s, Henry would have believed him. Actually, Bart was looking stricken. Pitying, almost.

Enough of this. Bart already felt wounded enough on Henry’s behalf. It was time to go on the defensive.

“And what’s been occupying you during the three years I’ve been away, Wadsworth? Have you made any worthwhile conquests?”

Wadsworth shrugged and pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. “Worthwhile? No. Not yet. But I aim to catch Lady Stratton if I have my way about it.” He spun the timepiece, twirling it one way, then the other on its short gold chain. “Want to see something really amusing? Watch this.”

He winked at his audience, then turned toward the corner of the room. “Mrs. Whittier, could I have a word with you?”

Henry scanned the room, noting how Caroline still spoke with her bookend dandies; how a plate of sandwiches was handed from man to man, laughter spilling forth at each gesture; how Mrs. Whittier rose from her chair and walked toward them with a companion’s dutifulness and a great lady’s hauteur.

“Lord Wadsworth.” She inclined her head. “Sir Bartlett. Mr. Middlebrook.”

“I was just telling my friends,” Wadsworth said, “that I’m pursuing Lady Stratton. Have you any opinion to express?”

She opened her mouth, then slammed it shut again and shook her head. “Any opinions on the subject of her courtship are best expressed by the countess herself.”

“You’re right, of course,” said the viscount. “I really needn’t consult you at all. I know it seems unlikely to ask one such as yourself, but Lady Stratton relies on you so. And so I’m willing to overlook the disparity in our station and allow you to express your opinion.”

“You honor me,” she said drily. “But I doubt I have anything to say that you’d want to hear. Excuse me.”

She threaded her way across the room to Caroline and bent her dark head down to her cousin’s fair one. With a nod, she seemed to accept some order. She moved across the room again and consulted with a servant in the doorway.

All without another look at Henry or Bart or Wadsworth. It was well done—but Henry had hoped for some small sign of friendship. Another wink, another smile. They were allies, after all.

Wadsworth snorted. “I do enjoy that woman. She is the prickliest female. Quite a guard dog for her employer.”

“If Lady Stratton has any undesirable suitors, then a guard dog is precisely what is needed.” Henry shoved himself forward in his chair, then stood. “If you’ll excuse me. Bart, I’ll see you soon?”

He wasn’t sure exactly what he ought to say to Mrs. Whittier, but he had to say something to let her know he welcomed the help Lord Wadsworth scorned.

Or seemed to. Damn, maybe Henry was tilting at windmills, ready to imagine enemies everywhere. This was London, not the Bossu Wood. No one was hiding, ready to fire at him.

“Mrs. Whittier,” he said softly as he came up behind her near the doorway of the drawing room.

She started, then turned. “Oh. Mr. Middlebrook.” Her eyes seemed unwilling to meet his, and she had plastered her tall form against the wall, as though she could shove herself through and into the corridor if only she tried hard enough.

“Call me Henry if you wish,” Henry offered. “My friends do. Well, some of them call me Hal, but I hate that.”

The bright eyes lifted to his, and her expression turned shrewd. “This is what your friends call you? And yet I heard Lord Wadsworth call you Middlebrook.”

“Exactly.” Henry wanted to sigh. “Lord Wadsworth is not the kind of man to set people at their ease. In fact, I think he prefers to do the opposite.”

She drew in a long breath. “Yes, I know that about him. I suppose I’m rather too proud for my own good. You probably don’t understand that from someone in my position.”

Henry let out a quick bark of laughter. “Too proud? Mrs. Whittier, I had my turn under his quizzing glass before you did. I’ll wager I can muster as much pride as you can.”

At last, he won a smile from her. “Frances.”

“Pardon?”

“If you like, you may call me Frances. Caroline calls me Frannie, but I cannot abide it.”

“Frances, then,” he said, shaking her hand in his left. “Since we are soldiers together.”

She caught her breath, and her cheeks darkened, the blush of a plum on the skin of a peach. She was all brights and darks, this woman. Such coloring would require much layering to capture it well in oils, but she would look well painted, with her determined features and elegant carriage. He wondered if a portrait painter could capture the snap of defiance in her eyes, though, or the wry curve of her mouth.

Her fingers moved within his, twisting, and he realized he still had hold of her hand. “Pardon me,” he muttered.

“It’s quite all right,” she said quickly. “So, we both have dreadful nicknames. Is it not odd how the people who are closest to us persist in addressing us as if we are six years old?”

“That may be the last time they saw us clearly.”

Frances looked thoughtful. “You may be right. And that might not be a bad thing. I was a much better person at the age of six than I am now.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Her brows lifted. “You need not say things to me just because you think politeness requires it, Henry. I am sure you too are not the innocent you once were, for good or ill.”

Probably she meant the statement to be taken lightly, but Henry turned it over in his mind.

For good or ill, she said. The edges of the words tumbled roughly, snagging his thoughts. “Do you truly see good in it? The way one changes over time?”

To Frances’s credit, she did not look surprised by his odd question. She caught her lower lip in her teeth and shook back a lock of coffee-colored hair that had fallen free from its pins.

“Yes, I do. At least, I think there is always the hope and possibility for good.” She smiled, looking rueful. “I know as well as any that such hopes and possibilities are not always fulfilled. But that is what tomorrow is for, is it not? To try again? Or so I tell myself in my most ambitious moods.”