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him,
clearly.”
    Francis sat and
drew her down next to him. She nestled in the crook of his arm and laid her
head on his shoulder. “I knew you would understand,” he said. “Ranulf was a
very gifted pianoforte player. If he were not a nobleman, I suppose he may have
made his living at it.”
    “Was?” said
Isobel.
    “He took a
bullet in his wrist at Waterloo. He refused to leave his men; he had it tended
to in camp and continued on. It didn’t appear to be a severe wound--it seemed
there would be nasty scar, but it was clean, and the bullet came out easily. He
was in pain for a few weeks, but he hid it well, and it healed up soon enough.”
    A thoughtful
look came over Isobel’s face. “His fingers?” she asked hesitantly.
    Francis nodded. “For
the most part he proceeds as always, but he can no longer play the pianoforte. I
didn’t know for some time, as he spoke very little of it. But I do have fond
memories of a few nights, with Ranulf playing tunes and all of the officers
standing around, singing songs that reminded us of England.”
    “How sad. But
surely, after all this time he must not feel it so acutely?”
    “How would you
feel if you could no longer read your books and write about your excavations?
How would Sophy feel if she could no longer paint?” asked Francis.
    “I would be miserable,”
she said, after pondering his words a moment, “and Sophy would be distraught.”
    “You see? It
does not seem to be much to others, but it was a source of great joy for him. I
think that is part of the reason that he went to India to campaign against the
Marathas. That hardened him, and while he made a fortune there, and is now the
heir to Spaethness as well, he’s a changed man; harder, less open and cheerful.
I have no doubt that the wars had much to do with that. Certainly, when I
returned, I no longer felt like the man I was before. I was not so interested
in the pastimes of my youth. Who knows what I might have done had I not met you
and devoted a year of my life to convincing you to marry me. It certainly kept
me from dwelling on my other difficulties, as you were a constant source of
aggravation. I think having to give up the Army following his brother’s death,
as well as losing his music, is troubling him.”
    “So Colonel
Stirling has found nothing to occupy his time?” asked Isobel.
    “I think he is
trying to overcome his misery with dubious amusements,” said Francis. “Riding
to the hounds and boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s dulls the pain a bit, I imagine,
and then there is the Daffy Club and gaming. But he still goes home at night
and must face it.”
    “Hence the
women, I suppose.” Isobel broke into a laugh at the sight of Francis’s
surprised countenance. “Did you think I had not heard? I am no innocent miss,
you know. There’s been a great deal of talk lately about him and the Lady of
Ardfern.”
    “Is that who it
is?” asked Francis.
    “Oh, men never
know anything,” scoffed Isobel.
    “I knew enough
to keep pursuing you,” countered Francis.
    “’Tis true.” Isobel
laid her hand on his. “If you think Colonel Stirling will be happier here, I am
glad to have him as a guest. I would never turn away someone you care about so
deeply. “
    “You are the
best of wives,” said Francis.
    An impish smile
crossed Isobel’s face. “I think we are quite alone. Would you like to give me
my reward?”

Chapter 6
    Sophy floated up
the steps to Strancaster House in a cloud of dusty rose muslin, her dark curls
tucked under a very fetching bonnet trimmed with cerise ribbons that tied under
one ear. She rapped on the door and then turned to Harriet, who stood at her
side.
    “It is a lovely
day for a drive out to Richmond,” said Harriet. “How sweet of Isobel to invite
us.”
    “It is,” agreed
Sophy. She straightened her wine red spencer with quick fingers and turned to
her stepmother. “How do I look?”
    “Lovely, of
course,” said Harriet vaguely. “You always do, my