“Oh no,” she breathed. “Not the Highwoods.” She called after the coach as it rumbled off into the distance. “Mrs. Highwood, wait! Come back. I can explain everything. Don’t leave!”

“They seem to have already left.”

She turned on Bram, flashing him an angry blue glare. The force of it pushed against his sternum. Not nearly sufficient to move him, but enough to leave an impression.

“I do hope you’re happy, sir. If tormenting innocent sheep and blowing ruts in our road weren’t enough mischief for you today, you’ve ruined a young woman’s future.”

“Ruined?” Bram wasn’t in the habit of ruining young ladies—that was his cousin’s specialty—but if he ever decided to take up the sport, he’d employ a different technique. He edged closer, lowering his voice. “Really, it was just a little kiss. Or is this about your frock?”

His gaze dipped. Her frock had caught the worst of their encounter. Grass and dirt streaked the yards of shell-pink muslin. A torn flounce drooped to the ground, limp as a forgotten handkerchief. Her neckline had likewise strayed. He wondered if she knew her left breast was one exhortation away from popping free of her bodice altogether. He wondered if he should stop staring at it.

No, he decided. He would do her a favor by staring at it, calling her attention to what needed to be repaired. Indeed. Staring at her half-exposed, emotion-flushed breast was his solemn duty, and Bram was never one to shirk responsibility.

“Ahem.” She crossed her arms over her chest, abruptly aborting his mission.

“It’s not about me,” she said, “or my frock. The woman in that carriage was vulnerable and in need of help, and . . .” She blew out a breath, lifting the stray wisps of hair from her brow. “And now she’s gone. They’re all gone.” She looked him up and down. “So what is it you require? A wheelwright? Supplies? Directions to the main thoroughfare? Just tell me what you need to be on your way, and I will happily supply it.”

“We won’t put you to any such trouble. So long as this is the road to Summerfield, we’ll—”

“Summerfield? You didn’t say Summerfield.”

Vaguely, he understood that she was vexed with him, and that he probably deserved it. But damned if he could bring himself to feel sorry. Her fluster was fiercely attractive. The way her freckles bunched as she frowned at him. The elongation of her pale, slender neck as she stood straight in challenge.

She was tall for a woman. He liked his women tall.

“I did say Summerfield,” he replied. “That is the residence of Sir Lewis Finch, is it not?”

Her brow creased. “What business do you have with Sir Lewis Finch?”

“Men’s business, love. The specifics needn’t concern you.”

“Summerfield is my home,” she said. “And Sir Lewis Finch is my father. So yes, Lieutenant Colonel Victor Bramwell”—she fired each word as a separate shot—“you concern me.”

“Victor Bramwell. It is you.”

Sir Lewis Finch rose from his desk and crossed the office in eager strides. When Bram attempted to bow, the older man waved off the gesture. Instead, he took Bram’s right hand in both of his and pumped it warmly.

“By the devil, it’s good to see you. Last we met, you were a green captain, just leaving Cambridge.”

“It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing.”

“Thank you.” Bram cleared his throat awkwardly. “So was I.”

He sized up the graying eccentric for any signs of displeasure. Sir Lewis Finch was not only a brilliant inventor, but he’d become a royal advisor. He was said to have the ear of the Prince Regent himself, when he chose to bend it. The right word from this man could have Bram back with his regiment next week.

And idiot that he was, Bram had announced his arrival in the neighborhood by tackling the man’s daughter in the road, rending her frock, and kissing her without leave. As strategic campaigns went, this one would not be medal-worthy. Fortunately, Sir Lewis seemed not to have noticed his daughter’s bedraggled state on their arrival. But Bram had best conclude this interview before Miss Finch returned and had a chance to relate the tale.

He couldn’t be faulted for not making the connection. Save for the blue eyes they shared, she could not have been more different from her father. Miss Finch was slender and remarkably tall for a woman. By contrast, Sir Lewis was thick in the middle and short of stature. His few remaining wisps of silver hair would scarcely brush Bram’s epaulet.

“Be seated,” the man urged.

Bram tried not to betray much visible relief as he sank into a studded leather chair. When Sir Lewis handed him a drink, he rationed the whiskey in small, self-medicating sips.

As he drank, he studied his surroundings. The library was unlike any gentleman’s library he’d ever seen. Naturally, there was a desk. A few chairs. Books, of course. Whole walls of them, populating several floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves. The shelves themselves were separated by plaster columns with Egyptian motifs. Some resembled stalks of papyrus. Others were carved into the shape of pharaohs and queens. And to one side of the room, occupying most of the open space, sat an enormous coffin of solid, cream-colored stone. Its surface was etched, inside and out, with row upon row of tiny symbols.

“Is that marble?” he asked.

“Alabaster. It’s a sarcophagus, from the tomb of King . . .” Sir Lewis ruffled his hair. “I forget his name at the moment. I have it somewhere.”

“And the inscriptions?”

“Hexes on the outside. On the interior, directions to the underworld.” The old man’s hoary eyebrows rose. “You can have a lie-down in the thing, if you like. Good for the spine.”

“Thank you, no.” Bram shuddered.

Sir Lewis clapped his hands. “Well, I don’t suppose you’ve brought two wagons through eight turnpikes just to discuss antiquities over a fine whiskey.”

“You know I haven’t. Idle chatter isn’t my purpose, ever. But I will take the whiskey.”

“And dinner later, I hope. Susanna will have already informed the cook.”

Susanna. So, her name was Susanna.

The name suited her. Simple, pretty.

Susanna. Susanna Finch.

Rather like the refrain of a song. A cheerful, stubborn sort of song. The sort of tune that persisted, dug a trench in a person’s mind and kept merrily chirping there for hours, days . . . even when that person would rather be rid of it. Even when that person would slice off his own great toe just to turn his attention to something, anything else.

Susanna. Susanna Finch. Susanna fair with brazen hair.

He turned his gaze to the window, which overlooked an immaculately tended garden. With each herb and shrub he glimpsed, he identified another element of her intriguing, garden-infused perfume. He saw lavender, sage, hyacinth, rose . . . a dozen other plants he couldn’t name. But through the open window, the breeze carried their scent to him. Lifting his hair with gentle fingers, just as she had.

He gave himself a shake. She was Sir Lewis’s daughter. He could not think of her this way. Or any way.

“So,” he said, addressing the older man. “You received my letter?”

Sir Lewis took a seat on the opposite side of his desk. “I did.”

“Then you know why I’m here.”

“You want your command back.”

Bram nodded. “And while I’m here, I wonder if you’d be interested in an apprentice. My cousin has a knack for destruction, and not much else.”

“You refer to Payne?”

“Yes.”

“Good Lord. You want me to take on a viscount as an apprentice?” Sir Lewis chuckled into his whiskey.

“He may be a viscount, but for the next several months he’s still my responsibility. Unless someone gives him a useful occupation, he’ll have ruined us both by year’s end.”

“Why don’t you give him a useful occupation?”

“I won’t be here,” Bram said, leaning forward and giving the older man a pointed look. “Will I?”

Sir Lewis removed his spectacles and set them aside, rubbing his temples with thumb and forefinger. Bram didn’t like the looks of this. Temple rubbing wasn’t the sign of a decision going one’s way.

“Listen, Bramwell . . .”

“Bram.”

“Bram, I admired your father a great deal.”

“So did I. So did the nation.” Bram’s father had distinguished himself in India, rising to the rank of major general and earning a great many honors and awards. “My father admired you and your work.”

“I know, I know,” Sir Lewis said. “And I was grieved indeed when news reached me of his death. But our friendship is precisely the reason I can’t help you. Not the way you’ve asked.”

Bram’s gut turned to stone. “What do you mean?”

The older man ruffled his few remaining wisps of silver hair. “Bram, you were shot in the knee.”

“Months ago now.”

“And you know very well, an injury of that nature can take a year or more to heal. If it heals completely at all.” Sir Lewis shook his head. “I cannot, in good conscience, recommend you for field command. You are an infantry officer. How do you propose to lead a battalion of foot soldiers when you can barely walk?”

The question struck Bram in the solar plexus. “I can walk.”

“I’ve no doubt you can walk across this room. Perhaps to the end of the pasture and back. But can you cover ten, twelve, fourteen miles at a grueling pace, day in and day out?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “I can march. I can ride. I can lead my men.”

“I’m sorry, Bram. If I sent you back into the field like this, I would be signing your death warrant, and perhaps those of others in your command. Your father was too good a friend. I simply can’t.”

His palms went damp. Devastation loomed. “Then what am I to do?”

“Retire. Go home.”

“I don’t have a home.” There was money enough, to be sure, but his father had been a second son. He hadn’t inherited any property, and he’d never found time to purchase an estate of his own.

“So buy a home. Find a pretty girl to marry. Settle down and start a family.”

Bram shook his head. Impossible suggestions, all. He was not about to resign his commission at the age of nine-and-twenty, while England remained at war. And he damned well wasn’t going to marry. Like his father before him, he intended to serve until they pried his flintlock from his cold, dead grip. And while officers were permitted to bring their wives, Bram firmly believed gently bred women didn’t belong on campaign. His own mother was proof of that. She’d succumbed to the bloody flux in India, a short time before young Bram had been sent to England for school.

He sat forward in his chair. “Sir Lewis, you don’t understand. I cut my teeth on rationed biscuit. I could march before I could speak. I’m not a man to settle down. While England remains at war, I cannot and will not resign my commission. It’s more than my duty, sir. It’s my life. I . . .” He shook his head. “I can’t do anything else.”

“If you won’t resign, there are other ways of helping the war effort.”

“Deuce it, I’ve been through all this with my superiors. I will not accept a so-called promotion that means shuffling papers in the War Office.” He gestured at the alabaster sarcophagus in the corner. “You might as well stuff me in that coffin and seal the lid. I am a soldier, not a secretary.”

The man’s blue eyes softened. “You’re a man, Victor. You’re human.”