“Albert wasn’t there.”

“I left him with you. When I came back for you, he was bleeding from a bayonet wound, and one of his ears was nearly cut off. And you were gone.”

Bennett blinked and stared at him with a flicker of uncertainty. His gaze moved to Albert. He surprised Beatrix by lowering to his haunches and gesturing to the dog. “Come here, boy.”

Albert didn’t move.

“He knows what a gun is,” Beatrix heard Christopher say curtly. “He won’t go to you unless you set it aside.”

Bennett hesitated. Slowly he set the revolver on the ground. “Come,” he said to the dog, who whimpered in confusion.

“Go on, boy,” Christopher said in a low tone.

Albert approached Bennett warily, his tail wagging. Bennett rubbed the shaggy head and scratched the dog’s neck. Panting, Albert licked his hand.

Leaning against Christopher’s back, Beatrix felt some of the tension leave him.

“Albert was there,” Bennett said in a different voice. “I remember him licking my face.”

“Do you think I would have left him with you, if I hadn’t meant to come back?” Christopher demanded.

“Doesn’t matter. If the situation were reversed, I would have shot Fenwick, and saved you.”

“No you wouldn’t have.”

“I would,” Bennett insisted unsteadily. “I’m not like you, you f**king honorable sod.” He sat full on the ground, and buried his face in Albert’s shaggy coat. His voice was muffled as he said, “You should have at least finished me off before you let them capture me.”

“But I didn’t. And you survived.”

“The price of surviving wasn’t worth it. You don’t know what I went through. I can’t bloody live with it.” Bennett let go of Albert, his tortured gaze alighting on the revolver beside him.

Before Bennett could reach for the weapon, Beatrix said, “Fetch, Albert.” Instantly the dog took up the revolver and brought it to her. “Good boy.” She took careful possession of the gun and patted him on the head.

Bracing his arms on his knees, Bennett buried his face on them, a broken posture that Beatrix recognized all too well. He let out a few incoherent words.

Christopher went to kneel beside him, laying a strong arm across his back. “Listen to me. You’re not alone. You’re with friends. Damn you, Bennett . . . come to the house with us. Tell me what you went through. I’ll listen. And then we’ll find some way for you to live with it. I couldn’t help you then. But let me try to help you now.”

They brought Bennett to the house, where he collapsed from exhaustion, hunger, and nervous distress. Before Christopher could begin to tell Mrs. Clocker what needed to be done, she had taken stock of the situation and marshaled the servants to action. This was a household well accustomed to illness and the needs of an invalid. A bath was drawn, a bedroom was prepared, and a tray of bland and nourishing food was brought up. After Bennett was taken care of, Mrs. Clocker dosed him with tonic and laudanum.

Going to Bennett’s bedside, Christopher stared down at the nearly unrecognizable features of his old friend. Suffering had altered him, within and without. But he would recover. Christopher would see to that.

And with that hope and sense of purpose, Christopher was aware of a new and fragile feeling of absolution. Bennett wasn’t dead. With all the sins on his conscience, at least that one had been taken from him.

Bennett looked up at him drowsily, his once-vibrant dark eyes now dim and dull.

“You’re going to stay with us until you’re better,” Christopher said. “You won’t try to leave, will you?”

“Nowhere else to go,” Bennett mumbled, and went to sleep.

Christopher left the room, closed the door with care, and walked slowly toward the other wing of the house.

Medusa the hedgehog was wandering casually along the hallway. She paused as Christopher approached. A faint smile touched his lips. He bent to pick her up as Beatrix had showed him, inserting his hands beneath her. The hedgehog’s quills flattened naturally as he turned her up to look at him. Relaxed and curious, she viewed him with her perpetual hedgehog smile.

“Medusa,” he said softly, “I wouldn’t advise climbing out of your pen at night. One of the maids might find you, and then what? You might find yourself taken to the scullery and used to scrub a pot.” Taking her to the private upstairs receiving room, he lowered her into her pen.

Continuing on to Beatrix’s room, he reflected that his wife viewed poor Bennett as yet another wounded creature. She had shown no hesitation in welcoming him into their home. One would expect no less of Beatrix.

Entering the room quietly, he saw his wife at her dressing table, carefully filing the claws of Lucky’s remaining paw. The cat regarded her with a bored expression, tail flicking lazily. “. . . you must stay away from the settee cushions,” Beatrix was lecturing, “or Mrs. Clocker will have both our heads.”

Christopher’s gaze traveled over the long, elegant lines of her figure, her silhouette revealed in the lamp-glow that shone through her muslin nightgown.

Becoming aware of Christopher’s presence, Beatrix stood and came to him with natural, unselfconscious grace. “Does your head pain you?” she asked in concern, reaching up to touch the small plaster at his temple. In all the commotion of bringing Bennett to their home, there had been no opportunity for private conversation.