An Officer, Not a Gentleman
Elizabeth Johns
Copyright © 2020 by Elizabeth Johns
Cover Design by 17 Studio Book Design
Edited by Heather King
ISBN-13: 978-1-7339587-2-1
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Also by Elizabeth Johns
Prologue
Vitoria, Northern Spain, June 1813
The Allied Encampment
The grief was so thick in their throats, none could speak. They had been together for only two years, yet the bonds of the battle were forged stronger than any created by blood. It was not something that could be explained, only experienced.
When they had set sail from England for the Peninsula, each had felt invincible, ready to conquer evil and save England. Now, it was hard to remember why they needed to be brave any more.
There was a chill in the air as they all sat huddled around the fire. James shivered. The silence the night before a battle was eerie, but afterwards, it was deafening. Watching the campfire’s flames perform their blue, gold and orange dance, it did not seem real that one of them was gone. They had survived Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, and Salamanca, yet Peter had fallen before their eyes today. His sabre had been raised and his eyes fierce, ready to charge when a shot had seared through him. He was on his horse one moment and gone the next. The scene replayed over and over in their minds in slow-motion. Memory was a cruel, cruel master. The same battle had left Luke wounded when a shell exploded near him. He had insisted on joining them tonight, eschewing the orders of the sawbones and hobbling out of the medical tent on the arm of his batman, Tobin.
Now, there were six of them left, if Peter’s widow was included, and all wondered, Was this to be their fate?
Someone had to speak and break the chain of their morbid, damning thoughts.
“Peter would not want this.” Four pairs of morose eyes looked up at Matthias. “We all knew this was likely when we signed up to fight Napoleon.”
“How would you want us to feel if it were you?” James asked.
“I would want you to keep going and give my life meaning.”
“Precisely. We mourn this night and move forward tomorrow. His death shall not be in vain,” James said with quiet conviction.
“I still do not understand how we were caught unawares. Unless…” Colin was replaying the scene over in his mind.
“Someone gave our position away.” Luke voiced what they all suspected.
“We were ambushed,” Matthias added. In the end, England had emerged the victor, but it had been a near thing.
“What about Kitty?” Peter’s wife followed the drum and felt like one of them.
“We see what she wishes to do. I expect she will wish to return home,” Matthias answered. He had known her and Peter from the cradle and was the most devastated by the loss.
“The French are worn down; this cannot go on much longer,” Luke said, though he would be sent home. No one else dared voice such hope.
“We are worn down,” James muttered.
Philip, the quiet, thoughtful one, spoke. “If anything happens to me, will someone look to my sister? She has no one else.”
“I swear it,” Colin said, leading the others to do the same.
“Pietas et honos.”
Philip nodded, too affected to speak.
“Loyalty and honour.” Another swore the oath in English.
They returned to silence, each brooding over what had happened and what was yet to come.
Chapter 1
Brussels, Belgium Spring 1815
Something big was brewing, Tobin could feel it in his bones. The tyrant, Napoleon, had escaped his captivity—if one could call it captivity. Some tomfool had had the daft notion of allowing Napoleon to live on an island and rule it… and people were surprised when he escaped?
“The ejeets,” he muttered.
“What was that, Lieutenant?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Speaking to yourself again, O’Neill?” His commanding officer looked up from his desk with a twinkle in his eye.
“Yes, sir. It is very cathartic, sir.”
“If you say so.”
Tobin smiled. He still could not believe he was an officer now, and serving on Wellington’s staff at that. Tobin’s former master, the Duke of Waverley, had bought him a commission on a whim so he could help search for one of their lost brethren, as the group of soldiers liked to style themselves. It had turned out that the missing man was not lost after all, but on a secret mission for Wellington. Captain Elliot and he still worked secretively for the Field Marshal when necessary. It had been exciting and entertaining at times, but there had been an air of fear that had hung about them with wondering what Napoleon would do.
Wellington had been none too pleased when he discovered Tobin’s part in destroying the munitions hidden in Napoleon’s mistress’s cave in France. He had ordered his officers to leave them alone. Had it not been for the Duke of Waverley and Lady Amelia Blake, nee Elliot, taking responsibility, he would be in the stocks. Instead, he was stationed in Brussels, still Lieutenant O’Neill, and serving on Wellington’s staff.
Napoleon had escaped Elba, as they had foreseen some months ago, and was even now reported to be in France, amassing an army. Tobin would like to think they would be less prepared due to his efforts against La Glacier, Napoleon’s ex-mistress, but time would tell.
Wellington was himself amassing his troops near Brussels, expecting the battle to occur near there. No one questioned if there would be a battle, only when and where it would happen.
It seemed London Society found it thrilling, for many of the ton had flocked to Brussels as soon as they had heard. Tobin would never understand them. He still did not feel comfortable—or belong—amongst them.
Waverley, still involved in the military through politics, had even come with his wife and sister, to support them however they may, and Captain Elliot was still a serving officer.
“Will you be joining us this evening, O’Neill?” Captain Murphy asked.
“The Duchess would have my head if I did not,” Tobin retorted.
“But will you actually dance instead of skulking in the corner? Don’t let Hooky catch you at it.”
Tobin groaned. He did not understand why the nobs liked to prance about in dancing slippers. “If you wish to mince about like a molly, Murphy.”
“I will wager you fifty guineas that you will be forced to dance tonight.”
“Wellington requires it of all of his officers, Tobin,” put in Sir Charles Stuart, having overheard the conversation whilst approachin
g from the next room. “Do not accept a wager you cannot win.”
Captain Campbell gave a half shrug. “That’s unsporting of you, sir!”
“As much as trying to gammon our green lieutenant.”
Tobin grinned at Campbell. He could not complain about any of the officers he served with on Wellington’s staff. They had been uncommonly accepting of him with his plebeian Irish origins. He had been a batman, for goodness’ sake.
“You had better go and start polishing your boots, O’Neill.”
Tobin cursed at Campbell in Gaelic even though he was fond of him. He knew the ribbing was good-natured.
“I will make certain his Grace does not have anything more urgent for me to do before I haul my own bathwater, polish my boots and brush my coat.”
“My father and sister have arrived from Vienna with Wellington. I would like to introduce you to them tonight. Promise me you will ask my sister to dance if she is a wallflower.”
“That was almost underhanded, Campbell. Wagering I would be forced to dance, then asking me to partner your sister. However, you should respect your sister’s toes and dignity more.”
His friend smiled and winked at him as Tobin put on his hat to leave Headquarters.
Wellington was nowhere to be found, so Tobin went out into the beautiful spring weather and strolled the few streets to where the Duke and Duchess of Waverley had taken a house on the Rue de Loi. Normally, Tobin would have quartered with Wellington’s staff, but there were so many of Society there in Brussels that those who had family stayed with them.
As Tobin walked across Le Parc, he still could not but wonder about how swells could hold balls when war was on their doorstep.
Wellington always said it kept the men’s minds diverted. “One cannot war all of the time.”
Perhaps it did. Tobin would never understand. Now he was caught between the two worlds. He was no longer a servant, yet he would never be a gentleman. When he had been invited to Wellington’s staff, the great man himself had reminded Tobin that he himself was Irish. When Tobin had argued he was not a gentleman, the Duke had merely said, “Because a man is born in a stable, it does not make him a horse.”
And that had been that.
When Tobin arrived at the large, white stone house, the outside looked calm with bright blooms pouring from its terrace baskets in pinks and reds. Inside, it was at sixes and sevens, as one would expect on the day of a ball. No one noticed Tobin walk in. As he made his way to his rooms, he passed the ballroom, which was fragrant with the pots of fresh flowers that stood about the room in between the long windows. The candelabras were ready to be lit and raised, even though at this time of the year the hour would be late when darkness fell. A soft breeze was wafting through the open terrace doors, but it would be stuffy in there very soon, once the crush of Society present in Brussels descended. Tobin dreaded it. He hated crowds and he hated the hot dress regimentals—even though he was beyond proud to wear them.
“Tobin!” A familiar voice sounded. He turned to see The Duchess of Waverley coming towards him, still exotically beautiful with her pale blond hair and ice-blue eyes, despite having given birth only a few months ago.
He bowed. “Your Grace.”
“I am so glad you are returned early! I wanted to make certain you would be here for dinner.”
“I always make certain I am home for dinner,” he replied cheekily, knowing that was not what she meant.
“There was a last-minute cancellation and I need you to have dinner with us. I know you hate it, but I need you. Please, Tobin.”
How could he say no to her?
“Ver’ well, if you insist, but do not blame me if I use the wrong fork.”
She gave him a look of amused tolerance before kissing him on the cheek. “I knew you would not fail me. I must go and dress now.”
Tobin cursed at himself for showing his face before the dinner had begun. He turned and made his way up the stairs to his apartment. The Duchess insisted he occupy a guest bedchamber while they were in residence.
Tobin would have preferred to have a dram of whiskey and stay in his room for the night, but instead he pulled his regimentals from the wardrobe and prepared to put them on. How many times he had done this for the Duke, he could not number, but this time was for himself. The other officers all had valets or batmen to assist them, but it did not seem right to Tobin when he could just as easily do for himself. He had been them.
Brushing the fine wool jacket, then ensuring his boots were polished better than any other officers would be, he dressed and then waited until the last possible moment to go downstairs to the drawing room. Murphy has been right about one thing: Tobin would skulk in the corner where he belonged.
When he entered the room, the Duchess gave him a knowing look and the Duke made his way over to greet him.
“Good evening, Tobin. Her Grace was about to send me to haul you down here by your ear.”
“Gommeril,” Tobin muttered.
“Are there any introductions that need to be made? You cannot go into the dining room otherwise. You might be seated by a lady with whom you could not speak,” he said, ignoring Tobin’s curse.
“You canna’ be serious!” Tobin exclaimed, letting his Irish brogue loose. He had learned to contain it for the most part, except when he was out of sorts.
“General Dónal Murphy and his daughter have just arrived from Vienna. You are not acquainted, are you?”
“Not yet.”
At that moment, Captain Murphy caught Tobin’s eye and gave a wave.
Waverley led Tobin over to them. “They have taken the house next to us,” Waverley informed him as they walked across the room.
“Father, I would like to introduce you to another officer on staff with me, Lieutenant O’Neill. Tobin, this is my father, General Murphy, and this is my sister, Bridget.”
Tobin bowed and looked up into the face of an Irish fairy. Dark blue eyes and ebony locks surrounded a cherubic face. Tobin, for once, was bereft of words. He felt a gentle nudge in his back and bowed again.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir… miss,” he managed to say.
He looked again towards that sweet face, so perfect, and knew it was beyond his touch, yet he could still do something for her. He could fight the war and keep the barbarians away from her.
“I do not think my sister yet has a full dance card, do you, Bridget?”
She smiled with a flash of annoyance at her brother and Tobin he knew he would spend the entire evening prancing about were she to ask it of him.
“I will do you no credit on the floor, lass, but I would not have you sit along the wall if your heart’s desire is to dance.”
“It is now,” she whispered.
Her response surprised Tobin and their eyes met. He was a daft fool, sinking into quicksand.
Bridget never felt quite as if she belonged at these Society parties. Her father was a gentleman and, she supposed, important in the army, but she had been brought up without a mother, following the drum, and she did not quite fit in. Most of the people who were in Brussels meant well, and had some familiar connection to the army, but they still did not understand what army life was like. Her father tried to make sure she had the latest fashions, so Bridget was wearing a beautiful ball gown in dark green and knew she looked the part. Nonetheless, she felt like a child’s doll on display. She considered herself a nurse; even though the army had no such position, they should. During every single battle she was needed to help, and she was quite competent now, having done it for so many years.
Now, after years of watching soldiers die, she knew they faced the biggest battle yet. Never would she be able to completely numb herself to the emotion of losing people she cared about, but she was able to do what she must when she had to without simpering or swooning. Although her father was urging her to marry, for she was quite upon the shelf at five-and-twenty, Bridget knew there was little likelihood of finding someone, except perhaps a career officer who woul
d take her as she was. Once, there had been a promising young captain, but the Battle of Badajoz had claimed him and Bridget had not wanted to risk losing her heart again. Perhaps she could find someone to make her comfortable so she would not be a burden on her father.
They had just arrived in Brussels, alongside Wellington, to prepare for the expected battle against Napoleon and the French. Instead of setting up the house, Bridget had been informed she was invited to a ball at the house next door almost as soon as her brother had greeted her on the steps.
“I am tired, Patrick. May I not be excused tonight?” she asked, offering her cheek for a kiss.
“But I have friends I wish you to meet. You will like them. They are not high in the instep at all, and it is only next door, so you may cry off early if you wish.”
“Who are these paragons?” she asked, growing resigned. She knew Papa would insist that she go if Patrick told him to.
“You should remember Major Waverley. He and his wife are hosting the ball. Her sister married Captain Elliot and means to follow the drum.”
Bridget smiled. She quite liked Captain Elliot. He was a horrid flirt, but she had never felt threatened by him or more than brotherly affection for him. “I hope she is worthy of him.”
“It would seem so, but I know he would appreciate it if you would befriend her and show her how to go on. No doubt the Duke will wish to take the Duchess and the babe back to England soon.”
“It would be my pleasure,” she replied.
Now she stood in the ballroom, in a sea of red-uniformed officers, most of whom she recognized, with a few of the Rifles’ green and the Cavalry’s blue. Her father was speaking with his peers about the impending battle and speculating about what Boney might do. Wellington was close-lipped, as usual, and Bridget smiled and nodded when required. Rarely was her conversation necessary at these events.
An Officer, Not a Gentleman: A Traditional Regency Romance (Brethren in Arms Book 3) Page 1