The Passionate Prude

by Elizabeth Thornton

  “What’s your hurry, mon ami?” The question was asked gently, but there was no doubt that the man who asked it wanted an answer.

  “No hurry,” said the dandy. “I know from experience that our quarry is elusive, nothing more.”

  “Ah, I think I understand.” There was a moment’s silence as the two men gave each other an appraising look. “You want us to succeed where you have failed?”

  The dandy got to his feet and reached for his greatcoat. He threw it negligently over his shoulders. His expression was faintly haughty, but he said nothing.

  His companion slanted a look at him, and smiled, but there was no humor in the look he bent on the man who had betrayed the identity of the English agent who had bedeviled his compatriots for close on five years. He detested traitors of any description. “You must contain your impatience, monsieur. These things take time. He may lead us to others.”

  “Have it your own way. But my advice to you is not to underestimate him. He’s as slippery as an eel. There’s no telling what damage he may do if you let him slip through your fingers.”

  “Your devotion to our cause is most gratifying.”

  The dandy smiled, and there was a glint of genuine amusement in his eyes. “Don’t patronize me, old boy. Lost causes have never been in my line. Don’t get me wrong. I admire your Napoleon. His victories, before Elba, were stunning. But then, he’s never had a match against Wellington, has he?”

  The man at the table made a gallic gesture, shoulders haunched over and arms upraised. “My apologies,” he intoned with soft sarcasm. “How could I know that you were a military man? You have served under Wellington perhaps?”

  “That would be telling,” replied the gentleman noncommittally.

  “Or is this a personal vendetta?” persisted the other.

  “What do you care? Not only have I given you the name of the man who is your most bitter enemy, a man who does believe in causes, I take leave to tell you, but I’ve also supplied enough evidence to convict him of that charge before any French tribunal. I think it better if we leave motive and such like out of this. Don’t you?”

  When he had taken a courteous if sardonic leave of his hostile companions, the one at the door swore softly. “Cochon!” he said under his breath. “Do you wish me to go after him and slit his throat in some dark alley?”

  “Let him go,” was the thoughtful rejoinder. “That one takes no chances. And he’s right. Ours is not to reason why.”

  “You trust him?”

  “Mon dieu! Trust that slime? Jamais! But his information is genuine. It’s been gone over with a fine-tooth comb by our own agents.” He went to the window and looked out, but in the gathering gloom, there was little to be seen. He turned back into the room and said wearily, “I don’t doubt that our enemy uses the same methods we do. God, I feel filthy after treating with scum like that.”

  “You feel sorry for the man he betrayed?” There was a note of surprise in the big man’s voice.

  “Sorry? No, I can’t be sorry. We’re all soldiers. Like the rest of us, he must take his chances. But it makes me sick to see a pig like that topple a man whose boot laces he’s not fit to tie. Now let’s get out of here before we’re rumbled.”

  In the closed carriage, the dandy carefully removed the wig and makeup which disguised his identity. As the hackney rolled into Mayfair, he tapped with his cane on the roof of the cab. It took him only a moment to divest himself of the dandy’s attire which concealed his own immaculate dark coat patterned after the style of that arbiter of masculine fashion, Mr. George Brummel. He stowed his disguise under the coach seat and drew his great coat over his shoulders. When he had paid off the hackney driver, he made his way along Picadilly to St. James Street. He had money in his pocket and he felt lucky. When he thought of Rathbourne, there was no regret to rob him of his pleasure.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Spring came early to Brussels in that year of our Lord 1815. The creeping scent of violets, sweet and heavy, hung in the air, and the gardens and parks displayed the small purple flowers in splendid profusion. The capital teemed with people, and most of the visitors, as was to be expected, were English sojourners who had flocked to the comparative security of the city behind British lines when the news of Napoleon’s escape from Elba became general. Scarcely a house was to be had since the citizens were compelled to quarter the staff of the combined allied forces and their large contingent of auxiliaries. No Bruxellois was exempt from this edict, even the members of the Belgian aristocracy had to turn over large parts of their grand houses and châteaux for the use of the defending armies. No one complained, for to do so would have been considered unpatriotic, and in a city rife with rumors of traitors and spies, and where many Bruxellois had formerly fought for Napoleon, to have one’s loyalty called into question was a hazard that few were prepared to chance.

  As a result of the scarcity of private accommodations, many visitors were forced to put up at the hotels. The Fenton ladies were at first dismayed when Sir Thomas informed them that the only lodgings he had been able to secure were rooms in the Hotel d’Angleterre in the Rue de la Madeleine, but it did not take them long to perceive the advantages of such a situation. Their apartments were spacious and comfortable, but more to the point, they found themselves in the hub of things. The public rooms and corridors were brilliant with a plethora of uniforms, and many of Wellington’s officers were domiciled at the d’Angleterre, and there were more members of the ton in residence in the hotels of Brussels than were to be found in London—and this at the height of the Season. The atmosphere was gay to the point of being frenetic, and the threat of Napoleon at their doorstep, perversely, seemed only to add to the general air of excitement.

  More visitors arrived daily, as if attracted like magnets to the irresistible pull of the momentous drama that had begun to unfold; two of the greatest generals the world had ever spawned, Wellington and Napoleon, were about to square off in a battle that would change the face and history of Europe forever. In years to come, to have been even on the periphery of this fateful occasion would be more than a thrilling bedtime story to tell one’s grandchildren. Brussels had suddenly become the center of the universe. To be there at the critical moment was to grasp at one’s share in destiny. There were few who elected to make for home and safety, and many more who arrived to swell the ranks of the general populace.

  Deirdre soon found that her days in Brussels followed a similar pattern to her days in London. There were carriage rides in the park, and morning calls to make and receive with families which had the approval of Lady Fenton. Invitations to parties and balls began to arrive, and there were the obligatory shopping expeditions to while away any spare hours that were left over from a full calendar of engagements.

  There were, however, important dissimilarities which she found entirely to her liking. Modes and manners were far more relaxed in Brussels than were to be found in England, and the circle of her acquaintances as a consequence became much less exclusive than formerly. It could not be otherwise for it was impossible not to strike up a casual conversation with strangers in the situation in which they found themselves, and to exclude from one’s society a young man who might soon be called on to make the supreme sacrifice for King and Country merely because one did not know his father seemed the cruelest kind of snobbery.

  As March slipped into April, Deirdre threw herself into every amusement that was offered, and there were many. This excess of frivolity had the desired effect of bringing her to the point of exhaustion every night so that when she crawled between the sheets of her solitary bed, she fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. Her dreams, however, were not susceptible to the will of iron that governed her thoughts in the daylight hours, and she was subjected to the most distressing fantasies of the one man in the world whom she was determined to banish from her life.

  Dismay quickly followed upon distress when, on several occasions, she thought she caught sight of Rathbourne i
n the distance or someone who looked very like him. The first time she saw him, he was on horseback, in the blue and silver regimentals of an office of the 7th Hussars, and he was riding in the park with no less a personage than the Duke of Wellington. She thought she saw him again, shortly thereafter, in the Hotel d’Angleterre foyer, although she could not be sure that it was he. She had just turned the corner of the stairs and had paused on the half landing when she remarked a pair of broad masculine shoulders that looked very familiar. He was at the front desk in conversation with one of the clerks, but there was a press of people which made it impossible for her to get a clear look at him. She had almost decided to turn and flee to her room for safety when the hotel clerk looked up and caught sight of her. Within moments, the man who resembled Rathbourne strolled out the front door and down the steps. He was not in regimentals.

  On applying to the desk clerk for the identity of the stranger, she learned that the gentleman was a certain Mr. Dennison who was making inquiries about his brother from whom he had become separated when they entered the city. Deirdre was somewhat reassured, although a little shaken, and chided herself for a fanciful disposition which had been a troublesome affliction since childhood.

  Nevertheless, as the weeks progressed, she could not shake herself of the conviction that Rathbourne was in Brussels. She half fancied that she was being watched when she rode in the park or waltzed under the blaze of candles in the ballrooms of those fortunate enough to be domiciled in private homes. When she confided her suspicions to Armand, he laughed them off and half convinced her that she was suffering from a mild case of dementia, which was not to be wondered at considering what she had been through in the last weeks. Furthermore, he pointed out, if Rathbourne were in Brussels, an unlikely event since Lady Caro was in the throes of her first Season in London, he would lose no time in rejoining his regiment, and with events as they were and the future unpredictable, there could be little time in a soldier’s life to pursue matters of a purely personal nature.

  Deirdre saw the sense of what Armand said and she tried to quell her fears, but she warned her brother to be on his guard. He agreed so readily and with such negligence that Deirdre was left in no doubt that he completely discounted the Earl as a threat. It troubled her, not least because Armand had distanced himself from her in the weeks they had been in Brussels. He had fallen in with a group of young men who, so she thought, led a rather rakety existence, following the pattern he had established in town. It had not taken Armand long to discover that the gaming houses in Brussels, no less that in London, could be a lucrative source of income for a young man who was compelled to earn his living by his wits. When he moved out of the Hotel d’Angleterre to share lodgings with a Mr. Stonehouse, a likeable young man but of a similar bent, Deirdre’s misery was complete.

  She was alone in the hotel lobby mulling over how she might bring her scapegrace brother to a sense of his iniquity when the rumble of carriage wheels at the hotel entrance caught her ear. There was a slamming of doors and shouts of good-natured masculine laughter from several voices. The hotel lobby was almost empty of hotel guests, and Deirdre, who had been sitting idly and feeling rather conspicuous in a leather armchair against one wall as she waited for her aunt to descend so that they might set off on a shopping expedition, shrank back and reached for the first periodical that came to hand, pretending to read it assiduously.

  A wave of young men surged into the hotel, some in colorful regimentals, others in the height of fashion. They proceeded to the hotel desk where they demanded loudly, though in pleasant enough tones, that they be shown to the rooms which had been bespoken for Lord Uxbridge. At the familiar name, Deirdre chanced a quick look over the top of her paper. Her breath caught in her throat and her cheeks colored hotly then blanched to match her white muslin walking dress. He was there—unmistakably and indubitably—the Earl of Rathbourne. She did not think that he had recognized her and she had the presence of mind to turn her back upon the group of noisy arrivals. Not for the world would she hazard a second glance in his direction. She waited with baited breath until the din of their departure receded up the stairs. One shaking hand went to her temples and she expelled the breath she had been unconsciously holding.

  The low, familiar voice at her back made her start to her feet, and the periodical fell from her nerveless fingers. My Lord Rathbourne bent to pick it up.

  “I did not know that you were conversant in German,” he said mildly.

  “What?” Deirdre could scarcely take in the misfortune that had befallen her.

  An amused smile touched his lips. “This newspaper is in German,” he explained patiently, “and I remarked that…”

  “Yes! I know what you said. It’s a language that I hope to master,” she ended feebly.

  They stood lost in thought, staring at each other for a long, protracted moment, then Rathbourne made as if to speak, but a voice from halfway up the stairs rudely interrupted him and wakened Deirdre from her reverie.

  “Rathbourne. There you are! I wondered where you had run off to. Oh, I say, am I interrupting something?”

  The stranger who came to stand beside Rathbourne was of a slighter build, and Deirdre judged him to be younger, but only by a year or two. His face was pleasant rather than handsome, but his eyes, quite his best feature, were a startling shade of blue and Deirdre admired their directness and the lively intelligence she observed in their depths. He was garbed in the scarlet and gold regimentals of a British staff officer and Deirdre correctly supposed him to be one of the aides assigned to Lord Uxbridge. A lock of fairish hair fell over his forehead. He pushed it back carelessly, and regarded Deirdre with a steady though somewhat speculative expression.

  “Gareth?” he prompted, and smiled disarmingly at Deirdre.

  “Miss Fenton, permit me to present Captain Roderick Ogilvie of the Horse Guards,” drawled Rathbourne with a discouraging glance in his friend’s direction.

  Captain Ogilvie raised one quizzical brow at Rathbourne’s speaking look, but made no comment other than to intone politely that he was charmed to make the lady’s acquaintance.

  “Did I hear correctly?” asked Deirdre after an awkward pause. “Does Lord Uxbridge take up lodgings here? I had supposed, since he is second only to Wellington, that he would be quartered in more stately and private apartments.”

  “You supposed correctly,” said Ogilvie. “Our commander arrived in Brussels yesterday and was most suitably settled in a private house, but when he heard that the Belgian Marquis and Marquise who owned it had been forced to remove to the upper floors so that he might be comfortable, he elected to seek accommodations in one of the hotels.”

  “And selected the d’Angleterre by chance?” Deirdre asked, flicking a quick glance at the silent Earl.

  “Quite!” interposed Rathbourne adroitly.

  “But Rathbourne, didn’t you advise…” began the captain unwisely.

  Rathbourne cut him off politely but firmly. “Captain Ogilvie, would you be so kind as to tell the others that I shall be along directly? They must be wondering at the delay.”

  “Are you pulling rank on me, Major?” asked Ogilvie quizzically.

  Rathbourne smiled. “What do you think, Captain?”

  “What I think is that next time I chance to meet Miss Fenton, I shall ensure that there are no superior officers in sight to give me my marching orders. Ma’am.” He sketched a bow, gave her a regretful smile, and left them alone.

  “Sit down, Deirdre.” Her look became mutinous and Rathbourne said more firmly, “I said sit down.”

  She obediently sat down and said in a rather offhand manner, “I wasn’t mistaken then. It was you I saw about town these many weeks past, and in the hotel foyer and so on?”

  “And I thought I had been the soul of discretion,” he responded easily. “I have been in Brussels only intermittently. No, don’t make conversation. What I have to say won’t take long. It’s only this. You have made your sentiments perfectly plain to me.
Don’t be alarmed. I have not pursued you here, if that is what you are thinking. I am here to rejoin my regiment. You won’t be troubled again with a renewal of offers which are obviously repugnant to you. I tell you this because we are bound to fall in each other’s way in the next month or so, and I don’t wish our chance encounters to become a source of embarrassment for either of us. As for our betrothal, I told only a few intimates of it and their discretion may be relied upon. It was fortunate that you forbade the publishing of the banns. I suppose I should thank you for it. But I presume that that act of premeditation was to save yourself from becoming an object of ridicule rather that with any thought for the figure I might cut amongst my friends and associates.”

  His tone had gradually become rougher and she interrupted miserably, “Gareth, please! People are staring.”

  “Then walk with me.” She looked at him uncertainly and he went on in a more controlled tone, “I have no objection to saying what I have to say to you before an audience if that is what you wish.”

  She colored slightly and obediently laid her gloved hand upon his arm and allowed him to lead her into the street. He resumed the conversation almost immediately.

  “I make no apologies for making love to you. You wanted me to and I obliged you.”

  “You obliged me?” she asked, her voice threaded with incredulity.

  “Certainly. Your resistance was token and we both know it. What I regret is that you chose me to make a woman of you. You used me as a man uses a woman of the street. You took your pleasure, then discarded me.”

  “I see,” said Deirdre frigidly. “Then it is I who should be apologizing to you?”

  “I accept your apology.”

  “You accept my—”

  “However,” he went on, ignoring Deirdre’s frozen expression, “you did me a favor, albeit unconsciously. You cured me of an infatuation that has been the bane of my existence since I first set eyes on you. You look surprised, but I assure you, it is true. I have imagined myself in love with you for a very long time now. It had become almost a habit. But thankfully I am broken of it. You are not the woman for me. A man wants more than passion in a wife.” His tone remained pleasant although his words were scathing. “That is very easily come by for the price of a few trinkets. What cannot be bought is a woman’s respect, her confidence, her loyalty, and above all, her heart. You are a beautiful woman, Miss Fenton, but I take leave to tell you that within that comely form there beats a heart of iron.”