A Kind of Honor

by Joan Wolf

  Adam hadn’t meant for Gacé to join them, but he bowed his head meekly and agreed to go.

  From the moment he walked into Lady Worth’s ball he was a marked man. Adam was the heir to an ancient earldom and would inherit, besides the title, properties in four counties and a handsome fortune. At twenty-six he would have been a good catch if he were dull and ordinary. He was, in fact, neither.

  He was saved from having to go to Almack’s, which Nanda told him was the hunting ground for marriageable misses and their mothers, by his inability to dance. At the other parties he attended he remained on the sidelines, speaking to an array of girls to whom his hostess introduced him, and keeping an eye on Nanda.

  One evening in late May, when he was estimating Wellington must have launched his army, he was standing with Nanda near the terrace door of someone’s ballroom, when the Marquis of Rockingham approached. “Your Grace,” he said to Nanda, “I believe you promised me this dance.”

  She smiled. “So I did, my lord.” She moved out onto the floor and Adam, alone for a change, stood watching her. The light from the great chandelier above drew gleams from her dark hair and illuminated the clear skin and finely cut features of her face. She wore a gown of palest rose gauze over an underdress of ivory satin. Her eyes shone like candles. You could warm your hands at her, Adam thought suddenly.

  “How are you doing, Stanford?” a male voice inquired, and Adam turned to see Charles Doune, Nanda’s brother. He was technically escorting Nanda this evening, as Gacé thought the company beneath his notice. Adam liked Charles, and Charles liked Adam in about the same degree as he disliked Gacé.

  “Leg all right?” Charles asked. “Do you want to have a seat?”

  Adam, who didn’t want to let Nanda out of his sight, assured her brother that he was fine.

  “Damn Gacé,” Charles muttered. “Nanda doesn’t like to ask me to accompany her; she knows I hate these affairs.” He shot a look at Adam. “Unfortunately, you aren’t qualified to be an official escort, Stanford. Not related, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” Adam returned, his voice carefully neutral.

  Charles said, his eyes on Nanda as she danced, “I had Gacé pegged since first I met him, you know. So did Robert. Pity of it was, Nanda wouldn’t believe us. Had it in her head he was some kind of martyr, lonely and sorrowful and noble. Well, you know Nanda. It was a bait she couldn’t refuse.

  Adam, his face composed, said quietly, “How was your sister allowed to marry him if your feelings about him were so negative?”

  Charles heaved a sigh and turned to him. “It was my mother. Gacé charmed her too. Robert may have held out against one of them, but combined they put him to rout. He consented and they were married. My mother changed her mind about the Duc, but it was too late. And, of course, it is a point of honor with Nanda to keep a good face on her marriage.” His gaze turned back to the dance floor. Adam followed his eyes and saw Nanda smile at something her partner had said.

  “I have never liked anything less,” Charles said grimly, “and there’s not a damn thing I can do.”

  Adam carefully controlled his voice as he asked, “Why do you dislike Gacé so intensely, Doune?”

  Charles frowned and took a sip of his champagne. “It’s just … there’s something almost inhuman about him. One ought to feel some sort of relationship to other people. Gacé doesn’t seem to feel that – even to Nanda or his children. His colossal egotism recognizes only one thing: the superiority, the rights, the needs of Matthieu de Vaudobin. His wife and children only exist for him insofar as they are a mirror of his own self-esteem.” He laughed and the sound was not pleasant. “Poor little Ginny. You should have seen her before Nanda took her in hand. She was afraid to breathe because Papa might not approve of the way she did it.

  Adam suddenly felt exhausted. In a voice flat with fatigue he said, “There is one other thing besides himself that Gacé is surely devoted to.”

  “And what is that?” Charles’ voice was skeptical.

  “The restoration of the French monarchy.”

  Silence greeted this comment. Then Charles said slowly, “I’m not so sure of that, Stanford. I rather think the restoration of Gacé’s own lands and prestige outweighs the restoration of the Bourbons.” A smile suddenly lit his face. “How are you, old girl?” he said affectionately to his sister as she joined them.

  “I’m fine, Charles. Where have you been? Not in the card room, I hope.”

  “Don’t worry, Nanda, I haven’t been gambling away my fortune. I was having coze with a friend from Oxford.”

  “Well you missed the sight of Adam deftly cutting out Lord Burbidge and poor Mr. Charleton with Miss Marrenby. Took her off to supper right under their noses.”

  “The Marrenby, eh?” said Charles. “Good for you, Stanford. The looks of an angel and money too.”

  Adam, who had only turned to Miss Marenby when he saw Nanda was engaged with someone else, was annoyed. “I’m not quite at the altar yet,” he snapped.

  He saw Nanda give him an appraising glance, and then she yawned. “I am more than ready to leave if one or the other of you gentlemen will see me home.”

  Adam gave her a suspicious look, but the gaze that met his was perfectly innocent. “Oh, very well,” he said ungraciously, knowing she had seen his weariness, “Let us go.”

  Shortly thereafter they were in the Gacé carriage on their way home to Berkeley Square, where Adam was to spend a sleepless night turning over in his mind the things he had heard from Charles.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The day after his conversation with Charles Doune, Adam paid a visit to an old friend. Mr. Joseph Bottoms had served under Adam in the Peninsula until he was wounded. Adam had bought a tavern on Fleet Street, which he turned over to Mr. Bottoms on terms so generous as to make it an outright gift. It was to this tavern, the Green Oak, that he repaired early in the morning for a private conversation with ex-Sergeant Bottoms.

  “Damme, but it’s good to see you, my lord!” Bottoms said, his florid face bright with pleasure. “I see your leg’s on the mend. No more cane, eh?”

  Bottoms had taken Adam to a small room at the back of the tavern so they could be private. They sat facing each other across a scarred wooden table, two tankards of ale in front of them.

  “Yes, I’m doing quite well, Joe,” Adam said. “I was luckier than you were.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, my lord. If it hadna been for this,” he gestured to his empty sleeve, “I wouldna be here all snug and tidy, and about to get wed in the bargain.

  Adam smiled. “Good for you, Joe! Who’s the lucky woman?”

  “Her name’s Hetty James – her pa owns the stable on the next street. But you didna come here to listen to me run on about my business, my lord. What can I do for you?”

  The smile died away from Adam’s face. “It’s rather a delicate business, Joe. What we arrange in this room must go no further.”

  Bottoms looked at the young man seated across the table from him. Adam’s thick black hair fell slightly forward across his brow, there were long shadows under his high cheekbones and an unaccustomed tightness to the set of his mouth. Bottoms said soberly, “You have my word, my lord.”

  “Thank you.” Adam leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I want two men to keep the Duc de Gacé under surveillance at all times. I need reports on where he goes, who he sees and what he does.”

  “The Duc de Gacé? He a Frenchy?”

  “Yes. I am staying with him at present.”

  Bottoms raised his bushy eyebrows. “Something fishy about him, eh?”

  “Very.”

  “It don’t surprise me,” Bottoms said knowledgeably. “Them frogs is all the same.”

  Adam smiled. “Do you know some men who can do this sort of job reliably?”

  “Oh, aye, my lord. I know a few trustworthy men I can recommend to you.”

  Adam named the price he was willing to pay, and Bottoms’ eyebrows went up again. “That should d
o very well, my lord. Very well indeed.”

  “I need to speak to them myself. You can introduce me as Mr. Devon.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “Gacé cannot know he’s being followed.”

  Bottoms grinned at his old commander’s serious face. “Don’t you worry, my lord. The men I have in mind could follow Boney to the privy and never be noticed.”

  Adam laughed, and for the first time looked like the young man Bottoms remembered. “Have them here tomorrow at three,” he said.

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “Now,” Adam said, leaning back in his chair, “tell me when you’re getting married.”

  # # #

  Adam went next to the Horse Guards, where he spent several hours coping with the masses of paperwork lying on his desk. But his mind was in the Peninsula and the spring offensive, which Wellington had certainly launched by now. The complex strategy of the offensive involved the transportation of an enormously cumbersome bridging train from the Tagus River to the Douro – without the enemy realizing it was being moved. To help disguise this operation, Wellington was to lead a decoy army of 30,000 men along the Salamanca road. While the French were watching Wellington, the real invasion force of 60,000 would secretly cross the mountains of Tras os Montes by tracks the French deemed impassable. The 60,000 men would then cross the transported bridge, thus outflanking the French. Then – once the army was reunited at Toro - Wellington would pull off another surprise by turning north, not east, aiming for the French border at the west end of the Pyrenees.

  The problem that Adam was most worried about at the moment was that once Wellington turned his army north he would be abandoning his supply bases in Lisbon and Oporto. The plan was to supply the army from the Spanish port of Santander, using the ships of the Royal Navy. Adam’s greatest fear was that the French would learn of this plan, and send troops to Santander, making it impossible for the navy to land, which would strand the army without supplies.

  If the French were given advance knowledge of this plan, the campaign was doomed. The fact that the government had called Adam in was a measure of its concern. But Adam knew he could hardly accuse the Duc de Gacé, a major supporter of Louis XVIII, a bosom friend of Lord Liverpool, a man who was connected to nobility all over Europe, without hard, verifiable proof. How to get that proof was Adam’s greatest problem. A further concern Adam tried not to contemplate was the effect on Gacé’s family if the Duc was successfully identified as a traitor.

  # # #

  Adam was still thinking about Gacé when he reached Berkeley Square. He was walking from the stables to the front door of Gacé House, his brows drawn together in concentration, when he heard the laughter of children. He looked up to see Ginny and Marc playing with a dog on the pavement in front of the house. Adam’s frown disappeared and he smiled at the children’s excitement. The front door opened and Nanda, wearing only a walking dress, her arms folded against the afternoon chill, came out. As she reached the children the dog pulled away from Marc’s hold and darted into the cobbled street. In a flash Marc was after him.

  At that moment a tilbury harnessed to a fast-moving bay swung into the square. With a cry Nanda flung herself into the street, dragging Marc from under the hooves of the oncoming horse and sheltering him with her body. To the horrified Adam it seemed as if the horse would surely trample on her. Then the bay reared up, swung to one side by the strong hands of the driver.

  The horse was plunging, the driver was swearing, and Nanda was on her knees in the street, with Marc in her arms. He was unconscious and blood was streaming down his forehead from a gash on his forehead.

  Adam’s heart was pounding. She was all right. Thanks be to God, she was all right. He yelled a thank you to the driver, who had got his horse under control, and went to kneel next to Nanda, whose dress was soaking up Marc’s blood. She looked at him wildly. “He’s hurt, Adam! The horse must have kicked him in the head!”

  Adam kept his voice level. “The horse never touched him, Nanda. The driver got him out of the way. Marc must have hit his head on one of the cobbles when you dragged him to safety.” He put his handkerchief in her hand. “Hold this over the cut.”

  “He wasn’t kicked?”

  “No, I saw the whole thing,” he repeated reassuringly. “He just knocked himself out on one of the cobbles.”

  Some of the wildness left her eyes and she took the handkerchief from him and pressed it over Marc’s cut forehead. As she held it Adam quickly ran his hands over the child’s small, sturdy body, feeling for broken bones.

  “He’s all right, I think,” he said. “Keep that cloth tight over his forehead, Nanda. I’m going to carry him into the house.” He turned his head to Ginny, who was standing behind him, her hazel eyes dilated in horror. “Run into the house and tell March to send for the doctor. This cut will need to be stitched.”

  Ginny ran. Adam slid his arms under Marc and lifted the injured child smoothly into his arms. He rose to his feet and walked up the stairs and into the house, Nanda close beside him, keeping the makeshift bandage in place.

  “Bring him into the drawing room and put him on the sofa,” she said breathlessly. Marc was beginning to stir as Adam laid the child down. Nanda bent to kiss his cheek and Marc’s eyes fluttered open. He saw his mother’s strained face and immediately began to cry.

  “It’s all right, darling,” she said. Mama’s here. Do you hurt anywhere, Marc?”

  “My leg,” he whimpered. “My leg hurts.”

  The butler announced from the doorway, “I’ve sent Henry for the doctor, Your Grace.”

  “Good. Get me a knife, March,” Adam said.

  “A knife!” Nanda looked at him in shock. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to cut that boot off his foot.” Adam said matter-of-factly.

  “Oh.” She nodded her agreement, then went back to soothing Marc.

  When March handed Adam the knife, he slit Marc’s boot down the side and eased it off his foot. The ankle was already swelling.

  It seemed like forever but it was only ten minutes before the doctor arrived. “Thank God you’re here, Dr. Philips,” Nanda said. She stood so the doctor could look at the cut on Marc’s forehead.

  He spoke gently to the child, peered at the gash, then said to Nanda, “It’s not very deep. I’ll just clean it and stitch it, Your Grace.”

  Marc shrieked at the word ‘stitch’ and Nanda’s face went from white to alabaster. Adam stepped up to the sofa and looked down at the overwrought child. “Marc,” he said in the voice he had once used to his troops, “I am ashamed of you. I thought you had more bottom than this.”

  “I do have good bottom,” Marc whispered, tears still running down his face.

  “Then let me see it.” Adam bent closer to the little boy. “I know it hurts and I know you’re frightened but, believe me, you are not badly injured. The doctor will be able to fix both your head and your leg if you just cooperate and let him. If you let a little accident like this throw you, you will never make a soldier.”

  Marc’s brown eyes, so like his mother’s, were fastened on Adam’s steady blue ones. The child gritted his teeth and said heroically to the doctor, “You can stitch it.” Then, with the hint of a sob in his voice, “Will you hold my hand, Mama?”

  “Of course I will, darling.” Nanda sat on the floor beside him, his small dirty hand grasped comfortingly in hers.

  Adam went to put a reassuring arm around Ginny, who had been watching the whole scene from her stance in front of the window. “Come, Ginny, we’ll leave Marc to your mother and the doctor. Suppose we go upstairs to the schoolroom and have a cup of tea.”

  Adam sat with Ginny and her governess for half an hour, then went back to his own room. He was sitting in front of the fireplace reading a book when there came a soft knock on the door. He opened it to find Nanda standing there. She said, “I came to tell you Marc is all right – sleeping, in fact. His ankle isn’t broken, only sprained.�
��

  She still wore the dress she had on earlier, but now it was stained with dirt from the road and Marc’s blood. Her voice wobbled a little as she added, “Thank you, Adam. You were a great help.”

  He reached out, took her arm, and steered her into the room to the chair where he had just been sitting. “Sit,” he said briskly. Then, as she hesitated, “Don’t worry, I’ll leave the door open. It will all be perfectly proper.”

  With a shaken laugh she dropped into the chair, then bent to drop her head to her lap.

  Adam leaned his shoulders against the mantle, watching her but saying nothing. When finally she lifted her head she was still pale, but the momentary faintness had passed. Her beautiful eyes met Adam’s, a curious gravity in them. “I don’t know why I had to save that for you.”

  “You were upset,” he said, his voice expressionless. “It was a natural reaction.”

  She smiled. “You are too damn competent, that’s the problem. It makes one tend to relax one’s own efforts, to let down.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “Yes, it is.” Her voice was definite and she rose to her feet. “It’s always dangerous to grow too dependent.”

  She stood before him, slender and disheveled as a child, but the expression in her eyes was not childlike at all. She was so close he could feel the warmth of her skin. They looked at each other for a long moment, then Nanda turned and walked to the door. Into the silence of the room she said steadily, “Thank you, Adam, for your help this afternoon.”

  She stepped through the open door, turned, and closed it firmly behind her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Adam was still at the breakfast table the following morning when Nanda came down. She had not slept well and awakened to a headache. The sight of Adam’s blue eyes smiling at her from behind his lowered newspaper make very clear the reason for her sleeplessness. She had to keep herself from becoming too dependent on Viscount Stanford.

  One of the bitter lessons her marriage had taught her was that she must depend only upon herself. Adam was a good friend, she told herself sternly, but she must not get accustomed to having him around. No one must be allowed to weaken her ability to shoulder the responsibility for her children. She must not get used to the luxury of leaning on someone else’s strength.