Major Lord David

by Sherry Lynn Ferguson

  Do you remember our friend, Miss Athington? I have just had the opportunity to renew the acquaintance at a dance given by the Prince of Orange. Miss Athington inquired as to your health; I could not assure her of it. I would ask how you do, Miss Caswell, if I did not fear the inquiry would impose upon you too great a burden of response.

  Indeed, I hope you will not be offended by this communication from me. However presumptuous, I claim the right based on the circumstances under which we parted, which were-to my mind-entirely amicable. I have no wish to prove a nuisance. I know that by now you must have written your father regarding the state of your heart, though in all these weeks I have heard naught of the matter from mine. But surely, whatever the case, Sir Moreton will understand that such a course never did run smooth.

  Please forgive this letter’s length. I am not usually long-winded, but I find I miss your company. Believe me sincere in wishing you well and happy.

  She could hardly complain that this letter was “cryptic”; she could hardly complain that it was terse. But in giving her less over which she might puzzle, he had also given her imagination less room. Were his sentiments still as strong as he had earlier implied? Despite the warmth of its tone, the missive struck her as merely genial and somehow reserved-as though he were just there amid a roomful of callers and speaking not to her alone.

  “Is it bad news?” Ephie asked sharply. And Billie was at once conscious of holding the letter limply open upon her lap.

  “No-no, not at all.”

  “You were frowning.”

  Billie forced a smile. “He tells me of the unease in Brussels. There is little new in that.”

  Ephie’s gaze was too discerning. “It looks a longish letter,” she said, “simply to speak of ‘unease.’”

  “He writes also of the preparations for war. And that he has just seen Miss Athington in Brussels.”

  “Indeed?” Again Ephie’s gaze was too bright. “She always appeared to have quite a preference for the major’s company.”

  Billie gratefully turned her attention to the tea that had just been brought to them. She would reread the letter later. There had been something encouraging, perhaps, in his comment that “such a course never did run smooth” The allusion, as she remembered it, was to Shakespeare, and the course of true love never running smooth.

  “I never do take milk in my tea, Billie dear,” Ephie reminded her.

  “Yes, I am so sorry, Auntie.” As she poured another cup, feeling her heightened color, she could hear Monty’s angry voice in the hall. When her brother joined them in the parlor, he looked furious.

  “Kit has run off,” he snapped. “Borrowed more funds from a moneylender. A moneylender, Billie! And without leave from his regiment he maneuvered a spot as an army aide in Brussels. How they shall employ the bedlamite, I haven’t a clue! Probably have him polish the general’s boots! Well, he was wild for going over and action. Now he has what he wanted! Might even be there by now. No one’s seen him for two days. But I shall have to explain it to Father!”

  Billie could not restrain a shiver. “Dumont must have aided him to-”

  “Dumont?” Morty scoffed. “Dumont wouldn’t have helped him do anything of the sort! Use your head, Billie! Dumont holds most of Kit’s vowels. What creditor wishes to see his debtor decamp, especially with the fair chance he might never come back? Oh, don’t-don’t look like that, Billie! No one of sense will have him anywhere near an actual battle. But Dumont has to be livid. And ‘twill bring disgrace on us all. Kit owes thousands! I’ve just left Esther weeping. She’s afraid her father will now refuse the marriage.”

  “Surely not,” Billie ventured. “The debts are Kit’s-”

  “Devil it! Of course they are! But Father might feel honorbound to make good. And that means less for the settlements.”

  “My brother is not a numbskull, Morty,” Ephie inserted severely. “He would never be so harebrained as to jeopardize your chance at a match with Miss Urquhart”

  “P’rhaps so, Auntie. But Mother might prevail upon him to do anything-anything in Kit’s interest!” he added bitterly. And wheeling about, he strode, red-faced, from the room. They heard his heavy tread echoing on the hall’s marble stairs.

  “They are so short of men,” Billie said, looking to her aunt. Lord David’s comments were fresh in her mind. “Mightn’t they simply use Kit wherever they might need him? Even if he is quite unprepared?”

  “They are just as likely to punish him, Billie, for failing to obtain proper leave. We must simply wait and see. But do recall that Kit is a good horseman and a fair marksman. Though he is the most ill-disciplined rascal in the world, and clearly lacks necessary sense, he is not so entirely unprepared.”

  Billie did recall, and tried to set her mind at ease. But the knowledge that two men she held dear were now living at the same threatened Belgian address did not further peaceful slumbers.

  The third of June brought a break in the weather and a lawn party at the gorgeous Richmond estate of Lord and Lady Turnbull. Morty, restored to the good graces of his fiancee’s family by an assurance that Kit Caswell’s debts would in no way affect marriage plans, was once again squiring Esther Urquhart. Morty now seemed oblivious to all but his own contentment. Their father, Sir Moreton, had refused-most surprisingly, in Billie’s estimation-to accept that Kit’s debts should be met from Morty’s intended legacy. Though her father had not gone so far as to deny any obligation on the part of the Caswell family, Sir Moreton had for once-encouragingly and very pointedly-proved deaf to the entreaties of his indulgent lady, who had always chosen to aid the wayward Christopher in everything.

  While Morty paraded the Turnbulls’ extensive grounds with Esther, Billie and her aunt enjoyed a similar walk with Lord Hayden, who had sought them out upon their arrival. Billie was feeling generous to the greater part of humanity. She had had two days in which to conclude, after frequent readings of his letter, that David intended to renew his suit, and on the basis of the warmest sentiments. Else he would never have written so much so soon after seeing the beauteous Charis. Billie’s qualms regarding Kit, Dumont, and Napoleon Bonaparte himself had to be subsidiary.

  “You are smiling, Miss Caswell,” Hayden remarked. “You find this outing entertaining?”

  “I have always preferred to be out-of-doors, my lord. And after such a bout of wet weather, the sun, weak as it is, is particularly welcome.”

  “It certainly flatters you,” he said with a bow to her. “I have never seen you in finer looks.”

  “I thank you, my lord.” She might have suspected Hayden of flummery, but his blue gaze was sincere and guileless. She realized that she rarely looked directly at him, perhaps because those eyes reminded her so disturbingly of his brother.

  But he immediately threw her into confusion by asking, “You have heard from David?”

  “I have-that is, yes,” she managed. “I had a letter from him two days ago”

  “He must have been unusually communicative, as I also had word from him two days ago, from Brussels. Perhaps we needn’t compare notes” Hayden smiled. “He was certainly well.”

  “He sounded so”

  “And busy about his affairs.”

  “Yes”

  “He had been dining and dancing in the city twice.”

  “Twice?”

  They walked on. The party’s lively chatter, now flooding the lawn and drifting out across the river, sounded like the noisy hum of many bees.

  “The deprivations and hardship associated with soldiering have never appealed to me,” Hayden confessed. “I should be quite out of sorts without lighter detail now and then.”

  “Certainly,” Billie agreed abruptly.

  Hayden’s eyebrows rose. “You were meant to protest at that, Miss Billie, and assure me that soldiering should suit me admirably.”

  “Oh, but I meant-my lord, you misunderstood me. Of course I agree that one must understand a soldier’s hardships and deprivation.”

 
Again he smiled. “David is a most obliging fellow,” he said.

  “Yes”

  “He finds it very difficult to say no”

  “Apparently.”

  Hayden laughed. “You were meant to protest at that as well, Miss Billie. For I assure you that my brother is as stubborn as a man might be. He would not command the hundreds he does if he yielded as easily as that”

  Billie glanced away from Hayden’s amused gaze and, despite the shade from her bonnet, shielded her eyes as she looked back toward the gaily-decorated party tents, set like a caravan amid an oasis of towering oaks.

  “Why do you tease me so, my lord?” she asked.

  “Because you mustn’t worry,” he said simply. “No man ever had a truer heart-should you desire it.” Again he bowed to her. And she permitted him to lead her back toward the company. Billie was aware that their amble had been closely observed; Lord Hayden’s attentions were always remarked. But it was a large group after all, and Ephie had accompanied them. Billie ignored the speculative glances and proceeded to make her own way across the grass to the site of the archery competition, where she was expected. But May Sanders stopped her.

  “Shall one brother do as well as another for you then, Miss Caswell?” she asked pertly. Her tiny hand rested possessively on Lord Grenby’s arm. With the comment, Grenby attempted to force an apologetic smile. Again Billie wondered how the gentleman could so promptly transfer his interest from one lady to another, one so entirely different. But that, indeed, was the very essence of May’s question.

  “My family and that of the Duke of Braughton are Leicestershire neighbors, Miss Sanders,” she reminded her.

  “Oh, yes, I see!” May said with a laugh, and, pulling upon Grenby’s arm, she led him off toward the Turnbulls’ famous yew maze.

  “‘Tis a most puzzling thing,” Ronald Dumont said behind her. “I had credited Grenby with better taste”

  Billie wheeled to Dumont. She had scarcely exchanged ten words with the man, though he had been so frequently in Kit’s company this spring. Billie knew him to be a blackguard, a rogue who had so thoroughly entrapped her brother in debt that Billie feared Kit would never be free of him. That in itself would have made Dumont ugly in her eyes, though in his finery, with his hair carefully coiffed in the Grecian style, he appeared no less a gentleman than anyone else attending the afternoon party. Dumont was easily a decade older than Kit and, in Billie’s estimation, should have been honorable enough not to press the younger man’s back to the wall.

  “Lord Grenby has fine taste,” she countered coldly. She thought Dumont’s eyes beady. “Miss Sanders is an acknowledged Incomparable.”

  Dumont bowed to her. “But she is not as incomparable as his previous interest.”

  “You presume,” she snapped, and turned away from him.

  But he stepped closer and blocked her path. “Miss Caswell, your brother has chosen to flee his obligations.”

  “That is unfortunate, sir, for you. It has nothing whatever to do with me”

  “Doesn’t it? Should you really like to see Christopher Caswell in filthy Fleet prison?”

  “It will not go that far.”

  “What shall you do to prevent it?”

  Billie’s hands tightened into fists. For one moment she wished she were again twelve years old and might give the man a hearty shove. She would enjoy ruffling his smooth confidence. Instead she fixed him with a glare.

  “Do you threaten me?”

  “Threaten?” His smile was humorless. “Rather `offer,’ Miss Caswell. Offer you a way to cancel your brother’s debts and free the Caswells from disgrace.”

  “Your `offer’ is the disgrace, Mr. Dumont,” she said, understanding him only too clearly.

  Again he smiled. “How delightfully refreshing you are! By all means, let us be frank, Miss Caswell. I acknowledge my interest in your portion. I also acknowledge that you are beautiful and that I admire your spirit. Should you desire more? Perhaps you would despise me less were I less honest-and pretended to sentiments that you would know to be false.”

  “I could never despise you less.” She watched the blaze of anger settle into his features, but that anger was quickly controlled and masked. “And as for your `honesty,’ you make a mockery of the word, Mr. Dumont. You would describe thieves as `honest’ in their thievery.”

  As she stepped away from him, he spoke to her back. “Take care you do not trade your brother for your absent major, Miss Caswell.”

  But Billie refused to turn back. Morty and Esther Urquhart awaited her at the archery pavilion, where several ladies had already fielded their first shots.

  “You took your time,” Morty muttered. “Here Esther already had to take a turn, and the wind blew her arrow clear away from the target.”

  Billie forbore to comment, though she’d perceived not the slightest bit of breeze all afternoon. She smiled at Esther, who held the bow as though it might turn viciously upon her.

  “Miss Urquhart, do let me see the bow,” she offered, taking it from her trembling hands. “There is something wrong here with the tension.” Billie made great play of checking it, while Esther sighed in relief and Morty viewed her with a skeptical eye.

  “What did Dumont want?” he demanded.

  “Nothing,” Billie said calmly, glancing at Esther. Sometimes Morty showed no tact. “You must let me try the next shot, Miss Urquhart, as I fear there is a problem with the bow.”

  Esther gratefully yielded, apparently taking great delight as Billie sent the next arrow flying to the very center of the target, instantly improving the duo’s standing.

  “Do take the next three as well, Miss Caswell,” she urged, “as it’s best three of five. And no one said we must split them”

  “‘Tis just a game, Miss Urquhart. Everyone who wishes must have a turn.”

  “Oh, but I should rather win it,” Esther conceded. And Billie realized with some surprise that there were possibilities in the demure Miss Urquhart, possibilities of which her staid brother was most probably unaware.

  Billie’s subsequent two bull’s-eyes, though one was rather unsatisfactorily just within bounds, put them in the lead. Perhaps, then, the flush of victory made her bold-or the frustration of knowing that she could not touch the man temporarily robbed her of reason-because Billie pivoted and leveled her remaining arrow at Ronald Dumont, who had been observing the competition from the side of the lawn. She heard Morty’s hissed “Billie!” and the gasp from those behind her in the crowd. But the satisfaction of holding Dumont captive, even for a moment, was too great to resist.

  “I have you in my sights, Mr. Dumont,” she challenged.

  “I assure you, I am all aquiver, Miss Caswell.” Despite the pun and his apparent sangfroid, Billie thought Dumont’s gaze watchful.

  She was debating which part of the man might prove more vulnerable-his wizened heart or his evil, calculating headwhen a cool hand closed firmly over her tensed fingers, effectively eliminating any risk to either piece of Dumont.

  “This is not the way,” Hayden said calmly above her head. “Not with one like Dumont”

  Across the lawn, Ronald Dumont was laughing, an infuriating sound that made Billie itch to realign her arrow.

  “Are you also your brother’s keeper, then, Hayden,” he called, “that you must be tasked with controlling the ill-tempered cat? I vow you shall find your days numbered”

  “Oh, undoubtedly!” Hayden returned easily. “But I must happily bear them, as the lady has graciously consented to become my wife-and my marchioness.”

  David supposed that the evening’s duty was better than that of the day before. Rather than standing about a hot roadside in reserve and under fire, they had been tasked with fortifying the defenses of a farmland chateau and its surroundings. The interiors were dry, the men need not anticipate sleeping on the ground, and, given a fortunate dispersion, they would have a roof over their heads for the night. As the rain had fallen unrelentingly since the afternoon’s
thunderstorm, the roof would be a luxury.

  David had seen the place several times during the past three months while traveling outside his billet in Enghien. The chateau Hougoumont-“Gum Hill”-was very near two major roads south from Brussels, en route to the towns of Nivelles and Charleroi on the French border. As the countryside had been on alert for weeks for signs of incursions by Bonaparte and his troops, the area was much reviewed. He, in fact, had been one of many to review it.

  Yet Bonaparte’s initial thrust had still surprised them. Wellington had even been heard to claim that the French emperor had “humbugged” him. Wellington and his staff had been caught off guard; indeed, word was that many had been pulled abruptly, at an early hour of the morning, from the Duchess of Richmond’s ball in Brussels. David, thankfully, had not attended the ball-he’d had no interest in attending, despite a plea from Miss Athington.

  The allied forces had been set into motion by moonlightto gather south of Brussels near the crossroads at Quatre Bras, in an effort to counter the French. David and the Household Guards, including some of his own regiment of infantry, the Coldstream, had marched nearly twenty-five miles-to stand there in the hot sun amid tall fields of rye and corn-and coolly hope that artillery fire overshooting the battle south of them did not strike their ranks. Even when the order had come that the men might lie down, and David had dismounted, there had still been casualties, though there had been no enemy at which to fire. The troops he had accompanied had not been called to the front line, though Captain Bowles’ company had. They had heard much from the clash ahead of them, but the thriving grain had obscured almost all. The only evidence of battle had been the noise and the casualties passing to the rear along the road. That had been enough to make the newer recruits pale.

  David himself did not fear the fighting; he simply wished it over. Yet it was not to be over soon.

  Though Wellington had not “lost” at Quatre Bras, the result of the previous day’s engagement had to be considered inconclusive. The allies had been victorious along the roadway; by late afternoon Bowles’ Coldstream unit had even moved in front of the contested farmhouse south of the crossroads. But their allies, the Prussians under Field Marshal von Blucher, had been defeated farther east, at Ligny. The Prussians had lost at least 14,000 infantry and cavalry. Panicked survivorsor perhaps they were deserters-had raced back to Brussels with the news that Bonaparte had “won”-that the allies were doomed. Seasoned veteran of the Peninsular war that he was, David knew that more was to come.