The Bargain

by Mary J. Putney

“He does seem to enjoy your company. You were just out riding with him, weren’t you? But he has stayed well within the bounds of propriety. Morning calls and dances at balls, with the occasional ride or drive. Unless there is more that I don’t know about?” Her sentence rose at the end, turning her words into a worried question.

  “He has always behaved as a perfect gentleman,” Jocelyn said with regret. A pity that the duke hadn’t crossed the line of propriety; he was not the kind of man to do that with her unless he had serious intentions. “But he has spent more time with me than with any other eligible female. He’s in his mid-thirties, and it’s time he set up his nursery.”

  Lady Laura frowned. “You’ve set yourself an impossible task, my dear. Candover has perfectly good cousins, so he has no need to marry to get an heir. He’s been on the town for years and has never come close to marrying. He’s had his share of mistresses, but always widows or other men’s wives, never a marriageable young woman.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “If you want him as a lover, marry someone else and he’ll probably oblige, at least for a while. But he’ll never make a husband.”

  “Blunt talk indeed.” Unnerved by her aunt’s assessment, Jocelyn considered the last months for the space of a dozen stitches. Had she imagined the duke’s interest? No, he found her attractive; she’d had enough experience of men to recognize genuine admiration. And the attraction was more than simple physical awareness of a member of the opposite sex. “There is a . . . a real sense of connection between us, Aunt Laura, perhaps because we’ve both been pursued by fortune hunters for years. But it’s more than that. I think there could be a great deal more.”

  “It’s possible,” her aunt said gently. “But you’ve run out of time, my dear. If he hasn’t offered for you yet, I can’t imagine that you’ll bring him up to scratch in a mere four weeks. If you’re determined to marry no one but him, you’d better start packing. Elvira will want to move in here the day after your birthday. She wouldn’t dare put you out, of course, but I assume you have no desire to stay on at her sufferance.”

  “I will not give her the satisfaction of getting what should be mine.” Jocelyn stabbed her needle into her embroidery with unnecessary force. Being no fool, she’d already realized that it was wildly unlikely that Candover would move from admiration to matrimony in the weeks left. “I have an . . . an alternative plan.”

  “One of your other suitors? Lord MacKenzie would marry you in a heartbeat, and I think he’d make a wonderful husband.” Lady Laura dimpled. “Of course I’m biased, since he reminds me of Andrew.”

  Jocelyn shook her head. MacKenzie was pleasant and good-looking, but not for her. “I’m thinking of accepting Sir Harold Winterson. It’s something of a game between us that he proposes to me regularly, but he’d be delighted if I accepted. The man must be seventy if he’s a day—too old to be interested in exercising his marital rights. I’d fulfill the terms of Father’s will, and it wouldn’t be that long until I have my freedom again. If I’m a widow, Candover will regard me in quite a different light.”

  Lady Laura almost dropped her tea cup. “What an appalling thought! To marry a man while hoping for his death would be wicked. Foolish, too. I knew a girl who married a man Sir Harold’s age, hoping to become a rich widow soon. That was twenty years ago, and her husband is still very much alive, while she has lost her youth.”

  As Jocelyn’s face fell, Laura added, “Besides, there is no age at which one can assume a man will not be interested in exercising his marital rights.”

  Jocelyn shivered at the thought. “You’ve convinced me. Sir Harold is a sweet old gentleman, but I have no desire to be a wife to him.” She bit her lower lip. “While the idea of marrying a man at death’s door has merit, Sir Harold is quite vigorous for his age. One would have to be sure the man was really dying.”

  “I’d like to believe that I’ve dissuaded you through moral logic, but I have the dismal feeling that it’s only the practical problems that discourage you. If you have any more outrageous schemes in mind, don’t tell me.” Laura regarded her niece gravely. “Marriages of convenience may be the way of the world, but I’d hoped you would find something better. A true meeting of minds and spirits such as Andrew and I have.”

  Trying not to be envious, Jocelyn replied, “Few people are so fortunate.”

  Unable to deny that, her aunt said, “Does it have to be Candover? If not MacKenzie, perhaps Lord Cairn. I’m sure he’d be a kind and loving husband.”

  “But I like Candover, Aunt Laura. Men are not pairs of interchangeable gloves. In the seven years since my presentation, I’ve met no one except Candover whom I can imagine as my husband. You had plenty of suitors in your day. Would you have wanted to wed and bed anyone other than Uncle Andrew?”

  “Not after I met Drew.” Lady Laura drew her hands together, as if debating whether to say more. “Darling, I’ve sometimes wondered. Does your . . . your reluctance to marry have anything to do with your mother?”

  Jocelyn said in a tone that could chip ice, “We will not discuss my mother!” Realizing how immoderate that sounded, she said more calmly, “I scarcely remember the woman. Why should she have any effect on my marital choices?”

  Her aunt frowned, but knew better than to say more. Willing to change the subject, she lifted a letter from the table next to her chair. “I’ve just received this from Andrew. He and his regiment are safely installed in Paris now. I imagine the Allies will occupy the city for some time while the French government is restored.”

  “Did he mention any of the officers I met in Spain?” Jocelyn said with quick concern. She and her aunt had pored over the casualty lists after Waterloo. In the weeks that had passed, some of the wounded would have died.

  Laura scanned the letter, reading aloud comments about officers that Jocelyn knew. “Here’s a bit of good news. Captain Dalton has been sent to the Duke of York Hospital here in London. He has a severe leg injury, but his life is no longer in danger.”

  “Good news indeed.” Jocelyn smiled reminiscently. “Remember how Richard rescued me when I got lost trying to find Uncle Andrew’s winter quarters?”

  “Remember!” Laura rolled her eyes in mock horror. “I could show you the exact gray hairs I acquired when you rode into Fuente Guinaldo with all those soldiers and not so much as an abigail to bear you company.”

  “The maid I had then was such a hen-hearted creature,” Jocelyn said defensively. “How was I to know that she would flatly refuse to leave Lisbon?”

  “The girl had a good deal better sense than you did,” her aunt said dryly. “It’s a miracle that you weren’t robbed and murdered by French troops, bandits, guerrillas, or heaven knows who else. You were mad to come bolting into a war zone like that.”

  Privately Jocelyn agreed. That had been one of the occasions when her headstrong streak had erupted, despite her endless efforts to curb it. “I’d made inquiries, and it seemed as if the journey would not be unduly dangerous. I’ll admit I was a bit worried when my guide ran off and I had no idea where to find the regiment, but I was well armed, and you know that I’m an excellent shot. After Captain Dalton and his patrol found me, I was perfectly safe.”

  “All I can say is that you have a highly capable guardian angel.” Lady Laura consulted the letter again. “Major Lancaster is at the York Hospital, too, but I don’t believe you met him. He was on detached duty with the Spanish army the winter you spent with us.” Her eyes became bleak. “He’s dying, I’m afraid.”

  Jocelyn leaned across and briefly laid her hand on her aunt’s. The Waterloo casualty lists had been painful for her but far worse for her aunt, who had spent her life as an army wife and now saw her friends decimated.

  Having met many officers through Lady Laura, Jocelyn sympathized deeply, because she’d liked the kind of men they were. Unlike the perfumed gallants of London, what they did mattered. Perhaps that was why she was attracted to the Duke of Candover, whose fine tailoring could not conceal his intelligence or air of purpose
. He was considered an exemplary landlord, she knew, which spoke well of his character, and he was a force for principled reform in the House of Lords. Political views were another area where they were in tune.

  Yes, Candover was the one. She liked him very well—but not too well.

  If only she had more time for their relationship to grow and deepen. She’d observed the duke carefully and believed he would marry if he found the right woman. A woman of his rank, and a similar steady temperament.

  But time had almost run out, and if she waited to bring him around, she would lose her patrimony. Moreover, if she was reduced to living on the modest stipend she would have left, she would lose most of her opportunities to meet Candover socially. She would no longer be a glamorous, much sought after heiress, but a woman of modest fortune past the first flush of youth. She shuddered at the thought. That was quite, quite unacceptable. Her rank in life was one thing she had always been sure of.

  Damn her father! They had been so close—yet in the end, he’d betrayed her as surely as her mother. . . .

  She cut off the thought with the skill of long practice. Better to think of what she could do to ensure that she would have both her inheritance and the husband she wanted. She had a month still, and a Kendal of Charlton never surrendered, even if she was of Charlton no more.

  Returning to mundane matters, she said, “I think I’ll call on Captain Dalton at the hospital tomorrow morning. Will you join me?”

  “I can’t tomorrow or the next day, but tell him I’ll be there the day after without fail.” Lady Laura rose and excused herself to write an answer to her husband’s letter.

  Alone in the drawing room, Jocelyn’s mind returned to her dilemma. The obvious solution was to marry one of her suitors and have a fashionable marriage, each of them going their own way after an heir or two had been produced. Yet the idea revolted her. She didn’t want to be a brood mare to a man she barely knew, nor did she aspire to become one of Candover’s passing mistresses. She wanted to be his wife. She was resigned to the fact that few if any husbands were faithful, but at least if Candover strayed, he would be discreet about it. If she was really lucky, he might realize that his wife was all the woman he needed.

  Despite her aunt’s revulsion at the thought, a swift widowhood would be preferable to a loveless marriage of convenience, for that would give her freedom and the time she needed to win Candover’s heart. But not Sir Harold Winterson. Lady Laura was right about that—it wouldn’t do to marry the old gentleman and find herself in the distasteful position of longing for his death so she could regain her freedom.

  Jocelyn tilted her head to gaze at the gorgeously painted and gilded drawing room ceiling. As a child she often lay on the floor and made up stories about the paintings in the elaborate medallions. She loved this house almost as much as Charlton Abbey.

  The unruly side of her nature surged forth again, and she swore an oath that one of her warrior ancestors would have approved. She might never win the duke’s love, and Charlton was forever lost, but Cromarty House was hers. No matter what it took, she would find a way to keep her home out of Elvira’s grasping little hands.

  Chapter 2

  The soft footfalls of her maid awakened Jocelyn from a restless slumber. She rolled over with a yawn and sat up so a tray of hot chocolate and bread rolls could be arranged over her lap. “Thank you, Marie.” Noticing a small frown on the girl’s face, she added, “Is all well belowstairs?”

  Welcoming the opportunity to talk, Marie Renault said with an enchanting trace of French accent, “The footman, Hugh Morgan?”

  Jocelyn nodded encouragingly. Morgan was a handsome young Welshman who had created quite a flutter among the maids when he started work a few months before. Marie appeared to be the girl who had secured his interest.

  “His brother, Rhys, a dragoon who was wounded at Waterloo, has just arrived at the York Hospital here in London. Hugh is most anxious to visit him, but his next half day isn’t for almost a week.” The girl gave her mistress a hopeful glance.

  Had Rhys Morgan come over on the same troop ship as Richard Dalton? So many wounded men. Repressing a sigh, Jocelyn sipped her rich, steaming chocolate. “How convenient. This morning I’m going to call on a friend at the York Hospital. Morgan can be my escort and see his brother while I am visiting my friend.”

  “Oh, excellent, milady. He will be most happy.” Expression lighter, Marie crossed to the wardrobe room to prepare her mistress’s morning costume. Jocelyn broke open her warm bread roll, wryly wishing that all problems could be solved as easily as Hugh Morgan’s.

  The Duke of York Military Hospital was dismal, a drab monolith dedicated to the treatment of seriously wounded soldiers. Jocelyn wondered with black humor if the objective was to be so depressing that patients would do their best to recover quickly.

  Steeling herself, she marched up the wide steps, her footman close behind. Hugh Morgan was tall, with broad shoulders and a melodious Welsh voice. He was a pleasant addition to the household, but today concern for his brother shadowed his eyes.

  The building was crowded with casualties, and it took time to find Rhys Morgan’s ward. Jocelyn experienced sights and smells that knotted her stomach, while Hugh’s country complexion acquired a greenish-white tinge.

  Rhys Morgan lay in a corner cot of perhaps forty jammed into a room too small for its population. Some patients sat on their beds or talked in small groups, but most lay in stoic silence. The bare walls created an unrestful clamor, and a miasma of illness and death hung heavy in the air.

  Hugh scanned the room. “Rhys, lad!” He instinctively started to push past Jocelyn, then glanced back apologetically. With a nod, she released him to his brother.

  The wounded man had been staring at the ceiling, but he looked up as his name was called. Though the face was startlingly like his brother’s, Rhys Morgan wore an expression of blank despair that was only partly lifted as Hugh rushed up and grabbed his hand, Welsh words pouring forth.

  The raw feeling in Hugh’s face made Jocelyn uncomfortable. As she shifted her gaze away, her eyes were caught and held at the bottom of Rhys’s bed. Where there should have been two legs under the covers, there was only one. The left had been amputated just below the knee.

  She swallowed before approaching to touch Hugh’s arm. He turned with a guilty start. “I’m sorry, my lady. I forgot myself.”

  She gave a smile that included both of them. “No apologies are necessary. Corporal Morgan, may I introduce myself? I am Lady Jocelyn Kendal, and I have the honor of being your brother’s employer.”

  Rhys propped himself up against the wall behind his cot, alarmed at the vision of elegance before him. With a bob of his head, he stammered, “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  Hugh hissed, “Call her ‘my lady,’ you looby.”

  A wave of color rose under the fair Celtic skin as the soldier attempted to apologize. Wanting to alleviate his embarrassment, Jocelyn said, “It’s of no importance, Corporal. Tell me, are you two twins?”

  “Nay, I’m a year the elder,” Rhys replied. “But we’ve oft been taken as twins.”

  “You are very alike,” Jocelyn remarked.

  “Not any more,” Rhys said bitterly as he glanced at the flat bedding where his leg should have been.

  Jocelyn colored with embarrassment. Deciding the brothers would be better off without her inhibiting presence, she said, “I’ll go find my friend now and leave you to visit. When I’m finished, I’ll return here, Morgan.”

  Hugh looked uncertain. “I should go with you, my lady.”

  “Nonsense, what could happen to me in a military hospital?” she replied. “Corporal Morgan, do you know where the officers are quartered?”

  He straightened when she asked for help. “The floor above, ma’am. My lady.”

  “Thank you. I shall see you both later.” Jocelyn left the room, conscious of the stares that followed her. Impossible not to remember that while she had been living in comfort in London, these
men had been getting blown to bits for their country.

  Climbing a staircase to the next level, she found a long, empty corridor with individual doors instead of open wards. As she hesitated, a thickset man of middle years strode purposefully from a nearby room. Guessing he was a physician, she said, “I’m looking for Captain Richard Dalton of the 95th Rifles. Is he in this area?”

  “Down the hall.” The doctor waved his hand vaguely behind him, then marched off before she could get more specific directions.

  Resigned to trial and error, Jocelyn opened the first door. A nauseating stench sent her into hurried retreat. Aunt Laura, who had done her share of nursing in Spain, had once described gangrene, but the reality was far more sickening than Jocelyn had imagined. Luckily, the still figure on the bed was not the man she sought.

  The next doors opened to empty beds or men too badly injured to notice her intrusion. No Captain Dalton. More and more unnerved, she opened the last door on the corridor. Several figures stood around a table with a man lying on it. A scalpel flashed, followed by a blood-freezing scream of agony.

  Jocelyn slammed the door shut and ran blindly into the open space at the end of the corridor. She’d thought it would be simple to locate a friend. Instead, she was finding the worst suffering she’d ever seen in her life.

  Eyes clouded with tears, she didn’t even see the man until she slammed into a hard body. There was a clatter of falling wood, then a strong hand grabbed her arm. Jocelyn gasped, on the verge of a hysterical scream.

  “Sorry to be in your way,” a quiet voice said. “Do you think you could hand me my other crutch?”

  Blinking back her tears, Jocelyn bent to pick up the crutch that had skidded across the floor. She straightened to hand it over and was profoundly relieved to see the man she sought. “Captain Dalton! I’m so glad to see you up and about.”

  Richard Dalton was a brown-haired young man of medium height, with hazel eyes much like her own. Though his face was drawn with fatigue and pain, his quick smile was warm. “This is an unexpected pleasure, Lady Jocelyn. What brings you to this wretched place?”