The Gentleman’s Challenge_A Yorkshire Downs_Love, Hearts and Challenges_A Regency Romance Story

by Jasmine Ashford

“Well, he has talked of a Convocation of the Rhenish dukes,” Henry said grimly.

  “Enough of this for one day!” Arthur said brightly, waving a dismissive hand. He glanced at Valeria, as if sensing her worry, and she inclined her head in thanks. She did not want to talk about it.

  There was peace between the French-occupied territories in Germany under Napoleon – that is, Boney – and the Allies: Russia, Prussia, Austria and England. All Napoleon had to do was convoke the leaders of the French states in Germany, and point them at the Prussians, and there would be war.

  Valeria closed her eyes. War in Germany meant war for her brother. War with Ernst.

  She felt her horse step over a stray log in the path and opened her eyes. Henry and Arthur were ahead of her, slowly riding up the ridge.

  “Wait for me!” she called, trying to return to the ebullience of earlier.

  “Ahoy, there!” Henry called, turning in his saddle and waving his hat.

  “Fine knights in armor, the two of you!” Valeria called ironically and grinned. “Leaving a lady to surmount these obstacles alone.”

  “I am at your service, Lady Gray,” Arthur replied, and gallantly swept off his hat, riding back to join her.

  “Why, thank you, sir.” Valeria smiled. She looked into his eyes and noticed the deep sincerity there. He was not playing, as he pretended. His feelings toward her were in deep earnest.

  “Come along, then, you two!” Henry called back, smiling at them. “If we really ride, we shall be back in time for dinner.”

  Valeria and Arthur looked at each other. Arthur, who rode beside her, reached out and touched her hand.

  “Coming, Henry!” he called, and trotted up the hill, glancing back at Valeria, who allowed her mount to walk briskly ahead.

  Oh, dear. Henry, Arthur. Ernst. So many people dear to me, and the threat of war!

  CHAPTER SIX

  FAREWELLS AND FRIENDSHIP

  FAREWELLS AND FRIENDSHIP

  “Take care of Father for me, will you?” Henry looked into Valeria's tear-rimmed eyes and tried to smile.

  Valeria laughed, though the laughter had a hysterical edge. The image of her looking after their great bear of a father seemed simply too ridiculous, especially in the circumstances.

  War had broken out in Germany. Since she had heard the news, Valeria had been crying. She was not sure that she would ever stop. Henry was leaving! And Arthur. And they would face Ernst in the field. Ernst was a count in Wurttemburg, one of the states loyal to France. His men would be arrayed against the allied forces. The chances of him not leading a group in battle against the British were very slim indeed.

  Facing Henry for what might be the last time, Valeria sighed, and sniffed and tried to smile, joining in his joke from earlier.

  “I will take care of him, Henry.”

  On the doorstep, just behind them, their father pulled an affronted face.

  “Well, Father, I have already asked you to take care of Valeria.” Henry smiled sadly at the old man.

  “You know you don't have to ask,” their father said shortly.

  Henry inclined his head. “I know, Father.”

  Their father stood before Henry. “Go and kill some Frogs, eh?”

  “Yes, Father.” Henry shook his father's hand and did not meet his eye.

  Valeria felt her heart contract. If she thought about it, the beliefs Henry held – equality of all men, freedom – were far more aligned with the French enlightenment. They were heresy to their own father and to most of the British nobles. Fighting on the side in which he did not believe would be hard, and her heart ached for him.

  “Go well, Henry,” she said, softly, as he faced her again. She leaned forward and kissed him on the brow.

  “Thank you, sister,” he said, voice choked. He gripped her hands and did not meet her gaze, either. He walked stiffly to his horse and mounted.

  Arthur walked up to join him. “Wait for me, Valeria!” he whispered to her, his eyes on hers. “I will come back to you.”

  Flustered, Valeria looked away a moment. “I...” she whispered back.

  Arthur's eyes were level with hers, their gaze intense. Valeria, her lips parted in confusion, looked away.

  Then Arthur was mounted and saluting the Earl of Harwood. “Send my regards to my father, Baron Harling,” he called to the earl, who inclined his head.

  Henry raised his hand in farewell to Valeria and his father, and then they were turning, riding away up the drive.

  Valeria felt her vision blur with tears.

  Behind her, her father was silent for a long moment. Valeria knew he was trying not to cry and did not turn around.

  “That Arthur,” he said at length, “he seems a nice sort. Brave, loyal. And fond of you. He would be a fine match.”

  Valeria felt a lump rise in her throat. Her brother had left, and her only friend, who suddenly seemed to consider himself a suitor, though she herself did not. Ernst was gone. And her father wanted her to consider marriage?

  “I need to go upstairs,” she said, quietly. Her father nodded, and she turned and fled up the stairs and into the house.

  In her bedchamber, with the birds singing outside the windows and the scent of lilac drifting through the open sash, she cried and felt that she would never stop.

  Henry was gone. Ernst was gone. Arthur, her friend, was lost to her. And they would all face each other in war. What could she do?

  I wish that I could be there. She sighed.

  She dismissed the thought at once. It was impossible. A woman, traveling alone, into a war-torn country?

  I would only get myself killed, or worse, if I could even find a way to leave in the first place.

  She sighed and raised herself from the bed, walking over to her mirror. She had a meeting with the housekeeper at one o’ clock, and then tea with Miss Augusta Finchley. Her life continued. She was not a child. She had to put aside childishness and simply face facts.

  Despite her many arguments against it, she could not help thinking, as she called Matilda and dressed for luncheon, how she might go about traveling to Germany, even in the midst of war.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ON DUTY

  ON DUTY

  The ship crossing of the North Sea was something Henry wanted to forget.

  After just over half a month of travel, he and Arthur had finally reached their positions in Bavaria.

  Henry looked out of the window of the tall, whitewashed house where they were billeted. It was raining.

  “Bloody weather,” he cursed under his breath.

  “Such wrath, from one so young?” Arthur, standing behind him at the fire, raised a brow.

  “Easy for you to say.” Henry grinned, stroking a hand through his new-cropped hair. “You don't have guard duty today.”

  “Well, quite.” Arthur grinned. “I'm sensible. I don't have guard duty. You have guard duty.”

  Arthur chuckled as he ducked the ball of paper Henry aimed at his head.

  “You'd better not aim at a Frog like that.” Arthur grinned.

  Henry looked ruefully away. “Let's not think about battle yet, shall we?”

  “Good point, old boy!” Arthur agreed genially. “No point worrying now.”

  “Mess hall open yet?” Henry asked, looking at his watch.

  “In ten minutes,” Arthur replied.

  “Come on, then,” Henry said, stretching. “We'd better get something decent before the chaos erupts.”

  “Chaos indeed!” Arthur grinned. “The men will be fighting for the best bits. German legionnaires.”

  Henry raised his eyebrows slightly at Arthur’s deprecation of their allies, but let it pass. Most of the Englishmen he knew were cheerfully derogatory of all other nations and believed firmly in British superiority. If he wanted to pick arguments about equality, he would not have much luck here.

  The two men walked briskly out into the rain.

  The day passed uneventfully enough: drills, patrol – in the rain,
which set Henry's men grumbling in at least three languages – and then dinner in the Officer's Mess.

  After a pleasant evening with Arthur, playing cards and drinking the last of the brandy they had managed to bring with them, Henry headed off for guard duty.

  As he had predicted, it was still raining. And cold.

  Standing in the rain, his oil-skin cloak keeping him vaguely dry but doing nothing to keep out the cold, Henry felt a strange anger and restlessness rise within him.

  Here they were – thousands of men – standing out in the rain, thousands of miles from their own home, defending the rights of kings they mostly had never seen, and mostly did not believe in.

  He sat on the water trough, trying to light a pipe and thought.

  He did not believe in kings, or nations. He did not believe in the superiority of one man over another. How much more sense it would make, he thought, suddenly passionate, if all men stood together to fight against dictators and lead to freedom and equality for all. If only...

  Lost in his thoughts, Henry was just in time to catch the movement at the corner of his eye.

  “What?” he whispered to himself. He reached for his spyglass and held it to his eye, silently cursing the rain that still drizzled across the space beyond the awning, obscuring his vision.

  There it was again! A movement. Stealthy, barely discernible.

  It could not be an animal – it sneaked along low to the ground, but was too big for a badger. Did they have badgers in Germany? Henry suspected so, but was not sure.

  It also could not be a person. If it was a soldier, he moved with an uncommon fluidity and grace. Henry caught the movement again. If he were a soldier, he must have spent decades in learning woodcraft, to move so stealthily.

  Intrigued, forgetting caution, he wandered from his spot beside the wall, following the ghostly shape as it moved, almost silent, across the rain-damp grass.

  Whatever it was snuck to a window, where light showed. Henry frowned. If it was a soldier, the thing that crept there, that was not the best idea. It, or he, would make himself plainly visible to any who followed him, no matter what those within could see.

  “Not a good idea, my lad,” Henry whispered under his breath. He was almost certain now that it was a man. Why would a forest animal seek the window like that?

  Silent, but filled with admiration for the soldier he watched, Henry walked in a wide arc behind him. The youth – it must be a youth, it was too short for a man, and moved too quietly – sneaked across the grass on hands and knees, moving with an economy of motion that was impressive. Henry drew in a breath as he neared the window and reached up for the sill. Had Henry not seen him earlier, he would not have noticed him now.

  Silent, Henry stepped closer, walking one step at a time across the damp grass. The grass was thick, and muffled sound, meaning that, even with Henry's lesser skills in woodcraft, he could walk close unheard.

  He reached a point just behind the youth. Hating himself for it, he reached down. He did not want to make this arrest – during the pursuit he had gained such respect for this young man – but he knew he had to. This was a spy. He had to stop them. It was his duty. And yet, he could not bear to bring this skilled youth in for torture and then death. Both sides of the army hated spies.

  “Hush, now, my lad,” he said, as he lowered a hand across the figure's mouth. He almost screamed himself, as teeth clamped down on his finger.

  “Nein! Nein. Stille, bitte. Wir brauchen stille...” Quiet, please. We need quiet.

  The figure contracted, pulling backwards, and sat up. Two dark eyes looked up at him, blazing rage.

  Henry dropped his hand away from the figure's mouth, startled.

  Not he. She.

  A small woman, wearing a dark gray dress, stood before him. Her black hair was loose and flowed about her shoulders, adding to the way she blended with the dark. Her wide, brown eyes looked at him with utter rage, and she stood with arms akimbo, as if restraining herself from attack.

  “Wer bist du? Was machst du hier?” she asked, a furious whisper. Who are you? What are you doing here?

  It was obvious she thought he was a German soldier. The use of the word “du” surprised him: to use the familiar form for a stranger was a grave insult, instantly reducing his status to that of a servant. Henry blinked.

  “Ich bin Henry Gray. Ich bin Stormfuhrer der Britische Wehrmacht. Und sie?” he asked politely.

  The woman hissed out a breath, though the sound was anger more than fear, which intrigued Henry.

  “Der Britische Wehrmacht? Warum?” she hissed. Her eyes still covered him with fury and scorn.

  “I...” Henry was at a loss. Suddenly, he realized that she must think him a German who had sided with the Allies, against Napoleon.

  “Ich bin nicht Deutsch,” he explained gently. I am not German.

  “Was bist du dann?” she asked, surprised. She still used the familiar word, du, but this time Henry felt less insulted by it. She was asking, quite rudely, what he was if he was not German.

  He grinned, amazed by her audacity. “Ich bin Britisch. Aus England,” he explained.

  “Oh.”

  Henry smiled. It was the Germanic “oh,” long and drawn out. It was familiar, through Ernst, and it reminded him, stupidly, of home. He grinned at her.

  “Was?” she asked, rudely.

  “Nichts, nichts,” he denied. “Ich laechlen nur.” Nothing. I am just smiling.

  “Oh.”

  “Was machen Sie dan hier?” Henry asked, inquiring, politely, what she was doing there.

  “Ich fechte fuer das Liberte.” I am fighting for freedom. She used the French word – liberty – where she could have used the German “Freiheit.” Henry felt his heart contract. She believed in the values of the Enlightenment. Just like him.

  The two stared at each other in the moonlight. Her eyes were wide and dark and fringed with long lashes.

  She looked up at him. He looked down into her eyes. He felt something in his heart shift, and he leaned closer toward her.

  “Captain Grey?” someone called, somewhere far from them at the margins of the forest, near Henry's post.

  Suddenly, Henry remembered that he was here on guard duty, and that he had just apprehended a fugitive, a German spy.

  “Go!” he whispered, urgent. “Gehen! Bitte! Jemand kommt jetzt,” Please. Someone is coming.

  “Ich gehe,” she whispered back. I am going. Her eyes still looked into his.

  “Ein Moment, bitte,” Henry pleaded suddenly. “Was heissen Sie?” What is your name?

  “Claudia,” she hissed back. “Frage fuer mich beim Zum Weisses Hirsch.” Ask for me at the inn of the White Hind.

  “Claudia,” he breathed. Then she was gone, slipping away into the trees.

  Henry stared after her a moment, and then began the slow walk back to the patrol.

  “Lord Grey?” a voice called out of the bushes, and a solider appeared at Henry's side.

  “Private Welsh?” Henry replied, recognizing the man as one of their new recruits.

  “What happened, sir?” the young man asked, concerned. “Was there trouble out there?”

  “I thought I saw something,” Henry said, quietly. “I think it was an animal. A badger? It went into the woods. Too small for a man.”

  “Oh,” the young man said, looking relieved. “Well, if that was all, sir?”

  “Quite, Private. It is well past time for me to return. And we are all tired. Not too long now, until we get relieved.” He sighed and stretched, checking his watch by the light from a window.

  “Good, sir.” The young man smiled. “I am finished. And the woods... I'm scared of bears, sir.”

  “No bears here, Private.” Henry grinned, reassuringly. “I think Major Hobart scared them all away. Have you heard him snore? No? Lucky you. You evidently sleep further away from his rooms than I do.”

  The two men laughed as they walked slowly back to the safety of the gate and the patrol.
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  As he reached his position, Henry shook his head, as if to try and clear it. He could not forget the beauty of the woman, and could not forget her words: I fight for liberty. He had caught her spying. He should, by rights, have had her arrested. Instead, he had let her go. Against his duty and his training.

  He knew in that moment that the heart is stronger than any duty. And his heart believed in freedom.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NEWS FROM AFAR

  NEWS FROM AFAR

  The days passed quickly in England, the season changing. The spring progressed, the rains slowly giving way to a soft, gray peace that smelled of early roses.

  Valeria kept herself briskly busy through the long months, occupying every second of her day with household duties, sewing and social obligations. She played the pianoforte two hours every day, rode in the evenings. She was almost never at home.

  “I will be visiting the Drostdy household this afternoon,” she instructed her maid, Matilda, as they stood in her bedchamber to plan her gowns for the day.

  “Very good, my lady,” her maid replied, reaching into the wardrobe to find the appropriate dresses. “The blue or white, milady?”

  “The white, please,” Valeria commented, not looking away from the window. She was not particularly interested in what she wore – she was too depressed to care much – but the white had a higher neckline and any visit to Cousin Matthew required a certain level of armor.

  She bit her lip. Matthew was... a problem. The younger son of her father's older sister, Matthew could not inherit his own father's seat – his brother, Daniel was the heir to Newgate Park and the earldom. As a result, Matthew harbored a deep desire for Wilding that was almost obsession. And Valeria knew that, if Henry was dead, and Valeria herself was out of the way – or married – Wilding would pass to Matthew, the third in line for the inheritance. If Matthew married her, then he would be second in line. That was something Matthew had long pursued.