A Loyal Companion

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A Loyal Companion Page 9

by Barbara Metzger


  Hugh missed his step and nearly trod on Sonia’s toes. “Sorry, but hang it, Sunny, I ain’t going to dance with every fubsy-faced chit in the place. Just because Pa got himself leg-shackled and George is under the cat’s-paw don’t mean I have to do the pretty all night. I’m no hand at this blasted dancing anyway. Now, put me on the parade grounds…”

  “Just one dance, Hugh, with one particular friend of mine, Lady Blanche Carstairs. She hasn’t many partners yet, and I do not want her to be unhappy at my ball. Besides, you’ll like her. She’s a good listener.”

  Sonia was pleased, later, to see Hugh return from the card room to escort Blanche down to supper. She herself went down with Ansel Berke, as earlier arranged. She laughed, she flirted, she was having a wonderful time at her own ball. Sonia made friends with the other debutantes, happily distributing her leftover suitors among them for the remaining dances. She met so many charming gentlemen, she couldn’t keep their names straight, although Lord Wolversham impressed her with his knowledge of farms and crops and sheep. She sat out one of the waltzes with the good-looking marquess, listening raptly, sending more than one gentleman hurrying to change his bets at White’s.

  Not till long after the supper dance did Miss Randolph betray the least nervousness, and then only by frequent glances toward the ballroom door. No one else noticed her distraction, she hoped, as she fluttered her fan and discussed the weather and the king’s health with her latest partner.

  *

  He wasn’t going. He was in his dress uniform, hastily tailored to compensate for the weight loss from his injury, but he wasn’t going. The formal sword lay polished in his hand, ready to be strapped to his hips, but Major Conover was not going to buckle it on. He’d sooner walk through the French lines than walk across Grosvenor Square to Atterbury House. A carriage would save his leg, but get him there sooner. No, he put the sword down. Again. His batman, Robb, was like to skewer him with it if he didn’t decide soon. “Deuce take it!” Darius stormed. Robb hurried to remove the sword from the major’s reach. Then they heard the pounding at the door.

  “Who the devil could that be? Dash it, no one calls for weeks, then someone comes banging in the middle of the night when I am trying to dress. We’ve been so long without guests in this wretched place, the blasted servants have forgotten whose job it is to open the door. Go get rid of whoever it is, Robby, while I try to make my mind up.”

  Robb was happy to get out of the way of his employer’s impatience. Damned if the major didn’t need a good fight to settle him down, he thought. Prebattle jitters, that’s what ailed the man. Robb nodded sagely on his way to get the front door. He returned a few minutes later, pale and shaken.

  “Well, what was it, Sergeant, a lost traveler or some accident in the square? I hope you got rid of the nuisance, whatever it was. I’m in no mood to—”

  “Admiral Cathcart, sir” was all poor Robb could utter.

  “What’s that, Robb?” The major was recombing his newly trimmed hair, for the fourth time. He was wondering if the gray showed less, now that his hair was in the shorter style currently in favor. “I thought you said Admiral Cathcart. Old fellow must be dead these ten years or so.”

  “Downstairs, sir. He’s downstairs!”

  “Admiral Cathcart, who fought with Nelson? Who won so many commendations, they had to make up new ones? Good grief, what’s he doing alive? No, I mean what’s he doing here?”

  “I left him having sherry in the drawing room, Major, but I don’t think you should keep him waiting, sir.”

  “By Jove, I should think not.” He snatched up the dress sword and buckled it on as he raced down the stairs. “Admiral Cathcart, in my drawing room.”

  The elderly man in the drawing room was blinding in his gold braid. He had enough ribbons on his chest to open a shop. Major Conover knew he had never met the silver-haired admiral before, but he had saluted him once. He gazed admiringly at one of the nation’s greatest heroes, an old man who fed squirrels in the park.

  “Sir, this is a great honor, but…”

  “Come to request your escort, young man. Told a lady I’d honor her ball. Don’t get out much, though, don’t want to make my big appearance lookin’ like a dodderin’ old fool, leanin’ on some pesky civilian footman. Spoil the effect, don’t you know. The lady suggested you. Fellow officer and all, even if you’re not a navy man.”

  “So you want me…?” He looked at the cane in his hand, then laughed. “I am not so steady on my pins, Admiral Cathcart. I think the lady was just using every weapon in the arsenal.”

  “Aye, bringin’ out the heavy artillery. Good tactician, that girl, don’t take no for an answer. She seems to want you at her ball. I aim to get you there, short of callin’ out the militia. Can’t tell you how the chit brightens my day. Least I can do, then.”

  “But, Admiral, sir, you can’t know—”

  “I still have my oars in the water, lad. I know it’s no easy thing she’s askin’, but just one dance. You’ve faced worse.”

  “Have I, sir?” Put like that, no self-respecting soldier could refuse. The credit of the regiment, the regard of this venerable old seadog, his own honor, were at stake. “You don’t leave me much choice.”

  “Never meant to, soldier. Never asked more of a man than I thought he could give, either. Don’t disappoint me. And don’t disappoint that little girl’s trust either, or I’ll have you blown clear out of the waters.”

  *

  Marston, the butler, did not know whether to filch another bottle of His Grace’s port, or just start packing. The ball had been declared a sad crush, which is to say a great success, and then disaster struck. An appearance by the reclusive Admiral Cathcart would be the coup of the season. An appearance by the reprehensible Major Conover would be the end of Marston’s career. But the fellow had an invite, in miss’s own hand, and the admiral was leaning on the major’s shoulder, waiting to be announced. Marston took a deep breath. In loud, ringing tones, he called out the admiral’s name and honorifics. Everyone gasped and turned toward the door. In not so loud, barely tinkling tones, Marston announced Major Darius Conover, the Earl of Warebourne. Everyone gasped again. Not another word was said. The orchestra was not even playing, between sets as it was. The crowd on the dance floor parted as the two militarily erect men, neither bowed by age or adversity, made their slow, careful way across the room to where Lady Atterbury held court on a sofa, Miss Randolph by her side.

  The general bowed to Lady Atterbury, then turned and made her a formal introduction to “one of our fine, brave lads.”

  Lady Atterbury could only smile and nod. Sonia made her curtsy, then relinquished her seat next to the dowager to Admiral Cathcart, with a wink. Two chairs appeared alongside, and Sonia gestured to one. “Will you join me for the waltz, sir?” At the major’s nod, she gestured to her footman, who signaled the orchestra. A waltz was instantly begun, to the consternation of those who had reserved a contredanse. When Sonia’s court had departed to find their own partners, Darius finally took his seat beside her.

  “Do you always get your way, minx?” he asked, motioning toward the admiral.

  She flashed her dimples. “Was it so terrible?”

  “Like walking the world’s longest gangplank,” he said with a laugh, then fell silent, looking at her.

  Color rose in Sonia’s cheeks, and in the expanse of white skin left exposed by the narrow bodice. “Major, you are staring,” she whispered from behind her fan.

  “I am trying to memorize your dress and such so I can describe you to the brats tomorrow. I think I’ll just tell them to imagine a fairy princess floating on sunbeams over sky blue lakes.”

  “How lovely! I didn’t know you military men had such poetical turns, Major.”

  He looked at her and smiled. “Neither did I.”

  Sonia was relieved to see him smile. He wasn’t mad, he wasn’t miserable. He was, in fact, so handsome when he smiled, she half hoped none of the other girls saw it. But that w
as part of her plan, so she made every effort to keep him smiling, telling about Fitz’s exploits, asking about his nieces, describing her hey-go-mad brother’s latest effort at gaining preferment. He told about his own childhood pets and some of his milder army pranks. She thought she’d gladly trade all the night’s compliments for one of his laughs.

  Soon the dance was ended and Miss Randolph’s next partner hesitantly approached to claim her. The major rose and bowed over Sonia’s hand, then brought her hand to his lips. He did not say anything, but he squeezed her fingers, and held them a fraction longer than strictly proper.

  *

  I believe that is called putting the cat among the pigeons.

  Chapter Eleven

  They say elephants have long memories. Mankind better hope the immense creatures don’t also hold grudges. Imagine such large, long-lived beasts being persecuted for keyboards, dice, fans, and hairpins. That should be enough to make anyone cross as crabs. Crabs as big as cottages. I hope to have a coze with the elephants at the Tower Menagerie someday.

  Human memories, by contrast, are as fickle as fleas, like tonight at the ball, when the doyennes seated inside recall that they always considered Darius Conover more dashing than his brother Milo, even if he was a bit of a rake. A bit of a rake? Half an hour ago he was a debaucher of women! The gentlemen in the book room are retelling war stories, with the major featured as the bravest man in the British army, when yesterday he was too cowardly to accept a duel. And the young females who last week shivered in fright if he passed them on the street, tonight shiver in delight if his eye catches theirs.

  Are their loyalties as inconsistent as their memories? If Baron Berke and his sister Rosellen do not forget about their dead, dishonored sister, will their friends and the rest of the ton forget the major’s role? Their loyalties seem to be king, God, and country, with expediency a close fourth. And the king is all about in his head.

  Consider Lord Felton making a liaison with Sir Norbert’s wife on the balcony right now, while Sir Norbert is enjoying the favors of Mrs. Quentin-Jones in the curtained alcove next to the library. Perhaps they temporarily forgot their marriage vows. Or perhaps they change their loyalties as often as their outfits.

  Sirius, I am not expecting human persons to be as faithful as dogs. That would be like barking at the moon. Just ask Odysseus. His wife may have stayed true all those years, unpicking her weaving and all, but she didn’t even recognize the poor sod when he finally got home. Nor did his son, his friends, his servants—only noble Argos, his old dog. That’s loyalty. That’s a good dog, Fido.

  I do not think Miss Sonia will be inconsistent once she gives her affection. She loves me forever, of course, but she has never forgotten her old friends either, or given up on an idea she believes in. Perhaps I am premature; the Dog Star knows I’ve been wrong before. Possibly Miss Sonia is just repaying a debt, and maybe she will consider her job done, now that she has brought the major back into the fold. His staying there will be up to him and the rest of the sheep, ah, society. I cannot tell from here, blast it! I cannot even tell if there are any lobster patties left.

  *

  Admiral Cathcart and the major stayed through one more dance, the admiral remaining seated on the couch next to Lady Atterbury. Major Conover might have left, but the admiral signaled for the officer to take a position beside him, guarding the flank. Leaning slightly on the sofa back, Darius did not intrude on the conversations, but anyone wishing to shake hands with the admiral perforce had to shake Conover’s hand. And Lady Atterbury had to make the introductions. She looked as if she had an oyster stuck in her throat, and someone had just reminded her it was alive.

  Many of the company wished to greet one of the great heroes of Trafalgar, to proffer an invitation or mention a promising nephew in the navy. With a nod or a gesture Darius made sure the old gentleman had wine to drink and space to breathe and pauses between introductions. He was the one to note when the admiral’s voice faltered, and laughingly suggested they retire to fight another day. Even Lady Atterbury had to commend his solicitous regard for the admiral, although it rubbed against the grain. She went so far as to offer her hand when he made his adieus.

  Others noted Warebourne’s kindness, his quiet dignity, and chiseled features—they also recalled his title and fortune—and began to reconsider their long-held positions. No one could doubt his bravery, not with a chestful of medals and the admiral’s patent endorsement. Nor could they question his conduct. For tonight, at least, he had been all that was proper, charming the little Harkness heiress without enticing her to the balcony, the alcoves, or the primrose path. No one was ready to rush home to send him a bid for a card party or to request his presence at their daughter’s come-out, but they were thinking it mightn’t be such a bad idea to acknowledge a young, handsome, wealthy earl. As for the rest, the jury was still out. The haut monde would wait to see Lord Conare and Baron Berke’s reaction to Warebourne’s reentry into society before issuing a verdict or an invite.

  * * *

  Lord Conare and Baron Berke were presently in the rear garden. Their reactions, if anyone could have seen them, were at best anger and disgust. At worst, vicious fury and violent loathing. They both took care that the polite world never saw such raging emotions. That wasn’t good ton.

  Preston Conover, Lord Conare, was as tall as his cousin Darius, with the same dark hair and brown eyes. Unlike the soldier’s well-muscled body, however, Conare’s frame was thin to the point of emaciation. His indoor pallor and fashionable but somber clothes, all black and white without a hint of color, made him appear even more cadaverous. His hair was never out of place, he never exerted himself. He’d perfected the art of ennui to where he could take snuff, utter a set-down, and yawn at the same time. Since he could both drink and gamble to excess without apparent effect, he was a welcome member of Prinny’s coterie.

  Preston’s austerity was the perfect foil for his wife, Rosellen’s, lush beauty. Her auburn tresses, emerald eyes, bountiful curves, flamboyant dress style, and flirtatious manner captured the attention, but Preston did the behind-the-scenes social maneuvering. They made an interesting couple, invited everywhere. That’s why he married her, that and her Berke and Atterbury connections. Which he was regretting more heartily every day.

  Ansel Berke was not a large man, but he was as fit as most idle members of the aristocracy, working out occasionally at Gentleman Jackson’s or Cribb’s Parlor, riding in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour. What exercise and nature had not provided, Berke augmented with padded shoulders and nipped-in waists, which seemed to require more gaudily embroidered waistcoats and more extravagantly tied neckcloths. He wasn’t quite a dandy, he told himself; he did not wear yellow Cossack trousers or soup-plate-size buttons. He might have—high-heeled slippers particularly tempted him—but he had a position to uphold.

  He was a baron. He was also nearly run off his feet. Where his brother-in-law Preston was always cool and seemingly unaffected, Ansel was something of a hothead. He usually managed to keep his emotions as hidden as his financial state, for the sake of his social standing, but tonight his temper was unchecked. No one could hear him out in the garden behind Atterbury House, so far from the ballroom, and no one could see him in the faint light of the Chinese lanterns strung along the garden paths. No one, that is, except his brother-in-law Preston, who already despised Berke. The sentiment was returned.

  “I thought you said the bastard would return to the wars and get himself killed if I brought up the old scandal,” Berke raged. “Did you think I wanted my family name dragged through the mud again, you prig?”

  Preston flicked a speck of lint off his sleeve. “In case you have forgotten, brother, Conover is my name also. Furthermore, I did marry your sister, you know. Despite the unpleasantness, I made sure all doors would stay closed to him. His pride could not let him remain in England.”

  “In case you haven’t looked, he’s inside now, cozying up to Lady Atterbury.”

&nbs
p; “Then you haven’t done your job, old chap. Remember your vows of vengeance?”

  “No amount of scandalmongering is going to bring Hermione back.”

  “No, but it might save the little heiress for you. Did you see the look on her face when he kissed her hand?”

  Berke did. That’s why he had to leave the ballroom before his anger erupted like a raging volcano. Sonia had never smiled at him that way. “Leave Miss Randolph out of this, you muckworm. I noticed the way you looked at her, brother. She might have been dessert, the way you drooled.”

  Preston smoothed his cuffs. “I am never so gauche as to drool, although la Randolph is a tempting morsel. Never fear,” he added when Berke started making growling noises in his throat, “I shan’t hunt your covers, at least not until the vixen is caught. After the chit is married, of course…”

  Berke would worry about that when the time came. “Well, that’s not getting rid of Warebourne. Besides, there’s no guarantee he’ll be killed even if he does go back to the front. The devil’s been lucky all these years.”

  Preston sighed. “I know, I know. Gunshots, innumerable saber wounds, to say nothing of infection and the various plagues that carry off most of the wounded. He’s survived them all. Wearisome, isn’t it? No, you’ll just have to call him out.”

  “What?” Berke shouted. Then, quickly looking around and speaking more softly, he asked, “What do you mean, I’ll have to call him out?”

  “Simple, dear boy. You’ll merely demand he meet you on the field of honor. You never had satisfaction, remember? You cannot swallow that and still call yourself a man.”

  “No more than one who lets another do his dirty work for him,” Berke sneered.

  “You’re not suggesting I challenge Cousin Darius myself, are you? Think, Ansel, as hard as the effort might be. My motives just might be a tad suspect. You, however, have righteous indignation on your side, your family’s honor to be redeemed. Popular sentiment shall be in your favor; you’ll have everyone’s sympathy.”

 

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