The Rebellious Debutante

by Meg Alexander

  ‘He is all that I imagined and more,’ she said. ‘When I look at him I realise that he has hidden depths. Meeting him socially as we have done, it is hard to imagine that this one man held the fate of Europe in his hands. Yet always there is the sense that behind that affable exterior lies a will of iron.’

  Rushmore smiled. ‘He is already known as the Iron Duke,’ he agreed. ‘Yet I have seen him in tears, Miss Wentworth. The loss of life at Waterloo was a grievous trial to him. So many of his friends were gone, but he mourned the common soldier just as much.’

  ‘The slaughter must have been appalling,’ Perdita said simply. ‘It is such a hideous waste of good men’s lives.’

  ‘In one way, perhaps, but they did not die in vain. Had Napoleon not been defeated we should have been living beneath a tyrant’s heel… Would you have wanted that?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Perdita grew thoughtful. ‘What will the Duke do now, do you suppose? With his concern for the common people, perhaps he will enter politics.’

  Rushmore stared at her. Clearly, there was more to Perdita than a lovely face. He had not expected to find her ready to discuss the political scene. Well, he would not talk down to her. Instead, he paid her the compliment of taking her question seriously.

  ‘The Duke is no democrat,’ he told her with a wry smile. ‘I suspect that you have liberal views, Miss Wentworth. Wellington does not share them. He is against any extension of the franchise, believing as he does in the status quo. In his eyes this country is well governed by the aristocracy. He would not have the system changed.’

  ‘But surely change must come? There are other worthy men who must have much to offer. They pay their taxes. Are they not entitled to have some say in how the country is run?’

  Rushmore rose to his feet as the bell sounded to warn that the second act of the play was about to begin.

  ‘An interesting topic, is it not? We must discuss it further.’ Bending to kiss her hand he followed his superior officer from the box.

  He left Perdita wondering. It went much against the grain to admit that she had enjoyed their conversation, but it was true. Rushmore had not been patronising. Other men had patted her upon the head, figuratively speaking, and had indicated that subjects beyond fashion, gossip and thoughts of marriage were far beyond the grasp of the female mind.

  Next time she saw him she would quiz him upon the rights of women in this male-dominated society. If he didn’t agree that they were treated as non-citizens, at least he might discuss it with her.

  Then she caught her mother’s eye. ‘Well done, my dear!’ Elizabeth said. ‘I am glad to see that you do not bear a grudge. The Earl is interesting, is he not?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Perdita was not yet ready to forgive her enemy so easily. ‘He was telling me about the Duke of Wellington.’

  Elizabeth smiled to herself. It had not taken Rushmore long to find a way of undermining her daughter’s resistance to him. ‘You must tell me about it later, Perdita. We cannot hear enough about the Great Man, and I must suppose that Rushmore knows him as well as anyone.’

  The Earl himself heard little of the rest of the play. Perdita had astonished him. How old could she be? Possibly eighteen? It had come as a shock to find that the girl had a head upon her shoulders and was capable of thinking for herself. He’d found her fiery and quicktempered, but now he realised that there was far more to her than he had suspected.

  Thoughtfully, he saluted her parents. It was clear that Perdita had been encouraged to read and to take part in discussions upon the topics of the day. Now he looked forward to their next encounter.

  She hadn’t mentioned Bath again. He’d surprise her there, guessing that Elizabeth had not yet mentioned her offer to sponsor his ward for the coming Season.

  His thoughts turned again to Louise. Too much to hope, perhaps, that she would have Perdita’s sparkle and quick intelligence, but he’d do his best by her, whatever her character. Again he blessed Elizabeth Wentworth for her understanding. Without her help he would have been hard put to launch the girl upon Society.

  Now it was important that he visit Bath without delay. The Duke, he knew, was anxious to visit the property bestowed upon him by a grateful nation. With any luck he would release some members of his entourage to go about their own affairs.

  Rushmore frowned. He need not stay too long in Bath. He’d been out of England for many years. His vast estates had claims upon his own attention, though they were well administered by his men of business.

  Suddenly he longed to get away from London. Fastidious to a degree, the smell of death was still in his nostrils, and the stench in the capital was little better, compounded as it was of horse droppings, inadequate drainage, and streets which resembled open sewers.

  And then there was the noise. The sounds of battle were bad enough, but they were over quickly. Here in London there was a constant cacophony of sound.

  Rushmore grimaced. For a battle-hardened warrior who had fought his way across half of Europe, he was becoming much too nice in his requirements. What did the constant assault upon his eardrums matter? The cries of the muffin-men, the flower-sellers, the rattle of carriage wheels and the non-stop bustle were of small matter, surely?

  Yet he longed for the peace of the countryside, and knew his longing for what it was…a simple case of battle fatigue. In time he would come about, and take up the threads of his life again. But to what end? He was unwed, and but sparsely provided with relatives, most of whom he hadn’t seen for years. If he died tomorrow, who would mourn him? It was a sobering thought.

  Perhaps he needed a family of his own. Unless he provided an heir his line would wither and die. To date he had had no opportunity to look about him…to drop his handkerchief in any direction. Such females as he had encountered had not moved him, unless it was to a sense that breeding was the only way in which they could deal together. The thought repelled him.

  Then, unbidden, a vision of Perdita floated across his mind. Ridiculous, he told himself sternly. The child was half his age. She disliked him intensely. That much, at least, was clear. Aside from that, she’d had no chance to look about her. Her parents, he surmised correctly, would examine her choice of husband with great care, vetoing anyone to whom her heart was not given fully.

  Rushmore shrugged. What was he thinking of? A lovely face, a spirited temperament, and the exchange of a few words. It was no basis for marriage, and he knew it. Aside from anything else, the lady would not have him. It was a sombre thought.

  Even so, he was forced to admit that both of his encounters with Perdita had raised his spirits, lifting for a time that cloud of boredom and lassitude which seemed to have enveloped him since his return to England.

  Half his age she might be, but already there were signs of the woman she would become—an independent soul who was fully capable of thinking for herself. Had he found a kindred spirit? He dismissed the idea before it was half-formed. The notion was ridiculous. His lips curved in a grimace of self-mockery.

  The trouble was that he had been celibate for too long. Now he was indulging in fantasy, seduced by his own imagination. The ideal creature of his dreams had no existence in reality.

  The long years spent in Spain and Portugal during the Peninsular War had offered little chance of feminine company. The menfolk of those countries guarded their women closely, even from Wellington’s senior officers. Some beauty might be glimpsed from behind an iron grille, or peeping from a closed carriage, but they made no public appearances.

  He could not blame their protectors. The sight of an army on the march, followed by a motley rabble of camp-followers, would be quite enough to persuade fathers, husbands and brothers to keep their female relatives well hidden.

  Some soldiers’ wives had followed the drum, but for the most part the women were blowsy creatures, drawn from the poorest of the poor, and ready to sell themselves for what pickings they could glean from the men they tramped behind.

  Rushmore didn’t de
spise them. No one who had seen them in the aftermath of battle could possible do that. He’d watched them bind up sickening wounds, and carry water to the dying without regard for their own safety, but they were no more of a temptation to him than the cloistered Spanish beauties.

  Later, as Wellington’s army waited for Napoleon in the Low Countries, there had been opportunity enough for dalliance. In the hectic atmosphere of Brussels before Waterloo even the normally respectable had snatched at the chance of one last fling at life before it was snuffed out for ever. No one had expected Wellington to win. Napoleon’s armies were considered invincible.

  Rushmore had resisted the lures thrown out to him, uninfluenced by the general hysteria. He knew his commander well, and was quietly confident of victory. His lip curled in disgust. During those final days he had learned much about the female sex, confirming his belief in the fragility of feminine virtue.

  He would not cuckold a friend, though on more than one occasion he had been offered the opportunity to do so. The camp-followers were more honest, he’d decided, though the high-born ladies who smiled their invitations at him would have been shocked to hear him say so.

  Well, there were other remedies now that he was back in England. He had means enough to offer carte blanche even to the most expensive of the fair Cyprians who frequented the London scene. Years ago he’d set up one or two of them in charming little houses, placing no limits upon their expenses and making sure that their carriages and bloodstock were of the finest money could buy.

  It was strange that the idea should hold so little attraction for him now. He gave an involuntary sigh, and Wellington turned to him at once.

  ‘I can only agree!’ his superior officer told him with a smile. ‘The play is poor. Thank heavens it is almost time for the second interval.’

  This time they were summoned to the box of the Princess Esterhazy. Rushmore knew her to be one of the Lady Patronesses who ruled the roost at Almack’s, but he was surprised to hear her scolding Wellington for his late arrival there in the previous week.

  ‘We make no exceptions, your Grace. No one is admitted after eleven in the evening.’ Her smile robbed the words of all offence.

  ‘Quite right, ma’am!’ the Duke agreed. ‘Rules are rules and must be obeyed. Turn one away, and you must treat everyone alike.’

  Rushmore warmed to the Great Man as he had done so often in the past. Wellington never stood upon his consequence. Clearly he had not taken offence at the refusal to admit him through Almack’s hallowed portals, though a lesser man might have done so.

  The Earl’s eyes strayed to the opposite box to find it filled with friends and acquaintances of Perry and Elizabeth Wentworth. Perdita was invisible, surrounded by a crowd of hopeful suitors. The child would be certain to find a husband soon. That was only too clear. He didn’t care to examine too closely the reason why he found the thought depressing.

  He didn’t see her again that evening. At the end of the play the Duke and his party were surrounded by well-wishers and the Wentworth box was empty by the time they were able to take their leave.

  Refusing the suggestion of a visit to Watier’s, Rushmore made his way back to his huge establishment in Grosvenor Square. Tonight, for some obscure reason, he found it little more cheerful than a mausoleum. He picked up a book and settled himself by the fire in the library, with a glass of brandy in his hand, to while away the hours before he went to bed. As he read, his black mood lifted, and he retired in a more contented frame of mind.

  Perdita too had thrown off her depression. She’d enjoyed the evening, although the play had been dull and the acting indifferent. As always, Amy was still awake and anxious to hear the latest gossip about the world she was so soon to enter.

  ‘Who was at the theatre?’ she demanded eagerly. ‘Did Wellington attend?’

  ‘He did! Don’t you ever tire of asking about your hero?’ Perdita teased. ‘He came to speak to us in the interval.’

  ‘Really?’ Amy’s eyes were sparkling. ‘I wish I had been there. Did you learn any more about his triumphs?’

  ‘Yes.’ Perdita grew thoughtful. ‘The Earl of Rushmore told me something of them.’

  ‘Rushmore? You mean you had a conversation with him?’ Amy’s astonishment knew no bounds.

  ‘I couldn’t ignore him, Amy, without disgracing myself further. And what he had to say was interesting.’

  ‘Good Lord! Tell me all!’

  For the next few minutes Amy hung on every word. Then she laughed. ‘Rushmore has his uses, after all,’ she announced. ‘Have you quite forgiven him?’

  ‘The man does not enter my thoughts,’ Perdita said with dignity. ‘Now I have no feelings about him one way or the other.’

  ‘Fibber! I think you dislike him as much as ever.’ Amy was undeceived. ‘Don’t worry, love. He will not stay in London. Thomas tells me that he is to leave as soon as the Duke releases him. I doubt if we shall see him again. Surely that is welcome news?’

  Oddly, Perdita did not find it so. She could think of no suitable reply, so she summoned her maid and retired to her own room.

  Chapter Four

  Amy was disposed to tease her cousins on the following day.

  ‘Up before noon?’ she cried. ‘What happened? Were you turned away from the gambling halls?’

  Thomas appealed to Perdita. ‘Where does your sister get these notions?’ he asked. ‘It ain’t ladylike even to be aware of such places.’

  Both the girls laughed at him. ‘Are we supposed to be blind and deaf?’ Perdita said. ‘Thomas, it is time that you grew up.’

  ‘I ain’t the only one. Are you ready for our outing, or must we wait for you to primp and preen before we set out?’ He looked at his brothers and raised his eyes to heaven.

  ‘We are quite ready.’ Perdita picked up her reticule. ‘Amy, where do we go first?’

  ‘The Tower, I think. Then on to the Exeter Exchange to see the lions and tigers and the water spectacle. After that we might visit the waxwork effigies at Madame Tussaud’s.’

  Thomas groaned as he saw the list in Amy’s hand. ‘Anything else? Have you forgot the Peerless Pool and Astley’s Amphitheatre? It shouldn’t take more than a month to see them all.’

  ‘Don’t be such a misery! We haven’t asked you to take us to see the Elgin Marbles, Thomas, or the rest of the sights at the British Museum.’

  ‘Thank the Lord for that. You’d be wasting your time, my girl. Headless statues ain’t the thing for me. Well, come on! Let’s get on with it. Then we can take you for an ice at Gunter’s.’

  Though Thomas affected to despise his cousin’s choice of entertainment he enjoyed it. The beasts in both the Tower and the Exeter Exchange were savage enough to still his criticism and the water spectacle was well staged.

  At Madame Tussaud’s he made an effort to dissuade Amy and Perdita from entering the Special Room, but they would have none of it.

  ‘Well, inspect the horrors if you must,’ he said. ‘But don’t expect me to catch you if you faint. It’s all executions and the like.’

  ‘I’ve never fainted in my life,’ Perdita told him. ‘Don’t be such a milksop!’

  Even so, both girls were looking rather pale when they emerged from the chamber.

  ‘I told you so,’ Thomas said triumphantly. ‘You both look sick as parrots.’

  ‘I’m glad we’ve seen it,’ Perdita told him coolly. ‘We don’t wish to be sheltered from the uglier side of life.’

  Thomas whistled. ‘Perdita, you ain’t turning into a blue-stocking, I hope? That will scupper your chances of making a good match.’

  Perdita fixed him with a basilisk look. ‘What makes you think that I am seeking a “good match” as you are pleased to call it. Let me tell you, cousin, from what I’ve seen of men, I shall be happier on my own.’

  This remark brought shouts of glee from all three cousins. ‘So will they!’ cried Henry. ‘That is, unless you choose a bare-knuckle fighter.’

  Perdita treate
d this remark with the disdain which it deserved. It was only when they reached Gunter’s that she looked upon her irrepressible cousins with any degree of favour.

  She sank into a chair with a sigh of relief. Three hours of sight-seeing had caused her new half-boots to nip her toes cruelly. It was Amy who noticed that the pale blue fabric uppers were becoming discoloured by a spreading stain.

  ‘Dita, have you cut your foot?’ she asked. ‘That looks like blood to me.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Perdita told her hastily. ‘Though my boots do hurt after all this walking. Will you wait here for me whilst I go and change them?’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Amy said at once.

  ‘No, Jenkins shall take me in the coach and bring me back again. It won’t take half an hour…’

  ‘But shall you wish to go on walking, love?’

  ‘Oh, Amy, we haven’t done one half of what we planned for today, and we haven’t much time before we leave for Bath.’ With that Perdita rose to her feet, and hobbled out to the entrance, feeling as if she trod on knives.

  By the time the coach reached Grosvenor Square she was in agony. Jenkins helped her down with a look of concern, but it was as much as she could do to mount the steps to the front door without crying out in pain.

  ‘More trouble with your ankle, Miss Wentworth?’ a deep voice enquired. ‘Who is the unfortunate gentleman this time?’

  Perdita turned her head and looked into the grinning face of the Earl of Rushmore.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded abruptly.

  ‘Well now, I had supposed that I might make morning calls as well as any other man in London. If you will have the truth of it, I came to see your Mama.’

  ‘Again?’ Perdita tried to review her behaviour at her last meeting with the Earl, but she could think of nothing but the excruciating pain as she took another step towards the door. A muffled shriek escaped her lips.