A Lady for Lord Randall

by Sarah Mallory

  Mary made her way around the edge of the room, but as she did so she became aware that she was attracting attention. Ladies glanced at her and lifted their fans to whisper to their neighbours. She tried to ignore it, but she knew what was happening. She had danced too often with Randall. People were remembering how often she had been in company with him, probably some had seen him entering her house, others might connect her with the veiled figure leaving his lodgings that morning. A sly look and laughing comment from one of the ladies she had met at the Appletons’ party convinced her. Everyone now knew she was Randall’s mistress.

  She kept her head up and her smile in place. To slink away would be to admit shame and she felt none. She loved Randall and he loved her, let the world think what it wished.

  * * *

  Randall returned to the ballroom. The music was still playing, the floor still crowded with dancers, but if he had missed one set or two he had no idea, his mind was working on the orders he had received. He must find Mary and take his leave of her. He looked around, searching the room for her dainty figure in its white gown and deep red sash. At last he found her and hurried up to take her hands.

  ‘We have our orders,’ he said. ‘I do not have long; I have already sent word to my lodgings.’ He grinned, although it was an effort. ‘I am prepared to ride directly to the battlefield in full dress, but I’m damned if I will do so in my dancing shoes.’

  Someone tapped him on the arm, one of a group of gentlemen wanting to know what was going on. He was drawn into the crowd, everyone asking if there was any news. To the civilians he gave a vague reply, to fellow officers his answer was brief: the French were within hours of the city. It was time to move.

  Mary made no effort to follow him. He would come back to her before he left, she was sure of it, but tonight he was a soldier first, and must do his duty.

  ‘Mary!’ She looked round to find Lady Sarah at her side. ‘Is everything well? You and Justin look so, so happy together.’

  Mary nodded.

  ‘It is very well,’ she said. ‘My heart is so full, Sarah, I think it may burst. Randall—Justin—explained something, he wanted me to understand why he was so against marriage.’ She clutched Sarah’s hand. ‘It was not easy for him, but I believe it was a testament to just how much he loves me.’ Mary did not think her smile could grow any wider. ‘I am so happy, Sarah, I am confident that Randall has fought his last battle.’ She giggled, suddenly feeling quite ecstatic. ‘And I am to be his countess!’

  A movement close by made her look up and she saw Randall returning. She put out her hand, but even as she did so his attention was caught by someone across the room and with no more than a faint nod he turned and walked to the door. Mary’s eyes followed him. Robbins was waiting for him in the doorway and looking very grim.

  Mary’s happiness was quickly dimmed by the thought of the bloody conflict to come, but she tried to hide it from Sarah. The girl had two brothers fighting and she did not wish to add to her distress.

  ‘His last battle of the heart, at least,’ she continued, trying to be brave. ‘He knows that when he returns I shall be waiting for him.’

  * * *

  Damn. Randall veered away towards the door. He wanted to take his leave of Mary alone, not with his sister looking on. He would go back as soon as he had seen Robbins. Impatiently he followed his man back to the ante room and sat down to pull on his Hessians.

  ‘Well?’ he said, getting to his feet again. ‘Where is the Latymor sword?’

  Robbins coughed. ‘I couldn’t find it, my lord.’ He looked up fleetingly at Randall. ‘I’ve looked everywhere. It was in the trunk last night, my lord, that I’m certain of, because I had to move it to put in your buckskins that I had brushed clean. I haven’t been to that trunk since.’

  Randall stared at him. He rubbed his chin. It had been there this morning, because he had pointed it out to Mary. Then with crystal clarity, he recalled the words he had overheard her speaking to his sister.

  I am confident that Randall has fought his last battle.

  A cold fist squeezed his heart. He must be mistaken. He gave himself a mental shake and waved his man away.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Robbins.’

  ‘But, my lord, you always—’

  ‘I have my dress sword; that will have to do this time. I must have moved the other one and forgotten about it.’

  But he knew that was a lie. The words Mary had uttered so passionately echoed in his head.

  I would give anything to have you safe away from here.

  The conviction was growing, heavy as lead in his chest. He dismissed his batman and returned to the ballroom, his brain racing.

  Mary was not from a military family, her parents had been radicals, her father a confirmed anti-royalist and a supporter of the revolution in France. She had told him that she was opposed to war, but he could not believe she would do anything to prevent him fighting. Yet he had not opened the trunk since Mary had left. No one else could have taken it. And what else could she mean by those words to Sarah?

  I am confident that Randall has fought his last battle.

  * * *

  His eyes raked the room. Mary was standing by the wall. She was alone now, smiling and tapping her foot in time to the music as she watched the dancing. Could she look so happy if she thought he was going into battle? Nearer the door couples were saying goodbye, their faces sombre, distraught. A young wife was saying a tearful farewell to her officer husband and when he walked away she fell into her friend’s arms, weeping. A stark contrast to Mary’s seeming unconcern.

  Randall felt a touch on his sleeve and turned to see Major Flint at his shoulder.

  ‘You were looking for me, Colonel?’

  ‘The game is on, Major. Ride back to Roosbos and get the men moving, quick as you can. I will meet you at Enghien.’

  ‘You are not coming?’

  Randall’s mind was still on the missing sword. He remembered Mary standing in his room, cloaked and veiled, ready to leave. He went over their last meeting, moment by moment. She had sent him off to find Robbins, to ask him to summon a cab for her. He had only been gone moments, but long enough for her to take the sword from the trunk and strap it around her waist. And when he returned she had refused to let him embrace her. She had put out her hands and kept him at a distance when he had so much wanted to hold her one last time. Why should she do that, if not to prevent him discovering what she was carrying? His doubts were hardening into certainty.

  He said grimly, ‘Not yet. I have some unfinished business.’

  Randall strode across the room, his temper rising. He recalled another occasion, when he had told her what he expected of his men.

  Unquestioning obedience? I do not think I could give anyone that.

  Suddenly it all made terrible sense.

  As if aware of his eyes upon her Mary turned her head and he saw the smile falter. A look of pure terror flickered across her face. As well it might, if she guessed he had found her out. He had trusted this woman. Bared his very soul to her and this is how she repaid him.

  The rein he had been keeping on his anger finally snapped.

  ‘Well, madam, did you think that your actions would keep me from fighting beside my men?’

  She was smiling again, but there was a shadow of doubt in her eyes and in her voice when she answered him.

  ‘I thought by coming to the ball I would see you once more, my lord, was that so very foolish?’

  ‘I am not talking about your being here, madam. I am talking about the sword.’

  ‘Sword? I—’

  He dismissed her words with a wave of his hand.

  ‘Do not add lies to your treachery, Miss Endacott. I may have told you I would not fight without the Latymor sword, but that was merely a sop to soothe your femi
nine nerves. I do not believe in such superstitious nonsense.’

  ‘I never for a moment thought—’

  ‘Did you not?’ His temper flared. He had never known a rage like it. Not only had she had betrayed him, but she would not admit it, even though he had heard her boasting to Sarah.

  The pain went far deeper than anything he had felt before, because she had betrayed him. He should have learned his lesson with the contessa. Women were not to be trusted. He needed to lash out, to make her feel something of his pain.

  ‘No doubt you saw your chance of becoming a countess slipping away, is that it?’

  ‘No! You know I care nothing for your title.’

  His lip curled. ‘Strange, then, that as soon as I proposed you jumped at the chance.’ He was being unfair and he knew it, but her betrayal spurred him on, he could not help himself. ‘The idea that I might not return to marry you was too fearful to contemplate, so you thought you could keep me with you by stealing my sword. Well, it won’t work, madam.’

  She was staring up at him. A moment ago her cheeks had been delicately flushed. Now they were white as her gown. White. The colour of virtue. How wrong he had been.

  ‘You think I would t-take your sword?’

  She looked the picture of bemused innocence, the little crease in her brow, the confusion in her eyes, her voice little more than a thread. He had not realised what a good actress she was.

  ‘I do not think it, I know!’ His lip curled. ‘Where are your fine, radical principles now, madam?’

  * * *

  The earl’s blue eyes blazed, but it seemed to Mary that a stranger stood before her. She was dazed by the violence of his attack and could find no way to counter it. Her brain seemed to be moving very slowly, trying to make sense of his words. She heard Lady Sarah’s breathless voice at her side.

  ‘Justin, everyone is leaving. They say the French are upon us, is that so?’

  For a moment Mary was free from that ferocious glare as Randall’s eyes moved to his sister, but only for an instant, then they were back upon her, harder than ever.

  ‘This was part of your plan, too, I have no doubt. To ingratiate yourself with my family in the hope of finding favour with me.’

  Mary could barely think straight, but this last accusation was too much. She dragged her head up.

  ‘I have no plan, as you call it, and did not ingratiate myself with anyone.’

  ‘You are a jade, madam. A scheming, ruthless jade. I have no doubt now that you meant all the time to catch yourself a title.’

  Sarah gave a little gasp. ‘Justin, you cannot believe that?’

  ‘Do not be fooled by her quiet demeanour, Sarah. This woman has done everything she can to worm her way into my life. She insinuated herself into Hattie’s company, worked it so that I had no choice but to escort her to Brussels and since then she has been practising her deception, convincing me that she was reluctant to receive my advances. Hah! Pretty good work for an impoverished radical’s daughter, was it not, Miss Endacott, to have an earl lay his heart at your feet.’

  She flinched as his words and his scathing tone flayed her, but it made no sense.

  ‘I have done nothing to deserve this,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Justin, I am sure you are wrong.’

  Randall rounded on his sister with a snarl. ‘She has fooled you, Sarah, just as she did me.’ He paused. Mary watched the muscle in his lean cheek working as he controlled his anger. When he spoke again his voice was quiet, composed. Hard as steel. ‘The duke has given orders that everyone is to prepare for war. Go back to Gussie, Sarah. Tell Blanchards he must take you both out of Brussels with all speed. And as for you...’ he turned back to Mary, cold fury in his eyes ‘...I would advise you not to be in Brussels when I return.’

  Reeling from his attack, Mary could only watch as he walked away, his back ramrod straight, his head high. Sarah touched her arm.

  ‘What was that about, what has happened?’

  ‘He thinks—’ Mary put one hand to her mouth. She felt sick. ‘He thinks I stole his sword. The one he always takes into battle.’

  ‘The Latymor sword? But why?’

  ‘He called it his lucky charm.’

  ‘But Randall has never believed in that sort of thing.’

  Mary shook her head, her eyes still fixed on the door through which Randall had now departed.

  ‘No, but he believes I have betrayed him.’ She could feel the tears welling up. ‘I must go home. I must find a cab.’

  ‘I shall take you.’

  ‘No, no, Randall does not want you to associate with me any longer.’

  ‘Oh, stuff!’ Lady Sarah snorted. She put her arm about Mary’s shoulder. ‘Do not worry, when Justin calms down he will see that you did not take his silly sword. Robbins has probably mislaid it. My maid is always losing things and they always turn up again later. My brother will be back to beg your pardon before you know it.’

  Mary knew that would not happen. Randall did not back down. He did not apologise. He had told her so himself. Why should a proud aristocrat humble himself for her? She allowed herself to be guided out of the ballroom and remained silent as they collected their cloaks and made the short journey back to the Rue Haute. She was still smarting from Randall’s anger and the injustice of it, but her heart was squeezed by a greater worry, one that she could not share, especially with Lady Sarah. Randall had gone off to fight: what if he did not come back?

  Chapter Ten

  The groom was waiting with Pompey at the door and Randall threw himself into the saddle. It was a relief to be mounted on the big grey and riding through the night; it stopped him dwelling too much on Mary’s treachery. He gave himself a mental shake. Enough. His personal concerns must wait, there was much to do, lives could be lost if he did not concentrate on his duty now. Reveille was sounding as he rode out of Brussels and his progress was slowed by the chaotic bustle of soldiers marching, officers riding to and fro and any number of aides dashing out of the city, carrying fresh instructions from the duke. His frustration was only increased by a succession of conflicting orders and the fact that his troop arrived at Quatre Bras too late to take part in the action.

  * * *

  The following morning everyone’s dissatisfaction increased when they were given orders to retreat from Quatre Bras and make for Genappe. Flint and Bartlett’s divisions moved off under the leaden skies, but a bad-tempered fight broke out amongst Sheffield’s men, delaying their departure. Randall hesitated. He was loath to interfere, but Sheffield was the most inexperienced of his majors and might need his support. An aide raced up and addressed him hurriedly.

  ‘Sir Augustus sends his compliments, my lord. He asks that you attend him with all haste.’

  Randall could not ignore a summons from his commanding officer. The men were back under control and beginning to move slowly on to the road. Wheeling Pompey, he set off after the aide. He would have to leave Sheffield to it.

  * * *

  An hour later he was galloping in pursuit of his troop, cutting across the fields, but when he rejoined the highway where it emerged from a small town there was no sign of Major Sheffield or his artillery. They were clearly still amongst the houses. Randall glanced anxiously at the heavy clouds. If it started to rain it would become almost impossible to make much more progress today, as the poor roads would churn up into a muddy quagmire.

  Randall cursed under his breath. Where the devil was Sheffield? He turned Pompey and galloped into the town, racing through the streets until he arrived at a large square, where he was met by a scene of chaos. British cavalry and French chasseurs were milling around in a confusing mass, swords flashing and hoofs ringing on the stone paving, while Sheffield’s gun carriages were trapped in a narrow street leading off the far side of the square. Bennington Ffog was i
n the thick of the action and Randall’s eyes quickly searched amongst the cavalry for Gideon, but he could not see him.

  He kicked Pompey onwards, galloping around the fray towards the artillery unit. There was no sign of Sheffield, but he recognised the cavalry officer at the entrance to the street, shouting out orders to the Rogues.

  Randall let out a roar. ‘What in damnation is going on here?’

  Gideon turned to him, his eyes shining with the light of battle.

  ‘Lord Uxbridge ordered the artillery to follow him through the streets, but the French were waiting. Sheffield is dead. We need to retreat. I’ve given the order to reverse by unlimbering. It’s damned tight here.’

  Randall glanced around him. Each gun was pulled by a team of eight horses, difficult enough to turn in the open, but in the confines of the street it was well-nigh impossible.

  ‘You are right,’ he conceded. ‘It’s the only possible way. But where’s Uxbridge?’

  ‘Gone,’ said Gideon tersely. ‘To get reinforcements, I hope.’

  Randall nodded. ‘We have to keep the damned French at bay while the men get those guns away.’

  ‘I am with you, Brother. We’ll have to stop them here.’ Gideon drew his sword. ‘Semper laurifer!’

  They brought their horses side by side in the entrance to the street, ready to prevent the French from passing them. In the square the hussars fought bravely, but every now and again a group of chasseurs would break away and surge towards the artillery. Randall and Gideon held them back while behind them the men worked swiftly, manoeuvring the gun carriages and horses. Randall fought mechanically, his mind racing. His dress sword handled well, although he had never used it in battle before. He had noticed that Gideon’s sword was not the usual curved sabre carried by a cavalry officer, but a straight blade. It took only a second, brief glance to tell him it was the Latymor sword. His blade, or rather, his grandfather’s. Randall blocked an attacking blow from a French chasseur and parried with a deadly thrust of his own. Had Mary somehow given it to Gideon? It made no sense. And why was Gideon commanding the artillery? Four more chasseurs were charging towards them: no time for anything now but to fight.