The countess drew them over to a sofa and sat down between them. “You don’t wish to be married, Lucy?”
“Oh, I do, Aunt, but my expectations are far more modest than Anna’s.” She glanced over at the Hathaways, who were conversing with the earl. “My friend Sophia is a widow. She and her mother will be able to chaperone me quite adequately.”
“But if they are unavailable, you will come to me.” Aunt Jane held Lucy’s gaze. “And when we have our ball here, you will be part of the receiving line.”
“If you wish, my lady.” Lucy was reluctant to start arguing with her aunt on their very first meeting. “But my father—”
“Your father is a man who has no understanding of such things. If I choose to aid you in your search for a husband, then he has nothing further to say in the matter.” She looked Lucy over. “I think you will do very well, indeed.”
Lucy held her tongue as the countess beckoned to her husband. “Will you ring the bell, dear, and ask Julia and Max to come down?”
She had a sense that she’d met her match in her aunt, who appeared to be just as managing as everyone insisted Lucy was. It was also comforting to know that the countess didn’t share her father’s opinion that she was too old and too plain to find a husband. She glanced over at Anna, who was smiling again, and felt far happier about leaving her with her uncle and aunt than she had earlier.
When the door opened to admit the butler and her two cousins she rose to her feet and was introduced to them. Julia was of a similar age to Anna and the two girls were soon talking as if they’d known each other for years. The eldest son, Max, was a little more reticent than his sister, but perfectly amiable and more than willing to meet his new relatives.
She’d never met her cousins before. After the death of their father, the rector and his brother had fallen out and visits between the two families had ceased. Lucy had never been given the exact details, only that it had to do with her father’s portion of the unentailed part of the estate. Communication was reestablished when the dowager countess died and Lucy insisted on writing a letter of condolence. That led to an exchange of letters resulting in the invitation for Anna to join the family and be chaperoned by the current countess.
Eventually, Mrs. Hathaway caught Lucy’s eye and reluctantly stood up.
“We will have to be going. We’ve left the horses standing for far too long as it is.” She turned to Anna. “Come and give me a hug, my dear.”
Anna obliged and then made her way to Lucy. It was the first time in their lives that they would be apart.
“Oh, Lucy . . .”
She hugged Anna hard and then stood back with a decisive nod. “I will send you a note first thing tomorrow so that we can make plans. I’m quite certain you will be happy here.”
Anna nodded, her eyes bright and her mouth trembling at the corners. “I wish—”
“You will be fine.” Lucy blew her a kiss and started for the door before her sister noticed how close she was to tears herself. That would never do. Aunt Jane followed her out, tucking her hand into the crook of Lucy’s elbow.
“We will take good care of her, I promise.”
Lucy nodded and kept her gaze fixed on the stairs, which seemed to be blurring in front of her eyes.
“And I meant it about you considering this your home, too.”
“Thank you.”
They reached the grand entranceway and Lucy followed Sophia out into the carriage and sat down, her face averted. As the horses moved off, a lace-edged handkerchief appeared under her nose. She took it gratefully and blew her nose.
By the time they reached the far more modest street where the Hathaways had rented their town house, Lucy was able to tuck the handkerchief into her reticule and step out of the carriage with her usual air of assurance. She couldn’t forget that she’d come to London with a purpose. Now all she had to do was ensure that she was successful.
Chapter 2
“Major Kurland!”
Foley burst into Robert’s study without knocking, startling his employer, who was reading through one of the accounts books.
“What?” Robert demanded. “This had better be important, Foley; you just made me forget the sheep tally in my head.”
Foley proffered a silver salver on which lay a single letter with an elaborate seal. Robert picked up the letter and frowned. “Who’s it from?”
“The Prince Regent!”
“That’s extremely unlikely. Why would the prince be writing to a nonentity like me?” He perused the envelope, noting the Carlton House address and the scrawl of a regal signature franking the corner of the letter. Taking out his knife, he carefully slit the seal and smoothed out the single page concealed within. Eventually he raised his head to find Foley almost dancing with impatience in front of him.
“I’ll be damned. It is from the Prince Regent—well, from his personal secretary, which is almost the same thing. Apparently the prince has heard of my heroism during the Battle of Waterloo and wishes to reward me for my service. Good Lord, I’m to be made a baronet.”
“Oh, sir!” Foley clasped his hands together. “I’m so delighted for you. A hereditary title that can be passed down to your children!”
“If I ever have any children.” Robert read the letter again. “I wonder if it’s possible to refuse such a thing?”
“Major, you wouldn’t, you . . .”
He sighed. “I don’t think it’s possible to say no. It seems as if I’m to proceed to London with all haste to meet the Prince Regent and receive his thanks in person. Devil take it, I hate London.”
“I’ll need to press your new dress uniform and make sure that your weapons are polished and . . .” Foley paused. “What about your lack of a valet? Perhaps I should accompany you to London myself. We can’t have you meeting the Prince Regent without looking your best.”
“Foley . . .”
His butler was already heading for the door muttering to himself, so Robert let him go. He returned his attention to the letter. How on earth had the Prince Regent got to hear about him? He flipped the letter over and noticed that directly underneath his name was printed in smaller letters L. Harrington, secretary.
His frown deepened. Had Miss Harrington taken it upon herself to write to the Prince Regent and draw his attention to Robert’s so-called heroics? Why would she do such a thing? If he had to go to London, he would make sure to find his meddling neighbor and ask her what the devil she’d been thinking.
London was far more tiring and intimidating than Lucy had expected. As the Hathaways had engaged an extremely competent staff, she also had very little to do, which was disconcerting in itself. Apparently, living like a young lady at home was remarkably boring. They’d shopped for new clothes, found an excellent dressmaker to bring them up to scratch and a milliner whose new style bonnets were reasonably priced. She yawned discreetly behind her hand as Sophia started talking about which of the events they should attend.
“Lucy! Pay attention!”
She jumped and returned her gaze to her friend, who was waving an invitation card practically under her nose.
“I’m happy to do whatever you want, Sophia.”
“Thanks to you, Lucy, we’ll meet all the right people at the Clavelly ball tonight.” Sophia clutched the invitation to her bosom. “Do you think the countess will be able to get us admitted to Almack’s?”
Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Is it really that important? I’ve heard the refreshments are indifferent and the company insufferable.”
“Who told you that?”
“Major Kurland.”
Sophia dismissed him with an airy wave of her hand. “Major Kurland is never pleased with anything. They don’t call it the Marriage Mart for nothing, Lucy. All the most eligible gentlemen attend their balls.”
“So it’s rather like the county fair at Saffron Walden?”
Sophia mock-frowned at her. “If we are granted vouchers for Almack’s, I would be in heaven.”
�
��Then I’ll write to my aunt immediately and ask her if it is possible.” She walked over to the small desk at the end of the drawing room. “Have you met any man you particularly like yet?”
Sophia sighed. “Not really. They are all very nice, but none of them can hold a candle to my Charlie. I know I said I wished to remarry and have children, but I don’t intend to just pick anyone. Charlie would only want the best for me.”
“Well, he was an exceptional man.” Lucy drew out a fresh sheet of paper. “I doubt it will be easy to replace him.” She looked up as the butler appeared, and took the two letters he offered her from the tray. “Thank you.”
As Sophia and Mrs. Hathaway discussed what they would wear to the Clavelly ball, Lucy wrote to her aunt and then turned her attention to the letters she’d received. After a week away, news from home was definitely welcome. She was surprised how much she missed the irascible Major Kurland and Kurland St. Mary.
“Oh dear.”
“What is it, Lucy?” Sophia came over to her.
“Nicholas Jenkins is coming to London expressly to see Anna.”
“Well, that isn’t a surprise, is it? Everyone knows he’s in love with her. He was threatening to follow her here months ago.”
“But I didn’t think he’d actually do it.” Lucy passed the letter to Sophia. “I can’t wait to tell Anna this news.”
“Foley, stop fussing.” Robert stood patiently as his butler brushed down the dark blue coat of his uniform for the third time. “I’ll be fine. I’m not seeing the Prince Regent this morning. I’m just going to my regimental headquarters.”
“And you still need to look your best.”
Foley tweaked the ornate gold braiding cascading down from Robert’s shoulder before finally handing him his tall hat.
“You look very smart, Major.”
“Thank you.”
In truth, after almost two years without active military service, Robert felt quite uncomfortable in his uniform. After he’d been cut out of his last set of clothing after Waterloo, Bookman, his former valet, had ordered him a whole new kit from his military tailor. The heavy fabrics were rigid and the gold braid that covered most of the front of his coat was so stiff it wouldn’t lie down properly. He’d heard the Prince Regent had a hand in the design of the 10th Hussars uniform, and that wouldn’t surprise him. It was rather too ornate for his taste and hopelessly impractical in battle. But that was true of most uniforms. At least the majority of his regiment wore blue, unlike the poor redcoats who stood out like a sore thumb in every battle scenario imaginable. He’d been told that red had been chosen so that blood didn’t show and strike fear into the hearts of the enemy.
Somehow he doubted that worked.
He tucked his scarlet peaked shako under his arm, avoiding the feathers, and assessed his appearance in the mirror. He looked quite impressive. His fingers traced his clean-shaven upper lip where once, like most of his military associates, he’d sported a fine moustache. He hadn’t the heart to grow it back. Foley had made his boots shine and polished all the metal buttons and facings on his coat until he could see his reflection in them.
“Your sword, Major?”
“Ah, yes, thank you.” Robert threw the gray fur-lined pelisse back over his shoulder and buckled on his sword. “I think I’ll do. Can you go down and find a hackney cab for me?”
Foley paused at the door. “You don’t wish to drive yourself, or ride, sir? I believe your phaeton is available, as are several of your horses.”
“Not today.”
He might look the part of a dashing Hussar officer, but the thought of actually getting back on a horse still terrified him. Of all the scars left from his horrific injuries at Waterloo, that ridiculous fear was the hardest to bear. He’d managed to force himself to sit in a horse-drawn vehicle, but even that brought him out in a sweat. The thought of navigating through the streets of London on the back of a nervous steed was too much for him to deal with.
He’d become what the professional soldiers jokingly referred to as a Hyde Park soldier, one who never saw active service, but always looked impeccably dressed and was seen in all the right social quarters. His mouth twisted and he turned away from his resplendent image. Better to get this over with. If there was a way to slide out of accepting the baronetcy, his commander in chief would surely know of it.
Robert went down to the hotel entrance and got into the hackney cab Foley had called for him. If his visit with his commanding officer went well, he might be more inclined to seek out the Harrington sisters and see how they were faring in the bustling metropolis. Foley had managed to find both addresses, and it would be uncivil of him not to acknowledge the ladies.
He put on his gloves and settled back in the seat. And if Miss Harrington was responsible for bringing him to the attention of his regiment’s fond patron, the Prince Regent, he might have a few specific things to say for her ears alone.
When the hackney pulled up, Robert alighted with as much speed as he could manage and, using his walking stick to balance on the uneven cobbled street, paid off the driver. Just as he approached the daunting array of steps, a man coming down them hailed him.
“Major Kurland? Is that you? By all that’s holy!”
He looked up into the familiar face of one of his fellow officers.
“Lieutenant Broughton. What a pleasure to see you.” Robert transferred his stick into his left hand and shook Broughton’s hand. “What brings you here today?”
“I’m selling my commission.” Broughton made a face. “There’s no point in remaining in the service if the regiment is bound for the Americas or India, and I don’t want to sit around on half pay.” His gaze swept over Robert, lingering on his walking stick. “I heard you were badly injured at Waterloo.”
“As you see, I’m probably going to be selling out myself.”
Broughton glanced up the steps. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes.”
“Then I won’t keep you.” He paused. “Would you consider meeting me at my club when you’re done? It’s Fletchers on Portland Square, a new meeting place for those of a scientific bent.”
“I would be delighted.” Robert had always liked Broughton’s no-nonsense approach to life, although some of the other officers had thought him lacking in social graces. Lacking them himself, Robert had never taken offense at the man’s blunt manners. “I shouldn’t be too long.”
“Where are you putting up?”
“Fenton’s.”
Broughton tipped his hat. “I look forward to seeing you again very shortly.”
Robert laboriously made his way up the steps and inside the dark paneled entrance hall with its massive portrait of the Prince Regent dressed in an even more glorified version of the uniform of the Royal 10th Hussars. A man rose to greet him from behind a desk.
“How may I help you, Major?”
Robert saluted. “I have an appointment with Lieutenant Colonel Sir George Quentin. I’m Major Robert Kurland.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll show you right up.”
Robert followed the man into the shadowy depths of the house and into another anteroom, where the lieutenant colonel’s aide guarded his master’s door.
“Major Kurland.” The aide snapped to attention. “The lieutenant colonel will see you now.”
Robert saluted again and was taken through into the lair of the lieutenant colonel. He was an interesting man of Germanic origins who had been famously court-martialed for excessive brutality to his men in 1814 and had survived to continue his career. Privately, Robert thought him something of a tyrant, but also understood that when dealing with common men, especially soldiers after a battle, displaying superior strength was as necessary as breathing.
“Major Kurland.”
Robert saluted and stood to attention. “Sir.”
“Please sit down.” His commanding officer grimaced. “I see we both still bear the scars of our victory at Waterloo.”
“I’m recovering, s
ir, but I doubt I’ll ever return to the regiment.”
“That’s a shame, Kurland. You were an excellent officer.”
“Thank you.” Robert wasn’t sure if he was relieved or terrified by the thought of the permanent end of his army career. “I intend to sell my commission.”
“I don’t think you’ll have any problem finding a purchaser. Due to our royal patron, this regiment is still considered a prime place to advance a military career.” The lieutenant colonel looked down at some papers on his desk. “Now, as to that other matter—”
“May I ask how the Prince Regent heard about my so-called heroic exploits?” Robert interrupted him. “I did nothing more than any other commissioned officer during that battle.”
“I beg to disagree, Major. You led the charge that took out that French gun position that had half a brigade pinned down in the ruins.”
“I hardly remember, sir. It still doesn’t explain how I came to the prince’s notice.”
“Ah, that would be because your secretary replied to a dinner invitation directly to the Prince Regent’s private secretary rather than to our office here. The Regent happened to take a personal interest in who was attending the reception. Sir John McMahon showed him the letter sending your regrets and mentioning your injuries. The prince tends toward the sentimental, as we know, and ordered Sir John to find out about you. I was able to provide additional information, and the Regent decided to honor you with the baronetcy.”
Robert shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “With all due respect, sir, is there any way to decline such an honor? I hardly feel I deserve it.”
“I fear it is unavoidable, Major. The prince needs the popular vote too much to resist ennobling a hero. I would prepare yourself to be lionized.”
“Damn,” Robert said feelingly. “I can’t think of anything worse.”
“Well, it is too late to do anything about it now. Steps have already been taken to start the process. I’ve been ordered to bring you to a private audience with the prince in the next week or so.”
“I suppose that means I’ll have to stay in London? What was my ‘secretary’ thinking?”
Death Comes to London Page 2