“God bless you, my lord. Whatever have been the differences between you and my husband, I can see that you are a good man. I shall never forget your kindness in hearing me out.”
The earl raised his hand in embarrassed protest in an effort to stem her overflowing gratitude. “Please say no more.”
Mrs. Seton took her leave minutes later, pressing her thanks and blessings on the earl, whose only emotion was relief that the touchy business had been speedily concluded.
A letter summoning Lord Straeford to appear at the War Office arrived by special messenger two days later. The earl tossed it into the fire with a perfunctory curse. Was he never to have control of his affairs again? Between the Board of Inquiry, Angus Loftus and Lady Maxwell, his life was a constant tug-of-war, never leaving him time for his own pursuits—which were to restore Straeford Park and return to the front.
War! It was all he was suited for. In combat, life was reduced to its simplest terms—a brutal struggle for survival and victory. He understood it well. There were none of the perplexing quandaries of social masquerades that life in society presented. He preferred to feel the vigorous pulse of life surge through his veins when his mortality was pitted against the machines of war. There was an exhilaration in testing his physical strength and endurance against supreme odds. And if he were to die—so be it. Death held no fears for one who found little to savor in life.
Billings peered out of the window to the street below where a group of pickets was milling around the entrance to the hotel. He wished he knew who had instigated that action against his lordship. Damn the fools! If only there were some quick way to disperse them before the earl ventured out among them. Yet he knew no amount of coaxing would prevent his master from keeping his appointment at the War Office—which meant a confrontation between him and that nasty crowd below.
“Will you see that my horse is brought around, Billings?” the earl asked as he shrugged into his red military jacket.
“Let me bring your mount to the back door, my lord,” Billings appealed to Straeford as he adjusted his sword hilt for him.
“Would you have me slink off like a coward?” Straeford demanded disdainfully.
“No, my lord, but it ain’t cowardly to protect your life against hooligans.”
There was a short burst of laughter from his lordship before replying, “Don’t worry about me, Billings. I assure you I have no intention of risking my life. Now see to my horse, if you please.”
Billings knew he was defeated and excusing himself, went about the business of securing his lordship’s mount.
On reaching the lobby, Straeford nonchalantly surveyed the marching pickets in front of the hotel before going out into the street. The mock courage of the rabble stirred his contempt. Only get them alone and see how the coward turns tail and runs!
“There he is!” yelled one of the demonstrators, and immediately they surged around the earl, shouting abuse and waving their placards at him.
“Hang ‘im!” cried the spokesman of the mob above its roar. “Hang the butcher!”
The earl did not acknowledge the hostile faces surrounding him but moved through the muttering pickets with a forbidding hauteur that forced them to step aside despite their mounting lust for violence. Reaching the stallion Billings held for him, Straeford was about to mount when a stone struck his head.
“Dirty blackguards,” Billings shouted as his master staggered and blood trickled from a cut above his eye, “attacking the Earl of the Realm!”
The crowd shifted indecisively at such a reminder and was held in check long enough for Straeford to search its faces and find his attacker. A glint of recognition lighted his narrowed green eyes, and ignoring the rest of the pack who parted before him, his lordship stalked his assailant.
Coming face to face with Johnny Bedloes, the young man Straeford had drummed out of the corps several years ago, he stopped and glared into the hate-filled face. “I’m not surprised to find you here, Bedloes. You never did understand the responsibilities of leadership,” Straeford taunted coolly.
Bedloes’s self-assurance faltered under the earl’s harsh stare and he shifted his gaze nervously from the man challenging him to the crowd and back again. He knew he was losing ground as Straeford pressed a silent war of nerves on him.
“You’ll get your just deserts this time, Mr. High and Mighty. The people won’t stand for a butcher doing His Majesty’s business in the world.”
The mob, encouraged by Bedloes’s bluster, pressed closer around both men. Straeford stood his ground, however, and continued to challenge its leader. “Still trying to get others to do your dirty work for you, aren’t you, Bedloes?”
The herd grew suddenly still, waiting to hear Bedloes’s reply to the earl’s insult. There was a hair’s breadth between their loyalty to Bedloes and their respect for Straeford’s obvious bravery, and the frightened rabble-rouser knew it. In desperation, he drew a pistol from beneath his jacket and leveled it at Straeford, who grasped his arm the instant the weapon appeared and jerked Bedloes’s arm into the air before the gun exploded over the heads of the mob. The blast sent a ripple of alarm through the assembled crowd which bolted for cover like frightened hares. Wresting the pistol from Bedloes’s frenzied grasp, Straeford threw his would-be attacker to the ground.
The earl had the situation well under control by the time Billings arrived on the spot with a constable and several Bow Street runners. The scattered pickets watched the earl dust off his jacket and mount his horse to ride off without a backward glance.
A couple of men crossed over to Billings and commented, “Ain’t a nerve in his body, is there? That’s one mighty cool customer.”
“My master don’t know the meaning of fear,” Billings claimed proudly and haughtily walked away.
“Please be seated, Lord Straeford.” Lord Carstairs indicated a chair in front of the heavy mahogany table at which he sat. General Belvoir was beside him. There were no others present.
“What we have to discuss with you today is of a very grave nature. It is a matter that must not pass beyond these doors.” Carstairs studied the impassive face before him and then continued, “Perhaps we should begin with your reading this deposition sent to us from the surgeon general’s office in Calcutta.”
Straeford took the document presented to him, beginning to wonder at the strained manner of Carstairs. As he read, his expression turned grim and he recalled the worried face of the woman who had visited him in his rooms a few days ago. General Seton was dead of a self-inflicted bullet wound to the head. A suicide!
“You can appreciate the difficulties this presents, my lord.” General Belvoir spoke for the first time. “And we have another document for your perusal before we can pursue this matter further.”
Straeford allowed a look of surprise to cross his face. It was a letter from General Seton to Lord Castlereagh. In it, Seton fully exonerated Straeford of any wrongdoing in the battle of Nangore. General Seton explained the shameful part he himself had played in that ill-fated attack, and made it clear that had not Colonel Lord Straeford taken command and counter-attacked the next morning, the whole expedition would have gone down in bloody defeat. General Seton did not spare himself but laid the blame to his own disgraceful alcoholic excesses. Seton ended by recommending that the colonel be elevated to the rank of general.
At last Straeford looked up from the pitiful letter and somberly regarded the two gentlemen across from him.
“I am at a loss for words, gentlemen. Naturally, I am gratified that General Seton has made clear the situation at Nangore, but I deeply regret his final solution.”
“Of course. We understand perfectly the conflict of emotions you must be experiencing. However, we hope to receive some guidance from you in the handling of this matter,” Lord Carstairs said.
“I don’t understand. How may I guide you?”
“There will have to be a public announcement of the general’s death immediately. It can be handled one of tw
o ways… er… we can present the full facts of the general’s demise… or… we can merely report that he died of heart failure and let the matter fade as quietly as possible,” Carstairs explained.
“We feel the decision should be left in your hands since you have suffered most from this whole unfortunate business,” General Belvoir added.
“I appreciate your consideration, gentlemen. By all means let us salvage what little reputation we can for Seton. He was not always as he was at the end.” Once again Straeford remembered Mrs. Seton and was relieved to be able to comply with her request.
“Very noble of you, Straeford. Very noble,” Belvoir claimed heartily. “Naturally there will be a public statement clearing you of all wrongdoing in the Nangore affair, and the board will be dissolved without further meeting. How say you to that?”
“Whatever you decide, sir. I will be relieved to put it all behind me.”
“Very good, my lord. I laud your discretion.” Car-stairs joined his praise to that of Belvoir. “Now, there is another matter… the promotion. We agree with Seton that you are deserving of it… but…”
“But the timing is inopportune,” Straeford finished for them. “That the press and public would not look favorably on such a sudden reversal, I’m well aware.”
“You are far ahead of us, dear sir. And your understanding is excellent. Be assured that the matter of your promotion would not be forgotten, but merely delayed until such a time that it may be accomplished without undue disturbance.”
“I find no fault with that procedure, gentlemen.”
“Excellent. I think we can expect to close this matter with a minimum of public outcry—especially since attention is so much focused on the European front at present,” Carstairs said.
Straeford nodded his assent.
“Which leads us to our last consideration. We feel this would be a propitious time to transfer you from India to Portugal. Arthur Wellesley is preparing an expedition to that country, and we thought to send you along in charge of the 9th Brigade. How say you?”
“I say very good, gentlemen. It is exactly the course I would have chosen for myself had I the opportunity of doing so.”
“Well then,” Carstairs claimed, rising and extending his hand to Lord Straeford, “I say this was a most successful interview, and I give you my heartiest good wishes for your future success, Colonel.”
“And I add mine to them.” Belvoir rose, shaking Straeford’s hand and closing the interview.
That evening over a supper at the Green Fox, the earl reported his interview to Harding and lifted his glass in response to his friend’s toast of “Better days.”
“That’s a toast I’ll gladly join, my friend. I did not look to see the Seton affair so neatly packed up and settled. It still leaves me dazed.” Straeford’s gaze turned inward as, with mixed emotions, he relived the morning’s interview at the War Office. He was both saddened and relieved. “I knew Seton was headed for disaster—but never did I think he would end up a suicide, poor devil.”
“Suicide is a messy business, Just, but it certainly resolved a touchy situation for everyone concerned.”
“I wonder if Seton’s wife would sum it up that way. She came to see me the other morning.”
“Did she, by Jove! You didn’t tell me.”
“I had forgotten about her… a little broken bird of a woman…”
“Now don’t turn maudlin, my friend. It ain’t your style. Furthermore, ‘one man’s meat is another man’s poison.’ You have come out of the wretched affair with your feathers all smooth and your future looking bright—leastways, as far as the army is concerned. From what you’ve told me, old Belvoir and Carstairs were falling all over themselves with encomiums. You’ll get that generalship you place so high on your priorities. Just see if you don’t.”
Straeford regarded his friend thoughtfully. “There’s a lot of truth in what you say, Ed. I came out of this one amazingly well, didn’t I? Wonder if this augurs a change in luck for me. Could it be Dame Fortune is tired of the cudgel and will reveal the softer side of her perfidious nature to me for once in my life?”
“I say, old man, this is no time for disrespect! Dame Fortune has just winked your way and I, for one, think a celebration is called for. Another round of master Ruben’s stout will fortify us nicely. Hey boy, over here,” Ed called loudly to the potboy. “Look to your business and fill these disgracefully empty glasses with dispatch. We have some serious drinking to attend to this night.” Harding’s mood was verging on hilarity.
“Much more of old Ruben’s stout and it will be bellows to mend, for you my friend.” Straeford laughed, catching Harding’s infectious mood of gaiety.
“A little more of old Ruben’s stout and mayhaps you’ll gain some proper perspective, old man. Life is not the constant call to arms you believe it to be. I drink to your future success—both in marriage and your career.” Harding raised his glass. “There. Did I not tell you it would go well with you in this matter, old man?”
“Damn your hide, Harding, you need not have brought the marriage business to mind at present. I thought to enjoy this evening.”
“Don’t be such a sorehead, Just.”
“If you only knew what a trial this marriage contract entails. The boy must be given a commission; the younger daughter a London season…”
“It’s well worth it if Straeford Park is renovated.”
“Yes,” the earl agreed reluctantly.
“And you say your intended is a handsome wench. Wait till you get to know her better. I am anxious to meet her.”
“And so you shall. This weekend Loftus and his daughter are to inspect the Park. I could not endure the whole time in their company without support. You must bring Ann to supper and see me through this ordeal.”
“Somehow I feel the ordeal falls more to Miss Loftus than to you, my friend. Have some pity.” Harding laughed.
“There’s not a female that walks this earth who is deserving of my pity,” Justin claimed ruefully.
“You’ll change your tune one day, Just. I predict it with certainty.”
“To blazes with you and your maundering, you simpleton,” Justin replied with affection for his long-time friend.
5
From a hilltop vantage point hidden behind a cluster of trees, the earl could observe the manor house without himself being seen. Sitting atop his slender black stallion, he watched the slow arrival of the carriage carrying Loftus and his daughter. A sense of personal embarrassment was quickly followed by a sudden welling of anger as they stepped down from the coach to examine the austere and neglected residence. From such a distance he could not discern their conversation, but from Angus’s gesticulations directed at various points of the house, it was clear he was evaluating his investment.
Annoyed, the earl decided not to ride down the hillside to meet his guests. Instead he swung his horse around and thundered off in the opposite direction.
It was left to Lady Maxwell to welcome her grandson’s guests and explain that his absence was due to estate business. The visitors accepted her information, and she quickly ushered them into the drawing room where she launched into a rambling discourse concerning the heritage of the estate and the house itself.
The regal lady provided extensive details regarding the historical background and the Significance of the few furnishings that had not gone to pay some debt. A small oak table at the far side of the room, for example, had been part of the estate for over two hundred years. Its rococo design provided a hint of the glory which the house’s former occupants must have known. Lady Maxwell pointed first to a small, ancient, threadbare tapestry depicting a faded pastoral scene and then to the family crest—a half moon with two dragonlike creatures locked in ferocious combat—which was engraved on the fireplace.
A long moment of silence followed Lady Maxwell’s recitation, making Loftus uneasy, and he blurted out his intentions to have the Park renovated before the marriage took place.
&nb
sp; “Ye needn’t fret one bit about the property, madam. I’ll see to it that it’s put back in shape as it was meant to be. I mean to stand by my gentleman’s agreement with the earl and make right certain that he and his wife-to-be will live in style and grace, just the way it should be.”
Her father’s pointed boastfulness embarrassed his daughter, who sought desperately to change the discussion. Her attention had been focused on the striking face that appeared in the portrait above the fireplace mantel and she seized the opportunity to make an inquiry regarding it. “The lady in the portrait…”
“The earl’s mother,” Lady Maxwell cut in and seemed oddly offended by such an innocent comment, but Marisa could not stem her interest. She was impressed with the great inner strength emanating from the woman’s penetrating green eyes. This was not the face of a passive, domestic creature but of one who bore an almost ruthless vitality. It was not hard to detect many of the physical qualities in her son—the aquiline nose, the sculptured cheekbones, and the luxuriant black hair.
“She must have been a captivating person.”
Lady Maxwell did not reply at once but fixed her gaze on the portrait for what seemed like an interminable time. The Loftuses exchanged puzzled glances as they waited for a response.
“Captivating? Is that the word you used?” She stopped to fidget with the black lace ruffle of her high-necked dress. “My dear, perhaps I should warn you about Lady Marian. The less said…” Lady Maxwell’s voice stopped abruptly as she raised her startled eyes to acknowledge the fact that the earl had entered the room.
In an uncomfortable moment of silence, he presented himself to the trio with a sweeping gaze before making a polite but half-hearted bow to Miss Loftus. She nodded with a smile and he found himself looking directly into her large blue eyes. Even though she wore a simple morning dress of green chintz and her honey-colored hair was plainly coiffed in a smooth knot at the top of her head, he felt strangely attracted to her in a way he could not clearly fathom. This was a source of annoyance to him, but he attempted to cloak his irritation and exchanged pleasantries with the merchant and his daughter.
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