by Judith Lown
Harry laughed at his own wit.
“Don’t play the innocent with me, Dracott! Between you and Wharton, I’m guessing that one of you has made a very close acquaintance with her.”
Harry started to protest, but Gus silenced him with a look.
“Perhaps you could describe the widow in question, Hamilton.”
“Statuesque with ginger hair peaking out from under of a wreck of a bonnet. She was supervising a small lad feeding ducks in the pond on the village green.”
Harry coughed to cover choking.
Gus cast an inquiring glance at Harry before correcting Charlie’s mistaken impression.
“The lady is no widow, Hamilton. She is Richard Brampton’s sister, Katherine.”
Charlie Hamilton closed his eyes.
“Who would have thought that skinny wraith could become…”
“Happens all the time, Hamilton. The Almighty’s joke on our poor sex.”
Harry lifted his glass in agreement with Gus. The memory of Katherine Brampton’s glowing smile as he placed that silly spaniel in her arms returned. How pathetic. He was jealous of a dog that was too dumb to stay out of a patch of burrs.
“Who did she marry?”
“You are in luck, Hamilton. The lady is unwed.”
Harry did not like the sound of that. Was Gus trying to make a match of Charlie and Katherine Brampton? Harry grasped the first distraction that came to mind.
“Actually, according to no less an authority than Mrs. Sythe-Burton, Miss Brampton was promised to her cousin Clive—you remember him, don’t you, Hamilton? Always turned out to a fare-thee-well.”
Harry absently rubbed a stain on his sleeve.
“Banns were read, and Miss Brampton declared she would not have him. Surely you have heard that story, Wharton,” Harry appealed to Gus, who had gone strangely silent.
“If Mrs. Sythe-Burton is your source, it must be true,” Gus affirmed before refreshing his glass.
“What is wrong with you, Wharton, your neck cloth choking you? Surely you’ve heard the stories about Miss Brampton discovering Clive in some compromising position just days before the wedding, and running to old Tramell and crying off?”
“So the story goes,” Gus confirmed before busying himself with a fresh cheroot.
“That must make for a cozy household at Oak End,” Charlie Hamilton observed. “Clive Brampton did inherit when Richard fell at Vitoria, did he not?”
Harry stifled a sigh. He wanted to get off the subject of Katherine Brampton.
“Clive did inherit. Make that Sir Clive. Heaven help you if you forget. But my kindly sire, evidently being privy to Miss Brampton’s dislike of the new baronet, agreed to lease the Dower House to her and her great-aunt, Miss Summersville. The place had not been inhabited since my grandmother died, so I suppose it made sense to have someone living there. At least as much sense as his other major decision just before his death—making Wharton vicar of St. Chrysostom’s. Now that decision, I assure you, is still the talk of the parish.”
Harry was pleased that he had been able to change the subject so naturally. Of course, they had spoken earlier of Gus Wharton’s remarkable change since Charlie Hamilton had last seen him, but Harry was confident that the topic had not been exhausted.
He poured himself another glass of brandy.
“But who was the child with her? The young boy?”
Harry swallowed a mouthful of brandy too quickly. When had Charlie Hamilton become so tenacious? Perhaps they should escort Charlie to the Dower House, let him propose marriage to Katherine Brampton, and be done with it.
“I suppose the entire parish would like to know the answer to that question.”
Gus set his glass down on the table beside his chair and picked up his cheroot.
“A trooper’s widow newly arrived from Spain deposited him with Miss Brampton last autumn, saying that he was Richard’s son. No one could convince Miss Brampton otherwise, so she has taken him on. One must admire her generosity, but the project is even more daunting than usual. The child has yet to say one word.”
Gus was sympathetic. But sentiment had never clouded his rationality.
Harry decided to discover just what Charlie Hamilton’s intentions were.
“So if you are considering making the fetching Miss Brampton an offer, Hamilton, you should factor in the education and launching of a mute lad of uncertain paternity. Miss Brampton will expect no less.”
Charlie stood, frowning, paced to the hearth, toed an andiron, and turned, hands on hips.
“The child might be Richard Brampton’s son?”
“Or any other British soldier’s,” Harry asserted. “The boy does have green eyes. Of course, there are full-blooded Spaniards with green eyes, but the trait is more common among our ranks.”
“Miss Brampton’s eyes are green.”
Thank you, Wharton, for reminding me of that fact, Harry thought.
“She puts great store by that trait in accepting the boy as her nephew,” Gus continued.
“Yes, yes. And Richard’s eyes were green, we all can attest to that,” Charlie said impatiently. “But that is not the main point. It is just—what is it called? Corroborating evidence? Is that what it is called in a court of law?”
“What difference does it make what it is called,” Harry said, puzzled. “The child—Miguel is his name—that Miss Brampton has accepted as her nephew is, in all probability, the natural child of some British soldier fighting on the Peninsula. That question is hardly likely to be raised in a court of law.”
“Unless, of course, he is Richard Brampton’s legitimate son.”
Charlie Hamilton’s handsome face was as stern as a judge’s.
“You are not claiming that Richard Brampton was married.”
Harry’s mind refused to accept such an idea.
“I am not claiming, I am saying. Affirming, attesting, whatever the proper word is. I am telling you that Richard Brampton was married—to a Spanish lady. I know because I was a witness.”
Charlie Hamilton collapsed in his chair and gulped down the contents of his glass. Harry and Gus looked at each other, speechless.
“Of course, that fact does not necessarily mean…” Gus began.
“We had best hear the entire story, Hamilton. As much as you can remember.”
Harry hated murky situations, and this had every indication of being particularly murky.
Charlie rubbed his eyes, as if trying to clear his vision. He stood and began to pace, hands clasped behind his back, pausing now and then in his recitation.
“It goes back to our earliest days on the Peninsula, Richard’s and mine. Richard and I arrived in Portugal, joining with the army assigned to retake the Peninsula. It was the spring of ’09, March or April, I believe, and Lisbon was just about the only city secure from the French. Not only was it filled with British troops, there were also many Spanish civilians who opposed Napoleon and had fled to Lisbon for safety. Highborn, lowborn, rich, poor, all mixed in a very crowded city.
“I cannot remember seeing much of Richard during that time. He had his interests. I had mine. But, as I later learned, Richard met a very young, very beautiful, very willful Spanish lady at a ball given for British officers by the wife of a Spanish general. Elena was the young lady’s name. Her father had sent her to Lisbon to protect her from the French, whose reputation for respecting Spanish ladies—as you well know, Dracott—was not good.
“It must have been love at first sight—for Doña Elena, at least. I was never that certain about Richard. He did not mention her when we were beginning the march from Oporto to Talavera. That would have been late spring, early summer.
“Then, one day, a very young and imperious Spanish lady came riding into camp on as fine a horse as one could wish. No maid. No duenna. She was looking for ‘El Capitan Ricardo Brampton.’ After a spirited discussion in his broken Spanish and her broken English while we all tried our best to make ourselves scarce, Richard went in se
arch of a chaplain. Doña Elena’s fingers were impossibly small for his ring, so she removed one from her own hand, gave it to him, and he returned it to her during the ceremony.
“There can be no doubt: Richard Brampton and Doña Elena were married by the rite of the Church of England. I signed as a witness.
“I never asked why he bothered to marry her. She was alone, acting as no well-bred lady would act. But he must have understood that he was not dealing with any ordinary lady from any ordinary family, as we learned a day’s march from Talavera.
“Her father, the epitome of a Spanish grandee, appeared. I have no doubt that if Doña Elena had not shown the autocratic gentleman her wedding lines, Richard would have died that afternoon. As it was, a Roman priest was produced, and the couple was remarried according to the Roman rite. Then, Doña Elena’s father explained that he was taking charge of his daughter pending the removal of the French from Spain.
“Richard offered no protest. We were going into battle, and I think he was just as happy to be relieved of the care and responsibility for his volatile young wife. I saw him from time to time after that, but he never mentioned Doña Elena. I have no idea what his plans for her would have been if he had survived.”
Harry moved to a window and opened it so that the cool night air could clear the smoke from the room and the cobwebs from his mind.
Charlie Hamilton sat and poured himself another glass of brandy.
Gus stared silently at the coals in the fireplace.
“Is Miguel Doña Elena’s son, and can it be proven to the satisfaction of the authorities?” Harry had put everyone’s thoughts into words.
But, at that moment, Harry had no doubt in the matter. Had there ever been as young a child with as much dignity and grace as the boy Katherine Brampton called her nephew? Charlie’s description of Doña Elena’s father was strikingly like the widow’s description of the Spanish gentleman who had placed Miguel in her care to be delivered to the family of Richard Brampton in Sussex, England.
Miguel’s apparent age fit the facts as Charlie presented them. Conceived in June of 1809, give or take a month, Miguel probably was just past his fourth birthday. And if he was Doña Elena’s son, he was also Richard Brampton’s legal son and heir—Sir Miguel Brampton—rightful owner of Oak End. Whatever would Clive Brampton say or do about that possibility? Whatever would become of Katherine Brampton?
“We could make a pact among ourselves. Swear that not one word of this story is ever spoken again.”
Harry had intended to offer it was an option rather than propose it as a course of action, but the glares from Charlie and Gus declared it to be a nonstarter. He knew they were right. It would be immoral to condemn Miguel to the life of a bastard if he were Sir Richard Brampton’s legitimate son and heir.
“Whatever course we decide on, we must protect both the boy and Miss Brampton. I would hate to think Sir Clive—Clive Brampton—capable of serious skullduggery. But consider the fact that if Miguel is suspected to be the legitimate son of Richard Brampton, Clive Brampton might very well try to become his de facto guardian, if not his legal guardian. There are no maternal relatives to protect Miguel, and, much as she loves him, Katherine Brampton would be helpless, with no funds to pursue the matter in court,” Gus said.
Gloom settled over the three friends.
“Is there any evidence of Miguel’s identity—other than the logical conclusion to the facts as I know them to be?” Charlie asked.
Gus rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.
“Miss Brampton showed me a ring when she asked me to baptize Miguel into the Anglican Church. The child was wearing it on a chain round his neck when he arrived. I daresay it might be the very ring you described. Not much larger than a child’s size. Inside were engraved initials. I cannot remember them all. The first, I am quite certain, was a great ‘E.’ There were three others. As I recall, the middle was a small ‘d.’ I thought it might stand for ‘de.’ I wrote all the initials in the parish registry after his Christian name. It was all the poor lad had in the way of a surname.”
“Do you have any memory of Doña Elena’s surname, Hamilton?”
Glum faced, Charlie shook his head—then brightened.
“I say! I kept a journal, a diary of sorts, early on in the war. Let it go after a while. One march is pretty much like every other march. And who wants to remember the details of the battles? I shall leave that to the generals. But that journal must be somewhere amongst all the gear I brought home. I might have mentioned the name of the chaplain. Failing that, I could check with the Horse Guards. They’d have a record of chaplains serving in the Peninsula at that time. Not the sort of wedding a chap would forget conducting, I imagine. And there were other witnesses, I know. I shall have to try to remember who they were and if any of them have survived.”
“If you conduct any inquiries, you will have to be extraordinarily discrete. Cannot have Clive Brampton getting wind of it,” Harry warned.
“You’re right, Dracott. Which of course means that Miss Brampton must marry, or at the very least become engaged to marry at the earliest possible moment.”
Harry glared at Gus.
“You were thinking to offer for Miss Brampton, Wharton?”
“No, Dracott, I was going to suggest that you offer for her.”
“What Wharton suggests has merit, you know,” Charlie Hamilton said before Harry could find words to explain that it might be a little awkward for him to offer for Katherine Brampton at the present time. It would be mortifying to tell his friends the full story of his relationship with the lady. He could hear their hoots of derision at his missteps. But, even worse would be standing by and watching one of them wed her. He needed time to sort things out.
“I do not believe Miss Brampton is disposed to marry.”
Harry knew it did not sound convincing, but he had no intention of telling his friends just how badly he had blotted his copybook with Katherine Brampton. Even with his lack of Hamilton’s charm and Wharton’s subtlety, it was amazing how Harry had managed to alienate that gentle and beautiful lady, all the while desiring her more than he had ever before desired a woman. If his friends guessed the half of it, they would never cease laughing at him.
“I am certain you are wrong on that point. I am certain that if matters are explained to her clearly, she will see the wisdom of marrying you.”
Harry wanted to ask Gus how he could be so sure. But he could not frame the question. Harry knew that as painful as the prospect of offering for Katherine Brampton once more was, it was infinitely more painful for him to think of anyone else offering for her and being accepted.
“Wharton’s right,” Charlie Hamilton said, standing and stretching. “The facts must be presented dispassionately to her. Fact is, as a peer, you are the best placed of us to gain guardianship of Miguel if Clive fights for the inheritance, which I am certain he will.”
Harry wondered how he could reinstate himself in Katherine Brampton’s good graces. It might help if that spaniel got into another patch of burrs. Regardless, he had best prepare himself to do a good bit of apologizing.
“You check the registry for those initials, Wharton. Hamilton, see if you can find that diary. If the initials in the registry and the name in the diary match, I will present the facts to Miss Brampton, and ask her to be my wife.”
*****
Gus Wharton’s note arrived very early the next morning, but Harry was awake. He had not slept much. The initials following Miguel’s first name in the parish registry were, “ E G d V.” Charlie Hamilton’s note arrived late in the afternoon. Captain Richard Brampton had been united in holy matrimony to Doña Elena Garces de Villalonga on June 2, 1809 somewhere close to the border of Portugal and Spain. Mr. Robert Campden, priest of the Church of England, had been the officiating clergyman. When he returned to London, Charlie planned to start tracing the Reverend Mr. Campden.
Harry went to the safe that held the Dracott jewels. Having never befo
re looked over the entire collection, he was amazed at the quantity and variety of gemstones and settings: tiaras, necklaces, bracelets, broaches, and rings, each in its velvet-lined box or satin pouch. The diamond and sapphire ring his mother wore was there, as was the large ruby his grandmother had worn. The sapphire he had given Angela winked back at him as he breathed deeply to absorb the pain the sight of it brought. He made a mental note to ask Simpkins to sell it.
At last he found what he had been looking for. A large emerald cabochon said to have been a gift from King Charles II to the first Lord Dracott for services rendered the Crown. Harry did not doubt that the Merry Monarch would have appreciated a lady of Katherine Brampton’s charms, if not her disposition.
Harry decided to insist that Katherine Brampton put the ring on immediately. It would be more difficult for her to break an engagement if she had to return a ring.
Chapter Sixteen
She loved Lord Henry Dracott. What had blinded her to that fact? Why had it taken her so long to recognize it? How had she managed to throw away her chance to become his wife? How could she bear to marry anyone else? How could she bear to see him marry anyone but her? What was she to do? What could she do?
Captain Charles Hamilton had returned from the war. She blushed remembering her hope that he might become her rescuer.
He paid a call upon her and Aunt Prunella. Lithe and handsome, he was dressed in the usual garb of a country gentleman: buckskins, boots, and riding coat, but with a military bearing that would forever lend him distinction.
“I am very sorry for the loss of your brother, Richard, Miss Brampton; your nephew, Miss Summersville. He was a courageous officer, a born leader of men.”
“How kind of you, Captain Hamilton.”
Aunt Prunella dabbed at her eyes with a small lace handkerchief.
“Yes, Captain, it is very kind of you, and we are so happy that you have returned safely.”
Miguel had taken his usual post by Katherine’s chair.
“Let me present Miguel to you, Captain.”
Katherine straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.