The Rake's Redemption

by Anne Millar

  “Not so much as he’d welcome your troops. He disapproves of your behaviour, not your competence, Thomas. In four years you’ve cut a swathe through the French and he heartily approves of that. He does not approve that you’ve also cut a swathe through the ladies of the Peninsula, and shot any of their husbands who objected. Not exactly a testimony to your diplomatic skills, is it?”

  “No, sir.” No point in objecting to a fair assessment.

  “You’ll need to be clever about how you handle Horsley. No more duels, Thomas. That would finish you. And I want the battalion shipped by March in time for the campaign season. Mather has your orders, and a copy of Horsley’s. Report back to me in four weeks, Thomas. Promise me the trained men by then, and we’ll finalise the business.”

  “Sir.” Thomas could feel excitement surging through his weakened veins. He wasn’t going to be bored for the foreseeable future.

  By some mysterious telepathy Lieutenant Mather opened the door at that exact moment, to lead Thomas back through corridors festooned with paintings marking centuries of military history.

  “The capture of Philadelphia.” His guide had noticed his interest in one massive canvas.

  “Thank you, my father served with Howe.” And might himself have walked down this corridor as Viscount Alsbury before he sailed for the American Revolutionary War. Had he been better tempered then, before his disappointments began?

  “Your orders, sir.” Mather was proffering a bulky package. “The East Mercian Volunteers are based at Farnfield, on the Northamptonshire county border

  That he hadn’t expected. Farnfield. Not ten miles from Oakenhill. Since he’d come to his senses in his old room at Jermyn Street the thoughts of Judith Hampton had been more insistent. In his enforced idleness it took all the discipline he’d built up over four years not to let himself dwell on her, but there really was no reason to waste energy on foolish wonderings.

  “I know Farnfield. Thank you, Lieutenant.” Thomas returned the man’s crisp salute and went out into the dour November day. The voice of caution was whispering that this was a remarkable coincidence, but Thomas felt light enough in his mind not to care or wonder about what fluke had brought about this circumstance.

  Despite the panache with which he left Horseguards it was an exhausted and irritable Major Thomas Stainford who reached Jermyn Street twenty five minutes later. Graham Wright materialised even before his master had finished bellowing for him, but still earned himself a reprimand. “Time you left the maids alone, man, and attended to your duties.”

  “Yes, milord. Which duties would you have me attend to?” He watched with tolerant amusement as his master’s shako bounced off the side table, then stooped to retrieve it as it skidded across the marble of the hall floor. “Shall I clean your sword, my lord? Or scour your pistols?”

  “Horses. I shall be leaving for my godmother’s estate tomorrow.”

  “Very good, milord. Will you be riding or driving the phaeton?” Graham Wright didn’t expect an answer so much as a torrent of abuse. A wise servant knew precisely how much provocation to offer up and the right time to do so.

  “Neither. I’ll ride in the landau like a fat merchant. You can lead Swiftsure.” Thomas paused. Graham Wright had served him for eight years, the son of his father’s head groom, and was no doubt vastly interested in what took his master to Northamptonshire. “I’m to train militia. The right sort of job for a disgraced convalescent.”

  “Very good, milord. I’m sure they’ll be grateful for your instruction.” Wright’s demeanour betrayed not one hint of sarcasm, but Thomas knew his man better than that. Without Wright’s determined care he would have died on the frigate bringing him home. The Teriad’s doctor had been a sot, and in contrary winds the voyage from Oporto had taken two weeks. The fever from Thomas’ infected wound should have finished him and then they’d have slung his corpse over the side instead of carrying him ashore at Tilbury three weeks ago.

  “Excellent countryside thereabout for riding, milord. I recall from our previous visits. Milord.”

  With a few words Wright had understood exactly what was required of him back then. The Hampton’s groom couldn’t believe how flush and generous his new friend was. Mornings in the alehouse were far more agreeable than trying to keep up with his hard riding mistress. But he wasn’t paying Wright to indulge in sentimental moonshine now. “We’ll leave in the morning. I’ll dine with my godmother tonight.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  Thomas sat down to read orders that instructed Lieutenant Colonel Horsley to cooperate with him on pain of dismissal. Thomas smiled at the thought of how that should endear him to Sir Theodore. As if it mattered; before he’d finished with the Volunteers, they’d all be cursing him, officers and men alike. As would Wright if he started to reminisce again about past times in Northamptonshire.

  ~

  His hostess pounced as soon as Thomas walked through the front door of Bedford Square. “I’m told you arrived at Horseguards looking like a cadaver, Thomas.” Lady Guilmor paused in her denunciation, but only so that she could scrutinize her godson. She must have decided he was in no imminent danger of collapse for she resumed her tirade. “What was the point of that? Were you looking for sympathy?”

  “It’s a delight to see you too, godmother.” Thomas knew there was warmth under Amara Guilmor’s apparent frost. He’d never doubted the depth of her affection, nor the value of her influence. “It would be a waste of time to expect sympathy from Sir Edmund, as you well know.”

  “My brother has no regard for weaklings, that’s true. He enjoys his scheming too much.” The words were said with a quiet satisfaction. “Still, he has offered you a fine opportunity, Thomas. It might even impress your father. You’ll use Trefoyle of course? The militia barracks is only seven miles from there.”

  “Thank you. I had anticipated the offer. That’s why I came to dine tonight.” With his godmother he could be quite shameless, she would have respected nothing else. “Trefoyle’s very practical. Unless you’ve redecorated it since I’ve been away.” He smiled and waited for the explosion the tease was bound to bring.

  “Why would I do a damn fool thing like that? It’s not like this place that Guilmor says has to be kept up to the fashions. Pink stucco one year, Egyptian chairs the next. Never getting value from the stuff before you’re throwing it out. Wasteful. Trefoyle’s for living in.” By which she meant the furniture and decoration were robust enough to survive her tribe of godchildren running riot in it. “It was the younger Hampton boy you ran with, wasn’t it Thomas?”

  “John, yes. Though I kept up with Jeremy in Spain. Till he was killed at Busaco.” It hadn’t taken his godmother long to get to her point, and Thomas waited for what he knew was to come, much as his battalion would stand before the advance of a French column.

  “Judith Hampton still lives at home. She and I have become fast friends.” All the playfulness had gone out of her voice. “She didn’t take in her season, you know. Despite her looks. Most of the county has come calling since then, without result. I don’t suppose you’ll have given her a thought.”

  Thomas made his reply as bluff as could be, knowing that whatever he said his godmother wouldn’t leave the subject alone. “Thought she’d be married off to some young blood by now. Pretty girl.”

  “Jonathon Hampton’s ailing.” Lady Guilmor managed to make the news sound like an accusation. “Took his boy’s death hard. Your friend John spends most of his time in town. You must call.” She nodded to her butler, hovering anxiously to one side. “Your arm, Thomas. If you’re capable of supporting a frail old lady into dinner.”

  They were only four, Lord Guilmor and his sister making up the numbers, and the conversation was knowledgeable and uninhibited. Thomas learned much of the government’s concerns, amongst them the difficulty in reinforcing the army in Spain.

  “Liverpool does his best, Thomas, but the country’s bored. People think that after winning so many battles you should b
e marching into Paris. There was a flurry of patriotism when the Americans invaded Canada, but now that they’re beaten at Queenston that’s ebbed away.”

  “Considerate then of Horsley to raise troops.” Thomas regarded the squabble that had erupted earlier in the year with the fledgling United States of America as insignificant compared to the war in Spain.

  “Don’t underestimate him, Thomas. Your job will be difficult. The man has money and connections. And he intends to lead the battalion himself.” Guilmor stopped, aware that his wife wanted to take over the conversation.

  “You don’t know Horsley, do you Thomas? The family made their money in sugar. Old Sir Reginald liquidated most of the plantations to buy land, and he bought well. Then promptly died. Left behind the widow Florinda, and her son, the vainglorious Theodore. Baronet and conduit for the dynasty.”

  “A very rich baronet who can afford to equip a battalion, but a complete waste of money if the men are not usefully employed, Thomas. Amara has suggested you stay at Trefoyle?” Guilmor speared a piece of fish to his mouth as his wife nodded confirmation. “Then you are set, my boy. We need those men, Thomas.”

  “Sir.” Thomas smiled, relishing the thought of his own battalion at twenty three. An age when his father had been a captain.

  “I’ll even keep your godmother here to spare you the benefit of her advice, Thomas. At least for a while. That should be of considerable help to you.” Guilmor’s mild jest didn’t find favour with his wife, who turned to her husband’s sister. “Henrietta, Guilmor will be bringing out the port, if you want to retire.”

  Thomas smiled as he stood for Lady Netley. He’d forgotten his unconventional godmother’s fondness for port at private dinners. A habit her sister in law didn’t share, and from her frown he’d hazard didn’t approve of either.

  “You’re not to neglect your social obligations, Thomas. After four years in the Peninsula people will have forgotten what you look like. Lord Hampton is a good neighbour of mine. Treat him kindly. Only Judith has kept him going since Jeremy died. Where that girl gets her strength I don’t know. You used to ride with her.” Amara Guilmor shared her brother’s weakness for the non sequitur.

  “I rode with both Judith and John, godmother. Lord Hampton kept a fine stable. No bone setters there.” Judith had frightened him to death. Foolhardy didn’t begin to describe her. There had been no fence she wouldn’t try, no hedge too wide for her. Her brother couldn’t begin to compete with his sister’s daring. Anything Thomas could jump on a stallion over a hand higher than her mount, Judith would tackle too.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if the girl didn’t still carry a torch for you, Thomas.” Amara Guilmor had no sense of restraint, and no shame.

  “I think it unlikely.” To his left Thomas could see Lord Guilmor’s amused smirk. “I shall however diligently obey your injunction to visit Lord Hampton. Which will no doubt bring me into contact with his daughter.”

  “It’s of little import to me, Thomas. I just want to be sure that you observe the proprieties.” Amara Guilmor passed the decanter to her godson with a pronounced flourish as if to emphasise her disinterest.

  Thomas found it difficult to believe that propriety would be well served by his call upon Judith Hampton. If she would receive him at all. Like a young fool he had been overjoyed when Jeremy had passed her note to him. Except that the note contained only anger and disappointment. Its bitterness had forced him to understand that a door he’d thought would always be open to him had been closed for ever. “The conventions will be observed, godmother. I give you my word.”

  “Very well, Thomas. Judith is a remarkable girl you know. Highly competent.” Lord Guilmor’s smile had changed to the long suffering, sympathetic kind.

  “I shall be diligence itself, I assure you. Though we hardly began to know each other before Lord Hampton took her abroad. And that was four years ago.”

  “Cornwall, Thomas. They went to Cornwall. To his sister. I doubt that even then Jonathon Hampton could have run to the tour. Besides time’s immaterial. Isn’t it Guilmor?” Lord Guilmor had been sipping his port quietly, but his riposte didn’t miss a beat.

  “And the value of a good woman is decidedly above rubies. The trick is finding one, Thomas. Dashed difficult. Isn’t it Amara?”

  His wife rewarded him with a glare before she returned to her point. “Guilmor is right, though the Lord knows how. You should be grateful if she still favours you, Thomas.”

  “Thank you, godmother. I doubt the lady will do that. So your advice may be a trifle optimistic.” He could see her irritation in his godmother’s lowered lids and pursed lips, but it would be foolish to encourage her. Just as it would be a foolish indulgence to dwell on old memories of calf love and girlish affection. Weak and foolish to reminisce on a beautiful girl who had told him she loved him.

  Chapter2

  Judith smoothed the curled leather flat with her fingertips. The intricate gilding round the border of the desk was faded with years, but it still caught the eye and admiration of every visitor. Till they realised just how frayed the edges of the inlay were. It should have been renewed long before, but Judith knew better than to ask. Father reacted poorly to such requests. Or indeed anything that disturbed his routine. Except this morning when Brewson interrupted them as they were working, and he ignored her protests to go off with their steward. Sometimes it seemed that her lot was to give way to the convenience of everyone at Oakenhill.

  She turned expectantly when the library door opened, but it was John Hampton and not their father who came in, and despite a half hearted attempt at a smile Judith could feel apprehension corrode her mood even further.

  “Morning, sister. Father not with you?” Her brother’s words were polite enough, but his smile was less convincing, and the speed with which he turned to go was testimony to their strained relations.

  “Just, John. It is only just morning. Nuncheon will be in an hour when father and I have finished here. He’s with Brewson at present.” She never could stop herself criticising John, though she knew the effort was wasted. He wouldn’t listen and their quarrelling only served to upset father, yet John’s air of careless indulgence always managed to provoke her. Her brother had dropped his wavering smile at the rebuke, and Judith quickly changed tack to try to avert hostilities. “Will you join us for nuncheon?”

  “I must disappoint you. Judith. My presence is promised elsewhere.” He hardly bothered to veil the derision and Judith could feel the itch to slap him. But at least this morning he could stand without staggering and she wasn’t going to miss this opportunity to find out what his latest trouble was.

  “John, father seems to be worried.” She faltered, unsure how to continue without the words sounding like the accusation they were. “We’ve been going over estate receipts this morning. The yields lag, John.”

  “Beyond the usual, eh?” He grinned as if something clever had occurred to him. “Tell father to take Thor for a gallop. That usually clears my head of worries.”

  “John!” His crassness in suggesting their father ride the huge stallion removed the last of Judith’s restraint. “There is no money for whatever your scrape is, John. Father won’t say what it is, but I know something brought you home. How much is it going to cost this time?”

  “You really do have the soul of a cit, Judith. Small wonder you’ve not found a husband. Who could tolerate a wife who wants to keep the books?” The grin on her brother’s face had a distinctly unpleasant tinge to it.

  “John, it can’t go on.” John showed no intention of responding, picked idly at the leather spines of his father’s books instead. “It’s not just being purse pinched now, John. Father is worried sick, and I won’t have it, John. I won’t.”

  “Ring a fine peal, don’t you Judith.” His breath still carried stales fumes from last night’s drink when he pushed his face in front of hers. “You forget, sister. I am the heir now, so the matter does not concern you. When I inherit I’ll make sure to find so
meone who’ll take you, Judith. Then you’ll learn to make your manners agreeable, little sister. So don’t go pluming yourself that Oakenhill is your domain.”

  Jeremy Hampton’s death in Spain had robbed Lord Hampton of his intended heir. It had robbed Judith of much more than just her adored elder brother. John had shown scant restraint since the certainty of inheritance emboldened him. For two years now she’d struggled with his wildness while her father withdrew more and more into himself. Unless she chivvied and pleaded constantly father responded to hateful reality only when a crisis loomed.

  “I fear for father, John.” Judith hated the desperation she could hear in her voice. “Have you no thought for him? Is it just money for you?”

  “It’s not your money, Judith. It’s family money. And since I shall be head of the family, it will be my money. So it’s not as if I’m spending father’s money.” John smiled with satisfaction at his exposition and turned toward the door. To come face to face with his father.

  “What have you not been spending my money on, John?” Three inches shorter than his son, Lord Hampton still managed to diminish the younger man. At least briefly.

  “Hello, father. Nothing, nothing at all, Judith is being a little choleric. I’m on my way to barracks.” He looked as if were about to execute a pas de dance, his weight shifting from one foot to the other, before his father moved to one side to let him leave the room.

  “He’s impossible, father. You need to tell me what’s he done.” The flame of Judith’s anger was hot enough to melt the deference she normally showed her father.

  “John is unwise, Judith. But he is still my son.” The inadequate answer did nothing to ease her temper. Unless John was stopped he’d ruin Oakenhill, and father knew that, but still he did nothing. The words were on the tip of her tongue that she’d had enough of being the only one trying to save the estate. But when father slumped into his chair all her anger shrivelled away; she couldn’t face harassing him in the vain hope he might chastise John.