"Oh, there's always men in want of work, Captain," Nevil said, scratching his jaw. "But that's not why I'm here. Your cousin was seen at the moneylenders yesterday evening. Have a care, sir. A cornered enemy is a dangerous enemy."
"Aye, Corporal, I know," he said evenly. What he didn't say as well was that he knew all about Atherton's visit to the moneylenders. With Falconer's help he had been buying up his cousin's vowels, and was using them to pressure him into silence. This rumor had been easily dispelled. They might not be so fortunate the next time.
"I've two men watching him," Nevil continued, lowering himself onto one of the chairs facing the desk. "Shall I hire on more?"
Ross thought of the men Nevil mentioned in want of work. "No," he said, "but I want you to hire on some men to watch Miss Terrington and her aunt. My cousin bears her as great a hatred as he does me, and it would be just like the gutless cacc to attack her rather than me."
"Aye, Captain. Any further instructions?"
"No, that should be it for the moment," Ross said, then turned his attention to another problem that was troubling him. "What news have you from Spain?" he asked, knowing the cashiered soldier visited the docks daily and would best know the latest intelligence.
Nevil did not disappoint him. "Rumor is they've cornered the whole of the French Army near the frontier. King Joseph is said to be with them, and carrying half his household with him. Jourdan is in a rare fit, for he'd have his troops halfway to Paris if the emperor's brother didn't have him so bogged down. Can you imagine the riches to be had if we are victorious?" He gave a wistful sigh.
Ross said nothing. Looting was as much a part of a battle as killing, and although he'd never stooped to picking a fallen enemy's pockets, he could understand why others were not so nice in their notions. A man with nothing save the clothes on his back would be hard-pressed to pass by a fortune.
"What of the French artillery?" he asked, knowing they posed the greatest threat to the British line. Say what one would about Jourdan, the dandified French general knew how to make deadly use of his cannon.
"Interspersed with the other wagons. I spoke with a lad who was in Spain but a week past, and he says that Wellington has the road to Madrid completely blocked. The battle will come within a few days' time, if it has not already been fought."
Ross's lips tightened, and he found himself wishing he was back in Spain. The troops would be trapped in that odd state between fear and excitement, and they would need calming. As a sergeant he'd spent most of his time before a battle moving amongst the men, soothing them, and making sure they were as prepared as could be for what would come. Much good he would do anyone here, he thought, his lips twisting with bitterness.
Later, at his club, all the talk was of the battles. The one brewing in Spain, and the one reaching the boiling point in Parliament.
"Hope you've your speech ready, lad." The Duke of Creshton slapped a friendly hand on Ross's back. "You'll be giving it in two hours' time."
Ross felt himself blanch. "Today?" he asked, his mind going blank with fear. "But your grace, I—I had other plans for today. I was going to ask Miss Terrington to be my wife."
"Have to wait, won't it?" the older man said, winking. "Just mind you don't wait too long, eh? You've a bit of competition there. Is that not so, Falconer?" He glanced at the marquess, who was sitting coolly sipping his brandy.
"More than a bit, your grace," Falconer answered in his calm tones. "But I am certain his lordship will prove himself the victor."
The duke roared at that. "To be sure, Falconer, to be sure. Well, lads, I'm off to Parliament. Mind you come straight there, St. Jerome, and you as well, Falconer. If all goes as we hope, we'll have much to celebrate tonight."
After he'd taken his leave, Ross turned a worried look on the marquess. "Will it go as he says?" he asked, frowning. "I find it hard to believe victory will be as easily won as that."
In answer Falconer gave a careless shrug. "Did you not read The Times this morning? The paper was full of the coming battle, and equally full of praise for Wellington. A vote to remove him now would cause rioting in the streets, and give considerable comfort to the French. Not even the earl's bitterest foes would dare risk such a thing."
Ross contemplated that for a moment. "Then perhaps," he began, feeling like the greatest coward alive, "it won't be necessary that I address the House. If the vote is assured . . ."
Falconer actually laughed, his gold-colored eyes brilliant with amusement. "No vote is assured, Captain, until after it has been counted. Do not let it worry you. No one ever listens to the speeches. Just mind the snoring doesn't drown you out."
Ross raised his glass in a mocking toast. "Thank you, my lord."
"You are welcome," Falconer returned, picking up his glass and taking another sip. "Now, tell me more of your plan to marry Miss Terrington. She is a lovely lady."
"Aye." Ross settled back in his chair, a warm glow of satisfaction spreading through him. "She is. She's a good head on her shoulders, when she's not in a temper about something, and she's not the silly sort of chit to expect undying vows of love or other romantic drivel. A calm, practical sort of wife she'll make." The thought had him beaming.
Falconer set his glass down with exaggerated care. "Is this the offer you mean to make her?"
"Aye," Ross repeated, frowning at the odd note in the marquess's voice. "A wee bit better phrased, of course, but essentially, that is what I will say. I've given the matter some thought and I've decided that if I must marry, then it should at least be to a lady I admire. Adalaide is such a lady, and once I've put the matter to her she'll agree soon enough. 'Twill be a good marriage," he added defensively, uncertain if it was the marquess he was trying to convince, or himself.
Falconer shook his head. "It is as well I didn't wager with his grace," he said, addressing Ross sternly. "You're mad as can be if you think any female, even one as practical as Miss Terrington, would accept so insulting an offer."
"Insulting!" Ross roared at the word, then hastily lowered his voice when he realized he'd drawn the disapproving looks of the other members. "It's my name I'm offering her," he continued, taking care to keep his voice low-pitched. "And a fine title to go with it! She is the one who would be mad, to turn down the chance to be a lady. Stubborn and contrary I'll admit she is, but she has as sharp a mind as you could hope for. She'll see the sense of our marrying."
Falconer raised his eyes heavenward in an obvious plea for divine guidance. "I pray the speech you give in the general's defense is more persuasive than that, else Wellington is as good as recalled," he said, and then pointed a condemning finger at Ross.
"Females, St. Jerome," he said in the manner of a sergeant drilling a line of not overly bright recruits, "are far more interested in sentiment than sense. Never mind their talk of logic and reason. When it comes to the matter of matrimony, it's words of love and endless passion they're wanting, not a bunch of prattle about admiration and duty. And the more intellectual a lady pretends to be, the more romantic her soul. I vow, if you scratch half the so-called bluestockings in London, they will bleed prose straight from a Minervian novel. Hypocrites, the whole bloody lot of them."
Ross's eyebrows raised at the venom in the marquess's voice. "You sound as if you have some experience in this, my lord."
"I have," Falconer assured him resentfully, "and that is why I am telling you that if you are set to marry Miss Terrington, you'd best reconsider how you make your offer, else she will turn her pert nose up at you and tell you to go to the devil."
Ross had a sudden vision of Adalaide doing just that, accompanied, no doubt, by a lecture on the proper way to propose marriage to a lady. It would be just like her, he thought, running a distracted hand through his hair.
"Then what am I to do?" he asked, more of himself than Falconer, but it was Falconer who answered.
"Wait," he cautioned, setting down his glass and rising to his feet "No need to march into the cannon's mouth until it is absolutely necessary. In
the meanwhile, Parliament awaits."
Eleven
Whether by happenstance or design, Addy found it necessary to spend the greater part of the day away from the house. First there were the books she simply had to return to the circulating library; then there were the courtesy calls she couldn't put off another day. And since she was actually dancing these days, a pair of dancing slippers necessitated visits to several shops as well as a brief stop at her modiste's to discuss a new gown.
As it happened, this was also the day her Scientific Society was set to meet. Even though she'd previously sent her regrets, Addy decided nothing would do but she attend and listen to Sir Humphrey Davies discuss his latest experiments. She'd settled into her seat and was chatting with one of her oldest friends when a commotion at the door made her glance up. To her amazement, Lord Hixworth was making straight for her, his face set in an expression of the sternest resolve.
"Miss Terrington," he greeted her with a curt bow. "I am glad to have tracked you to earth at last. We must leave at once, else we shall be too late."
Addy paled at these ominous words. "Has something happened?" she asked, her fingers clenching about her reticule. "My aunt?"
"Eh?" The earl looked puzzled, and then shook his head. "Oh, no, Miss Terrington, I beg pardon. I hadn't meant to alarm you. Her ladyship is fine. It is Lord St. Jerome. We really must go, ma'am. My coach and team are waiting outside."
Addy needed no further urging. With more haste than grace she gathered up her gloves and reticule, her fingers trembling as fear and fury consumed her. It had to be that wretched cousin of his, she thought, fighting back a rising sense of despair. If the man had hurt Ross in any way, she would tear him to pieces.
There was an agonizing wait while a servant fetched her cloak and bonnet, and then they were hurrying down the steps and into the waiting carriage. The moment they were under way, she raised her chin and met the earl's somber gaze.
"What has happened?" she asked, steeling herself to hear the worst. "Tell me at once, else I shan't be able to endure it! Is his lordship badly injured?"
"Injured?" Hixworth blinked at her. "No, I shouldn't say he was injured. A bit shaken, perhaps, and looking as if he's ready to cast up his accounts, but resolved to his duty nonetheless."
It was to be a duel, then, Addy thought, blowing out the breath she had unconsciously been holding. It was still dangerous, and likely to make the scandal of the season. Perhaps she could talk him into merely wounding Atherton, she thought optimistically. However vicious and unprincipled he might be, no man deserved to die for such sins. If such was the case, half of Society would be lying dead on a field of honor.
"When is it to occur?" she asked, her practical nature rising to the fore. From what Hixworth said there was still time to act, and she was prepared to do whatever was required to make Ross see the error of his ways. They'd worked too hard for too long to risk losing it all.
"In less than an hour's time," Hixworth said, dragging out his watch and consulting it with a scowl. "Which is why we must make all possible haste. If we are much later, there will be no room for you in the Gallery."
Gallery? Addy shook her head as if to clear it. "Where is it to take place?" she asked, wondering if the earl had taken leave of his senses.
"The House of Lords, of course," Hixworth said, the look on his face making it plain he was thinking much the same thing of her. "Where else would he make his maiden speech?"
"His speech?" Addy exclaimed in indignation. "You dragged me from my meeting because Ross is going to make a speech?"
"Not just a speech, Miss Terrington," he corrected with a prim sniff. "His first speech as a member of the House of Lords, and what is more, the Duke of Creshton and the others have arranged for the vote to be taken directly afterward. Everything we have worked for will culminate in this afternoon. Naturally, I thought you would want to be present."
And so she would have, Addy thought, feeling a sharp prick of pain, if Ross had seen fit to invite her. But he hadn't, and that hurt more than she thought possible.
"Perhaps it would be best if I did not attend," she said, striving for what dignity she could muster.
The earl gaped at her in astonishment. "Do you mean you do not wish to?"
"No, of course not," she said, then hastily tried to explain. "That is to say, I do wish to attend, but I'm not at all certain Lord St. Jerome feels the same. If he did, wouldn't he have invited me himself?"
Hixworth's brow cleared as if by magic. "As to that, Miss Terrington, I know he fully intended doing so, but he didn't have the time. The general's friends decided to call for the vote now rather than later, and he didn't have time to get a message to you. But of course he would want you there. You are his friend, are you not?"
Yes, Addy decided with a depressed sigh, she supposed she was that. Or at least that was what she should be. It was certainly no fault of Ross's she had fallen in love with him. Such a thing was no one's fault. It was just—she stopped, the blood draining from her face as she realized the import of her thoughts.
In love, she realized dully, listening to the thunder of her own heart. With Ross. Dear heaven! She was in love with Ross! Like a rush of wind a thousand images flowed through her mind, and with them was a joy so great she thought she would die from it. She saw Ross as she had the first time she had seen him, unconscious, ill, and yet possessed of a power and a strength that had entranced her from the start. She saw his eyes flashing with temper, dancing with mischief, and bright with passion as he bent over her . . .
"Miss Terrington?" Lord Hixworth was looking at her askance. "We have reached Parliament. Do you wish to come in? If you do not, I can have the coachman drive you to your home."
Addy shook her head, forcing the sweet memories to the back of her mind. "I will come with you," she said decisively, gathering up her belongings. Her discovery was too new, and the enormity of it too frightening, for her to deal with it now. Later, when she was alone, she would decide what to do about her errant emotions. For now, she wanted to hear the man she loved make his speech and prove his true worth to all the world.
"And to conclude, my lords, I would put you in the boots of the common soldier. A man like myself, facing a line of Imperial troops waiting only for the chance to cut him and his fellows down. He has but one chance in a hundred, mayhap one chance in a thousand, to survive this day, and that chance is Wellington. Would you take that chance from him? From me? From your sons and brothers? I pray that you cannot. Thank you."
Ross collapsed on his chair, his knees shaking so violently 'twas a wonder to him they had managed to support him at all. It was over, God be praised, and he vowed never to put himself through such torment again. Fighting battles was child's play compared to speech-making, and Ross wasn't ashamed to admit which he preferred.
A silence greeted his closing words, a silence that to Ross's ears seemed deafening in its enormity. Then someone started clapping, then another person, and another, and soon it seemed everyone was clapping, shouting as they surged to their feet.
"Bravo!"
"Well done!"
"Huzzah!"
"God save the Earl of Wellington!"
The shouts rang out, filling the staid and ancient chambers with a cacophony of sound. Around him the other members were clapping him on his back and shaking his hand, pledging him their support. The duke hurried over to pump his hand.
"Excellently done, lad! Superbly done! The vote is now ours, and 'tis all due to you!"
Ross accepted the praise and congratulations in numbed silence, unable to believe it was all over. He felt much the same in the aftermath of a battle, when against all odds he found himself still to be alive. He was usually exhausted, wearily grateful, and sickened at what he'd had to do to remain alive.
"Congratulations, Ross." Falconer stood before him, offering him his hand and a warm smile. "You have done your duty."
Ross accepted the other man's hand gratefully. "Thank you," he said. "But I am
sure you will understand if I tell you I have no intention of giving another speech for as long as I live."
Falconer gave one of his rare laughs. "As with a great many other things in this life, speech-making grows easier with practice. The first time is always the most difficult. But you did well, sir; well indeed. And I am not the only one to think so." He indicated the large gallery located across the huge expanse of the room.
Ross glanced up, his jaw almost dropping when he saw it was filled to overflowing with people, all shouting and cheering. It was just as well he had not known they were there, he thought, swallowing uneasily. If he had, it was likely he wouldn't have been able to utter a single word. He had raised his hand to acknowledge the crowd when he saw a familiar face.
"Good Lord, is that Adalaide?" he demanded, straining his eyes for a better look. She was standing nearest the rail waving her handkerchief, and while he looked on in horror, she was shoved and buffeted by the surging crowd.
"She will be crushed!" he cried, forgetting everything but the danger to Adalaide. He started forward, only to stop when Falconer stepped in front of him.
"And if you go up there, you will likely be torn to bits by that overly enthusiastic mob," Falconer said, his voice making it plain he would brook no opposition. "Stay here. I will go and rescue your prospective bride."
Ross shook off the restraining hand, fury in his eyes. "I know you mean well," he said, his accent deepening with the force of his emotions. "But never put yourself between Adalaide and myself again. I'll no' be having it."
Other than raising his eyebrows, Falconer gave no outward sign of discomfiture. He simply stepped back, hands held at shoulder level, as Ross pushed his way past him and began making his way toward the balcony. It was a long, impossible journey, made all the more difficult by the fact that half the people in London seemed determined to talk to him. He kept moving, doing his best to keep a desperate eye on Adalaide. The crowd continued swirling around her, and she seemed impossibly tiny and defenseless. Suddenly the crowd surged from behind, and she stumbled, disappearing into the ocean of humanity.
The Scotsman and the Spinster Page 16