The Bachelor's Bargain

by Catherine Palmer

  “Enough of your nonsense, Blackthorne,” Droughtmoor said. “We have an item of business to attend.”

  “In such a place as this? Sirs, you will forgive my bluntness, but this is a pleasure ball. I have only lately arrived with my bride, and I intend to spend the evening dancing with her. Matters of business are not on my agenda.”

  He made as if to lead Anne away, but Droughtmoor grabbed his arm. “You know very well why we have come, Blackthorne, and if you think you will escape our mission this time, you are sorely mistaken. You have besmirched each of us in a method most unforgivable, and we require recompense.”

  “Besmirched you, have I?” Ruel squared his shoulders. “Droughtmoor, your inability to resist the bottle has blackened your name far more effectively than I ever could. Barkham, your dalliances with ladies dwelling in the West End of London are far more condemning than any indiscre- tions your wife may have committed before her marriage to you.”

  “Upon my word!” Barkham exploded. “And Wimberley,” Ruel continued. “Dear old Wimberley.

  Your fondness for gaming surpasses my own. Unfortunately, you are famous only for your outstanding losses. Equally unfortunate, you failed to abandon your fondness for cards when it became clear they were ruining you, while I have had the good sense to relinquish gambling to the faded recesses of my past.”

  “Now then, Blackthorne—,” Wimberley began.

  “Gentlemen, far be it from me to take credit for besmirching your honorable names. You have succeeded admirably without my assistance.”

  Ruel took Anne’s hand, but before he could lead her out of the alcove, Droughtmoor stepped in front of him again.

  “Vile man,” he spat. “Do not think your fine words will release you from your debt. This time you cannot flee to America. I am calling you out.”

  Ruel turned, a slow-burning anger suffusing his face. “Anne, perhaps you would like to go and speak with the Duchess of Richmond’s daughter for a moment. I understand Lady Georgianna has been eager to make your acquaintance.”

  Handed the opportunity for escape, Anne suddenly knew she could not take it. Ruel had been called out. A duel. She studied the hard angle of his jaw and understood at once the gravity of the matter. If he were to retain his honor, he could not decline.

  “Excuse me,” she said in a low voice. Leaving the alcove, she headed straight for the long French doors.

  Were Ruel to face Droughtmoor in a duel, he might be killed. The thought of it ripped through her stomach like a knife. No! She could never let it happen. Spotting the blacksmith alone at the far end of the walkway, she lifted her skirts and ran to him.

  “Mr. Walker, you must come inside at once!”

  “Lady Blackthorne?”

  “Three men are confronting Ruel in the ballroom. One has called him out and means to kill him! You must stop them, I beg you!”

  “I shall do what I can.”

  In moments, Anne had directed Walker to the knot of men gathered in the alcove. She knew she should stand aside. But how could she? Ruel was her husband. No matter in what way he cared for her, she cared for him. More than that. She had given her heart to him. She loved him.

  “Dear Lord, help!” she whispered in prayer as she started toward the men. She had to do something. Had to stop this madness.

  “Tomorrow morning, then.” Droughtmoor nodded at Ruel. “Pistols.”

  “At first daylight.”

  “No!” Anne cried. “No, Ruel, you must not—”

  Her words were drowned by a shout. “War! A message has come. Napoleon has crossed the Sambre. He has taken Charleroi by storm and is now marching toward Brussels!”

  “War!” A cacophony of shrieks and screams erupted. Music faltered. The dancing stopped. Disorder broke out at the long tables. A lady swooned. Another collapsed into the arms of her partner.

  As the room erupted into chaos, Anne clutched her fan and stood on tiptoe, searching for Ruel among the swarm of men. The Duke of Brunswick leapt to his feet, dropping the toddler prince to the floor. The Duchess of Richmond clutched her throat. Soldiers dashed to gather around the Duke of Wellington, who stood in earnest conversation with the messenger who had brought the news. Through the open windows, the roll of drums began to thunder through the night air. Trumpets called out from every part of the city.

  “Anne!” Ruel caught her around the waist. “Stay near me.”

  “Oh Ruel, will Napoleon really come to Brussels?”

  “Brussels and then Vienna, if he has his way. Wellington will oppose him.”

  “But Miss Pickworth says Napoleon has amassed two hundred thousand troops. Wellington has far fewer men—and less than a third of them are British.”

  “Hang Miss Pickworth. What does a Society maven know of war? The Russians are on their way through Poland to assist him. Austrian troops will join Wellington, as well.”

  “The Austrians are needed in Italy!”

  “Never underestimate the Prussians. Field Marshal Blücher is a canny man.”

  As he spoke, a second courier arrived. People made way to allow a caped soldier to approach Wellington. The man presented the duke with a leather packet, and the Englishman opened it. He scanned the documents enclosed, then lifted his head.

  “Napoleon has attacked Field Marshal Blücher,” Wellington announced. “Due to the considerable force of the enemy, the battle has become serious. As reported earlier, the French have captured Charleroi. Now I am told they have gained some advantage over the Prussians.” He paused, looking around at his officers. “The English will march in support of our allies. Gentlemen, prepare to depart the city at once.”

  Amid gasps and cries, Wellington strode out of the ballroom. Most of the uniformed men went with him. A few stayed behind to take a hasty leave of their wives. Women hurried to help their husbands, fathers, or brothers gather their belongings. In confusion, half the orchestra remained and began to play some frantic little tune. The other half rushed to join the departing troops.

  “Droughtmoor!” Ruel spotted his accuser as he and Anne joined the throng pouring through the doors. “What of your challenge?”

  “Tomorrow at dawn!”

  “Impossible. We are leaving the city tonight.”

  “I shall have my revenge, Blackthorne!” Droughtmoor vanished into the corridor and was lost to them in a flood of pushing, shoving people.

  Ruel wrapped his arm around Anne’s shoulders and pulled her close. “We must return to the hotel at once.” He spoke against her ear so she could hear above the tumult. “Our plan begins immediately. A plain gown, black shawl, and bonnet lie in a paper-wrapped box inside your trunk. Put them on, pull the shawl over your head, and go downstairs. Miss Watson will join you, but explain nothing to her. No one must recognize either of you. Walker, Alex, and I will carry down the baggage. A vegetable cart will arrive at the back door of the hotel. Get in and pay the driver with this money. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” She nodded as she took the wallet he handed her.

  “After the driver has taken you to safety, send him away and wait with Miss Watson until we come. Have you seen Walker?”

  “He is over there.” Anne lifted her hand to point out the tall man in the throng, but the blacksmith was already pushing toward them, his eyes wide and his mouth open in a cry of desperation.

  “No!” he shouted. “No!”

  Anne smelled black powder just as Ruel crumpled onto her. She heard nothing but the roar of the crowd, saw nothing but the spurt of crimson blood that burst before her eyes, felt nothing but the weight of the man dragging her down to the hard marble floor.

  “Blackthorne!” Walker bellowed as he threw himself across his fallen friend.

  Anne lay pinned beneath the marquess, unable to move. A foot stepped into her hair. Another tangled in her dress, tore the fabric, hurried on. Someone leapt over them. She tried to breathe, tried to speak, and found she could not.

  “Lady Blackthorne?” The weight lifted off of her, a
nd a hand slid under her neck. “Are you injured?”

  “No,” she said with a gasp. “Ruel?”

  “He has been shot in the face,” Walker said. “Blackthorne, lie down. You are bleeding.”

  “Anne! Where is she? I cannot see. Someone find my wife.”

  “I am here.” She pushed out from under him, wiping at the blood that dampened her own face. “Ruel . . . oh, dear Lord, please help us!”

  “Are you hurt, Anne?” He grabbed her shoulders hard. “Did the ball strike you?”

  She stared into his face. His right cheek had been slashed open, ripped downward into a gaping flap of skin. Blood poured from the wound, covering his white cravat and waistcoat.

  “Walker!” she screamed. “Walker, you must help him!”

  As she cried out, the blacksmith was tearing the cravat from around his own neck. “We must find a physician,” he said, pressing the white cloth against Ruel’s wounded face. “This will need to be stitched.”

  “Ruel? Good heavens, what happened?” Sir Alexander dashed up and crouched at his brother’s side. “A saber?”

  “A coat pistol,” Walker barked. “Fetch a doctor, sir, I implore you.”

  “They will all be leaving with Wellington. Walker, who did this? Was it Droughtmoor? Did you see?”

  “I saw only the pistol. A moment before it was fired.” The Indian scooped Ruel into his arms. “We must return to the hotel.”

  “I shall sew him myself,” Anne said. “The Lord has given me skill with a needle.”

  Dabbing tears and blood from her cheeks, she followed the men down the steps to the waiting carriage. Prudence emerged through the crowd and caught Anne’s hand as all around them the city continued to erupt. Bugles sounded. Drums thundered. Horses clattered through the streets. Men loaded baggage wagons, and soldiers harnessed artillery trains. Officers rode toward the Palace Royale while foot soldiers marched along with knapsacks on their backs and rifles on their shoulders. Flags went up, and children cried.

  “Bleed him,” Sir Alexander commanded. “If you do not bleed him, he will die.”

  Walker settled Ruel in the back of the open cart and wrapped a blanket around the semiconscious man. “He can lose no more blood, or he surely will die.”

  Seated beside Prudence, Anne tucked the frayed and blood-spattered blue silk gown around her legs and lifted Ruel’s head into her lap. At the hotel, she had not had time to put on anything except the black shawl, and she hardly cared. Sir Alexander had spent the hour there dosing Ruel with laudanum. Mr. Walker tried to stanch the flow of blood while Anne carefully stitched the terrible wound in his face.

  She had worked in spite of her horror. The ball had entered from the front, just to the side of Ruel’s nose, and had torn its path of destruction all the way to his ear. Though the cheekbone had just been nicked, the flesh had been sliced raggedly all the way to the teeth. Had the pistol been aimed an inch to the left, Ruel would be dead.

  “Mr. Walker speaks the truth, Sir Alexander,” she said firmly. “You must trust your brother’s treatment to the blacksmith now. He knows how to keep the wound clean and prevent infection. Ruel has lost far too much blood already. A bleeding would kill him.”

  “You think this redskin can save his life?”

  “He saved mine.”

  “And we are very grateful for that.” With a snort, Sir Alexander slapped the side of the wagon. “Go on, then, all three of you. Take my brother to France. I shall meet you in Valenciennes, as we planned. Two days.”

  “Give us three.” Walker climbed onto the wagon’s seat and took the reins. “We may have trouble.”

  “Does Ruel know any mode of existence other than causing trouble? Gaming, smuggling, being shot by angry assassins bent on revenge?” He shook his head. “Be at the fountain in Valenciennes in three days, or I shall ride for Paris.”

  “Paris?” Anne stared at him. “You would not search for us? But you know we travel directly toward the French border just behind Wellington’s troops. Anything may happen.”

  “How do you suppose I shall get to Valenciennes myself? Fly?”

  “You are armed and on horseback, sir. We have nothing to protect us but this old cart filled with half-rotted vegetables.”

  “At least you will have something to eat.” Still wearing his evening clothes, Sir Alexander slipped his foot into the stirrup and swung onto his horse.

  “Why will you abandon us, my lord?” Prudence cried out suddenly. “Your brother needs you.”

  “I merely follow Ruel’s own command to me. In fact, Mr. Walker and I were originally scheduled to journey together. My brother wished to travel separately to arouse the least amount of suspicion toward your trunks there.”

  Anne stared at the baggage in the cart. “But . . . is the lace machine in my trunks?”

  “Of course. Where did you suppose it was?” With a flick of the reins, Sir Alexander spurred his horse. “Three days, Walker, or I am off to Paris and the arms of my fiancée. Gabrielle Duchesne has been waiting far too long.”

  Anne stared at the man’s back as he vanished down the alley. Then she turned to the trunks lying amid piles of cab- bages and baskets of green peas, strawberries, and early potatoes. “Mr. Walker,” she whispered, “is the loom truly in these trunks?”

  The Indian jostled the reins and set the two horses to pulling the cart toward the sunrise. “Yes, Lady Blackthorne. Not many days before we left London, Ruel returned to Tiverton and packed Mr. Heathcoat’s unassembled lace-making machine inside the trunks. It has been with us all along.”

  “With me, you mean.” She let her focus drift down to the man whose head lay on her lap. Sleeping from the laudanum, Ruel looked nothing like the devil she knew him to be. A tangle of dark curls fell over his pale brow. Thick black lashes lay like twin fans on his cheeks. The lips that tilted so easily into a cynical curl had softened. Only the wound that slashed across his cheek reminded her that this man was scarred both outwardly on his flesh and in the depths of his black heart.

  He had lied to her. Dared her to open the trunks. Counted on her to trust him. Counted on her to believe his every word and not to use the iron key he had tossed so casually onto the trunk lid. She had trusted him, of course, especially when she saw the blue gown packed at the top. She had trusted him, fallen into his arms, loved him.

  The cart rolled out onto the main road, and Walker steered the horses toward a little town called Waterloo.

  Fifteen

  They had traveled fewer than five miles when English soldiers put a halt to the journey. Camped along high ground near the main road into Brussels, the troops wanted no interference from wandering vegetable sellers. Seeing the wounded man in the cart, they sent the four sojourners to wait out the expected confrontation with the French in the stone barn of a landowner named Hougoumont, whose château had been converted to an English stronghold.

  While Walker tended Ruel, Anne and Prudence climbed to a window in the top of the barn and studied the French troops camped fourteen hundred yards away on the opposite ridge, a place they had called La Belle Alliance. Hearts hammering and palms clammy with helplessness, Anne and her friend witnessed two horrific battles that day. Both times, Napoleon’s men forced their enemies to retreat. Even though the French fell short of a complete victory, the allied troops suffered countless casualties. Gradually the barn filled with wounded men, and the two young women went down to help Walker and the military physicians who arrived to treat the victims.

  All the following day, the seventeenth of June, rain poured, turning the hard ground to deep, sucking mud. Lightning slashed across roiling gray skies while thunder shook the barn’s thick rock walls. Wellington’s men assured Anne that this was a wonderful omen. Every one of the duke’s peninsular victories, they told her, had been preceded by violent storms. This hardly encouraged a woman who put her faith in God and not in atmospheric portents.

  Inside the barn, soldiers sat in clusters, talking, playing at cards, singing. Ot
hers helped tend the wounded. Plans for engaging the enemy in battle were abandoned, for the rain made fusils, cannons, and most of the other weapons useless.

  When night fell, Anne sank onto a pile of dank hay beside the vegetable cart. Mr. Walker and Prudence sat in the hay together, the woman lying half asleep on the older man’s shoulder.

  “So . . . how is he?” Anne asked.

  “Who?” the blacksmith returned.

  “The marquess, of course.”

  “I am surprised you care. You have not visited your husband’s side a single time today.”

  Anne closed her eyes and let out a breath. “As you and Prudence both know very well, Lord Blackthorne is my husband in name only.”

  “He would not agree.”

  “How little you understand him, then.”

  “I know him better than I know any man. In you, Lady Blackthorne, he believes he has found the healing of his heart.”

  “Only God can heal a man so villainous as my husband.” Anne let out a bitter laugh. “Healed, indeed. This is a man who elected to store contraband in his wife’s baggage. A rogue who would see her turned over to the authorities and thrown in prison should her trunks be opened and the lace machine discovered.”

  Walker sat up, his dark eyes piercing. “Is this what you believe?”

  “How can I think otherwise?”

  “Have you looked at the trunks since we began our journey from Brussels, madam?”

  “No.” Anne glanced at Prudence, whose pale face shone in the darkness of the barn. “I have been tending the wounded.”

  “Your name was painted over, Anne,” Prudence whispered. “I thought you knew. A new name and direction were inscribed on the trunks.”

  Her pulse racing, Anne scrambled to her feet and took hold of the iron spokes of one of the cart’s wheels. Pulling herself on tiptoe, she peered into the wagon bed. Lying on a pallet of rough blankets, the Marquess of Blackthorne turned his head to gaze at her.