“He hasn’t won yet,” she said in a rush of confidence that had its basis in hope rather than conviction. “I am not going to marry him, and you are not going to become his ward.”
Armand’s reply mirrored his skepticism. “What’s to be done? He’ll only find me and bring me back. He has the resources to do it.”
“You are coming with me, to Brussels. It won’t be so easy for him there to have everything his own way, and if he makes a move against us, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“He isn’t about to let us slip through his fingers at this date. We’ll never pull it off.”
“Perhaps not, but we must at least make the attempt.” She drained her sherry glass and set it aside. “He thinks that we are not up to his weight. He may be right. But I don’t intend to make it easy for him. What do you say, Armand?”
His grin was infectious. “I say that Rathbourne has met his match in you. I’m game if you are, sis. What have we got to lose?”
Later that afternoon, Rathbourne’s agent, stationed outside the Fenton House in Portman Square, observed a hired chaise pull up at the front entrance. An affecting scene followed as a young woman whom he thought to be Deirdre took a tearful farewell of her aunt. Her brother Armand, wearing a frock coat of the finest blue superfine over an unusual striped blue and gold waistcoat, was also in attendance. He helped the driver of the chaise stash several bandboxes and one heavy valise. As soon as the coach pulled out of Portman Square, Armand and Lady Fenton entered the house. Rathbourne’s agent then moved toward the mews to collect his mount. Within half an hour, having followed Deirdre’s chaise for several miles, he ascertained that its probable destination was Henley, and he turned aside.
A second agent remained at his post. His quarry was St. Jean. He watched with narrowed eyes as a sedan approached. Armand descended the stairs, his face obscured as he lowered his head to don a curly-brimmed beaver. The blue superfine and striped waistcoat, however, remained unmistakable. He entered the sedan and was conveyed to his lodgings in Bond Street, Rathbourne’s agent following at a discreet distance.
When the Fenton coach arrived to convey her ladyship and her abigail to Dover to catch the last packet that evening for Ostend, there was no one to observe the footman whose straight carriage and spritely gait belied his silver locks. He took his place on the box beside her ladyship’s coachman and almost at once the six bay geldings harnessed to the coach made for the Dover road at a frantic pace, with outriders front and rear. Inside the coach, Deirdre and her aunt conversed in terse comments, betraying all the strain they felt at the precariousness of their situation.
“We’ve done it,” said Lady Fenton triumphantly.
Deirdre was less assured. She rapped on the roof of the coach. “Armand, is anyone following?” she shouted. His negative reply was barely heard above the thundering hoofbeats of the galloping horses.
Almost at the precise moment that the Fenton coach rumbled into Dover, in Rathbourne House on Piccadilly, Lord Rathbourne was entertaining a former colleague who was attached to the War Office. The tidings that he received were as disquieting as they were urgent.
“Napoleon has escaped from Elba,” repeated Smythe-Jones tersely. “The news will be all over London by tomorrow. I’ve come expressly to ask for your help.”
Rathbourne whistled softly and uttered a soft imprecation. “The Devil he has!” After a moment’s consideration, he went on as if speaking to himself, “It could not have come at a worse time.”
Smythe-Jones grimly agreed. “How true! Our crack units are still in the Americas. We’ve secured peace on one front, only to have hostilities begin in another.” He noted the Earl’s questioning look, and said by way of explanation, “Hadn’t you heard? The war with America is officially over. Still, it will take some time to bring our men home, and there are thousands of veterans like yourself who have taken up their former lives in England. No, it could not have come at a worse time, I agree.”
“That’s not what I meant,” interrupted Rathbourne, and paced to one of the long windows which looked out on Green Park. Buffets of wind shook the trees, and he idly noted that the weather was blustery and typical for March. “I have a personal life, you know,” he went on after an interval. “You’ve come at a critical time. In another week or two…” His voice trailed off as he became immersed in private reflections.
Smythe-Jones shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. The Earl had always been something of an enigma to him. They had never been on intimate terms, despite their long association. But of one thing he was certain. Rathbourne knew his duty.
“Where is Wellington?” asked the Earl at last.
“In Vienna for the moment, but he’ll soon be making for Brussels. Our armies are amassing in Flanders.”
“I see.”
“It might come to nothing, you know,” said Smythe-Jones hopefully.
Rathbourne’s emphatic words were touched with derision. “I don’t believe that and neither do you.”
The Earl was restless. Smythe-Jones watched him with a puzzled frown as he paced the length of the library like a caged tiger. The older man cleared his throat and resumed the conversation where it had left off.
“Napoleon, I suppose, has a certain charisma, if that’s what you’re getting at. Our commander agrees with you. Wellington expects that the French will flock to his standard in droves.”
“And you want me to find out who and where Boney’s elusive friends are?” The question was rhetorical, and faintly cynical. Smythe-Jones did not dignify it with an answer.
“Where is he now?” asked Rathbourne, coming finally to a standstill. One hip edged onto the desk and he folded his arms across his chest. The relaxed stance made Smythe-Jones feel only marginally more comfortable.
“Last we heard he had landed in France, in the Golfe Juan, with a handful of men.”
“In a month, they will number in the thousands, in two months, a hundred thousand.”
“What of Marshalls Ney and Soult? Will they remain loyal to the French king, d’you think?”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Rathbourne. “What is Louis to them? They served their former master for fifteen years. Napoleon Bonaparte will always have their first loyalty.”
“Perhaps not. It’s early days yet for that sort of prediction.”
“Have it your own way. I need two days in which to set my affairs in order. In three, I can be in Brussels. Let it be known that I have been asked to rejoin my regiment. Who will command our cavalry?”
“Wellington has asked for Combermere, but he’ll get Uxbridge. I suppose the Iron Duke is still smarting about the scandal with Uxbridge and his sister-in-law.”
“I doubt if that would influence Wellington. Both men are first rate, but I won’t be sorry to serve under Uxbridge.”
“You’ve served with him in Spain, of course, with the Seventh? Officially you will be Major Lord Rathbourne and one of Uxbridge’s aides-de-camp.”
“Thank you. I’m familiar with the set-up.”
Within minutes of Smythe-Jones taking his leave, Rathbourne was issuing orders for his carriage and a team of his fastest horses to be readied by first light to make the dash to Henley so that Deirdre might be escorted back to London. He calmly informed his mother and sister that they were to prepare themselves for his marriage, which was to take place in twenty-four hours at Rathbourne House.
He then closeted himself in his study with Guy Landron, arranging his business affairs as befitted a man on the eve of his marriage and he a soldier with battles before him. Deirdre’s future security was well provided for under the terms of his new will.
“It will be strange not having you with me on this assignment,” Rathbourne remarked at the conclusion of their business, “but I want you here with Deirdre, looking after things.”
“She may wish to go with you to Brussels, you know. There’s no real danger yet. It will be some time before our old enemy is in a position to make
things uncomfortable for us on the continent.”
Rathbourne looked to be slightly discomfited. “I shall insist that she remains in England.”
Landron grinned. “I can see how you wouldn’t want your bride hovering over your shoulder when much of your information comes from the loose tongues of wives and daughters of suspected traitors.”
“She might form the wrong impression,” agreed Rathbourne readily with an answering grin.
After a restless night, he rose at dawn and set about arranging for his journey and for those who were to accompany him. The air of leashed excitement about Rathbourne House and stables was almost tangible. Bonaparte’s escape from Elba was on the tongue of every man, woman, and child in London. When Rathbourne arrived at Mrs. Dewinters’s house in Chelsea, she greeted him as if she expected him.
“It will be like old times,” she said rather wistfully as her watchful eyes swept over Rathbourne’s magnificent set of shoulders.
“Then you will come?”
“Did you doubt it?” she asked with a hint of surprise in her husky voice.
“You’re a good agent, Maria,” he said in a kindly tone, which had the desired effect of deflating any hopes she might have entertained.
She forced her voice to a convincing lightness. “Much as I admire you, Gareth, my involvement in this fight is a personal one. You know what happened to my family in Spain. I shall never forget it, nor ever want to.”
“A personal vendetta then?”
“You need not sound so superior. What about your own motives? Are they so disinterested? I’ve often wondered what led you into this line of work.”
“A vested interest. I have an aversion to the grandiose schemes of a little man who would make himself Emperor of Europe. Today France, tomorrow England. But then, you are part French, Maria. I do not expect you to see things in the same light as I.”
“And that makes you suspect? You forget that my husband was Spanish, as was my son.” Some memory twisted inside her and she averted her head. Knowing that she would scorn a facile sympathy, Rathbourne picked up his gloves and made as if to leave.
“What about Deirdre?” she asked quietly as he reached the door. “What will she think?”
He turned back and his gaze was very steady as he regarded her. “Not a breath of scandal must touch her; nothing from the past and certainly not a suggestion of the roles you and I will be constrained to play in the next month or so till this is over.”
“I understand,” she said softly, and tried, without success, to conceal the pain his words had given.
When the Earl entered Rathbourne House, he sensed that some calamity had befallen him by the chill of his mother’s smile as he met her on the stairs, but short of telling him that his groom, O’Toole, awaited him in his study, she gave no hint of what the smile might portend.
Guy Landron approached the study as O’Toole was leaving and heard the groom’s vehement imprecation, “Damn and blast all women to hell, the deceitful bitches! And to think I liked her!”
Landron opened the study door cautiously and paused on the threshold, thoughtfully regarding his friend’s rigid back as he stood in his familiar pose at the window. He entered and shut the door softly.
“Gareth, what happened?” he asked, trying to erase from his voice the concern he felt at the unexpected turn of events.
“She tricked me royally!” Rathbourne said without emotion, then with a bitter laugh, “and to think His Majesty’s government relies on my intelligence networks. God! What a fool she made of me!”
“Where is she?”
“On her way to some godforsaken place in Scotland, so Lady Fenton’s abigail told O’Toole. It was she who took the chaise to Henley.”
“What about St. Jean? Doesn’t he know anything?”
“He can’t be found. I don’t doubt that he bolted with Deirdre to Scotland.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What can I do? Nothing!” Then with more vehemence, “I hope I never set eyes on her again!”
The silence stretched uncomfortably. Rathbourne’s face was a mask of impassivity when he finally turned to face his friend. “Destroy the will I made, Guy.”
“Of course.”
“But add a codicil to the original to the effect that if Deirdre…” He faltered, turned back to the window, and spoke over his shoulder. “If Deirdre should be delivered of a child within the next twelvemonth or so, I want everything that is not entailed to be settled on my son or daughter.”
There was a shocked silence. When Landron finally found his voice, it was harsh with anger. “What the hell did you do to her, Gareth?”
The words unleashed all the pent-up fury that Rathbourne had been laboring under. Two strides brought him to stand before Landron. His face was contorted with passion, his eyes glittered like coals of fire. “I didn’t do a damn thing to her that she didn’t want me to do, although why I should be telling you is beyond me. You’re not my confessor! And what you left out in your dossier on Deirdre Fenton was that that damned bitch has no heart at all. She doesn’t know how to love. Can’t love. It is an emotion that is beyond her ken.” He struggled to gain command of himself and finally managed to say in more reasonable tones, “Now write that codicil to my will and don’t ever again ask me to answer for my actions in regard to Deirdre Fenton.”
Landron’s face registered all the shock he felt at this outburst. The words, the tormented expression, the passion were so forcibly reminiscent of another night—the eve of their departure for Spain five years before. He had not known Deirdre then, though.
“The girl cares for you. I know it,” he said with quiet assurance.
Rathbourne’s answer was to sweep the decanters and glasses on the nearby side table to the floor with a vicious swing of one arm. Crystal shattered and the carpet drank up the blood red wines and liqueurs. He stood looking down at the senseless destruction, then drew a tired hand over his eyes. “Let it be, Guy. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. She’s gone, out of reach again. Last time it was Jamaica; this time it’s Scotland. I haven’t the time to pursue her, nor do I have the inclination. At the moment, my destiny lies in Europe.”
Landron looked as if he was trying to frame the words that might comfort his friend. Finally, he said, “I’ll join you in Brussels as soon as I may.”
“What? Of course. There’s no reason why you cannot come with me now. That’s one consolation.”
Rathbourne fell silent, and Landron withdrew with the softly spoken comment that he would have the will ready for signing by first light.
Outside, the shadows lengthened. At the front entrance, footmen standing on precarious ladders were attempting to light the lanterns at each house. Rathbourne looked out blindly, a sudden moistness blurring his vision. A wave of longing, like the blaze of a smelting furnace, surged through him. He smothered it ruthlessly.
He had gambled and lost. Ironic that the game hadn’t been worth the candle, but he had not had the sense to recognize it. He knew it now, but it did not lessen the sense of loss. It seemed that the pain of wanting had been a constant throughout his life. Anything he had ever truly coveted, he had forfeited. Better never to want at all.
He thought of Andrew for the first time in many months. Andrew, his younger brother by two years and the apple of his mother’s eye. He had never been forgiven for being the one to come back from that climbing holiday. He was not certain that he had forgiven himself. Andrew—blythe, impetuous, foolhardy, and at sixteen on the threshold of manhood. What a waste—not of one life, but two.
At the time of the accident, he had long since become inured to his mother’s indifference. Perhaps he had always been a rather solitary and difficult child, as he was accustomed to hearing. But his protective shell had developed a crack at the stream of abuse she had shrilled at him on the very day of Andrew’s funeral. She was distraught, of course. But after that, there could never be a reconciliation between mother and son. And with a ve
ngeance, he had set himself to live up to every scurrilous condemnation of his character, every damning prophecy for his future that she had flung at him. His subsequent notoriety was as predictable as it was deserved. It had brought him a kind of satisfaction until he had wearied of the game; wearied of everything; wearied of himself.
Andrew…his mother…Deirdre…Could she be with child? The possibility was there, although admittedly rather faint. But she had taken out of his hands the power to give his name to any issue that might result from their union. This final rejection was the greatest wound of all. No other woman would have conducted herself with such disregard for the consequences of their night of lovemaking. Damn her! He would never forgive her. Never!
He was at breakfast next morning when an envelope bearing the single word “Rathbourne” was brought to him. The script was not particularly feminine, nor was there even a hint of scent about the small packet. But intuitively, he knew that it was from her. He excused himself abruptly and removed to the privacy of his dressing room. When he tore open the seal, a small ruby and pearl ring rolled into the palm of his hand. The message on the single enclosed sheet was terse and to the point.
My gaming debt, I consider paid in full. Your investment in Marcliff will be repaid with interest after a twelve-month, as arranged with Mr. Landron. Don’t try to find me.
Deirdre Fenton
In the back room of a dingy tavern in a rundown street in Soho, two men sat at a small table spread with a filthy rag of a cloth of indeterminate color while another, a huge bear of a man in workman’s rough clothing, stood guard at the door. The steady tramp of boots ascending and descending the stairs to the girls’ rooms overhead gave evidence that the tavern served more than one purpose.
“He’s already in Brussels, as I understand,” said one of the men at the table, and he stowed a wad of banknotes in the pocket of his ornate coat. His companion bent a long, contemptuous look at the fop’s extravagant attire. The dandy was aware of that look but ignored it and said easily, “I should prefer if the deed were done as soon as possible.”
The Passionate Prude Page 19
