The Passionate Prude

by Elizabeth Thornton

  She remained stony-faced and silent, and Rathbourne, with a faint shrug of his shoulder, turned back to the modiste. “And as for style, no long sleeves, if you please. I like them short, and feminine, like these.” Again he indicated Deirdre’s gown.

  “Really, Gareth,” Mrs. Dewinters’s patience was sorely strained. “This is the outside of enough. Long sleeves are coming back into fashion. In another week or two, they’ll be all the rage.”

  “That’s very true, sir,” interrupted the modiste. “Soon all the ladies will be in long sleeves, even at balls.”

  “Deirdre has three new gowns, and to my knowledge, not one of them has such sleeves.” He turned for confirmation to Deirdre. “Isn’t that so?”

  Deirdre was at a loss. It seemed that the Earl had made a study of her wardrobe, and it annoyed her as much as it puzzled her. Her unexceptionable gowns were not meant to excite notice.

  “Isn’t that so?” he repeated when she remained obstinately mute.

  “Yes, as you have remarked.”

  “Why?” he asked baldly.

  “Because,” she replied mendaciously, “my shoulders and arms are my best feature and I wish to show them off.”

  Before Deirdre knew what he was about, he had removed her shawl, and his eyes measured her slowly and tauntingly.

  “Possibly! How can I tell?” he said with blatant provocation. “If it’s true, why do you hide yourself behind this monstrosity?” He held up the shawl with one negligent finger.

  Mrs. Dewinters spoke sharply. “Gareth, leave the girl alone, and take yourself off for a good half hour or so, if you please. I haven’t come here to order a full wardrobe of clothes, as you very well know. What I require is a gown for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball and I will have it made up with long sleeves and in the color of my choice.” Her eyes happened to wander to the window and she exclaimed, “Oh look! There is Lord Uxbridge crossing the square. Didn’t you—”

  Deirdre whirled to face the window, caught a glimpse of Lord Uxbridge on the pavement outside, and dashed out of the modiste’s before Mrs. Dewinters could finish the sentence. She had, of course, written to thank Lord Uxbridge for the loan of her mount, but she had not seen him in person since the night of the Embassy reception. He looked up as she came flying down the front steps of the shop, and caught her in his outstretched arms, swinging her off her feet. Rathbourne, a thunderous expression on his face, watched it all from the window. When Uxbridge planted a kiss on Deirdre’s cheek, Rathbourne spun on his heel and strode after her.

  Lord Uxbridge’s arms dropped from Deirdre’s slim waist when he caught sight of his friend’s black expression. Good God, he thought to himself not without some amusement, does Rathbourne really regard me as a rival? Perversely, he felt his spirits soar.

  “Ah Rathbourne,” he said easily, ignoring the dangerous glitter of tawny eyes narrowing upon his person, “I was just telling Miss Fenton how honored I am to provide a worthy mount for her. Pretty little filly, isn’t she?” he asked obliquely, the vivid mockery in his eyes returning Rathbourne’s challenge.

  “Yes, very,” said Rathbourne stiffly, then by degrees, relaxed his grim expression. “Very!” he said again, and choked on an embarrassed laugh.

  “Pretty!” said Deirdre, betraying her disappointment at the meager econium. “This filly is one in a thousand! To be mounted on her and riding ventre à terre is”—she cast about in her mind for an extravagant compliment—“heavenly,” she concluded creditably.

  “Quite,” said Lord Uxbridge, keeping a straight face.

  The eyes of the two men met over Deirdre’s head and Uxbridge could hardly contain his mirth for what he read clearly written in Rathbourne’s piercing expression. Bedamn if the whelp wasn’t warning him off, and no mistake about it! It made him feel ten years younger and a very fine fellow indeed.

  Lord Uxbridge, however, fearing that his welcome was about to wear out, did not linger. He was scarcely out of earshot when Rathbourne turned the full force of his anger upon Deirdre.

  “You seem to be on very friendly terms with Uxbridge.”

  “Hardly that! But I cannot deny that he has been very civil to me, for whatever reason.”

  “Oh, I think we can safely assume the reason for his civility,” he answered her. “Flirting with him at the Embassy, permitting him to mount you quite publicly, and mount you in private too, for all I know.”

  Deirdre stared at him open-mouthed, her breasts heaving. She shut her eyes for a moment as if the sight of him disgusted her. When she opened them, green lightning flashed from their emerald depths. “Your male crudity is beyond anything,” she stormed at him. “I have done nothing to be ashamed of! Good God, the man is old enough to be my father! And I thought you were his friend? Who was it told me that Uxbridge was madly in love with his wife? Who was it upbraided me for being rude to him? Who was it—”

  “Hush! I know what I said. But if you throw yourself at his head, you’d better be prepared for the consequences. You’re not the innocent you once were. You know perfectly well what can happen if you tempt a man beyond endurance!”

  “Ooh!” Deirdre choked. “How neatly men turn the tables! Now I am the one to blame for your…your…”

  “Pray continue! My what?” he taunted.

  “Your lechery!” Her tone was blistering.

  Rathbourne observed the delightful flush of color high on her cheekbones, the rosy lips tremulous with emotion, and the softly heaving bosom.

  “Compose yourself, Deirdre,” he remarked gently, the heat gone out of him. “If anyone should see us now…” He glanced quickly around as if to ascertain that they were unobserved. Deirdre took the hint and brought her emotions under control.

  She allowed him to return her to the modiste’s, where Mrs. Dewinters had just completed her purchases. On the way back to the hotel she replied civilly if a little coldly to every comment he addressed to her, but she refused an invitation to partake of a small glass of sherry in Mrs. Dewinters’s rooms. That Rathbourne wished to talk to her privately was very evident, but she forestalled him by saying lightly that Armand would be waiting and she daren’t test the patience of a brother as if he were a beau.

  In her own mind she had determined that the time for words was past. She was not prepared to accept the Earl’s apology for the insults he had inflicted, and there were many. She had no idea of making him jealous. She did not think that was in her power. But neither was the ordering of her life in his power. It was a lesson Gareth Cavanaugh needed to learn.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the Hotel d’Angleterre, in the apartments which had once been occupied by Lord Uxbridge and his staff, my Lord Rathbourne took a long swallow of his fine French cognac and looked over the rim of his glass at his pensive companion, Lieutenant Colonel Colquhoun Grant, chief of Intelligence Operations and responsible only to His Grace, the Duke of Wellington. He absently shut his box of snuff and replaced it in his coat pocket. The chamber was lit by several branches of candles which were scattered throughout the room. The grate was empty for it was already June, and although a summer storm blazed outside the open window, the air inside was hot and humid.

  It was Lord Rathbourne who broke the comfortable silence. “My impression is that Napoleon cannot afford to wait. The attack must come soon. Everything points to it.”

  “That is debatable. With conscription in France reinstated, it makes more sense for him to wait till August. By that time he could double the strength of his army.”

  “Very true, but so could we. He knows that he outnumbers us already, and he fears our units will have returned from America if he delays overlong.”

  “This Louis Bourmont fellow, you trust him?”

  Rathbourne shrugged. “I should like to say ‘implicitly,’ but in our line of business, I’ve learned not to trust my shadow.”

  “It seems strange that one of Napoleon’s own generals should be willing to aid us.”

  “He is not aiding us. His loyalty
is to France first and foremost. He sees the little Corsican as a scourge on the country he loves.”

  “Damned near impossible to sift the wheat from the chaff. My desk is littered with reports, all of them contradictory.”

  “What does your nose tell you?” asked Rathbourne, lazily observing the forked lightning as it streaked across the sky. The ferocious clap of thunder overhead made not the slightest impression on either man. The Earl’s eyes shifted to his companion, an officer whose judgment he held in the highest regard.

  At five years his senior, Lieutenant Colonel Colquhoun Grant had made Wellington’s Intelligence Service a formidable organization. Though held to be very young for such a responsible position, his uncanny nose for sifting fact from fiction had become almost proverbial.

  He stroked that aristocratic object with his index finger. Rathbourne noted the gesture and the slight flare of his nostrils, and the Earl smothered a smile.

  “In the Emperor’s own words, one French soldier is equal to one English soldier, but worth two of any of our allies. I’m inclined to agree with you. He knows that we are vulnerable and he won’t give us time to even the odds. Damn those Yankees for the trouble they have caused!”

  “I would rather damn the politicians for being so shortsighted. These differences with the Americans should have been settled by the diplomats. Fortunately, we have our cavalry intact. That’s one consolation.”

  “Naturally, you would say so! I’d settle for more guns and ammunition.”

  “There’s always Congreve’s rockets, or had you forgotten?”

  “Oh those!”

  “Don’t be so disparaging! I assure you, the French are already quaking in their boots at this latest scientific invention of modern warfare.”

  “How did that come about?”

  Rathbourne’s lazy smile was telling. “A policy of misinformation to the enemy which I was at pains to foster. They are not to know that Congreve’s missiles are a source of terror to our own ranks as well.” When he noted Grant’s questioning look, he explained. “Maria Dewinters is very friendly with a Belgian count whom, all unsuspecting, we know to be a collaborator with the French. She passed the information along. It was confirmed later by my sources close to Napoleon’s staff.”

  Grant gave his companion a long, level look. “You are playing a very dangerous game, as I’ve already told you.”

  “Why? Simply because my identity has become known to the enemy? It has its advantages, so long as they don’t know that I know they know, if you know what I mean.” He quirked one sardonic eyebrow.

  “I don’t see the advantage if you’re dead,” said his companion soberly.

  “You refine too much upon it. No one values my life more than I do. I’ll be careful. Have you discovered how they came by the information?”

  “Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time before I do.” After a moment’s considering silence, Grant asked, “How are things progressing with Mrs. Dewinters?”

  “Couldn’t be better. By the way, I must thank you for your tactful intervention. Maria is accepted everywhere.”

  “So I heard. Has the ploy been useful?”

  “You’ve seen my reports! I gather information, Maria dispenses misinformation. It’s a strategy that works well. She is known to be close to me. Those who think to pick my brains without my knowledge try to get at them through Maria. Naturally, it’s done with great finesse, and Maria is clever enough to let them think that she has been duped.”

  “You trust her then?”

  “Better than I trust my own shadow.”

  “From you, that’s saying something!”

  “Don’t worry, I never leave anything to chance. As far as possible, I get confirmation from others in my network.”

  “Which brings us to the Belgians. You are convinced that they will take to their heels as soon as hostilities begin, then?”

  Rathbourne held his glass up to the light and gently eddied the amber liquid. “Perhaps not as soon as that. It’s not that they are cowards, you understand. It’s simply that they don’t regard this as their fight. They’d like to be shot of the lot of us.”

  “I can’t say as I blame them. I’ve cautioned the Duke, although, to be frank, I think it’s what he expected.” After an interval, Grant queried, “So, what am I to tell His Grace? Where and when can we expect the attack, in your opinion?”

  “Within the next week or two, I should say. The French border has been cut off for days, not by us, but by Imperial loyalists, and you know what that means. The enemy has tightened security. Almost nothing can get through. I think Napoleon will soon be on the move.”

  “Your sources of information have dried up then?”

  “Not quite. Guy Landron is our man on the front line. He’s one of Bourmont’s secretaries. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “What about his gammy leg?”

  “Oh that! He has trouble walking, but he can still push a pen. Says that the blue regimentals are more to his taste than our garish redcoats, and the French girls likewise.”

  “Tell him he will have his fill of French girls when we march victoriously into Paris.”

  “I will. I’ll be checking with him in a day or two.”

  “Of course. You always did like to be in the thick of things, just like Lord Uxbridge. I, on the other hand, take my cue from Wellington.”

  “A more detached approach?”

  “As it should be in a professional soldier. You haven’t told me yet where you think the attack will come.”

  “I don’t believe that Napoleon has made up his mind, or if he has, he’s not telling anyone. But you may be sure, when he does, he’ll attack with the speed of a thunderbolt.”

  As if to emphasize Rathbourne’s words, a bolt of lightning blazed across the sky, giving the uncanny impression that night had suddenly turned into day. A moment later, torrential rain beat against the windows, signaling the end of the storm.

  “It will be like that with Napoleon,” said Grant musingly. “One last burst of glory, then gone forever.”

  “But sending so many to an early grave,” Rathbourne interjected. He bolted the contents of his glass and helped himself to another shot from a crystal decanter.

  Both men became lost in private reflection. “To return to the problem of where the attack will come,” said Grant finally. “The Duke prefers a defensive strategy if Napoleon’s attack is imminent. He thinks that at present, going on the offensive would be a hopeless proposition. He’s looked over the terrain and favors the Charleroi Road as our best defensive position. Pity it’s impossible to place Napoleon exactly where we want him.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Stranger things have happened. By all means, let us quietly let it be known, in the right circles, you understand, that Wellington has grave misgivings about defending the city.”

  “He thinks that it’s going to be a very close-run thing.”

  “Such optimism is most heartening.”

  “You think we shall lose?”

  “No! I share the Duke’s opinion.”

  “Where does Deirdre Fenton come into all this? Is she part of your network?”

  A look of surprise crossed Rathbourne’s face. “She knows nothing. Nor do I wish her to know! It’s safer that way.”

  “Good God! And she let you browbeat her into accepting Maria Dewinters? I was under the impression that there was some sort of understanding between you and the girl.”

  “And if there is?”

  “She must be something very out of the ordinary to put up with the gossip that is circulating about you and Maria Dewinters. No, don’t roast me! I presume you know what you’re doing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And the girl’s brother, St. Jean?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s your ward, I believe, and half French?”

  “What of it?”

  “He seems to be having trouble deciding which side he is on. There have been several reports about him w
hich, so far, I’ve discounted.”

  Rathbourne took another long swallow of his brandy. “Go on,” he said levelly.

  “He has a loose tongue. He admires Napoleon and doesn’t mind who knows it.”

  “In my experience,” intoned Rathbourne carefully, “it’s those who profess a dislike for the little emperor who are the most suspect.”

  “Very true. It’s probably only youth speaking. Wellington, after all, professes an admiration for the man as a general, but as a gentleman utterly despises him. Nevertheless, you will keep an eye on the lad, won’t you? It would be a pity if we had to hang him as a traitor.”

  “Thank you for the warning. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Good. I knew I could rely on your discretion.”

  Rathbourne was to have the opportunity of tearing a strip off his tempestuous ward, a pleasure he had long anticipated, toward noon of the following morning when St. Jean returned with Deirdre from their daily jaunt to the Bois de la Cambre. It was a grim-faced O’Toole who informed the unsuspecting young man that his lordship would be obliged with a few moments of his ward’s time on the instant. Such a peremptory summons, Armand dared not refuse.

  Deirdre followed behind, but when she made to ascend the stairs to Rathbourne’s rooms, she was turned aside by the unyielding groom. Armand, striving to appear natural, though his serious demeanor betrayed something of his disquietude, adjured his sister to wait for him in her chamber. Deirdre reluctantly complied.

  Once there, she could not settle to do a thing, but strode about the room in a fever of impatience. It was soon evident that the interview between the two men was taking place in the room directly above. The din of raised voices, though muffled enough so that Deirdre could not hear what was said, was distinct enough to inform her that they were in the throes of a violent argument. A sudden commotion overhead shook some plaster from a cornice on the ceiling. Deirdre froze. There followed a few moments’ silence, then she heard the clatter of boots as they descended from above on the flagstones of the back stairs, which in normal circumstances were used only by the hotel staff. Deirdre ran to the gib door which gave onto the service stairs and fumbled with the key as she tried to turn it. By the time she had dashed onto the landing, Armand’s back was disappearing around the corner. She called to him, but he gave no indication that he had heard. She dashed back into the room and ran to the window. Armand emerged from the back door of the hotel and flung away as if the devil himself were after him. Deirdre noted the white handkerchief with red splotches which he held to his mouth. A surge of anger, hot and reckless, shook her to the core.