Later in the afternoon, she paid a visit to Mrs. Dawson. Her new scarlet spencer was ready and waiting for her, and Deirdre made an effort to pull herself together and made appropriate comments of appreciation for the excellent tailoring and fine stitchery of the accomplished seamstress. With nothing better to do with her time, she lingered and took charge of little William when his mother set herself to giving the two little girls a bath. It was difficult to remain in the dismals with three young children demanding attention, and Deirdre’s problems gradually faded from the forefront of her mind.
As she took her leave toward the dinner hour, Mrs. Dawson remarked quietly in her ear, “You’re not forgetting that you promised to look after the wee ones when the time comes?”
Deirdre signified that she had not forgotten.
“Then be ready for them tomorrow or the next day at the latest.”
It was the first intimation Deirdre had received that the inevitable meeting between Wellington and Napoleon was imminent.
Lady Fenton did not place much credence on the intelligence that Deirdre had received from Mrs. Dawson.
“If that were so, my dear, you may be sure that the Duchess of Richmond would have canceled her ball, and Lord Uxbridge and his aides are here now, in the hotel, and quite possibly dressing for the ball this instant. Do you really suppose that Wellington would permit such a thing if Napoleon were on our doorstep?”
Deirdre had to admit that it did not seem likely, and she went off obediently to have her bath with its subsequent nap before the carriage was sent for to take them to the ball.
The rooms overhead were remarkably silent, and she wondered if Rathbourne would make it back in time for the ball. She tried to summon up all her defenses against him, but all she could think was that there was nothing she would like better than to lay her head against his chest and cry her heart out.
As it happened, the object of Deirdre’s reflections was already in the hotel, although not in his own rooms for the moment. He was in conference with Lord Uxbridge, who had taken rooms for the night across the hall from his good friend and aide. Rathbourne’s long booted legs were mired to the knee and his garments were covered in a thick coat of dust. He was slumped in a chair and gave every evidence of being bone weary to the point of exhaustion.
“Here, drink this,” said Lord Uxbridge solicitously, and pressed a large glass of brandy into Rathbourne’s long fingers. After a couple of long swallows, Rathbourne gave out a satisfied grunt.
“You’ve seen the Duke, then?” Uxbridge inquired.
“Yes, but I’m not sure if I’ve convinced him that Napoleon means to attack through Charleroi. The wily Corsican has been sighted from here to Ostend. Understandably, the Duke prefers to wait for more definite information before going off in every direction to tilt at windmills. He still expects the main attack to come on the road from Mons. Our commander hopes that I have the right of it, though. As you may remember, the area to the south of the Forest of Soignes is the terrain he prefers as the best defense for the city. But he mistrusts Napoleon, with good reason, I admit. He thinks the Charleroi diversion may be all a hum so that we will march off in one direction while the main attack comes from another.”
“It’s possible that the French may cut off our line of retreat through Halle, should, God forbid, we ever need one.”
“Exactly what the Duke is afraid of. Hence, sixteen thousand of our troops are left to languish at a garrison that I am perfectly certain will not see action during this fight.”
Uxbridge laughed at his friend’s confidence. “Are you so sure of your sources?”
“Perfectly,” replied Rathbourne easily. “I tell you the main body of Napoleon’s army with his Imperial Guard will come at us through Charleroi.”
“Engaging Marshall Blucher and his Prussians first?”
“It’s possible.”
“Divide and conquer?”
“That’s what Napoleon hopes. The element of surprise is on his side, of course; that and the proliferation of conflicting intelligence reports which are reaching our commander by the minute. The enemy has quite possibly engaged the Prussians by this time. If he has, we shall soon hear of it.”
“I still can’t believe that we are under orders to attend this frivolous ball tonight when there is so much else we might be doing.”
“Believe it! Wellington told me that he has no wish to start a panic in the city among the featherbrained British visitors. He wants the roads clear for the deployment of our forces, not choked with fleeing carriages and farmers’ wagons. The presence of his senior officers at the ball is meant to allay suspicion and bolster morale. There’s method in his madness.”
“There always is, Rathbourne. Nevertheless, you should get some rest. As your commanding officer, I absolve you from the duty of attending Her Grace’s ball this evening.”
Rathbourne stood up and drained his glass in one gulp. “Thank you, but I would not dream of forgoing my last social engagement for some time to come. But I shall endeavor to catch forty winks, if you don’t mind. Wake me when you are ready to dress and we’ll go together.”
As he reached the door, Uxbridge’s soft-spoken question brought his head round. “Rathbourne, what do you think of our chances?”
“Oh, we shall win, if we give it all we’ve got.”
“Now why do you say that?”
“It’s a case of history repeating itself; battle tactics, Uxbridge, battle tactics.” When he saw the Earl’s bewildered expression, he went on to explain. “Napoleon deploys his troops in the manner of the ancient Macedonians; Wellington follows the Roman pattern. You hadn’t noticed? Think about it and you’ll see that I’m right.”
“So? What if you are?”
“Only this. The Romans were invincible in pitched battles. Ask any Greek.”
At No. 9, Rue de Centres, the residence of the Duke and Duchess of Richmond, the great ballroom blazed with the lights of a thousand candles. On the glittering floor beneath the orchestra gallery, young men in colorful regimentals whirled their partners to the steady tempo of the waltz. Deirdre was in the arms of Major Thornhill. She smiled often and said enough in reply to his courteous commonplaces to satisfy duty, but her eyes absently scanned the room for a set of arrogant shoulders with a head of thick mahogany curls.
She caught sight of Mrs. Dewinters in one of the shadowed alcoves that the candlelight did not quite reach. She was in conversation with some tall soldier in red and gold regimentals. Mrs. Dewinters’s partner turned, giving Deirdre a clear view of his profile, and she expelled her breath on a small whisper of relief. It was Captain Roderick Ogilvie.
As the music drew to a close, there was a slight commotion at the door. Couples fell back as the Duke of Wellington, the only man who refused to wear the obligatory white dancing gloves, made his entrance. At his side was Lord Uxbridge and behind him, Rathbourne, with some other aides. They made an impressive picture with lashings of gold lacing on scarlet and blue tunics. Over one shoulder was carelessly draped a fur-edged pelisse. The assembled guests curtsied and bowed in the Duke’s direction as if he had been the King of England. The expressions on the faces of Wellington and his staff were relaxed and smiling, giving the lie to the rumor which had circulated all evening that the army had been given its marching orders.
The dancers cleared the floor and a detachment of kilted Gordon Highlanders entered to the deafening skirl of the bagpipes. Each Highlander solemnly placed two crossed swords on the floor in front of him. The rhythm of the bagpipes quickened and the entertainment commenced. The furious battle dance seemed almost prophetic, and the eyes of all the spectators watched the nimble feet of the huge men as they strained not to touch the swords as the tempo of the dance grew wilder. Deirdre had heard of the superstition the Highlanders held to, that one touch on the sword meant death on the battlefield. Her eyes traveled from face to face, scrutinizing the uniformed men as they watched the movements of the Highlanders with breathless intensity. She
knew then that the rumors were true. Napoleon had advanced upon Brussels and tomorrow the army would march out to meet him.
Her eyes flew to Rathbourne. He was watching her from across the room. As if he had read a signal in her eyes, he moved toward her, keeping her in his golden gaze. His hand circled her waist in a gesture of possession, and he swept her past the dancers, past the silent spectators, past the sentries stationed at the front entrance, and toward the rooms which were reserved for supper. Somewhere, a clock struck the hour.
“Midnight,” said Deirdre breathlessly.
“Friday, June sixteen! Did you know that my birthday is on Sunday?”
“How old will you be?”
“One and thirty. Don’t look like that, Dee. I assure you I intend to be around for many years to come, if only to plague the life out of you.”
They were among the first to sit down for supper, but they hardly ate a bite. Before long, the room began to fill up. Deirdre noted that the Duke of Wellington was assiduous in his attentions to Lady Frances Webster, the lady who held first place in his heart and his bed, as rumor would have it, for the moment at least. Rathbourne read her mind.
“Deirdre, don’t look so censorious. There are extenuating circumstances. You would know what I mean if you knew Wellington’s Duchess.”
Her cheeks reddened slightly and she looked away. “It’s just so sordid and sad, really. Anyway, I’ve no right to judge the morals of anyone.”
“True, but easier said than done.”
He was mocking her, and to change the subject she said quickly, “When do you move out?”
“At dawn, but I’m not supposed to tell you.”
Her lips parted, but the words would not come.
His hand covered hers briefly and he said in a conversational tone, “If you look around, you will notice that many of the officers have left already to join their regiments.”
Deirdre’s eyes searched the diminishing throng of guests and saw that he spoke the truth. “Where are you off to?” she asked. “Or don’t you know?”
“I will in a minute.”
His eyes were on an aide who was conferring with the Duke and Lord Uxbridge. After a moment or two, they were joined by some of the other commanders, among them Picton, Somerset, and Ponsonby. All eyes were on Wellington and his staff as they moved apart to talk in whispers. Conversation at the tables languished; the clinking of champagne glasses gradually ceased; cutlery was laid aside; a foreboding silence filled the huge saloon.
Uxbridge bowed to the Duke and withdrew from the huddle. He came toward Rathbourne and said quietly in passing, “They’ve taken Charleroi. I’ll see you at Quatre Bras at first light,” and so saying he made for the exit.
He was the only commander to leave. The others resumed their places, and it was noted that the Duke seemed to be in high spirits. Conversation at the tables resumed; the hilarity became rowdier, and champagne was downed with increasing zest. Just when Deirdre felt that she could not endure another minute of the frenetic gaiety, Rathbourne pushed back his chair and reached for her.
“Time to go,” he said against her ear.
She moved into the shelter of his arms and allowed him to lead her past the sentries and into the welcoming cool night air. He emitted a shrill whistle, and after a moment, a closed carriage with O’Toole in the box rolled to a halt in front of the torch-lit entrance.
“Get in, Deirdre,” he told her softly, and dreamlike she moved to obey him.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, not really caring what the answer might be. The present moment was all that seemed to matter.
“To your wedding,” he replied, and she detected a note of steel behind the words.
For one unguarded moment, her heart gave a leap of joy, but other thoughts, less comforting, soon rushed in to caution her first instinctive response. Armand was a traitor, and by implication, so was she. If it should ever come to light, and she did not see how it could be prevented, the Earl would hate her with a virulence which she could not bear.
“Did you hear me?” he asked quietly from the depths of the coach’s dark interior.
She turned her head in the direction of his voice. Her hand went out, and she traced the outline of his jaw. “This isn’t necessary, you know.” Her voice was breathless.
He turned her hand over and kissed it passionately on the open palm. “It’s very necessary. Make up your mind to it, Dee.”
It never occurred to her to ask how he could contrive to arrange their marriage when he had been out of Brussels for three days. He was Rathbourne. He could do anything when he put his mind to it. But this was one purpose she was determined to frustrate.
“Gareth,” she began again, choosing her words with care, “I don’t wish to be, can never be your wife, but I should be very, very happy to take you as my lover for as long as you wish it.”
Her words lay between them for a long moment. He straightened.
Deirdre could feel his resentment fill the silence, and she cried out, “What have I said?”
“Your lover?” His tone lashed her with his anger. “By God, I was right. You don’t think I am fit to be your husband or the father of your children. You look upon me as an object for your sexual gratification. Do you realize you have just offered me carte blanche?”
“Don’t be absurd,” she chided gently, trying to dispel his ugly humor. The last thing she wanted was to quarrel with him. “And if I did,” she teased, “you may think of it as poetic justice, retribution for all the ladies you have seduced in your time.”
If she meant to placate him, she failed miserably.
“So we are back at that again, are we?” he asked wearily. “I am never to be given a chance to prove that I can aspire to anything more than a confirmed prodigal. I don’t know why that should surprise me. I ought to be used to it by now.”
“You’re talking nonsense, Gareth. We’ve been through all this before. The reasons for my refusal to marry have nothing to do with you. They reside totally within myself. Why can’t you accept it? If it’s any consolation,” she hesitated fractionally, then said very softly, “I love you.” He was silent for so long that she wondered if she had offended him or if he believed her, and she rushed on with more feeling. “I never said that to anyone before.”
“Then marry me!”
“I can’t!”
“Nevertheless, you will!”
“I don’t see how you can make me.”
“Oh, that’s simple—blackmail.”
“Blackmail?”
“It’s a newfangled word for a very old concept. I meant, of course, coercion.” In an altered tone, he asked abruptly, “Deirdre, where is your brother?”
“Armand?” she asked cautiously, and felt every nerve in her body come alive as she sensed danger.
“Don’t play for time. It won’t do you a bit of good. Of course I mean Armand. What other brother do you have? Now tell me where he is.”
When she could bring herself to answer, she sounded faintly amused. “My dear Rathbourne, how should I know? I am only his sister.”
“Then I shall tell you. I have him under guard. You will see for yourself in a minute or two. Now Deirdre, what do you have to say to that?”
She tried to frame a suitable reply, but no words came. Her mind went numb, and her body tensed as if waiting for a blow to fall.
“What do you think I should do with him?” he asked. “Hang him as a traitor?”
“Oh, no! Please, no!” The words broke from her on a sob.
“My dear, don’t distress yourself. You must know I have no intention whatsoever of depriving myself of my one hold over you. I am not so stupid.”
She should have felt anger, but his bitter words brought only a surge of relief. She leaned her head back on the squabs and closed her eyes.
“What?” he asked cynically. “No protestations of undying gratitude? I am disappointed in you, Deirdre. I see that you mean me to sink to the depths you believe I am
capable of. Very well then. You may have your brother’s life for a price, and you know what the price is. Does that satisfy you? You were right. I have no scruples where you are concerned. And you have no scruples where your brother is concerned. I think we make a pair. What do you think?”
She let the wave of his invective wash over her, hardly taking in a word that he said. “How did you find out?” she asked at length.
“Very easily. You confirmed my suspicions.”
“I?” Her eyes opened wide, and she blinked rapidly, trying to glimpse his expression in the gloom.
“Yes, you. Armand’s letter was read before you ever received it. You may remember that I told you he was on the verge of being arrested. When you started asking questions of his friends—and such questions, Dee, so obvious, really!—it was easy to put two and two together.”
“What will happen to him?”
“What should happen to him? I shall make no report about him. He is my ward. He will soon be my brother-in-law. And when this is over, he will return with us to England. Does that satisfy you?”
“Yes.”
“And are you prepared to make the supreme sacrifice for your brother?”
“If that will satisfy you.”
“It does not satisfy me. But it will do.”
They were married in the candlelit nave of a small stone church by a Walloon minister of the Reformed profession of faith. The wedding party was kept waiting until the arrival of Sir Thomas and Lady Fenton. It was not until later that Deirdre discovered that her aunt and uncle had been apprised of her wedding nuptials only after Rathbourne had spirited her away from the ball. He had contrived it, so her ladyship told Deirdre, her feathers thoroughly ruffled, so that Sir Thomas would be powerless to put a rub in the way of Rathbourne’s plans, as if he would wish to deprive Deirdre of snatching the most eligible bachelor on both sides of the English Channel!
Deirdre soon perceived that even without Armand’s unhappy intervention, her compliance had been a foregone conclusion. The sense of inevitability somehow made everything easier to bear.
The Passionate Prude Page 29
