Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress

by Diane Gaston

  Domina’s parents apparently had not told her of meeting the captain in Brussels, nor of their sordid imaginings of what had transpired between them.

  ‘I met him afterwards,’ she explained.

  Domina giggled. ‘And here we all are now. What a coincidence.’ She waved her hands. ‘Do sit, everyone. I’ll send for more tea.’

  Her husband stopped her. ‘Do not trouble yourself, my dear. Rest. Allan would prefer brandy, I am certain.’

  ‘As you please,’ the captain murmured. His eyes sought Marian again. ‘I trust you are in good health, Miss Pallant.’ They both remained standing.

  ‘I am well enough, Captain.’ Marian fought to keep her gaze steady and her nerves calm. Her whole body had responded to him just as if she’d this moment crawled into bed with him. She had to get away. ‘We must leave, I am afraid. It is late.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Domina cried. ‘You just arrived!’

  Even Blanche looked surprised.

  ‘I assure you, we must go.’ She turned to Domina’s husband. ‘It was such a pleasure to meet you, Lord Ullman. I look forward to a further acquaintance, but we must bid you good day.’

  He held a glass of brandy in each hand. ‘Do not hurry off.’

  ‘We must,’ she insisted. ‘I—I have an appointment. I regret not having more time. Come, Blanche.’

  Blanche was on her feet.

  ‘I’ll ring for the footman to show you out,’ Domina rose to cross the room to the bell pull.

  ‘Do not trouble yourself,’ Marian said. ‘We will find our way out. Please continue your visit with the captain.’

  Marian walked briskly to the doorway, Blanche following.

  Domina called after her. ‘Come back soon, Marian. I will see you receive some invitations!’

  Once in the hall it seemed to take forever for the maid to bring their coats and for the footman to help put them on.

  They had almost made their escape when the captain appeared. ‘I will walk you home, Marian.’

  ‘No need,’ she replied in a bright tone. ‘My butler waits outside for us.’

  ‘I wish to speak with you.’ His eyes pierced her. ‘Wait a moment for me.’

  She could not flee from what was inevitable. If he was in London, she might see him again, somewhere, some time.

  ‘Very well, Captain.’ She turned to Blanche. ‘You and Reilly may go on ahead. I will follow soon.’

  She could tell Blanche was bursting with questions about this impressive-looking man and why he sought Marian’s company, but Blanche simply said, ‘Good day…Captain’, and left.

  Marian’s heart was beating as if she were running a foot-race. In her mind she’d convinced herself he was gone, as her parents were gone, as her aunt was gone, as the soldiers who died in her arms and those taken by the fire were gone.

  She’d almost succeeded.

  But now he was here, looking as handsome and intense as ever. Even in a gentleman’s clothes everything about him was familiar, even the scent of him. It was as if almost two years had vanished.

  Neither of them spoke while they waited for the footman to bring the captain’s hat and topcoat. When finally they stepped out into the street, the breeze had calmed and the blue skies were already replaced with grey.

  ‘I live near Portman Square,’ she told him. ‘Do you know where that is?’

  ‘I am not a stranger to London, Marian,’ he answered, his voice low.

  She’d offended him. It ought not to matter. After all, he had offended her very deeply with his easy infidelity. She started walking and did not take his arm.

  ‘I did not know Lord Tranville’s town house was near Portman Square.’ His voice turned more conciliatory.

  ‘I do not live with Lord Tranville,’ she responded. ‘I am free of him, which does not matter to him one whit.’

  Their arms brushed as they walked together, silent again. The silence lasted until Marian could stand it no longer. ‘You obviously did not tell Domina that you knew me.’

  His pace slowed. ‘I had no notion my uncle’s wife was Domina until you spoke her name. I only met her once, very briefly. Uncle Ullman never used her given name.’ He slanted a glance at her. ‘Did you know Ullman was my uncle?’

  ‘I did not.’ Indeed, what had she known of the captain? Almost nothing, as Edwin had said.

  They walked on.

  He added, as if it were an afterthought, ‘Our former association seems largely unknown to anyone.’

  True. The gossip and scandal the Fentons feared and that had so concerned the captain had never materialised. ‘So I cannot imagine why you would wish to speak with me, Captain.’

  ‘I am no longer a captain. I sold my commission.’

  He had long ceased being her Captain—why did this news disappoint her?

  ‘A decade of war was sufficient for me,’ he added.

  One day of war had been enough for Marian.

  But that one day of war had also changed everything for her, and he had been a part of it. No matter how she tried to deceive herself, he would always return to her, whenever she saw a soldier, whenever anyone mentioned Waterloo.

  If only they had parted like they’d met. In an instant. First here, then gone. How much better that would have been than the pain of the marriage proposal and its aftermath. Her chest hurt from it this very moment. No wonder it was called a broken heart.

  She gave herself a mental shake. This kind of thinking was ridiculous. Any romance between them had existed in her own mind. They’d become attached because of the circumstances, nothing more.

  ‘What happened, Marian?’ he said suddenly, his voice deep with emotion.

  ‘Happened?’ She blinked, thinking for a moment he could read her thoughts.

  ‘Your last letter,’ he said. ‘I wrote back for an explanation, but you returned my letters unopened.’

  Her throat tightened. She had no wish to go through this again. ‘Surely there was no mystery, Captain. I was very clear.’ Tears pricked her eyes. ‘I explained it to you. I told you Uncle Tranville was no longer a threat. I told you I had made my decision.’

  He still looked confounded. ‘But, why?’

  She could bear no more of this. ‘Listen to me, Captain. My uncle had affairs right under my aunt’s nose. I saw what it did to her.’ Her father’s infidelity had done worse, bringing illness into their house, leaving her an orphan. ‘It was not the sort of marriage I desired.’

  The line between his eyes deepened. ‘What have your uncle’s affairs to do with me?’

  Her eyes flashed at him. ‘Do not play me for a fool.’

  They reached Grosvenor Square, the most fashionable square in Mayfair. He extended his hand towards Hyde Park, only two streets away. ‘Let us cross through the park.’

  His long quick strides gave her no choice but to follow, although it was difficult to keep up. He did not slow until they crossed through Grosvenor Gate and reached one of the walking paths.

  Soon the carriages and curricles would crowd the park, but the afternoon was still early enough that the fashionable world had not yet arrived. At the moment, she and the captain were alone.

  ‘Now answer my question,’ he demanded. ‘What did your uncle’s affairs have to do with me?’

  She made herself meet his gaze. ‘I know about the Frenchwoman.’

  ‘The Frenchwoman.’ His forehead creased. ‘What Frenchwoman?’

  She gaped at him. ‘The Frenchwoman. Your mistress. Your paramour.’

  He shook his head. ‘Marian, I have no paramour.’

  ‘But you did. In Paris.’ Marian put her hands on her hips. ‘Did you think I would not discover it?’

  He stepped back. ‘There was nothing to discover. I had no mistress. Not then. Not now.’ His expression was earnest. ‘Who told you this tale?’

  ‘Edwin told me.’

  ‘Edwin!’ He spat out the name like a piece of rancid meat.

  She straightened. ‘Edwin heard it at the regimental offi
ces in Brussels.’

  He seized her arms and drew her so close she felt his breath on her lips. ‘Impossible.’ Just as suddenly he released her, only to dip down to her again with a disparaging laugh. ‘It is not true. Edwin did not hear about it at the regimental offices, because it did not happen. Edwin lied to you.’

  She rubbed her arms where his fingers had touched. ‘Why would he lie to me?’ She breathed.

  She felt sick inside. Edwin must have lied. Why had he done such a terrible thing to her?

  The captain held her again, more gently this time, so that there were only inches between them. His scent made her feel as if she’d downed too many glasses of wine, and her senses flared as they’d not done since he’d held her in Belgium.

  ‘You believed him.’ His eyes bore into her. ‘How could you think me capable of such a thing? I considered myself betrothed to you. I wanted no other woman.’

  She tried to remain rational, but her emotions warred within her, wanting him to hold her, wanting to run away.

  She steeled herself. ‘How could I not think that of you? You were forced by my uncle into offering for me.’

  ‘You forget I offered marriage before your uncle stuck his nose in it.’

  ‘Out of duty,’ she reminded him.

  His grip tightened. ‘After what we endured together—after how I behaved—it was my duty, even if your uncle had not threatened us. But did I not also say I wanted to be betrothed to you? That I would wait until you were free to accept or reject me? Does this sound like a man who would take a mistress?’

  He was so close their breath mingled. She remembered the taste of him, remembered his hands caressing her. Why had she believed him capable of keeping a French mistress?

  Men need women to bed, her teachers had instructed.

  ‘It is what men do,’ she cried.

  A memory flashed through her mind—her father being kissed by the Indian woman. Her mother screaming at him before both fell ill and died. The pain returned.

  She wrested her thoughts back to the present. ‘Why should I think you any different?’

  He drew her even closer. ‘Because we spent time together in the most intimate of ways.’

  Her knees turned weak. She wanted to melt into his arms and be comforted by him.

  She pulled away. ‘You were either ill or we were running from danger. That is not a courtship.’

  ‘It ought to have been enough to take the measure of my character.’ He turned from her and started on the path again.

  She had to run to keep up with him.

  She’d been blind to that simple reasoning. Edwin had chosen the one falsehood to which she was so vulnerable. Infidelity killed her parents and killed her aunt’s spirit. There was nothing he could have said about Captain Landon that could have fed into worse fears.

  Her body was awash with arousal and rage.

  And regret.

  What might have happened between her and the captain had her uncle and cousin not so cruelly interfered?

  She followed the captain through Cumberland Gate.

  He abruptly stopped. ‘Which street is yours?’

  ‘Not far. Bryanston Street.’ She was surprised she could even speak.

  They crossed Oxford Street and walked the short distance to tiny Bryanston Street, giving her time to calm herself.

  ‘I know this street.’ His tone changed completely. ‘John Yost lives here.’

  Her nerves went on alert. ‘Mr Yost?’

  ‘Are you acquainted with him?’ His expression was intense.

  She stopped in front of her town house and tried to casually point to the one next to it. ‘He lives next door.’

  Edwin had been right about one thing. She did not know very much about the captain. She did not know if he was Whig or Tory, if he believed in reform or if he thought it right for the government to favour the rich and neglect the needy.

  Her heart pounded with this new concern. ‘Why do you ask about Mr Yost?’

  Chapter Twelve

  Allan gazed down upon Marian, too many emotions battling inside him to make his thinking clear. Why had he asked about John Yost? What did he care about Yost at a time like this?

  He suspected his mind forced the distraction upon him to keep him sane. His confusion and anger, his raw desire for her, he’d thought buried with his work.

  Damned Edwin Tranville! Allan should have known Edwin was behind all this.

  What did it say about Marian’s regard for him that she believed Edwin so easily? Was her opinion of him so low that she could entertain such a lie? She had not even given him a chance to defend himself.

  Marian looked accusingly at him now. ‘Why did you ask about Mr Yost?’

  He’d already forgotten about Yost.

  Allan rubbed his forehead. ‘No reason. His name came up in my work, is all.’

  ‘Your work?’ Her voice rose a pitch.

  ‘I am employed by Lord Sidmouth.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Lord Sidmouth?’

  ‘The Home Secretary.’

  ‘I know who Lord Sidmouth is.’ She tucked an errant lock of hair back under her bonnet. ‘Why does the Home Secretary speak about my neighbour? Does Mr Yost pose some danger to me?’

  ‘No danger.’ Allan regretted even mentioning the man. ‘Yost is merely known as a liberal thinker who has written on various radical topics. It makes him of interest to the Home Secretary.’

  She did not quite meet his eye. ‘What work do you do for Lord Sidmouth?’

  He shrugged. ‘I attempt to uncover possible treasonable offences, such as if someone is inciting unrest or rioting or some such activity.’

  She took a quick intake of breath. ‘And Mr Yost? Is he inciting unrest and rioting?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  There had been talk, though, that Mr Yost had met with Henry Hunt recently. Sidmouth believed something could be afoot between the two men.

  But Allan did not want to talk about this. ‘Who lives here with you?’ Another man, he meant?

  She seemed distracted. ‘Who lives here? Mrs Nunn, who is my companion, and our servants. Why do you ask me that?’

  Their conversation had become even more stilted and difficult than when they’d been talking of the past.

  ‘No reason,’ he quickly countered. He was not about to admit he was worried that she’d taken a lover.

  The door was opened by a looming manservant with the aura of a bodyguard.

  The man laughed. ‘Captain!’

  Allan looked into his face. ‘Reilly?’ He could hardly believe his eyes.

  Reilly made a congenial, if exaggerated, bow. ‘Good day to you, Captain Landon.’

  ‘He is no longer a captain, Reilly.’ Marian entered the house and glanced back at Allan. ‘Mr Reilly is my butler.’

  Without thinking, Allan followed her inside, his hand extended to clasp Reilly’s. ‘By God, Reilly. I am astounded, but it is good to see you.’ He asked Reilly about his wounds and listened to Reilly explain how Marian had taken him in and trained him to be her butler.

  ‘In fact, we all have a connection to Waterloo here,’ Reilly told him. ‘Toby, our footman, lost a leg at Hougoumont. Mrs Nunn, Cook and the maids are all Waterloo widows.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Allan was impressed. He turned to Marian. ‘You hired them because of Waterloo?’

  She nodded. She remained by the door, her fingers clasping the doorknob.

  ‘How did you find—?’ He lifted his hand. ‘I beg your pardon. I am intruding, and you indicated an appointment you must keep.’ He stepped back towards the door. ‘I am glad to see you looking so fit, Reilly.’ His glance went from Reilly to Marian. ‘Good day to you, Miss Pallant.’

  She leaned against the door. ‘Good day, Captain.’

  He walked out remembering their companionship in the house in Brussels. Her door now closed behind him, and he felt as empty as he had felt when reading her final letter.

  Allan walked the streets with his
head and emotions awhirl. He had half a mind to report Edwin’s crimes at Badajoz to the Colonel-in-Chief of the regiment.

  Except he’d given his word not to speak of it to anyone.

  What would be the use anyway? Exacting revenge against Edwin would change nothing with Marian.

  He passed a flower vendor with a large basket. She sang, ‘Buy my fine roses… Buy my fine roses.’

  The flowers’ scent reminded him of Marian. He shook his head and walked on.

  He crossed Oxford Street and walked past Hanover Square to enter the Coach and Horses Inn on Conduit Street, choosing a seat in a dark corner of the taproom. He’d done a fair amount of ale drinking in taverns and inns since working for Sidmouth, keeping his ears open for hints of sedition, but other than complaints about high prices and concerns about the numbers of unemployed in the streets, he’d heard nothing of impending discord.

  At the moment, though, the conversations around him held no interest. He wanted to ease his own unrest.

  Caused by Marian Pallant, the woman who had not believed in him, who had not wished to marry him.

  He cursed Edwin Tranville once more.

  After Paris, Allan had poured his energies into building a new future for himself. He still had the drive to make something of his life, even if it no longer was to be worthy of marrying her. He strived for something big—he wanted to run for a seat in the House of Commons. But first he needed to prove himself worthy and knowledgeable.

  Allan was a second son and, though his family was well known in Nottinghamshire, he had few connections in London besides his uncle. Uncle Ullman had introduced him to Lord Sidmouth, and Lord Sidmouth had offered him employment. What could be a better situation for him than to work for the Home Office?

  Allan believed passionately in Sidmouth’s work. His father had been killed when a protesting mob had run amok. At Badajoz Allan had witnessed first hand the violence and destruction of men out of control.

  Each day he worked to prevent a protest march or rioting in the streets was a day he avenged his father’s death. And atoned for what his fellow soldiers, including Edwin, had done at Badajoz.

  If this were not enough, his work also served to replace the passion he’d felt for Marian. Almost.