by Anita Mills
"I warned you about Longford, Elinor! Make me appear the fool and I shall take you back to Stoneleigh," he threatened.
"I would that you did!"
"When I discovered you, you were but a pretty, striking chit," he told her, lowering his voice. "I made you a beauty—an Incomparable. And that's the thanks I get for it. I am surrounded by vipers—vipers I have nurtured at this very table!"
"You wanted men to admire me—you said so yourself!" She rose and moved to stand over him. "Look at me, Arthur! Do you not know that I would rather be plain? That I would have the pox if it would mark me and free me from this?"
"Lady Jersey, sir!" the footman announced.
"Tell her to leave her card," Elinor muttered. "No doubt she has come to ferret out the gossip."
But Arthur shook his head. "It's early, but I'd not send her away. Sit down and try to recall that you are a lady," he advised her. When she did not move, he hissed, "For God's sake, sit!"
"Kingsley! Elinor dearest!" The countess swept into the room, her scarf trailing over her walking dress. "I came as soon as I heard!"
"Heard what?" Elinor asked without enthusiasm.
"About that dreadful wager, my dear." Sally turned to the old man. "Never say you have not been apprised?"
"Sefton told me," he answered.
"Well, I do not believe there is an excessive amount of damage, for it's off the books, in any event." Her gaze flitted to Elinor, and for a moment, she could not contain her interest. "Longford, my dear? I told you he was dangerous. But I must admit it was rather generous of him to see it removed."
For once, Arthur came to Elinor's defense. "Lady Jersey, I do not refine on it at all, I assure you. The earl is scarce the sort to appeal to a sensible female."
Sally fixed him with a glance that indicated he must be daft. "Nonsense," she declared flatly. "But that is quite beside the point. We must see that the matter is met headlong, that there is nothing to it. I have sent quite a peal to Bellamy, I'm afraid. I cannot think what he was about! And but two days after I sponsored dear Elinor at Almack's."
"It's very kind of you, Lady Jersey, but—"
The countess turned on her. "Kindness has naught to do with it, my dear! It was I as recommended you to the patronesses, after all. Lud, but what a smirk I shall expect from Mrs. Drummond-Burrell—"
"I collect you think she can recover," Arthur cut in, interrupting her rattling.
"Of course! She is not the first wayward wife, after all," she declared in understatement. "The unforgiveable is not the deed, but a lack of discretion, and certainly that must be laid upon Bell's head rather than hers. And since Longford forced it from the books, we must all brazen the matter through."
"Lady Jersey, there is naught between Lord Longford and myself," Elinor protested. "Indeed, I cannot say I even like the man."
"Of course not, my dear," Sally responded, indicating clearly that she did not believe her. "Though I cannot say he is noted for that sort of association—not since Diana. No, Longford has consoled himself rather more with the likes of those Wilson women."
"Viscount Townsend, my lord!"
"Here?" Elinor choked. "How dare he?"
"What the deuce—?" Arthur frowned.
"I asked—no, I commanded him to come," the countess said. "He began it—he can very well scotch it."
The usually impeccably tailored, always perfectly groomed viscount entered the room almost sheepishly. And on this day, his blond hair looked as though it had been combed with his hands, while his coat appeared to have been slept in.
"Caught me still at White's—haven't been home to change," he murmured apologetically, looking to Lady Jersey. "Trying to come about, you know." Casting a sidewise glance at Elinor, he reddened. "Hallo, Lady Kingsley. Your pardon for my appearance. Kingsley."
"You, sir, are an utter blackguard," Elinor told him with feeling.
Chagrined, he could see his anticipated conquest slipping beyond his grasp, and he sought to retrieve the situation.
"Dear lady, I assure yew—"
"Loose lips and full cups are the bane of civilized society," Sally declared spitefully. "I'm afraid they know, Bellamy, so there is no need to shilly-shally over the matter."
He flushed uncomfortably. "Foxed—only excuse for it—dashed disguised. Didn't mean—"
"Sir, were I younger, I should call you out for it," Arthur growled. "Half a mind to, anyway."
"And you should look the veriest cake at your age," Lady Jersey said. "No—it will not do at all. We must draw together, putting out that it was but a hum to embarrass Longford." Completely taking charge, she directed the viscount, "This afternoon, Bellamy, you will take both Lord and Lady Kingsley up—about five, shall we say? And do make it the open carriage."
Townsend's blond eyebrows lifted. "Even if it rains?"
"It's not a time for levity," Sally snapped. "And the three of you really ought to attend the opera together-no, no—it would be better if there were four—perhaps young Kingsley—"
"No," Arthur retorted curtly. "Charles is unavailable."
"Oh." For a moment, the woman was diverted, then she returned to the matter at hand. "But you must see and be seen, the more places the better, I should say. Perhaps Bell ought to bring a pretty female also," she mused, "and when it's noted there is no rancor—"
Her advice was slow to sink in for Bell, and when it did, he gave a start. "Five today? I've not been to bed! I shall look deuced nagged."
"Five," Sally repeated. "Everyone is there then."
But Arthur remained unconvinced. "Who's to say I shall not be pitied like Will Hamilton?" he protested. "He let Nelson flaunt Emma before the world, and afore God, I'll not stand for that!"
"No—no, of course not. I shall set it about—a little discreet gossip here and there—that it was a jest played upon Longford that got out of hand. After all, no matter what is said there must surely be some small bit of bad blood betwixt Bellamy and Lucien de Clare."
Elinor looked from one to the other of them as though they were mad. "Well, I have not the least intention of going so far as the corner with Lord Townsend—not after this!"
"Told you—in my cups." He smiled crookedly. "Would not have hurt you for the world, you know."
"You—you wagered on my reputation!" Turning to Arthur, she declared, "I should very much rather return to Stoneleigh, my lord. Your pardon, Lady Jersey." Without so much as a glance at the viscount, she walked from the room.
"I will trust you to reason with her," she heard Sally say. "But I must go—Emily Cowper and I are to meet at Gunther's, you know." There was a brief pause, then she added, "You must not dispute it when I set about a longstanding acquaintance between you and Townsend, you understand."
Beginning to see the possibility of salvaging the Season, the old man nodded. "And you may rest assured if Longford so much as shows his face, she will give him the cut direct." His eyes met Townsend's momentarily. "As for you, sir, I should rather take you up, for I have no wish to ride in your carriage. And I cannot help but feel it would be less obvious."
Bell sighed. "I shall try to be ready at five then."
It was not until after Lady Jersey and the viscount left that Arthur made his way upstairs to his wife's sitting room. "They are gone," he announced curtly.
"To perdition, I hope."
"You are behaving like a spoiled child."
"You have not given me the opportunity to be anything but a child, my lord," she responded coldly. "And I don't care if I go home in disgrace."
"Stand up."
"What?"
"Stand up."
Baffled, she did as he asked. "I don't see—"
"The dress—take it off."
Her hands went cold and her mouth went dry. "Arthur—"
"Now."
Reluctantly, she began working the buttons on her bodice, then turned her attention to the grosgrain band that criss-crossed beneath her breasts, loosening it. "What— what do you mean to do?" she asked nervously.
"Step out of it."
She did as he bade her, then in her zona and petticoat, she turned away to hide her embarrassment. He raised his cane and brought it down hard against her back. She flinched but managed to hold back tears. Again and again, it came down, striking her hips and buttocks.
"You'll not make a fool of me again! Behave as a child, and I shall treat you as one—do you hear me? You'll not shame me before Lady Jersey again—or any of the others!"
He struck her perhaps ten times, venting his anger, then threw the cane across the floor, reminding her of that other time, the humiliation of her wedding night. And she hated him for it.
"I'll have no whore in this house!"
"And you have none," she managed through clenched teeth.
He seemed to recall himself then, and as he walked to pick up his cane, he spoke more calmly. "Despite your rash behavior, we shall come about, Elinor. I have come too far and spent too much to retreat in disarray to Stoneleigh." Moving closer, he reached to brush her cheek lightly with the back of his hand. "You are to be admired, my dear—but not touched. You are Kingsley's Venus—not Longford's."
CHAPTER 17
Near Salamanca, Spain: July, 1812
It had been hot, almost unbearably so, for days, and Wellington had taken successive defensive postures, drawing his smaller force back from the city, despite having been welcomed enthusiastically but days before. It was the first time any could remember the sober, iron-disciplined general being nearly unhorsed by a horde of admiring ladies.
But now they waited cautiously in the Spanish hills for the French under General Marmont to move. For the time being, it appeared to be a Spanish standoff, with the French trying to stay until harvest, thus supplying their army for another year, and the English considering withdrawing again into Portugal to protect their own supply lines.
For a fortnight, they had faced each other across the shallow Douro River, feinting and parrying under cover of darkness, until Wellington gave the order to draw back again. And for another six days, the two armies had played cat and mouse beneath the blazing Spanish sun, so close that an occasional sniper could bring down an enemy on either side. Above, expectant vultures circled, waiting, providing grim targets and macabre jests for the army.
For Lucien, used to his general's less than glory-seeking tactics, the wait was rather ordinary. For Charles Kingsley, eager to join the fray, eager to beat the Frogs, that same wait was interminable. And now as rumor filtered down through the ranks that Wellington meant to withdraw again, giving up much of what they had won, he and many of his fellow dragoons were disappointed. Though not under Longford's command, whenever he encountered the earl, which was not as often as he would have wished, the boy complained bitterly. On this day, the twenty-first of July, he could scarce contain his ire.
"If we run back to Portugal, it'll be another year before we can take 'em. Don't see why we don't attack and end it."
"Supply," Longford told him tersely, tired of having to justify Wellington's orders to his own grumbling men. "An army eats—and drinks. It's why I would have you go with Walton—supply is the utmost—"
"Don't want to," Charles grumbled. "Dash it—if anything's to happen, I want to be here! And so I told Major Barry! I didn't come over here to guard wagons— I came to fight!"
"Then you are a fool," Longford told him. "If it gets too hungry, an army does not fight at all."
Knowing that the earl was vexed with him, Charley tried to control his own anger at the man's meddling. "All the same—" But there was no denying that they were already hungry, cut to three-quarter rations and a pint of rum every other day now.
"Well, she cannot say I did not try," Lucien murmured, shrugging. Turning on his heels, he walked away.
Charles shaded his eyes against the white-hot sun and watched him go, wondering what he'd meant by that. Somehow, and he knew not why, he'd expected Longford to understand, to know what it meant to win his spurs as a man. But the earl seemed almost detached from the war, as though he was there because there was nowhere else to be, as though the glory he'd achieved meant nothing to him.
The war, or what he'd seen of it so far, was not what Charles had expected. His woolen serge uniform itched in the heat, his shirt was soaked with sweat, and he stank until he could smell himself. Moreover, given the conservation of rations, it seemed to him that he was in a constant state of hunger. To make matters worse, the blanket that passed for his bed was infested with fleas, the tent that sheltered him torn and tattered. And, being the most junior of junior officers, many of whom had served together since Talavera and before, he was constantly lonely.
"Cold 'un—don't snap under fire. Ain't a man as I'd rather serve under, including Wellington himself," a man observed as Longford left.
"Aye," another agreed, "ain't afraid like some of the swells, ye know. Guess he got it from Mad Jack."
"Don't know how, but he survives." A fellow spit on the hardened earth. "One of fifteen as came back outer five hundred."
"Aye."
Charles unbuttoned his sweat-soaked coat and loosened his sticky cravat, pulling it away from his neck to cool his chest. They could call fighting hell, he reflected grimly, but he was ready for anything to take his mind off the heat—and the loneliness. It seemed that there was not a waking hour when he did not long to pour out his heart to Nell, either in thought or on paper.
Evening came and clouds began rolling in, blackening the sky in contrast to the layered orange sunset. Charles propped his secondhand tent, unrolled his blanket, and leaned back against his saddle to write, first in his journal, and then to Elinor.
In the beginning, he'd written her daily, but as one day became so very like another, and there was only so much one could say about heat and flies and fleas, he'd taken to keeping the journal, filling it with anecdotes of experiences like his first attempt to milk a goat, or the scrawny chickens that had mysteriously appeared despite an order not to plunder, tales of the foibles, the fears, and the hopes of his fellows, and long passages of his longing for her. It would be a record of sorts, something to share with her when he got home again. Who knew? Maybe he could publish his account of the summer of '12.
This night he wrote of his near-quarrel with the earl, for Longford had spoken earlier with Major Barry about sending him to accompany the empty supply carts back to the safety of Portugal. There was no glory in guarding flour wagons, he wrote resentfully, not when the fires of the French were so close that the smoke mingled with theirs. If only the French would move, if only they could be engaged, he would taste the glory of battle, he would feel it had been worth what he'd endured.
Despite his taciturn manner, Longford felt something was about—Charles sensed it. And despite his resentment of the man's interference just now, he still admired him above the other officers. If only Longford would understand that he wasn't a boy in need of protection, not anymore. All he needed was the chance to show the others that he could ride and fight with the best of them. He wasn't going with any supply train, thanks to his own plea to Barry. He was going to stay and be a man like the rest of them.
As lightning flashed closer and the thunder rumbled ominously, he finished describing his day, then tore a blank page from the back of his journal book and began a separate letter to Elinor, taking care that should it fall into his grandfather's hands, the old man would not throw it away. But he could not refrain from addressing her informally, his own way of establishing a degree of intimacy, he supposed.
Drst Nell,
After weeks of waiting, it now appears that you will get your wish, and I shall be safely returned to Portugal to await the winter there. It's a waste, but for all that I would have it otherwise, I am far too low for Wellington to listen to me.
Your letter of the 24th last reached me yesterday, heartening me greatly, though I cannot like it that you are still subjected to the importunities of a man like Bellamy Townsend. When I am come home, I mean to speak to Grandpapa abou
t it, for it seems singularly ill-advised to allow a rake to be forever in your company. It's like inviting a viper to strike.
Today I saw Longford, and for all that others see him as cold and distant, I must admit he has tolerated me rather well when we are met. In fact, when one gets to know him, he can be droll in a macabre way. One of his leftenants is oft-quoted, insisting that God spares him for not even the Devil would have him, but there's not a man as would not follow him against the Frogs. I would that I had had the fortune of serving under him rather than Barry.
Since last I wrote you, there was a bit of a turn-up in Salamanca itself, when a senorita made sheep's eyes at poor Longford, and her family was determined that he should marry her. He entertained her father armed to the teeth, his rifle over his shoulder, his cartridge case slung at his waist, his saber at hand, saying that he had no objection to the match—provided she did not mind carrying his gear into battle. The girl's interest waned on the instant, providing us with a great deal of amusement when she called him a savage. Hargrove—my leftenant—said Longford looked as fierce as a Cossack, but never having seen one, I cannot attest to that.
I do hope you are well, and I would have you know that I miss you greatly—both of you. You cannot know how much your letters mean to me. But as it grows darker, and the wind smells of rain, I'd best seal this that it may go out in tomorrow's dispatches. I do feel sorry for the regulars, those miserables whose lack of rank gives them naught but a bit of rum and a bowl of beans at day's end. I at least am allowed to share the officer's mess, albeit at the far end of the table, for I am a junior and like to remain one else there is a battle.
But they are a jocular lot, these common soldiers of England. How they can go on, I know not, for while they speak often of wives and sweethearts, being uncommissioned, they never receive letters from them. I feel almost guilty when each new dispatch bag brings me word of you and my grandfather.
Until the next time, I am yr. affectionate kinsman, Chas. Kingsley.
Even as he rolled the letter up and dipped it in wax to seal it from the weather, the lightning intensified, lighting up the sky and illuminating the hot, airless plains below. The dragoon horses, tethered within a rope pen, reared and neighed, frightened by the ensuing thunder, and their handlers sought to calm them, dodging between flailing hooves, calling each by name.
