How dare some gin-sodden soldier beat one of the camp followers in broad daylight, at the back of an officer's tent? An army ran on discipline, not debauchery and the abasement of women. As he sucked in a furious breath, he saw the woman's face screw up in anger as she launched herself at their mutual foe, scratching at his face and teaching Fitz many entertaining expletives he'd never heard before.
An interested group of spectators was gathering. Fitz drew himself up straight, ready to berate the soldier and send him back to his tent. The churl fully deserved to be punished for this. But as the man shook the enraged camp follower off, and turned a face of fury toward him, Fitz realized that matters would not be so easily dealt with.
The perpetrator was a fellow officer. Captain Brandt.
"What do you mean by your interference, sirrah?" Brandt ground out. "What right have you to come between a man and his woman?"
"You should know better, man," Fitz retorted. "What kind of example is this to set to the men?"
"What right have you to throw up my skirts in the middle of the day where anyone can see?" the woman hissed at Brandt. “I did no more than singe that rabbit. ‘Tis no crime worth a beating. He's a beast and a brute sir," she added, turning to Fitz, "and ‘tis he needs to be taught a lesson, not I."
From the corner of his eye, Fitz saw there was quite an audience now for this domestic dispute, and he heartily regretted having become involved. Even though the woman wasn't Brandt's wife—for he had none—but a camp follower, she had a right to a modicum of respect. And she'd have paid for her keep in kind, darning Brandt's clothes, scrubbing his laundry, letting him bed her, and cooking his meals. A woman who could put together a good rabbit stew had a worth beyond rubies in the camp and should not be abused.
A birching from a lascivious officer behind a fellow officer’s tent, where anybody might stumble across them, was despicable behavior. Brandt had been enjoying the punishment so much, Fitz was surprised he wasn’t selling tickets.
"Thank you for getting him off me," the woman said, gazing boldly up at him. "I'll spit in his soup if he tries that on again. It's good to know there's at least one decent man in the camp." Shooting him a gap-toothed smile, she added, "I won't forget this, sir. If you ever need a favor from me, you only have to ask. Claire Banton's my name. And if you're interested, I'd be more than happy to exchange that cur over there for a decent protector."
"Thank you, ma'am," Fitz replied graciously, though hell would freeze over before he’d take any woman but Cesca to his bed. But there was no harm in showing a bit of gallantry. "And should you ever find yourself in difficulties again, I'd be more than happy to assist you. I could even send you back home if you wish it."
Far better to have her think he was suffering an excess of gallantry than let her know the truth—that he’d have to refuse her outright. How Cesca would laugh when he told her he’d been propositioned!
He bowed, and the woman chuckled and gave him an exaggerated curtsey. "Sorry if I'm not doing it right, me lord. I don't usually get to deal with a real gentleman." Then, having treated Brandt to a warning glare, she flounced off into the depths of the camp. The onlookers made no move, and Fitz realized, with sinking stomach, that the shameful spectacle wasn't yet over.
"I should call you out for that." Captain Brandt, having put his clothing to rights, glared at Fitz with a battle-light in his eye. "Laying hands on a fellow officer. Do you seek to shame me in front of my men?"
"There's no shame in having a cock like that," someone muttered and was greeted by a gale of ribald laughter.
Fitz returned the glare. "And I should call you out for striking me. At best, that’s not the behavior of an officer and at worst, it’s a court martial offence. You'll never make it to major if you can't control your animal urges."
"Who won't make it to major?"
Fitz spun around as the booming voice echoed across the camp, then cursed his luck. It was Colonel Allthorne, the regimental commander. The last person he would have wanted to get involved in this dispute.
Everyone started talking at once, bringing a look of pained resignation to Allthorne's face. "Come, Brandt, Fitzmaurice," he snapped. "I'll hear your stories in private. My tent, now."
Head held high, Fitz strode in his superior's wake, ignoring the muttered taunts and threats emanating from Brandt. The situation made him feel like a naughty schoolboy, and severely stung his pride—he'd never forgive Brandt for beating Claire Banton behind his tent, thus embroiling him in such an unpleasant, and public, display.
Colonel Allthorne settled behind his desk and steepled his fingers, looking from one to the other. "Captain Fitzmaurice, pray tell me—did I overhear you threatening to murder Captain Brandt?"
"Certainly not, sir." How could he imagine such a thing? Fitz hadn't set a foot wrong all the time he'd been with the regiment. The colonel must surely realize he was trustworthy.
"Then why won't he make it to major?"
Fitz ran a hand around the inside of his collar. "Because he has made a public spectacle of himself by assaulting and insulting a woman behind my tent."
"You're saying he raped her?"
Brandt started to speak but was waved into silence by the colonel.
"No. He had her skirts up and was birching her. And enjoying it in a carnal way, if you get my drift.” Fitz drew in a long breath. This was only a misdemeanor compared to what had followed. After a brief internal struggle, he decided it was best to tell the truth. There had been many witnesses, after all. “When I pulled him off, he struck me."
He felt Brandt stiffen beside him, and glanced down. The captain had turned scarlet and looked like a kettle about to boil over, hissing and spitting into the fire.
"Brandt, you may defend yourself against this accusation."
Brandt explained angrily that Claire Banton had been his woman for the past month, and that he paid her well to perform for him any service he wished. She was also a cursed whore and a tease, and Captain Fitzmaurice should have left well alone.
"He could hardly ignore you," the colonel pointed out, "as you chose to chastise the woman right behind his tent. It was ill-advised. Now, I'm not sure either of you is worthy of promotion, considering the spectacle you've just caused. Officers brawling in front of the men is inexcusable, and I may need to take it further."
A black mark against his name, a dent in his military career? Fitz's heart sank. He should have remained at home instead of joining the army, and devoted himself to a pastoral existence. Only… only he'd wanted to do something to make Cesca proud. Just being born into the peerage wasn't enough. He wanted to earn his place in the world—he wanted to deserve it. And now this debacle.
Colonel Allthorne was looking at him as if expecting some reply. Fitz swallowed. "My apologies, sir," he said. "I assume we are to be punished."
"In a sense. The men have heard you both threaten to call each other out. You must, therefore, make good your threats and seek satisfaction."
Satisfaction? Fitz's breath lodged painfully in his throat.
Was Colonel Allthorne suggesting a duel?
Chapter Five
Cesca's next letter from Fitz clearly wasn't meant for general consumption. It came tucked inside his missive to the family and had her name in bold lettering on the front. Everyone stared at her as she left the garden, where they were taking luncheon alfresco, and sought the privacy of her room.
The folded paper trembled in her fingers. What news did Fitz have that he wanted her to hear first? Fear cannoned through her—it must be bad news. He'd lost a limb; he'd suffered burns, or—worst of all possible scenarios—he'd taken a wife. It wasn't unusual for such things to happen, she knew. All that traveling, meeting new people in thrilling or desperate circumstances—emotions were raw, needs were urgent.
She sighed at her folly and took a few calming breaths. Then she opened the letter.
May 15th, Flanders
My darling Francesca,
I trust you are wel
l. I have little time to write, as you will soon understand.
My recent news is that I've fallen foul of a fellow officer. He was insulting a lady, and I rushed to her defense. Blows were exchanged, and when the whole business was put before the colonel, he insisted he and I settle our dispute like gentlemen. Meaning a duel at pistol point. I know this will shock you, but I also know you will appreciate my honesty. As you can see, I am unharmed, or I'd not be writing this letter. The colonel told both myself and my opponent we must delope and fire wide, but during that moment when I stared death in the face, not sure if my nemesis would obey our superior's order to miss me, I came to a realization. I was a fool not to marry you before enlisting. Even if I were to fall in the field, I'd have the peace of knowing you'd be well-provided for and could add the title countess to your name, which would allow you to hold your head high in Society.
So, my only desire in this world is to marry you, my lovely Francesca, at the earliest opportunity. To that end, I have sent off for a special license, and applied for a week’s furlough, and intend to come as soon as I can to ask for your hand in person, assuming your papa is well enough to receive me. My father has already given his blessing; he wrote and told me how much he'd enjoyed your visits, and that he'd be delighted to see us united.
So, I'll be with you soon, I hope and pray, to make my offer for your hand.
Your doting servant,
Fitz
Cesca’s heart pumped painfully as panic invaded her breast.
"No, foolish girl," she said aloud, pacing the room. "He won't be here so very soon. He's only been back in Flanders a few weeks—they'd never grant him furlough after such a short time. Would they?"
All the same, she couldn't help but run to the nearest mirror to make sure she looked presentable. Large hazel eyes stared back at her, alight with expectation. She tucked a loosened curl of her dark blond hair back into place and pouted at herself. Did that mouth look kissable? She had to hope so.
Now she had an ordeal to survive, that of telling her family the contents of her letter. Or at least, a censored version thereof—she didn't want Papa having too long to think about accepting Fitz's offer, just in case he came up with objections. And he certainly wouldn't want to hear about such things as camp followers. Alicia probably would, but that was by-the-by.
As Cesca emerged through the open French windows and onto the terrace, Papa put down Fitz's other letter and stared at her. Alicia, curiously, looked away.
"So," said Papa, "Viscount Lonsdale, or should I say, captain, for that is what he is at present, plans to visit us as soon as he may. I wonder what the urgency is. Lord Beaulieu is in much better health, is he not, Francesca? So, I don't understand his son's haste in returning home. He seems to be far too often on leave—his fellow officers will start thinking him a coward."
That rankled. "I'm sure he wouldn't come if there were an important battle imminent," Cesca said. "What else does he say in his letter?"
Papa frowned at the paper in front of him. His gout was evidently still paining him, putting him in irascible mood. "Nothing of any great import. We were disappointed, weren't we, Alicia? What does he say to you?"
"Oh, much the same, that he'll be back soon," she said, hoping her guilty joy wasn't written all over her face.
Putting the letter down, Papa said, "A decoction of willow bark for the pain wouldn't go amiss, my dear. Then, if that works, I'll take the carriage, and call on Beaulieu. His son's peculiar behavior warrants discussion, and I confess I’ve been missing the old coot. You shall both accompany me."
"I wanted to go riding this afternoon, Papa.” Alicia pulled a face.
Cesca sighed to herself. Honestly, her stepsister seemed to be getting even more selfish as time went by. Everyone did their best to please the chit, but though she thanked them prettily enough for their indulgence, the smile never reached her eyes.
"I can't spare a groom," Papa replied. "Bates will be coming with me, and Gadling will have to stay and look after the stables. I suppose you could always ride alongside if you don't want to join us in the carriage."
"I suppose I could."
"Well," said Cesca, refusing to be daunted by the combative atmosphere, "if we're going out this afternoon, we'd best finish our luncheon and get ready. Shall I send a note over to the manor to tell them to expect us?"
Before her papa could answer, there was a clatter of hooves on the driveway as a rider hove into view. Pulling his mount to a halt at the side of the house, he leaped from the saddle, flung the reins at the groom who chased out to meet him, and strode toward the Heathcotes, doffing his hat as he came. The breath caught in Cesca's throat.
Fitz! True to his word, he'd come, posthaste.
Which meant—though she hardly dared believe she deserved such happiness—that in a few days’ time, she'd be his wife.
Chapter Six
Fitz drank in the sight of Cesca as she watched him dismount, shading her eyes against the sun and smiling, her body taut with excitement. The sunlight burnished her hair to brilliant gold, and he thought he’d never seen anything lovelier—or more moving.
After the grim scenes of mud, sickness, and deprivation he'd witnessed this year, this vision of his beloved was a taste of nectar from Mount Olympus. He ached to sweep her into his arms right now and kiss her senseless. After which, like a conquering hero, he'd lift her up and carry her straight to the bedchamber, there to stake his claim and slake his desire.
Shaking these fantasies from his mind, he made his bow and kissed first Cesca’s hand, then Alicia’s. He shook hands with Mr. Heathcote, who’d struggled to his feet with the support of a stick.
Despite feeling sympathy for him, he couldn't wait to spirit Cesca away from her papa and Fernley Place. From her letters to him—though she never openly complained—he deduced she spent far too much of her time nursing her father and running around after her mercurial stepsister.
His heart sped up. Soon, he and Cesca would be married, and he'd have all her attention for himself. And if she could bear it, once Napoleon was defeated, he'd always be at her side, supporting her in whatever she did. In short, he meant to be the ideal husband. Today was the day he would ask her father for her hand.
“Lonsdale, how fortuitous you’re here,” Mr. Heathcote said. “We’re just about to go to Beaulieu to visit the earl.”
Damn and blast. He'd have to put off his plans a little longer. Maybe he could return to Fernley with them after their visit, and petition Heathcote then.
“Capital idea, sir,” he said, biting back his disappointment. “I’ve no objection to returning thither. Though I must warn you, there’s quite a crowd there already. My great aunt, Lady Widbrook, and her great-nephews, Arthur and Paulton Bairstoke, are in residence. Aunt has Doctor Pargeter with her at present, owing to a bilious attack.”
Heathcote brightened. “Is he likely to stay long? I hear he’s been working on a new treatment for the gout, and would be most interested in his views on the subject.”
“I suppose he may be,” Fitz replied, “but we’d better hurry.” If Heathcote were deeply involved in conversation with Pargeter, his eye would not be upon his eldest daughter.
He winked at Cesca and reveled in the ensuing blush. The way the color spread over the slender column of her throat and across her breast did interesting things to his body. How far, he wondered, did that flush descend beneath the modest neckline of her gown?
“If Fitz is riding, then I can ride too,” chirped Alicia. “You won’t need to spare a groom, Papa—he can look after me, and we’ll ride behind the coach.”
“In front of it,” said her father. “Where I can keep an eye on you.”
Fitz almost laughed. As if Alicia’s virtue was in any danger. Had Heathcote no notion how he felt about Cesca? He was in for a surprise later, then.
Fitz didn't look at Cesca for fear of putting her to the blush again, tempting though it was. Was she anything like as physically aware of him as he was o
f her? If he were to touch her now, it would be like a match to black powder—but he'd have to get her alone to test out his theory.
For the next twenty minutes, he was forced to pace up and down, kicking at the gravel, while the Heathcote family prepared themselves. Then finally, thankfully, they were all ready, and he was able to mount up and escort the carriage, side-by-side with Alicia.
She was riding a gentle-looking mare and looked very dapper in her riding habit. He’d been wrong to think of her as a girl. She was, what, almost eighteen now? Every inch a woman physically, though he knew she lacked the maturity he so loved in Cesca.
Hoping for light conversation, he was surprised to find Alicia reticent, unwilling even to make eye contact. Something was distracting her, and she kept pulling the mare's head up, making the animal chew on her bit and stamp her hooves in protest. His nerves were on edge by the time Beaulieu Manor came in sight. Had no one ever taught Alicia to ride correctly?
To his horror, the mare suddenly lurched forward, and shot off up the road, leaving a cloud of dust in her wake. Alicia squeaked in alarm and looked to be struggling to hold on, so he kicked Hector into a gallop, and chased after the fleeing horse.
In her efforts to stall the beast, Alicia jerked the horse’s head to one side, which sent it careering through an open gate into a mown hayfield. As he charged through after her, Fitz saw a group of people by the main entrance at the top of the drive, watching in shock as he and Alicia hurtled past.
Thank heaven! His quarry slowed, then stopped. But as he came up alongside, Alicia crumpled up like a deflated air balloon and slid from the saddle to the ground.
He dismounted in a single leap and knelt by her body. She was apparently in a faint, so he shook her gently until her eyelids fluttered. Then his soldier's instincts took over as he examined her ankles for breaks or signs of injury.
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