by June Calvin
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Epilogue
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Lord for Olivia
A SIGNET Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2002 by June Calvin
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0954-7
A SIGNET BOOK®
SIGNET Books first published by The Penguin Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
SIGNET and the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic Edition: May, 2002
This book is dedicated to all the reluctant warriors, past, present, and future, who fight not from a love of war, but to protect those people and values they hold dear.
Chapter One
Lord Edmund Debham allowed his weary mount to stop in front of an unprepossessing hedge tavern under an ancient sign depicting a black lion. The ivy dripping from the walls nearly obscured the light that glowed through smoke-grimed windows, indicating the presence of life inside.
Eyeing the structure cynically, Edmund dismounted, muttering, “As good a place as any to get my throat cut, old friend. I’ll try to see you get your hay and oats before passing to my reward.” He gave Storm a comforting pat.
Once inside the dark, smoky hall, Edmund felt no surprise at all that no one came to attend him. The shabby old building had held no false promises of bustling landlords and smiling, buxom maids. He moved toward the sounds of voices and faint light that emanated from the north side of the small dark entryway. Pushing through a rough-timbered door, he paused to survey the room out of habit rather than any pronounced desire for self-preservation.
A branch of candles on a small table gave the room what little light it possessed. Around the table sat four men, their attention totally absorbed by the cards in their hands.
Edmund’s scrutiny did not reveal anyone else in the room, though he would not have given long odds that the farthest, darkest corners might not hold villains enough. He walked toward the table, wondering when he would be noticed. He wasn’t. So he pulled out a nearby chair and sat down heavily, weariness pulling against him more strongly than his promise to Storm. The card game, which Edmund recognized as Brag, held the locals’ attention with all the intensity of gentlemen in the priciest gaming hell in London. He studied the group, hoping to discover who might be the innkeeper.
Quickly identifying him by the stained apron he wore, Edmund scanned the others while awaiting the end of the hand. There was only one among them who might be called a gentleman. A youth with disheveled dark locks and a wild look in his blue eyes, his clothes set him apart from the innkeeper and the others, who looked to be farmers or laborers.
Suddenly the table exploded in exclamations as the innkeeper exposed three aces to take the small pile of change in the center of the table.
“Neat as a pin,” the young gentleman declared. “Well done, Dutton, old friend.” He clapped the innkeeper on the back. “Well, who’s for another hand? Come along, I’ve plenty of blunt left!” He gestured to a pile of pence and shillings beside him, but the others at the table began to mumble and shake their heads.
“ ’Tis easy enough for you, young master,” a tall, red-haired man grumbled. “You’ve just had yer quarter’s allowance, and no chores to do come morning!”
“Just so,” the oldest of the group agreed, knocking out the pipe he had been nursing. “Time I sought my bed.”
“I’ve not had my quarter allowance,” the young gentleman groused. “Dutton here has had it. Most of it, at any rate.”
“Nay, lad, I’ve barely touched ’ee.” The innkeeper’s north country accent seemed out of place in the middle of Buckinghamshire. He motioned to a roll of gold coins spilling from a leather purse by the young man’s right hand. “Happen I’d take a good deal more nor yer blunt, but Miss Ormhill would grab me by the ear tomorrow, think on!” He scooped up his winnings and stood. At that moment he spotted Edmund at last. His surprise at seeing the silent stranger caused him to drop the handful of coins, which rolled and tumbled across the table and onto the stone floor.
“Be thee an apparition?” He stared hard, then shook his head. The others seated at the table, equally as startled, muttered among themselves and shifted backward uneasily, so that Edmund had the sensation that the room had suddenly tilted away from him.
“Not at all,” he reassured them. “Only a tired, lost traveler hoping to find a warm meal and perhaps a friendly hand of cards before seeking his bed.” Edmund looked hungrily at the golden pile by the young gentleman’s hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. Edmund Debham.” He held out his hand.
Standing hastily and leaning across the table to grasp Edmund’s hand, the youth stammered, “You’re . . . You’re . . . No, don’t tell me, I know. Ah, yes! Capt. Lord Edmund Debham. Daring Debham, you were known as after Badajoz. It is an honor to meet you, Lord Edmund. I’m Jason Ormhill.”
“Not captain anymore. I’ve sold out,” Edmund replied, shaking the eager hand held out to him.
The boy frowned a little. “Ah, yes. Once Boney was beat, the fun went out of it, I suppose. I’ll bet you were glad to be in for the final kill, eh?”
Edmund winced at the memory of Waterloo. He had never loved soldiering, though he knew some who had. The boy would be much more pleased with Harry Smith than with me, he thought. “I would have been as satisfied if Napoléon had stayed put, I thank you!”
Jason looked puzzled, sure that any soldier must have loved every minute of glory in the recent battle. “What brings you to these dull environs?”
“Dull! Well, young varmint, I’d give you what for, for that one, if I weren’t so filled with ennui myself.” The gnarled old man winked at the room at large and stood, startling Edmund by revealing what he had not noticed before, a clerical collar. “Perhaps you’d best not play him, Jason. Looks like one of those London Cap’n Sharps, come to fleece you.”
Edmund winced, but the youngster rushed to his defense. “Never say so, Uncle. Lord Edmund is an honorable man. Quoted in the dispatches more than once.”
“That’s a high honor, given how stingy Wellington is with praise. I’m Milton Ormhill, vicar of Saint Stephens here in Flintridge.” The older man held out his hand.
A twinge of guilt smote Edmund. He had kept himself in funds duri
ng the long years with Wellington by his skill at cards and his hard head for liquor. He was, indeed, an honest player, but an extremely able one. Am I really contemplating taking this youngster’s blunt? But the thought of some coins for a bed rather than joining Storm in the stable tempted him too much. Won’t clean him out, though. Just a few hands.
Dutton, the innkeeper, grinned. “Aye, well, whatever ye do, no drinking, young squire. No telling what might happen, else.” General laughter greeted this admonishment which Edmund thought very good advice for the youth. Dutton scooped up what remained of his coins. The red-haired man had been gathering up what lay on the floor while this exchange was going on, and distributed them to their rightful owner before leaving.
“I hope your prohibition of drink does not extend to me.” Edmund reached into his vest pocket, prepared to withdraw one of his last three coins. “I could use a good dose of the heavy wet. And my horse could use some attention, too, if you have a stable lad.”
“Aye, no fear, m’lord. My boy’ll see to him right well. And the first drink is on me, m’lord, for one as has served us so well against them Frenchies. I’ve naught to lay before you but soup and a joint of mutton, though.”
Under the warm regard of the landlord and the youth, Edmund felt the ice that encased his heart melt a little. He took the offered brandy and saluted them both, then downed it. “Join us at cards,” he invited the innkeeper.
“Mayhap I will.” Mr. Dutton nodded. “Just let me roust out my son to look after tha steed.” He went to the door and set up a shout that produced a sleepy lad of perhaps fourteen to care for Storm.
Their first few hands showed the innkeeper to be an intelligent but cautious player. Young Ormhill’s playing was adequate but uninspired. Edmund experienced luck along with his skill, and won. Enough, he decided. I’ve blunt now to last me a few days. Though his winnings would perhaps only stave off the inevitable, something about starving to death repelled him. He even allowed himself a tiny bit of optimism: Perhaps he could find some honest way to earn a living before this money ran out.
“Well, gentlemen, it is late. I am sure you have had enough cards for the evening.” He started to gather the small pile of coins.
But both men loudly protested. The evening was young, and he had to give them a chance to get even. Edmund’s conscience submitted. If they insist, after all . . . He swiftly parted both landlord and youth from some more of their blunt.
The landlord looked at him shrewdly as he dropped his cards at last. “Ye’re a fine hand, m’lord. Cannily done, think on.” Something of malice flashed in his eyes. “I’m no match for ’ee, in skill nor pocket, so I’ll bid ’ee good night.”
“Cannily done indeed!” Young Ormhill scowled sulkily. “Luck, that’s what it was. I can beat him. You know, Dutton.”
“Aye, happen you could.” Dutton nodded. “Play on, then. I’ll have a pipe and watch ’ee for a while.” He went to his cabinet and brought out several full bottles of brandy. “Doubtless ye’ll be wanting some refreshments.” He poured Ormhill a drink and watched with satisfaction as the lad tossed it back.
Puzzled at this change in behavior from his previous protective admonition that the boy shouldn’t drink, Edmund stood. “Better quit now. I’ve a wish for my bed.”
“Come, Lord Edmund,” Ormhill protested. “Think I can’t see you’re trying to protect me? Very much obliged to you! I’m not the green ’un you think me, though.”
Edmund frowned. “Bantling, you need a lesson. But I’ve a kindness for you and would not teach it.”
“Pah! Arrogance, not kindness, m’lord.” Ormhill stood up, anger flushing his features. “High and mighty Lord Edmund, famous war hero, and now you fancy yourself a London beau, too proud to play deep with the provincials.” He dropped a second heavy leather purse onto the table. “I’ve plenty of blunt, and the skill to take yours, too, if you’re man enough to accept my challenge.”
Teaching the young cub that lesson suddenly seemed more attractive to Edmund. His nerves still raw from his brother’s last tongue-lashing as he had expelled him forever from the family, he had no stomach for insult from another quarter.
“Very well, then.” He sat back down and poured himself a generous dose of brandy, a nod to keeping the contest even against the young man. “Dutton, you are witness to his willingness—nay, eagerness—to play me.”
“Oh, aye, m’lord, and of yers to play him. And may the best man win.” So saying, he gave young Ormhill another wink and poured a second helping of brandy into his glass.
Odd, Edmund thought. He warns the boy against drinking, then fills his glass. Have to keep my eye on that one. Could be some mischief afoot. He started to protest further drinking by his opponent, but saw from Ormhill’s outthrust jaw that no advice of his would be welcome.
A lamb for the fleecing. Such a disagreeable lamb, though. Edmund smiled grimly, gathered in the cards, and began shuffling them.
At first Edmund steadily raked in the winnings. He did not offer to quit again, though. Young Ormhill had a determined set to his jaw and an apparently bottomless pocket. As he watched the coins pile up beside his elbow, Edmund recalled how, when he had quit his brother’s house for the last time, his old nurse had run out to hug him once more, weeping. She had taken his hands in hers, kissed them, and said, “The Lord will provide.” He wondered if that strict Scots presbyter would consider a game of chance eligible to be counted as the Lord’s provision for him. Perhaps it was, for neither He nor anyone else had made another.
Ormhill partook several times of the brandy bottle, each time urging the same on his opponent. Edmund shrugged and accepted, warning him, “If you think to get me drunk and have the advantage of me, think again. I am notorious for my head for liquor.”
“No such thing,” Ormhill protested indignantly. “Improve your game. Improves mine. More I drink, better I play. True, ain’t it, Dutton?”
The tavern owner pointed the pipe at Edmund. “ ’S God’s truth, my lord, and an honest boy for warning you.”
Edmund only smiled at the ludicrous thought that this stripling, who grew drunker by the minute, could manage to both outdrink and outplay him. “I’m much obliged, Mr. Ormhill, for your confession in the interest of fair play.” The sarcasm in his voice made no impression, though.
Ormhill’s temper had improved after winning the last round. He waved his hand expansively. “Fair play, that’s right. Gotta have fair play.” He splashed another measure of brandy in both their glasses.
Ormhill won the next hand, too, clearly a fluke, as he looked bleary-eyed and his hands were unsteady as he shuffled the cards. Brag required concentration and the ability to calculate the odds of various card combinations. It also required control of facial expressions so the opponent would not guess the strength of one’s hand. Edmund decided that one reason he had misjudged the last few times had been that the boy’s drunkenness gave him a vacuous countenance in which it was impossible to read anything. I’ll play more cautiously, he thought, for the lad does have the devil’s own luck. But it can’t last, nor can he concentrate as he needs to do.
Edmund confidently made his bet, and watched with surprise as the youngster played a brilliant hand and swept up another goodly portion of what he had previously lost. He pushed the brandy glass aside when Ormhill filled it once again, and concentrated hard on his play. Still, Ormhill trounced him and again had recourse to the brandy.
“I think we are about even now,” Edmund suggested.
“Nonshense. You only wish to quit because I am w-winning.”
“A while ago you said I only wanted to quit because I was winning.”
“Tell you what.” Ormhill turned in his chair, nearly falling out of it in the process. “We’ll play ’til one o’clock. Tha’s ’nuther hour. Finish the hand we’re on then, and stop, no matter who’s ahead.”
Another hour. If he continues to win at this rate I’ll be cleaned out by then. But how can he, with such massive amount
s of brandy in him? Reluctantly, Edmund nodded. “One o’clock. Not one second after.”
Ormhill leaned over and offered his hand on the deal, nearly oversetting the sturdy, battered old table in the process.
Long before one, Edmund pushed the last of his pile of coins over to Ormhill’s side of the table. “That’s it,” he said. “Except for a coin for our host to cover my horse’s stabling, I’m out of blunt. ’Fraid our game must end.”
“N-n-no,” Ormhill said, waving an unsteady hand in front of Edmund’s nose. “One o’clock. ’S-what we said. Shook on it. Didn’t we, Dutton?”
Dutton nodded silently from his chair.
“But I have naught to wager,” Edmund insisted.
“Take your vowels. Look, your luck must change soon. Don’ give up now.”
Edmund put his head between his hands. “My vowels are worthless, Ormhill. I’m cleaned out.”
“Be glad to wait until your next quarter’s—”
“I have no allowance,” Edmund could not help but shout, and his sense of desperation, renewed by this reversal at cards, made his voice crack. “No income. Nothing. You see before you a prodigal son who came home and was told he wasn’t good enough to sup with his brother’s hogs.”
He lifted his head and looked into Ormhill’s uncomprehending eyes. “I’ve naught but my horse and tack and the clothes on my back.”
After a thoughtful silence: “Rather fancy that vest,” Ormhill offered. He picked up the brandy bottle in front of him and drained it. “Stake it ’gainst a guinea?”
Insanity, desperation, exhaustion, all overwhelmed Edmund. Why not? Lose the clothes off my back, then my horse and tack, and I can walk naked until I am taken up by the law and fulfill my destiny as predicted by my brother.
To his brandy-befuddled, exhausted mind this seemed suddenly a very good idea. He opened the last bottle and poured each of them a generous measure. Even his hard head felt muzzy. The cards swam before his eyes. But young Ormhill actually swayed in his chair. Surely, surely, he can’t play a decent hand now, Edmund thought desperately.
