by Autumn Rain
"Will you be quiet, Charles?" Elinor whispered.
"Think I'll see him," he mumbled. "Ain't nothing else to do here." Ambling diffidently to where the earl sat absorbed in a book, he cleared his throat. "Sir?"
The black head snapped back almost warily, and the black eyes narrowed when they saw Charles. "I don't believe—" he began coldly.
"Kingsley—Charles Kingsley, my lord. We met in Cornwall some years back—in the winter—party at Stoneleigh," he offered, trying to prompt the earl's memory and yet hoping Longford would not remember his boorish behavior then. As the dispatches and news accounts had come in, Charles's earlier censure had turned to outright admiration. To him, Longford was more the hero than Mad Jack had been.
"Ah, yes. Kingsley," Lucien murmured. "The old man's son."
"Grandson." Charles dropped to a chair across from Longford. "Were you at Talavera, sir?" he blurted out. "Yes."
"And at Cuidad Rodrigo?"
"I was."
"And at Badajoz last month?"
"Yes." Uncomfortable, Lucien snapped his book shut and started to rise.
"Don't go, sir—please. I'd know what it was like— with Wellington, I mean. I'd know what it was like to beat the Frogs."
There was no mistaking the eagerness in the younger man's eyes, and despite the adulation he saw there, Lucien felt compelled to dispel it. "ft was hell," he said succinctly.
For a moment, Charles was taken aback by the flatness in Longford's voice, then he brightened. "We did give 'em hell, didn't we?"
"It was hell all around—for all of us." Lucien sat back down and stared for a long moment. "Hell," he repeated softly. When he looked up, Charles Kingsley still watched him, his face a mirror of boyish innocence. "You wouldn't like it," he said abruptly. "There is a stench to it—smoke, blood, animal offal—not very glorious, I'm afraid. And it's noisy—first there is the awful cannon fire, the rockets, the shouts—and when it's over only the cries of poor dying devils break the deafening silence."
"How can you say so when it's for the honor of England you fight?" the younger man cried.
"Honor?" It was little more than a snort. "Not for honor—nor glory neither."
"But—"
"Make no mistake about it—it's to stop Bonaparte before England stands alone."
"Well, I know that, but—"
"I'm ready now, Charles." Elinor hesitated, then spoke to the earl. "Hello, my lord—it's a pleasure to see you again."
She was as stunning in her bronze lustring walking dress as in her evening gown, and wisps of her bright hair framed her oval face beneath the pleated brim of her matching bonnet. The thought crossed his mind that not many could wear the color. Hers was, even to his jaded taste, an unusually appealing beauty.
But though her words were polite, her copper eyes darted nervously to the door, as if she half-expected Kingsley himself to appear. Lucien rose politely, inclining his head.
"Lady Kingsley."
Knowing that the earl was probably not received, Charles flushed guiltily, yet he was loath to leave. "Been talking to Longford a bit while I waited. His lordship's been everywhere."
"Everywhere?" One of her brows arched in disbelief, then she smiled impishly, making Lucien wonder at the easy discourse between them. "I shouldn't think quite everywhere, Charles. I mean, there is India—and America—and China—"
"In the war—Talavera—Cuidad Rodrigo—"
"Suffice it to say I have been in the Peninsula," Lucien cut in curtly.
"You staying home now?" the younger man wanted to know.
"No." Briefly, the earl appeared absorbed in the stamped title on his book, then he looked up, meeting Elinor's eyes. "A bit of business, then I am back, I'm afraid."
"Wish I were going with you," Charles declared.
"Be grateful that you are not," Longford retorted. "War steals a man's soul. And the last thing we have need of is more idealistic fools, for they seldom survive." He reached for his beaver hat and adjusted it over his black hair to suit him. "Your servant, Lady Kingsley. Kingsley."
Noting the flush in Charles's face, Elinor said stiffly, "I'm afraid you are not very civil, sir, when you are in the presence of an admirer."
The black brow rose quizzically. "You—or the boy?"
Perceiving that he meant to glean more than was there, she felt almost foolish. "Charles, of course."
"Oh, I did not take it amiss," Charles hastened to assure him. "Know what you meant—too many green 'uns sign up, don't they?"
"Precisely." Bowing slightly, Lucien looked intensely into Elinor's eyes again. "My compliments on your social success, my dear. And no, I have not forgotten our first meeting. You have a face that lingers in a man's memory." Pushing his chair back under the table, he turned to leave.
Later, she could not think for the life of her why she did it, but she called after him, "I wish you Godspeed, my lord. England depends on men like yourself." And once again, she felt the fool for saying it.
He turned back, and for a moment, the derisive smile curved his mouth. "Don't let Sally Jersey hear you," he advised softly. Then he walked to the counter, where he handed the clerk his book, and left.
Bemused, she stared after him until Charles tugged at her elbow. "What the devil did he mean by that? Damme if I was not at Stoneleigh also. But there's no denying he's a handsome fellow, I suppose—you just got to remember he's a rake, that's all. Dangerous to the females. Mad Jack's son, after all." Propelling her toward the desk, he muttered, "You ain't up to his weight, I hope you know."
"I am not entirely green, Charles. And I don't think Lord Longford was attempting a flirtation." Perceiving that the young man had been more than a little affronted by his hero's manner toward her, her eyes twinkled as she assured him, "From my vast experience in the matter, I have found amorous men much more inclined to flatter, so I think you can acquit Lord Longford."
"Which amorous men?" he demanded suspiciously.
"All of them."
As Elinor laid her selections before the gentleman behind the desk, Charles tried to read the title of the one Longford had handed in. Marlborough. "Er—I should like to borrow that one," he decided. "On her subscription." Seeing that Elinor stifled a smile, he retorted, "Dash it, but you ain't the only one as can read, you know. I ain't been to school for nothing."
Once outside, he looked up at the sky, and shook his head disgustedly. "Here I got the old gent's smartest cattle, and it ain't raining, and we ain't going anywhere."
She felt sorry for him, for like her, he'd been constrained far too much in his nineteen years. "Well, I don't suppose a turn in the park would do any harm," she conceded. "I did tell Arthur that I would be at home this afternoon, but I suppose he will not refine too much if I am late. 'See and be seen,' he is forever telling me."
"That's the ticket. See and be seen—and Hyde Park's the place for it."
"But we shall be a bit early for the crowd."
"That don't matter. Thing is, we got a bang-up equippage to ride in, and it don't hurt m'credit to be seen with a Toast—be the envy of every fellow as sees me, in fact," he added gallantly. He stopped and looked back at her. "You know, for all I didn't like his saying it, Longford's right—you got a face a man don't forget—deuced pretty, you know."
"Spanish coin—but I shall accept it."
"Beauty," he declared solemnly. His blue eyes warmed as they met hers. "Thought you was the prettiest chit I'd ever see when you first came to Stoneleigh, you know, but I was wrong—look better every year."
"Now I know you are giving me Spanish coin, Charles," she told him severely.
"No, I ain't." Then, realizing that he'd probably said too much, he took her arm. "Come on—the rest of the day is waiting for us. And if there ain't anybody in the park, we'll repair to Gunther's for ices. And tomorrow, we'll go to the Mint—and maybe the Tower."
"Tomorrow I am being fitted at Madame Cecile's," she demurred.
"For what?" he fairly howled. "You k
eep the woman in business!"
She sighed. "I know, but Arthur would have it that I am in need of a new muslin or two—and some day dresses—and perhaps a new gown for the Devonshires' ball next month—not to mention a new riding habit."
"You cannot tell me you do not have more clothes than you can count," he snorted.
"Ah, but I have already been seen in most of them, you see."
He stopped to stare at her. "He don't let you wear 'em more'n once?"
"Not in public, I'm afraid."
"Egad."
"I find it a sad trial, if you would have the truth of it," she admitted. "It is such a waste that I have taken to sending my cast-offs to my sister Charlotte, though they are a bit old for her. And Mama has written me saying that I must economize more—as though I have the choice."
The liveried tiger brought the two-seater up to the curb and jumped down to take his place on the rear step. Charles handed Elinor up, then climbed onto the seat beside her. "Here—hold m'book, will you?" Taking the reins, he twisted them around his wrist, then flicked the small whip. "Always did like to drive," he told her, settling back against the leather seat.
The park was thin of company, allowing Charles to give the pair their heads. The air against Elinor's face was exhilarating, providing a feeling of freedom that the staid outings with Arthur lacked. As they turned a corner precariously, nearly oversetting a flower stand, the wind caught the brim of her bonnet, whipping it back from her face, and before she could catch it, the ribbons came loose. It sailed directly into the path of a single rider. On the instant, the rider shouted for them to halt as he reined in but inches from the hat. He dismounted to retrieve it, then walked toward them.
"Lady Kingsley," he murmured, holding it up to her.
"How kind of you, my lord. My thanks."
Bellamy Townsend bowed, but not before she saw the speculative glance he cast at Charles. "On your way to Hookham's?" he chided her meaningfully.
"Actually, already been," Charles answered for her. "Saw a friend of yours there, in fact."
"Oh?"
"Longford."
If he'd intended to embarrass the viscount, he was wide of the mark. Townsend merely smiled. "There is no ill-will there."
"Glad to hear of it," Charles muttered. "Servant, sir."
But before he could flick the reins, Elinor caught his arm, then leaned forward to address Townsend. "Forgive the lapse, but you are acquainted with my husband's grandson, are you not?"
"I have not had the pleasure, I am afraid."
"Charles Kingsley. And I am certain you have heard of his lordship. It's Viscount Townsend, Charles," she murmured.
"We ain't been in the same circles," the younger man said stiffly. "But I know all about him."
Bellamy Townsend favored him with a patronizing grin. "No—it has been some time since I was a schoolboy, I admit. Oxford—or Cambridge?"
Perceiving that he'd been set down, Charles bristled. "Neither—I am come to town. Been thinking of signing up to fight the Frogs, in fact," he added importantly.
One of Townsend's blond eyebrows rose. "Shouldn't think you'd like it—it's a dirty business best left to those below us."
"Longford don't think so," Charles retorted.
The eyebrow rose higher. "Sometimes Longford is a fool." Abruptly turning his attention back to Elinor, the viscount's manner changed, and he flashed her an engaging smile. "Had I known you did not mean to tarry at the library, I should have offered to take you there myself, Lady Kingsley. Is it too much to hope that you will be at home tomorrow?"
"No, she ain't," Charles cut in quickly. "Going to the Mint—and the Tower. After Madame Cecile's."
Ignoring the younger man, Townsend addressed Elinor again. "Then perhaps the day after?"
"That would be fine, sir. Indeed, but I am quite certain that Arthur would welcome the company."
The viscount tipped his hat rakishly, letting the sun show his blond Brutus to advantage. "Until then, Lady Kingsley—and do give my regards to Arthur."
"What were you thinking of, Elinor?" Charles demanded as Viscount Townsend remounted his horse. "Man's a damned dolly mopper!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Sorry—he's in the petticoat line—been beneath too many petticoats to count 'em, if you want the truth of it."
"Charles!"
"Sorry," he said again, but his manner was anything but repentant. Looking again to where Bellamy Town-send rode down one of the paths, he frowned. "Ain't any way to wrap it up in clean linen for you, I'm afraid. And I don't care if you have been about the town, you are as green as I am—greener, in fact, 'cause m'grandfather don't give you much leash."
Affronted, she declared stiffly, "I merely said he could call. Anything less would have been uncivil. Besides"— she gazed after the retreating rider—"besides, he does not look so very dangerous to me."
"Humph!" he snorted. "Shows what you know, don't it? Man's got no principles—none. Look at the Longford thing—every one of 'em had to leave the country! And that don't even begin to count the others!"
"What others?" she asked.
"Not the sort of thing I can tell you—ain't fit for a gel's ears."
"He is more received than your Lord Longford," she reminded him, "so there cannot be much to the tales."
" 'Cause there's too many as wouldn't want him to talk out of Church, don't you see?"
"Sally Jersey—"
"Especially Lady Jersey. Lady Oxford also, to name but two of 'em. No, he put himself beyond the pale for me over the Longford affair, I can tell you. Man don't dally with his best friend's wife—and certainly not before there's an heir." He shook his head in disgust. "How'd you think Longford was to feel if Diana Fenton had a-given him a son by the side door? Man wants his own blood to inherit, and his wife owes him that, you know. You can blame Longford for the scandal, but I can see why he did it—the gel was an utter ninnyhammer to do a corkbrained thing like carrying on with Bellamy Town-send!"
"Five years ago you did not like Longford."
"I was a boy. Got to admire him now."
"Because he serves with Wellington," she observed dryly.
"Respect him. He took the risk and paid the price."
"Yes, I saw the price last night. Sally Jersey looked through him as though he did not exist."
"Lady Jersey's got her gall—how many lovers do you think she's had?" he demanded indignantly. "Been away at Oxford, and even I've heard the tales! She's even dallied with Prinny!"
"It seems to be the way of things, doesn't it?" she sighed. "Sometimes I think I must be sadly out of fashion, you know. The only requirement appears to be discretion—and the heir, of course. Although Lady Sefton took it upon herself to remind me that it is always a good notion to have a spare—just in case, mind you—before one embarks on an affaire de coeur."
"Egad. She didn't."
"You have no idea how many ladies of the ton have seen fit to advise me how I should go on—using the excuse of my youth and inexperience, you understand."
Charles cast another glance at Bellamy Townsend, who had rounded the path and was again headed their way. With one hand, he flicked the whip, urging the horses to speed, and with the other, he reached to cover Elinor's fingers, squeezing them.
"Deuced good thing I came home, ain't it? If I cannot go to the Peninsula before I am of age, I might as well protect you from the likes of Bell Townsend."
"Thank you, but I don't think—"
"And you ought to call me Charley—everybody but you and the old man do, anyways." Squeezing her hand again before, he released it, he smiled. "You make the place bearable, you know."
There was unexpected warmth in his blue eyes, and for a moment, Elinor was drawn to it. Unlike the jaded blades of the ton, he was open, honest, and without guile.
"Take you everywhere," he promised. "Show you everything you want to see, 'cause I know Grandpapa ain't done it. Even take you to the parties, if you was to want, but I got to wa
rn you—I ain't learned to dance one whit better than the day you were presented at Stoneleigh."
"Well, if you are to go about in society, you will have to learn the new German dance," she teased him.
"Don't want to learn anything German," he maintained stoutly. "Bunch of clunches, if you was to ask me. Only got to look at the royal family to know that."
"It's quite the scandal in London, you know. Charles, you will not credit it, but the gentleman actually holds the lady's waist."
"You don't say!"
"Unmarried females must be approved by the patronesses at Almack's before they can do it publicly—as though that makes it right. Only fancy—" She giggled.
"Only fancy—just last week, the rector at St. Paul's railed against it, saying it was but a license to lechery."
"You got to show me when we get home. And just because you are approved, it don't mean you got to do it in public, after all. You save that for the family."
She cocked her head and looked sidewise at him. "If you were not relation, I'd think you jealous."
"Just don't want you letting Bell Townsend hold you, that's all," he shot back, reddening. "Kingsley honor, don't you know?"
"Well, I'll teach you the waltz, anyway," she decided. "Then if I am ever given vouchers to Almack's, I can watch you lead out the unmarried females."
"Don't want to lead 'em out. Rather dance with you. Make me the envy of every man there," he insisted sincerely. "Prettiest female in London, after all."
"Well, you are not precisely a shab yourself."
"You don't think so?"
This time, she turned in her seat to face him, and for a long moment, she studied his straight, clean features and the soft brown of his hair. Then she met his blue eyes squarely.
"Not at all. You'll set the heart of every female on the Marriage Mart to fluttering, Charley. And since you are his only heir, it will not be long before the matchmaking papas are courting Arthur for your hand." Her fingers clasped his briefly, and she smiled. "You'll have your pick of all the pretty girls."
His flush deepened. "Don't want any of 'em," he declared firmly. "There ain't another like you."
