Ravished

by Virginia Henley

  As Hill’s army got close to the border, the French, fearing retaliation for the atrocities they had committed against the Spanish, attacked with a vengeance. In the bloody skirmish, two of Hatton’s men were killed and one was struck by a shot that shattered both bones in his left leg. Nick was out of the saddle in a flash; he cut makeshift splints from a nearby tree and put on a field dressing. He knew if the leg was not tended properly, the soldier would lose it. He ordered two recruits to use a blanket to carry the wounded man to the medical officers who had set up a field hospital. Only then did he turn his attention to the dead. He knew their names by heart and where they came from in England. In the cold, wet hours before dawn, he wrote to their families, offering his sympathy and describing their courage.

  When Hill’s forces arrived at the River Nivelle, they found the rushing, swollen waters impossible to cross. Wellington’s forces, on the far side of the river, were fighting off attacks from General Soult’s French army, and Hill’s battalions would mean the difference between defeat or victory. Hill directed his officers to have their men search up and down the riverbank for boats, but their efforts proved fruitless. Lieutenant Hatton sought out General Hill. “Sir, Wellington’s men obviously had to cross the River Nivelle before us.”

  “I warrant that it was less swollen than it is now.”

  “Undoubtedly, General. But cross it they did, and I conclude that the boats and watercraft they used must all be on the other side of the river.”

  “A logical supposition, Hatton. Can you suggest a solution?”

  “I volunteer to swim across to get the boats, sir.”

  “Swim those raging waters? The risk is great, Lieutenant.”

  “At Hatton, we not only have a lake on our property but the River Crane, a branch of the Thames that swells every spring. I could swim it at seven, sir; both ways at eight. I won’t allow a foreign river to defeat me, General.”

  Nick Hatton put his men in the charge of Sergeant Tim O’Neil, as well as his pistols and his mount, Slate, then he slipped into the icy water of the Nivelle and began to swim against the tide. He wasn’t even halfway across before the cold seeped into his bones, and he realized that the sparse rations coupled with long days in the saddle had robbed him of his usual energy. But he knew the strenuous activity of his duties had toughened and hardened his muscles, so he cut through the roiling, brown water as cleanly and efficiently as he could.

  When he was in the middle, a memory from his youth suddenly surfaced. He had been swimming the River Crane, egged on by his twin and Rupert, when suddenly Alexandra decided to try it. She jumped in and managed a few strokes before the swirling current dragged her under. In a flash he had swum to save her, but as he held her bright head above water and began to stroke toward shore, she had hit him and cried, “No, no, I want to go to the other side! Help me to get there, Nick.”

  He smiled inwardly as he eyed the water with grim determination. Help me to get there, Alex.

  He feared his lungs might burst, but eventually he reached the far side of the Nivelle and dragged himself up on the muddy bank, gasping for breath. He searched up and down the river for more than an hour, finding only a skiff and a small rowboat; finally, when his legs were starting to shake with fatigue, he struck gold! He came upon four large, flat, wooden barges roped together. The find sent renewed energy surging through his body. He attached the skiff to the barges, cut their mooring rope with his knife, and began to pole slowly back across the river, thanking all the saints in heaven that on the return journey the current was with him. When he got back to camp, not only his own men cheered him; all General Hill’s forces celebrated his daring feat.

  That night, under cover of dark, the men, their animals, and all the cannon and artillery were transported across the river so that Hill’s forces could join with Wellington’s. The following day, Lieutenant Nicholas Hatton was promoted to captain. Nick didn’t know whether to be flattered or dismayed; now he commanded four times as many troops.

  Wellington was overjoyed. “Soult has been building up fieldworks. Now I can pour greater force on certain points than the French can concentrate to resist me!”

  For the first time, Captain Hatton and his men fought in all-out battles. Wellington’s words proved prophetic. When one French position after another fell to overwhelming attacks, Soult was forced to order the abandonment of his right wing. The English defeated four divisions in a single day and captured fifty-nine guns. The weather alone prevented Wellington from following the fleeing enemy. Since every river was impassable and the ground was knee-deep with sticky mud, he ordered his soldiers to hunker down and wait. Nick found some abandoned ruins and directed his men to make camp, which afforded some shelter to his shivering troops.

  Once the rain let up, they didn’t have long to wait. The Battle of the Nive lasted for five days. Though one of Wellington’s top generals, John Hope, was captured by the French, the British forces gained steadily. Defeat for the French came when three German battalions deserted from their army and Soult ordered that all his German troops be disarmed. Filled with a euphoria they hadn’t known in months, the British soldiers celebrated the victory.

  At first flush, Nick Hatton experienced the glory of victory, but it was short-lived. As he searched for wounded men on the battlefield and learned that more than four thousand of the enemy had been killed, his euphoria vanished. As he moved among the carnage of mangled bodies and looked into the faces of the dead French soldiers, he saw how young they were. All thought of celebration was wiped from his brain.

  Though the wedding was small by the ton’s standards, everyone was eager to celebrate the nuptials of Olivia Harding and Rupert Sheffield, Viscount Longford. The bride wore traditional wreath and veils, the maid of honor looked ravishing in vivid forget-me-not blue, and the mother of the bride was resplendent in puce.

  Lady Longford was gowned in tasteful gray but wore a bright orange wig, hoping to annoy Annabelle Harding. As they left the church, she swept the mother of the bride’s puce gown with an amused glance and murmured to Lord Harding, “She would have been wiser to take my advice and wear goose-turd green.”

  Alexandra, escorted by groomsman Harry Harding, rode the short distance to the reception in the carriage with the bride and groom. I warrant all four of us know Olivia’s secret. Alex looked at the bride and forbade herself from conjuring pictures of her and Nick Hatton. Olivia is smiling serenely as if she hasn’t a care in the world, which now, of course, she hasn’t! But what a wretched position this puts me in; Olivia is now my sister-in-marriage. Alex glanced at her brother and felt immediate guilt for her thoughts. Rupert’s plight makes my position pale into insignificance. She wondered why on earth he had married Olivia, and came to the conclusion that he must have a deep affection for her. Her heart went out to him. When they alighted from the carriage in front of the Clarges Street house, Alex reached for her brother’s hand and squeezed it. “I love you, Rupert.”

  The rooms of the town house were crowded with guests, some of whom hadn’t attended the church ceremony. Lady Spencer came because of her friendship with Dottie. She was accompanied by her grandson Hart Cavendish, who came mainly because Alexandra would be there. His wedding gift was a magnificent set of Georgian silver engraved with the Longford crest of a Stag Couchant.

  Rupert was thankful when his best friend, Kit, arrived to give him moral support. He was astounded at Hatton’s generosity; he had bought the newlyweds their own carriage, and the card stipulated that Rupert was free to select his own matched pair of carriage horses from Tattersall’s.

  Christopher Hatton toasted the newlyweds. The wedding present would cut a deep swath into his Barclays account, but it would completely eliminate any need for guilt.

  Olivia watched Kit from beneath her dark lashes. There was no doubt that he was one of the handsomest men she had ever set eyes upon, and his close proximity made her pulses race and played havoc with her heart.

  However, Olivia had been
taught a hard lesson. She was no longer ruled by her heart but by her head, and she could clearly see that Rupert was far more malleable husband material than Kit Hatton would ever be. Rupert had been bought and paid for, and he would dance to her tune on a daily—and nightly—basis.

  Alexandra found herself with three escorts vying for her attention. Hart Cavendish had no trouble elbowing Harry Harding aside, but Kit Hatton was impossible to dismiss. When the hour grew late, Hart slipped a possessive arm around her. “Weddings are supposed to have a salubrious effect upon females. Are you feeling the impulse?” he murmured wickedly in her ear. “Are you coming home with me, darling?”

  She laughed up into his face. “You must have mistaken me for an opera dancer, if you are offering me carte blanche. I fully intend to leave with Dottie tonight, but if you would again like the company of young Master Alex one evening this week, I shall pass along your invitation.”

  A short time later, Kit also asked her to leave with him. “My mourning deprived me of the pleasure of dancing with you tonight, but I would love to take you for a long carriage ride, Alexandra.”

  “How utterly tempting you are, Lord Hatton. However, my grandmother would never allow me to leave with you this close to the wicked hour of midnight. Perhaps another time.”

  The two rejected friends, having liberally imbibed, left together with the intention of consoling themselves at White’s, Brooks’s, then Watier’s, where the play was particularly deep.

  At least two hours after midnight had passed, Rupert lay abed with his bride. He reflected upon how eagerly he had carried Olivia to their own house in Clarges Street, how excited he had been to embark upon his wedding night. Olivia, however, had been much more demanding than he had anticipated. In point of fact, her appetite for the flesh had exceeded his own. Though he lay sprawled in utter exhaustion, sleep eluded him. He pictured the Longford crest engraved upon the Georgian silver. The Stag Couchant was so bloody apt. Not only did it have horns but it was lying down—a position no doubt he would have to assume whenever Olivia wished. An adage he had once heard from Dottie drifted through his thoughts: With Caesar’s coin comes the obligation to submit to Caesar’s rules!

  Chapter Seventeen

  A week later, when Hart Cavendish picked up Alex Sheffield, she was again dressed as a young man about town. “And where does your dissolute fancy dictate this evening, old man?” he teased. “May I suggest a pub called The Noble Rot?”

  “My fancy isn’t dissolute tonight; it’s profligate. I wish to observe prostitutes,” Alex announced casually. She needed another article for the Political Register.

  “Prostitution is not a subject that interests a lady.”

  “It should be! Every woman should make it her business to learn what other women have to suffer. Prostitution is something that should be abolished.”

  Hart threw back his head and laughed at her innocence. He moved across the carriage and took her hand. “Alex, my love, if a drab heard you voice such an opinion, she would likely scratch out your eyes. Doxies are doxies by choice.”

  “Piss and piffle! That is the biggest load of claptrap I have ever heard!” Good God, I’m turning into my grandmother! “Doxies become doxies because they have no other choice. Moreover, if you continue to address me as Alex, my love, people will think you are one of those men who are attracted to boys.”

  He raised her hand to his lips and nibbled on her fingertips. “Ah, but to this one I am. Sexually attracted,” he teased wickedly.

  “Stop that,” she said impatiently.

  “You said that you fancy being profligate, darling.”

  She eyed him with speculation, and her wicked juices began to bubble. “I feel a wager coming on.”

  “Well, I am a betting man.”

  “I dare you to address me as darling all evening.”

  “I’ll do it if the prize I win is worthwhile … if you will allow me to kiss you, for instance.”

  The corners of her mouth went up, then she said wickedly, “You may kiss me as many times as you fancy … if you do it in public.”

  “I believe outrageousness excites you. I’ll stick to darling in public; the kisses will have to be private.”

  “Kiss. Singular,” Alex corrected.

  This time it was the corners of Hart’s mouth that went up. He tapped his silver-headed cane on the carriage ceiling, and when the driver slid back the panel, Hart said, “The Mollies’ Club.”

  When they alighted from the carriage in lower Piccadilly, Hart bade the driver wait. He gave a password to gain admittance, reached for the door, and held it open. “Permit me, darling.”

  Alex removed her top hat, handed it to the porter, and gave Hart an adoring glance. “Thank you, darling.” She was disappointed when the porter’s face registered no shock but remained passive.

  The club was filled with gentlemen in evening attire and ladies in costly but flashy gowns. The noise level was extremely high as the couples crowded round the gambling tables, laughing, drinking, and flirting outrageously. “By the raucous laughter, everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.”

  Hart’s laughter rang out.

  “What’s so bloody funny?” she hissed.

  “You are, darling. What would you like to drink, rum shrub?”

  “I’ll have champagne … darling,” she added through her teeth. As she sipped from her glass and the bubbles tickled her nose, her avid glance swept about the dimly lit room. Most of the women were statuesque, the plumes in their wigs making them tower over their partners. A few were rail thin, with no curves whatever. Alex was admiring a diamond choker on the throat of a woman in black when she noticed her Adam’s apple.

  She leaned close to Hart and murmured, “I suspect the woman at the roulette table is a man.”

  “What a profligate mind you have, darling.” Mirth made him almost choke on his brandy.

  A couple walked past their table from the dance floor. “Evening, Hart.” Alex was astounded that it was Hart’s brother-in-law, the Earl of Carlisle. His companion, however, was not Hart’s sister Dorothy; she was a very pretty female with a painted face and delicate hands and ankles. “His lordship is with a prostitute! She’s so young it is an outrage.”

  “Take a closer look at all the women, Alex.”

  As she did as he bade her, Alex’s eyes widened with shock.

  “You are the only female in the entire room, Alexandra.”

  She was shocked to the bone. “I’m leaving! This isn’t what I asked you to show me, Hart. You deliberately deceived me!”

  “Half of them are prostitutes. Male prostitutes.”

  Alex headed for the exit as quickly as she could.

  Hart followed, pleading, “Darling, don’t be angry.”

  As they left, they drew every eye, and with flushed cheeks she hissed, “Don’t call me that!”

  As they walked to the carriage, she muttered with chagrin, “Hoist on my own petard. But truly, it is disgusting!”

  “Why is it disgusting for males to dress as females, when you think it perfectly acceptable to go about dressed as a male?”

  She stopped and turned to look up at him. “You were teaching me a lesson? Was that your point in taking me to such a place?”

  His arms slipped around her and he bent his head and kissed her. “Yes, darling. And there are so many other lessons I would like to teach you.”

  She tasted the brandy on his lips. “Not another kiss until you fulfill your part of the bargain.”

  Hart sighed and opened the carriage door for her. “Waterloo Road,” he instructed his driver. He sat down beside her and capitulated. “You win, Alex. I’ll take you to a ‘finish.’ ”

  “What’s a ‘finish’?”

  “It’s where London’s prostitutes finish up after the theaters let out. It won’t just be a lesson; it will be an education.”

  They rode over the stone bridge at Westminster and alighted from the carriage close to where the new bridge was being built across t
he Thames at Waterloo Road. “Keep your wits about you,” Hart warned his coachman.

  Alex stared about her, for though the weather was chilly, scantily dressed drabs filled every dark doorway. All the buildings’ windows were shuttered, as if their eyes were closed in slumber, but Hart, with a proprietary hand at the small of her back, led her through a small door. She was momentarily blinded by the light of a thousand gas lamps, and she realized immediately that she was inside a gin palace.

  At one end of the room was a long row of tables with seats like upholstered couches. Each was separated by a wooden screen for a modicum of privacy. At the other end of the room was a raised dais where prostitutes were parading in all their tawdry finery, doing their utmost to arouse their audience of men making their selections. The strumpets both lifted and lowered their garments to expose their female charms to best advantage and accompanied their actions by lascivious banter. The air was filled with laughter, blue smoke, cheap scent, and the stink of unwashed bodies. Alex stared in fascination as one whore after another led the man who had chosen her to one of the drink-filled tables. Then she noticed that both Hart and herself were being singled out for particular attention because they were richly dressed.

  A young girl, with hair dyed the color of burgundy, solicited Alex. “ ’Ow would y’like me to suck yer duck till it quacks, luv?”

  Alex shot Hart a look of panic.

  Hart, unable to hide his amusement, shrugged. “You know what they say about redheads!”

  Alex quickly recovered. “No, but I warrant it’s nowhere near as outrageous as what they say about dukes!” She suspected the brandy he had consumed had clouded his judgment in bringing her here.