The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 1

by Sorcha MacMurrough

  "Randall was our most faithful correspondent, until his brother Francis died," Jonathan explained. "Then he had, well, I suppose a breakdown or something. Was so grief-stricken he flubbed his degree at Oxford and wrote letters which were the equivalent of monosyllables."

  "The poor man," Pamela said sympathetically.

  Clifford squinted and found his place once more. "'We live on tea and hardtack, mostly, and count ourselves lucky to have even that at times. Though Wellington has done very well generally in provisioning the army considering the season and isolation, there are so many of us. Plus the French have seen fit to actually plunder their own country without compunction or remorse.

  "'Wellington pays cash on the nail for everything to ensure there is no hostility between the French and we Allied soldiers. They've been treated so badly by their own soldiers, we are actually seen as liberators, and cheered whenever we enter a town.'"

  "How remarkable," Henry said.

  "'The plundering has reached desperate proportions, though any at all has always been deemed intolerable by Wellington. With that in mind, he's sent all but one of the Spanish battalions back into their own country. They were far too unreliable, and too intent upon revenge and rapine. Not that anyone can necessarily blame them after all they endured at the hands of Napoleon's forces since 1808.'"

  "No, indeed," Jonathan said with a nod. "Though it is dreadful all the same."

  "'But Wellington is not about to risk everything in what could be the last stages of the war over such issues as food and uniforms. The Spanish government has neglected their army most shamefully, but there's only so much we can do for the poor wretches if we are to bring this to a successful conclusion, which please God we shall in the spring.

  "'None of us hold with unleashing our anger and resentment upon civilians either. It is the nature of war, and we're looking forward to catching up with the ever-retreating French and showing them what a professional army can do when it is not quivering at the very name of Bonaparte.'"

  "Amen to that," Jonathan said heartily.

  Clifford shot him a grin and pointed at the letter. "'I hope you will put in a good word for me with the Lord, Jonathan, for the news regarding the Spanish government's willingness to ratify the treaty of Valencay is most alarming, to say the least. To think we have come this far, only to have our base of operations in Spain cut out from under us, is a most terrifying prospect.'"

  "Oh no!" exclaimed Henry.

  Everyone looked at each other in dismay.

  Clifford held up his hand for silence. "'Yes, it is true. King Ferdinand of Spain and the West Indies has been treating with Napoleon to be restored to his throne. In exchange, he will withdraw all support from our army. If this happens, we will have no fallback position whatsoever.

  "'Having seen what happened at Corunna in January 1809, I would never wish any evacuation like that upon us again. But there are few ports which would be able to cope with the embarkation of our combined Anglo-Portuguese and Spanish forces, which I guess to be about eighty-five thousand men.'"

  "Oh Lord, that would be a disaster," Sarah sighed. "I remember only too well what everyone suffered the last time."

  "'I know Wellington is taking steps to get the wounded home as quickly as possible should the treaty come to pass. In the meantime, he relies on us to press forward as quickly as possible, and prays for good news from the Allied Forces' Eastern Front.'"

  "How can the Spanish do such a thing, after all we've done for them?" Pamela asked in dismay. "A treaty with Bonaparte is the worst betrayal imaginable!"

  "The world of politics is all about expediency, my dear," Jonathan said with a shake of his head. "But I wouldn't panic too soon. Ferdinand is nothing if not slippery. He will most likely say anything to be set free from prison at this stage. And from what I've been reading in the papers, I think this could actually work to our advantage."

  "Really? How so, Jonathan?" Sarah asked.

  He rubbed his hands together thoughtfully, warming them by the fire. "If Napoleon is desperate enough to trust one of his oldest enemies, a man he deposed, humiliated and disgraced for so many years, it must mean the Emperor knows that the end is nigh if he doesn't do something to prevent it."

  Pamela looked at him hopefully. "Do you really believe that?"

  Jonathan nodded. "Yes. Napoleon once compared Spain with a running ulcer. He's lost many men, and many of his top marshals and generals have been broken by the Iberian Peninsula. If he needs the men to fight in the east, he'll do whatever he can to reach accommodation with Spain. And the Spanish, if they have any sense at all, will support Britain regardless of any paper they sign."

  "Let's hope so, Jonathan," Henry said fervently.

  Clifford had been scanning the letter during their discussion. "Michael's opinions would seem to confirm Jonathan's suppositions. He says here, 'In fact, ever since the Battle of Leipzig in mid-October, the Allied Forces in the east have been harassing Napoleon unmercifully. He has a very long frontier to defend with only about one hundred thousand men so far as we can guess. He is conscripting every elderly man and young boy he can.

  "'But we also hear that there has been widespread rebellion and refusal to serve. Certainly the local population here acts glad to see us. They profess no loyalty to the Little Corporal, and cheer as we continue our offensive and harry the French out of the villages, and take over their billets. They ply us with food and some even with their wives and daughters, I'm sorry to report.

  "'Needless to say, my men are kept in strict order at all times. A curfew is enforced with no exceptions. I'm told the wine is most excellent, but have taken steps to ensure my men do not get carried away by making them pay for everything. But of course I often don't have the key to the pay coffers with me.'"

  "Oh, very clever," Jonathan said approvingly.

  Clifford nodded and continued. "'They haven't discovered the stratagem quite yet, but they will. It also keeps them away from the paid wenches, so we are on the whole fit to fight at a moment's notice, were it not for the lack of food and the cold.'"

  "If the weather is anything like it has been here recently, they must be truly suffering," Henry said with a sigh.

  Clifford nodded. "'The cold is exacerbated by the poor state of our uniforms, which are really a sight to behold. You would be hard pressed to find a single man, myself included, who isn't showing six to eight inches of bare flesh on each of their arms or legs, and even their entire seat. As for boots and shoes, they're becoming a real luxury, though fortunately not dinner, as they have in the past. And whatever we suffer can never compare with the horror stories recounted to us by the French prisoners who managed to survive the Russian campaign.

  "'Speaking of, as I pick this letter up again to add to it some hours after I first began, it would appear that Napoleon is dismantling the army of Spain, insisting upon reinforcements in the east.'"

  "How wonderful!" Sarah said with a smile. "Old Boney really must be on the run."

  "'We are overjoyed at the news, and more eager than ever for the rain to stop and for us to press on. It is my dearest wish that Wellington will order us to move, bad weather or no, before the Spanish ratify the Treaty. I believe they are sitting on the fence waiting for news in the east.'"

  Henry and Jonathan nodded at each other, and Pamela felt less ill at ease about the seeming Spanish betrayal of their allies.

  "'Our morale is high despite the suffering I have recounted. We are proud to be helping to liberate so many people who have been under the Emperor's yoke for so long. I still long for liberty, equality and fraternity, as do we all, but not at the expense of the weak and poor. Any leader who sees fit to treat his subjects like cannon fodder does not deserve to rule. Napoleon may have been a genius as a general, but his power has gone to his head and all is slipping away. And if it does not slip, we shall wrest it from him.'"

  "Amen to that," Jonathan interjected once more.

  Everyone else nodded their agreement.
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  "'I pray God that I shall be back in the bosom of my family by the end of the campaign season of 1814, if not sooner. The good Lord knows I'm tired of the fighting and killing. I worry for my men more than myself at times until I gnaw my nails down to the quick like a nervous schoolboy.'"

  Clifford paused to take a sip of sherry.

  "Now to our old friends." Clifford looked up. "Do you ladies want to hear this? It might be rather tedious."

  "No, not at all. It's been fascinating to hear so much detail from someone right in the thick of it all," Pamela said truthfully. "I must say, I can fully understand your point about the recruitment sermon now, after hearing what your friend has described. Is that what it was like for you, Jonathan?" She felt awed and humbled at the thought.

  He nodded. "Pretty much. Freezing in winter, scorching in summer, little to eat, endless marches under the sun, sleeping on the ground, and threadbare uniforms so faded they could scarcely be described as red coats. And that was in the spring of 1812 when we left the service. Michael has been there nearly two years longer than us, and he never took a day's leave, not for family or personal reasons. Has never had more than the most minor scratches either."

  "And please God he stays that way," Henry said fervently. "He's a good man, and will one day make a very fine earl, though I certainly hope his father will have a long, happy life. Salt of the earth, the Avenels, even if Randall has become a bit of a ladies' man."

  Sarah smiled. "He's so fine looking, you can hardly blame him for taking advantage of what is offered so freely. Michael too."

  Jonathan looked outraged. "Don't tell me you've been nursing a tendre for Viscount Glyne all these years!" Then he laughed.

  "Of course not, silly. All you Rakehells have been like brothers to me."

  "Ah, yes, the nappies and rusks. How could I forget?" Jonathan winked.

  She lifted her nose primly. "I'm allowed to appreciate handsomeness in the same way that men appreciate feminine pulchritude. Look, admire, but don't touch. And I will own to liking them tall, dark, and handsome."

  Henry sighed dramatically. "Well, that lets all of us out, then!" he said with mock dejection, running his fingers through his blond hair, very similar to his brother's.

  "And Alistair Grant, who has been silver-haired for as long as we've know him, though he was but thirteen or so when he went gray. Thomas is married. Randall and our other old companion Matthew Dane, his best friend, are too flighty, and Michael too grim and devoted to his quests for social justice. Blake is married to his medical career, and Lawrence Howard is in India and not exactly on speaking terms with most of us any longer. And as much as I adore Philip Marshall, he's a former convict. So that lets them out as well, for all they're tall and dark."

  Pamela's eyes widened. "A convict?"

  Jonathan clamped his mouth shut. "Oh, um, debtor's prison, don't you know," he said after a time. "He's a good man, really, with a checkered past. He's stayed very close with Thomas over the years."

  Sarah saw her brother's unease. "There's no help for it then. Despite my brother's wonderful circle of friends, I'm destined for spinsterhood," she said with a laugh.

  "Better no husband than a bad one, my dear," Jonathan said somberly.

  Clifford cleared his throat. "If you're all finished teasing one another, can I finish?"

  Pamela had enjoyed the lively banter, but was eager to hear the rest of the gripping letter. "Yes, please, do go on," she urged.

  "'The hard campaign has meant a lot of wounds, but it shows the character of my men that they refuse to go home, even though many have ample cause. They are all determined to see this through to the end. Lieutenant Colonel Barnard, commanding the 95th, was very badly injured at the Battle of the Nivelle River in November. A musket ball passed right through his lungs, and his breath began to rattle in his throat and he started to bleed from the mouth.

  "'He had also fallen off his horse right onto the hilt of his sword, and bruised himself badly all over. I was grief-stricken to think it might be all up with him, after all the time we've been together. He's a truly decent human being, and his only flaw, as you may remember, is his inordinate fondness for cigars. Well, bless my soul if he didn't come riding up to Bayonne to start the siege there exactly four weeks after sustaining such a devastating hurt.'"

  "'Oh, good old Andrew!" Jonathan said, obviously relieved. "He took over from their first commander Beckwith, who was invalided out about the time Clifford and Thomas were injured. We spent most of the war alongside the 95th. We were in the 45th."

  "Yes, Beckwith made sure we got back safely. Both were really excellent men," Clifford said.

  Jonathan reached out for the letter, and resumed reading, worried that more gruesome details might follow. "'The 45th has been going along well, at Sorauren, the passes into the Pyrenees, and at the Nivelle. I am happy to report that there have been no major casualties there.

  "'As for our colleagues in the 92nd, whom we have grown so close to throughout our times together, I'm sorry to report that they have seen a lot more action. Arnot, both Lieutenant and Captain McPherson, and Ensign Mitchell are no more. In fact, James MacPherson died this morning, on New Year's Day. A terrible way to start 1814, but let us hope he has gone to a better place.'"

  "Amen," Jonathan said devoutly.

  "'Chisholm, Cattanach and Holmes are wounded, but expected to recover in time. Reg MacDonald too has been laid low. The Earl of March is in good health and asking for you. He is still with the 52nd, of course, but never forgets his old comrades, and is as good a soul as ever lived. He will be a great man one day when he becomes Duke of Richmond.

  "'Duncan McPherson is still only an Ensign, and still gets wounded in almost every engagement from the time he first fought in Holland in 1792. But he never goes home, draws a sick pension, nor complains. He's truly an inspiration to us all. He has told me to send what I would guess to be all his love to everyone in the Scots tongue.

  "'There can be no finer soldiers than the Scots and Irish, who make up the bulk of our army. I've been so impressed with the Highland Regiments I will admit to trying to play the bagpipes, though I can scarcely blow through the narrow chanter. I'm also sorely tempted to change my name to MacAvenel. Mac means 'son of' so it would be accurate enough. They fight with outstanding bravery, and in kilts, no less. I'd like to design my own tartan as well, for dress occasions for my clan. My only regret is there are so few of us now. May my brothers rest in peace.'"

  "Amen," Jonathan said again.

  "'Finally, I would like to tell you the truth about the battle of the Nive, for the newspapers made it seem as if Daddy Hill bungled. To my mind there is no finer commander than Rowland, steady as they come, no matter what the crisis. Wellington can count on him to get the job in hand done no matter how impossible it might be, as we have seen time and time again ever since all of this started.

  "'In truth, the near disaster occurred because the new bridge they had constructed and been relying upon washed away in the torrential rains. One can be the best general in the world, but one cannot conquer nature.

  "'In fact, he saved the situation at St. Pierre when Peacocke of the 71st and Bunbury of the Buffs lost their nerve and actually left the field of engagement. Hill held firm, and fed in reinforcements a handful at a time wherever they could fit into the river crossing being so hotly contested. He declared, 'Dead or alive we must hold our ground,' and fought like a demon by our sides.'"

  "Oh my," Pamela said, wide eyed. "The Buffs?"

  "A great man, Rowland Hill," Jonathan said with an approving nod. "And they're the 3rd Foot, called the Buffs because of their light colored facings on their uniforms."

  "Lieutenant Colonel Cameron could see we were in danger of being overwhelmed, pulled us out, drew us back into ranks, and led the charge himself right over the bodies of our fallen comrades, declaring they served even in death, and that we should not allow their sacrifice to be made in vain.

  "'With the colors flying and
the bagpipes skirling, it was truly a terrifyingly grand moment, one I would never have wanted to miss and will remember as long as I live. We charged two ranks deep in a line and the enemy fell away like so many dominoes.

  "'Wellington was so delighted with the victory against all odds that he rode onto the field and shook Hill's hand in front of us all. He declared to Hill, 'The day's your own.'

  "'I still feel a lump in my throat as I write this. But I also have to say that never have I see a road and river run so thickly with blood as it did during that fateful battle. The French lost over six thousand men, and to top it all off, as I found out later, another two thousand Germans.

  "'They actually marched into the British camp, handed over their weapons, and asked to be repatriated to their home in Nassau. We agreed and they shipped out. Napoleon's reliance upon foreign troops from countries he subjugated was a foolish plan. Human nature can never be forced, no matter what the means of coercion.'"