Fuming, Richard relented.
Denny was thoughtful for a moment. “Colonel Brandon, I would like to discuss a private matter with Colonel Fitzwilliam. Would you please excuse us?”
Brandon gave each of them a look. “As you wish. I will see you gentlemen later.” He left the room.
The two remaining officers eyed each other warily. Richard was the first to speak.
“What do you want, Major?”
“Permission to speak frankly, sir?”
“Granted.” Richard sipped his brandy.
Denny looked at Richard. “I was hoping you could tell me what you have against me.”
“I do not like your friends, Denny.”
Denny raised an eyebrow. “All of my friends or just one in particular?”
Richard put down his glass. “Any man who could be friends with the likes of George Wickham—”
“Forgive me for interrupting,” said Denny softly, “but there might be some who say the same about you, sir.”
Richard was taken aback. “Just what do you mean by that?” He quickly swallowed his indignation. “No—go on, Major.”
Denny paused. “I have the greatest respect for Sir John—”
“Sir John? Now, just wait one minute!”
Denny stared Richard right in the eye. “Sir, can you deny what he was?”
Richard looked down, stymied. “There is all the difference in the world! While his behavior was questionable, the gentleman never harmed anyone. And besides, he has ended his dubious behavior.”
Denny shook his head. “There are those in London who would disagree with your opinion of that gentleman’s ‘harmless’ behavior—husbands, brothers, fathers.”
“I suppose you are correct,” Richard allowed.
“Yet, you stood by him. Why? Because you saw goodness in him; you saw what he had the potential to be. And the gentleman has proven that your faith in him was not unwarranted.”
Richard looked at Denny unbelievably. “And you see the same in George Wickham?”
Denny was pained. “I can hope. I changed; at one time, I was not so different from George. Might he change as well someday?”
Richard shook his head in wonderment.
Denny sighed. “Yes, sir, I might be a fool, but I do hope for my friend. In the meantime, I try to see that no one is harmed.” He smiled without mirth. “I know what George is capable of doing. I am a fool but not an idiot.”
Richard looked at the younger man for a long time. The two drank in silence for a time.
“So, you were protecting more than Wickham, eh? You are protecting me?”
Denny nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Richard frowned. “One last question—what do you know about the events in Ramsgate and Brighton?”
Denny sighed. “I first met George when he joined the ——shire militia, so I only know what he told me about Ramsgate. Subsequent events have led me to believe that George was not truthful there. As to Brighton, I knew of Miss Lydia’s partiality for George, but I thought nothing of it at the time; she being quite attentive to… many there.”
There was a flash of pain again, and Richard could only wonder as to the cause.
Denny continued, “George showed no particular interest in Miss Lydia, and he did not acquaint me with his plans, so I was as surprised as anyone when they departed.” He looked at Richard. “I have the greatest respect for Mrs. Wickham and wish both of them long life and happiness.”
Richard thought the man protested too much. He suspected that Denny’s acquaintance with Wickham—and Mrs. Wickham—was far more complicated than the major let on. Deciding not to push the issue, Richard gave Denny a lopsided grin.
“Well, I guess I can shake the hand of the man who kept me out of the guardhouse.” He offered Denny his hand; he took it readily. “Every last mother’s son, is that it, Major?”
Denny smiled. “Of course, Colonel—why else?”
Richard laughed. “Come on, Denny, let us rejoin the party.”
“Will you not stay to finish your brandy?”
Richard laughed. “That swill? No, that will kill you, my man. Now, let us see if we can find some really good claret, eh?”
* * *
Wickham finally poked his head out of the kitchen, where he had fled after the near-encounter with Colonel Fitzwilliam. Wickham disliked Darcy, but he truly feared Fitzwilliam. Both were better than he was with the sword, and Fitzwilliam was more likely to use it.
Wickham still managed to enjoy the ball; he ate his fill in the kitchen and dallied a bit with a comely housemaid. His mission now was to “liberate” a bottle of cognac. Looking around, he saw people preparing for the final dances of the evening—and no Fitzwilliam in sight. Luck was with him, he was sure, and he strode directly towards the library, where he was certain the liquid treasure was stored. He reached for the doorknob.
“Boo!”
Instantly, Wickham’s mind flashed back to an incident when he was but a mere lad. He had challenged Darcy to enter a dark cave near Pemberley, claiming that there was pirate treasure within. Darcy did so, and a few minutes later, he cried out for Wickham to come and see the treasure. Wickham dashed in—to find near total darkness. Feeling his way around, he was startled by the selfsame noise—uttered by…
“Good evening, George,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Looking for something?”
Wickham gasped and leapt back. Fitzwilliam did not look as if he possessed a sword, but there was no reason to take chances.
Fitzwilliam grinned. “I have been looking forward to this.”
“You… you would not dare… here?” stuttered the captain, back against the wall.
Fitzwilliam approached him, hands behind his back, Wickham’s eyes growing larger with every step he took. When he was mere inches from his trembling quarry, he leaned in and said, “Go.”
Wickham was not one to miss an opportunity when it was presented. Without a sound, he squeezed past his tormentor and ran unsteadily down the hall. Not completely trusting his old childhood companion, he kept looking over his shoulder for the expected pursuit. A mistake—for the next moment he collided with someone.
“Watch it, you damn fool!” snarled Wickham as he picked himself off the floor.
“Wickham?” cried his commanding colonel as he sat upright on the floor. “What are you doing here?”
“Sir!” Wickham was able to cry before his mouth went completely dry. “I… I… excuse me, sir. I regret—”
“What are you doing here?”
“I… I was at liberty. Hewitt has the post tonight. Oh, let me help you, sir.”
After being assisted to his feet, the colonel rudely showed no sense of appreciation. “An oversight, I assure you! Get back to camp, Wickham—now!”
Wickham blinked twice and ran out the door.
Fitzwilliam leaned against the door of the library and laughed his head off.
Chapter 24
Sir John raged as he sipped his brandy. Roxanne—of all the people to see here tonight!
He thought of Roxanne’s beauty and allurements, so wasted on him, for his thoughts kept returning to Caroline. Never did he long for her as now. He needed her laugh, her sharp, biting humor, and her sweet attentions. Why was it that he could not have what he wanted? He should never have sent Caroline away.
Just then, he noticed that Annabella Norris was in attendance. The faint hope that she might have some news of Caroline overcame his revulsion of the woman. He crossed the floor and bowed. He found her with two other former acquaintances from the old days—Lord Braxton and his latest paramour, Lady Daphne Glevering.
“Are you enjoying Brussels?” Buford asked Braxton after they exchanged the usual greetings.
“It has pleasures enough, Buford. A change of scenery is always welcome in the summer,” replied Braxton carelessly.
“We in the army are always hungry for news from home. No matter how many letters one receives, it is never enough. How did you leave London
?”
“The same—blasted hot this year.”
“Yes,” simpered Annabella. “Town is so boring! I am so glad we took this opportunity to come to the Continent. It is so exciting!”
“Come, Daphne—the music’s started,” said Braxton, tugging at her arm. “Another time, Buford.” The two made their way to the dance floor.
Annabella and Sir John watched them depart. Sir John was temporarily trapped—it would not be good form to abandon the lady before another of her acquaintances arrived.
Annabella asked, “Are you not dancing, sir?”
Sir John looked nonplused at her. Finding no polite reason to excuse himself, he held out his hand. “As you wish.”
“Oh, no. Do not think I am looking for a partner. I should be content to share some conversation if you would indulge me. I much prefer talking to dancing.”
Buford nodded his acquiescence, wondering what the woman was about.
“I hope I am not detaining you. Is Lady Caroline here?”
“No. She is in London.”
“How sad! Her grand adventure is over. I feel for her, poor dear—to miss such parties and lively, elevated company.” She glanced at Buford with a smile.
Buford stiffened. He supposed that she was trying to tempt him into an assignation, but the officer vowed that no matter what arts and allurements Mrs. Norris might employ, the woman would not succeed. “We thought it best that she return to England with hostilities imminent.”
Annabella looked about the room with amusement. “Really? Are the French here? Which one is Napoleon?”
“Mrs. Norris, war is not a joke.”
“Of course not, but to abandon you to your own devices while still on your honeymoon—how sad. But that is my dear Caroline; she must have her own way. I am sure she is well occupied. You must be very lonely.”
“I manage, madam.” Annabella’s implication of Caroline’s possible activities in London both angered and frightened Buford. Such thoughts had begun to take root in his mind, no matter how hard he fought it. He lashed out. “By the way, where is your husband?”
“In the West Indies, inspecting his plantations. So, you see, I too have been abandoned. Cold and lonely.” The unspoken offer floated in the charged air.
“How unfortunate for you. As for me, I find thoughts of home keep me warm enough at night.” He had had a bellyful of her insinuations. “If you would excuse me.”
“Sir John, you would leave me?”
Buford hissed, “Mrs. Norris, do not think that my wife and I have not talked about our former acquaintances in Town! Oh, yes, I know exactly what you are about. I was a fool to waste my time speaking to you. You are no friend to my wife and can have no knowledge of her. Your behavior is infamous. Find someone else to share your bed, madam. You disgust me.”
Annabella Norris turned purple in her outrage and dismissal. Grimly satisfied, Buford turned on his heel and went in search of another brandy.
* * *
Buford nursed his drink, glowering, when he was interrupted again.
“Come, chéri, things cannot be all that bad,” said Countess de Pontchartrain from behind his left shoulder.
Buford expected her. “Enjoying yourself, Roxanne?”
“Tremendously. Are you still angry with me?”
He turned to her. “That ball in Vienna. Why did you introduce Lady Buford to Baron von Odbart, of all people? What game were you playing? Surely you could not expect an assignation on my honeymoon.”
She chuckled. “Oh, Jean, you are as clever as I remember.”
“I knew you were trying to entrap my wife! But why? Surely you do not think I would divorce her, do you?”
“Jean, Jean, I was not trying to entrap your wife…” She let the sentence linger as she eyed him closely.
“Me—you were after me? You knew how I would respond!”
“Almost—you showed amazing restraint. We thought surely you would challenge the baron.”
Buford knew he almost had. “What purpose would that serve? I would have either lived or died. What difference would that make? I am not that important.”
“You are not important—but the Congress was.”
With a sinking feeling, Buford realized he had been played for a fool. Such a scandal as a duel between delegates would disrupt the Congress and hurt negotiations, particularly between England and Prussia. It had been a trap, and he almost fell into it, nearly causing immeasurable damage to his country.
“Who are you working for, Comtesse?” he demanded.
A haughty laugh escaped her lovely lips. “You think only those who wear a uniform are patriots, Colonel? I serve France!”
Buford’s mind raced through the possibilities, but only one name remained. Only M. Talleyrand could have approved such an operation. The ambassador had been so helpful at the ball just so Buford could find his wife and the baron together. The French must have hoped, he now suspected, that the two would have been caught in flagrante delicto.
“Was this operation your idea or the ambassador’s?”
“Actually, it was my husband who came up with it. He has a delightfully wicked turn of mind, do you not think? Besides, I knew you would win any duel.”
“And you just do what you are told.”
Countess de Pontchartrain stroked his face, causing him to flinch. “Jean, you are a dear friend, but not so dear as you think. I see the need to protect France from your so-called Big Four as surely as His Excellency does.” Her eyes grew hard. “France is alone; we cannot allow you English to divide up Europe with the Austrians, Prussians, and Russians. France will be great again!”
“Whether under a king or emperor?”
“Bonaparte—that upstart? Bah. No, Colonel, too many of my countrymen have died under that monster.” She grinned. “So, let the grand Seventh Coalition crush him for us. My kind will reclaim what is ours again when you are through.”
“The First Estate again the first among equals?”
The countess pursed her lips. “Do not mock us so. You English with your class structure are not so very different! Or are you a Republican now?”
“Do not be ridiculous.” Buford glared at her. “I can forgive you for your actions against me, but you should not have used my wife.”
The countess sighed. “Un mariage d’amour—I never would have thought it of you, Jean.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” Buford could not keep the bitterness out of his voice as he took another gulp of his brandy. He could feel the alcohol racing through his veins, but he cared not.
Roxanne’s eyebrows went up. “Really? Un serpent au Paradis? It happens to the best of us.” She looked around. “Ah, my escort to supper is awaiting me, chéri. À plus tard.”
Buford watched her depart, feeling betrayed, disgusted, and very stupid.
* * *
It was nearly midnight when Richard went in search of Buford. He found him speaking with Sir John Vandeleur, their commanding officer. It was a few minutes before the general begged his excuses and wandered off, allowing the two comrades to talk.
Richard frowned, for Buford seemed to be in his cups. “Buford, shall we leave now? I will get a hackney, if you like.”
Buford slapped his friend on the back. “No, no, you go without me, Fitz. I will be only a little while longer.”
“Buford, I think you should come with me.” When Buford refused him again, he would not relent until Buford grew angry.
“Blast it all, Fitzwilliam, you are not my nursemaid. Let me be!”
Richard knew there was no good in trying to convince Buford when he was so determined. “Forgive me. I shall see you at breakfast, then.”
Buford nodded, and Richard could do nothing but return to their inn.
* * *
The library was dark at this early hour in the morning, lit only by a solitary candle and the occasional flash of lightning from the thunderstorm raging outside. A lone figure, which had remained behind after the ball ended, sat i
n a chair and watched the illumination, sipping a cognac. His host had suggested that, due to the inclement weather, Colonel Buford take refuge at the castle and had ordered a room prepared for him, and Buford was waiting for his accommodations. The storm did not bother him; rather, he thought the weather mirrored his own feelings.
When he married Caroline Bingley, he knew her reputation as she knew his. He had labored to make himself a better man, and he was led to the conclusion that his wife had done the same. They were kindred souls, so he thought. During the time of their courtship and their marriage, he had grown to admire and finally love her.
A mistake. He feared it could be, and he was right. Apparently, Caroline’s devotion could not be relied upon once he was no longer in residence. They had shared passion but not true love. He had been deceived.
There was a reason that fashionable society frowned on love matches. It was because love matches rarely last. He knew the risk, but he never dreamed that her affections would not last a trip across the Channel.
Buford put down his glass and shook his head; he had felt tears coming on. No! He would not weep for her or for what might have been! He had made his bed; now he must lie in it.
“Sir John, your room is ready,” said the butler in French as he opened the door.
“Merci beaucoup,” he replied as he got to his feet. With steps only slightly impaired from the alcohol he had consumed, he made his way to the bedroom. There, with no valet to attend him, he stripped off his clothes and threw himself onto the bed. As he pulled the covers over him, he hoped that he would not again dream of Caroline as he did most every night.
An hour later, he felt a soft warm body slip under the covers with him. Moist lips caressed his cheek and neck as practiced hands touched him. Groaning, half asleep, he responded to the attentions, returning the kisses and caresses.
He moaned aloud, “Caro.”
“Whatever pleases you, chéri.”
Chapter 25
Buford awoke with a start early the next morning. Looking about the unfamiliar bedroom, he tried to recall where he was. He moved again and groaned in pain; his throbbing temples reminded him of the amount of alcohol he had consumed the night before, and his state of undress spoke volumes about his activities afterwards.
The Three Colonels Page 25
