Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1)

by Baird Wells

  Matthew took the letters making his title official, wishing his hands would not tremble so violently. The herald urged him back two steps, and he bowed and stood fixed until Prince George swept from the chapel with entourage in tow to the renewed blaring of horns.

  Then it was his turn. As he returned down the long aisle, applause boomed overhead, caught like thunder between the buttresses. Men he had never met and others whose names he could not recall leaned out to press his hand or tug at his sleeve. A volley of handkerchiefs struck him in passing, several loud with the odor of perfume, acquainting him with the extent of his new-found celebrity.

  Reaching the gates, he took the flight of stairs two at a time down from the chapel to stay ahead of the crowd. It seemed disrespectful to run through the cathedral, so Matthew determined just how quickly he could walk to the massive doors barring his escape through the high stone arch. Once outside, he tossed decorum out the window and loped along the curb until he spotted his mother's carriage.

  Jumping in, he wrestled back against the seat and drew a black velvet curtain, listening with mounting anxiety to the buzz of voices growing around him.

  Nearly a quarter of an hour must have passed while he waited and prayed no curious eyes caught a glimpse of him inside. Suddenly the carriage rocked and the door was thrown open. His mother planted a foot on the step beside her coachman, freezing half bent when she caught sight of him inside.

  “God man, you'll let the whole bloody town in!” Matthew leapt forward, grabbing the leather handle and pulling the door back to close the gap beside Adelaide's body.

  His mother's head snapped up, and somewhere behind her Worley muttered an apology. He shut the door in such nervous haste that he smacked his mistress in the backside, nearly toppling Adelaide while trying to close her in.

  “Worley is treating Hansel and Gretel as a textbook, I see,” she grumbled. Despite her surprise, his mother was as unflappable as ever. Untying her bonnet, Adelaide set it on the seat, filling it with her tiny, black satin gloves. She raised an arm and her hand on his cheek was cool, stroking with a soothing pressure. He ached to be a child again, to have everything set right just by laying his head in her lap. “You look tired. How long since you've slept?”

  “I don't know. I lie down and sometimes it feels as though I sleep. I do not notice time passing, but the fatigue is just as deep when I wake.” He decided not to confess that those nominally restful periods only came halfway through a bottle of gin. She likely already suspected.

  “You will come to dinner tonight.” There was no room for argument in her command.

  He was too tired to fight, Matthew decided. “Only if you can swear that I am the only guest.”

  Her words were soft, but firm in true motherly fashion. “Tonight, yes. Though you are a national hero now, Matthew. You cannot shirk your obligations forever.”

  “I have no obligations. I belong to myself.” Defiance, fueled by despair, flared up inside.

  She clucked her tongue, chuckling. “Don't be obtuse. You belong to England, and you well know it. You are property of the State, and every man and woman claims a bit of you, a bit of your victory, as their own. I have had to give you up, and now you must do the same.”

  “And if I wish simply to be left alone?” he retorted bitterly.

  Her hand smacked his thigh, not tolerating his pique. “Do you appreciate for a moment what you have accomplished? A single man and his army have terrorized half the world for as long as some can recall. That is ended now, Matthew, for good this time. Europe knows peace.” She pressed him with the words. “You had a very great hand in that.”

  “Can the deed not simply stand on its own?” he barked. “Thank you, general. We are grateful for your service, general.” Matthew sighed, rubbing hands over his face. “Can I cross Mayfair ever again in under half an hour?” He would not admit, even to his mother, what truly bothered him about the attention. It was not simply modesty. It was agony, a wound in his chest picked open by every conversation, each well-wisher.

  His mother crossed her arms, having none of his complaining. “The attention runs a rank deeper for Wellington, Matthew, but you do not see him pouting up and down Bond street, scowling and snapping at the never-ending crush of acquaintance-makers nipping him like pick-pockets.” Adelaide sat back and tsk-tsked. “His Grace, poor thing. Duke of Wellington snuff boxes and walking sticks. Shaving soap! Can you grasp it?” She shuddered.

  He could grasp it, but until now, he had not. In his imaginings, a few more hats would tip a nod on the street, and he would add a medal or two to his uniform. Perhaps receive a dinner invitation to St. James from the Prince Regent. Being transformed into a symbol, a celebrity, had never occurred. Matthew Webb the man had all but ceased to exist to the citizens of Britain.

  His mother smoothed his hands between her own, cool fingers, a balm to some of the fever there. “Stay with me in Mayfair for a few days.”

  “In the middle of town? That rather runs counter to my interests.” He would not be able to so much as open a curtain without drawing a crowd.

  “We can keep one another company,” she offered.

  Matthew stared out the window, wishing at once to feel nothing at all, or something besides crushing misery. “I don't know that I wish any company.”

  She moved beside him, settling onto the seat and resting her head at his breast. “I miss her, too.”

  He wanted to shout that it was not the same, that she could never truly understand the hollow space around his heart. Instead, he bent and rested his face in her palm, letting his heart pour out.

  * * *

  Mayfair, London – July 21, 1815

  Ty stood rooted to the sidewalk, a crowd of pedestrians flowing practically unnoticed around him. He hovered in front of Matthew's house at 41 Upper Brook Street, staring up at the gray stone facade, trying to find his courage. It seemed lately that he only came with bad news.

  Not all bad, he thought. Matthew had passed from grieving to wallowing somewhere over the weeks. He did not relish the task of putting a boot in his friend's arse, but it was as much his duty as following Matthew's orders on the field. And it was high time for a reminder that someone else felt Kate's loss.

  “Tyler, shall I come with you?”

  Olivia's soft voice drifted from his carriage, soothing, bolstering his spirits. Ty shook his head absently, not turning around.

  What Matthew needed, he had decided the previous night under the wisdom of good gin, was motivation. Something besides Kate and the army on which to focus his attention. What a fortunate coincidence, Ty mused as he mounted the first narrow step, that someone had provided that very opportunity.

  Who was that man, he wondered, who had gone to White's last night? What honest lout had unburdened his soul to the members of Mercier Pitt's gentleman's club? It had taken bollocks to share that Lord Webb was chuckling over his wife Caroline's new dalliance with Sir John Perry. Undoubtedly it had been a man so concerned with the matter that he had completely disregarded the obvious consequences: Webb and Pitt were going to shred one another like cats in a sack.

  Ty gave himself a congratulatory smile, tucking his walking stick beneath his arm to rap on the door. It sounded to him like the sort of thing a good friend would do.

  And when it came to Matthew, Ty considered himself the very best of friends.

  * * *

  If Ty had knocked, Matthew hadn't heard it, which did not surprise him. He'd grown adept over the last week at hearing little beyond his butler replacing dirty glasses with clean ones. The hall clock's chime was an indistinct murmur, and he did not hear when guests called because Pendley knew better than to tell him. Liquor came up from the cellar and food did not, all of which suited him perfectly.

  Ty slipped into the study with the deftness of a paper under the door. He glanced around the dim study like prey, seeming to object more to the drawn curtains than the general mess. “How long have you been in here? Not since I last saw you...
”

  “Since waking.” The admission lay thick on his lips, the syllables bending uncomfortably. Matthew barely stopped his gin-soaked brain from sharing that he had woken in the study. On the floor, if one cared to know.

  Commandeering a chair from under the window, Ty brought it alongside the desk. Matthew used the toe of his boot to scoot the white porcelain bottle of MacKinlay's across the mahogany, its unglazed base stuttering, digging for traction as though it had been abused enough and could bear no more.

  Ty shook his head. “Don't worry. I won't tip the bottle and risk dislodging you from the bottom. How much have you put down today?”

  “By God,” he drawled, “It's as though my mother's here. More than a monk and less than West-Indies deck hand. Satisfied?”

  Making a show of checking his watch, Ty nodded slowly. “Satisfied with your stamina, but pace yourself. It's only now past three.”

  He laughed, immediately hating the sound and that it had come unbidden. Snatching back the scotch, he did not bother a rendezvous with his cup, bringing it straight to his lips. Burn and smoke filled his nostrils and lungs, threatening to choke him should he fill his mouth any further. He swallowed, grimacing, and smacked the bottle to the desk harder than he'd meant. “Why have you come?” He knew why, and Ty knew why, but he wanted to know if Ty would tell the truth, or if they would make a game of it as they often did.

  “Not for the reason you imagine, as a matter of fact. I passed the door of White's on my way to Jermyn street and was seduced by a most heated exchange. Never would have stopped or taken notice if the noise weren't so uncharacteristic for a group of Hazard-playing clothes hangers.”

  “And what is the on dit?” He pretended to care for Ty's sake.

  Ty fiddled with the neat stitching at his cuff. “Mercier Pitt means to call you out, this very moment. Says you failed to defend Caroline's honor against claims of her adultery with Sir Perry. He'd worked up quite the crowd when I left.”

  His mind could not have wrapped around it were he sober. “How can she be unfaithful with Sir Perry when she never leaves Pitt? Why is no one fighting anything in my honor?”

  As if conjured, commotion out in the hall robbed him of any answer. He counted hammering steps from the entry to the study, still surprised when the door flew open. Mercier Pitt filled the doorway, a fashion plate from a gentleman's magazine come to life. He was newly accessorized with a curling black mustache that would have been impressive on a six-foot Prussian grenadier, but was merely ridiculous on a British prig half a foot shorter. He raked a boot at the threshold, nostrils flaring and ready to charge the moment he saw red.

  Matthew put his foot down and sat forward, waving off his poor butler who fretted behind Pitt. There was no hope of shooing him away. Pendley's retreat made the major bold enough to take strides into the room. Ty shot up from his chair, but Matthew held up a hand for him to stay put, pondering the sudden concern for his well-being from all sides.

  Pitt threw his gloves to the floor in a move calculated for drama. Matthew felt his patience slip before Pitt spoke a single word. “By God, Webb, I'll have satisfaction! If you believe for a moment that I do not know it's you who's falsely –”

  He didn't remember coming off the chair, but it tumbled over somewhere behind him.

  The human fist connecting with the jaw was painful. Matthew had no idea why that always surprised him.

  Pitt skidded over the rug and clutched his face, retching, launching a bloody gob of spit onto the marble. Matthew was on top of him, grabbing a fistful of collar to raise Pitt a little off the floor. When they were eye to eye, he leaned in. “As you were, Major Burrell.” Ty froze halfway around the desk, knowing from Matthew's tone not to interfere.

  His own breath reflected back was staggering with fumes, causing Pitt's face to turn away as he spoke. “My aim with a pistol is equal to that of my fist. Will it be dawn at the Fields, or no?”

  Silence.

  Fed by liquor, fury kindled in his chest. Burning knuckles hungered to pummel the man's face until neither of them had feeling left. Instead, he exhaled and wrung some slack from the major's cravat. “The Fields...or no?”

  Lips trembling, Pitt rattled his head furiously, slinging crimson spittle onto his white linen shirtfront. Disgusted, Matthew dropped him and stood up. Rage drained away enough to leave him feeling very old, very tired, and very drunk.

  Pitt twisted away, scrambling back and onto his feet, brushing at his coat. “Caroline has asked me to say –”

  “Who?” Matthew raised his fist just a fraction.

  “Car...Caroline?”

  Pitt's heavy swallowing disgusted him. He cupped an ear, leaning in fast enough that the man flinched. “Who?”

  “Lady Webb...?”

  Matthew nodded, smirking. “Better.”

  Pitt did not dare meet his eyes. “Lady Webb has agreed to divorce terms. For... for two-thousand pounds settlement.”

  “Hah!” He laughed, doubling up when he caught sight of Ty's stricken face. “To keep her pet in a reasonable fashion? You certainly won't do the job on half-pay. Or have you finally got the deed done, and no one from here to Paris is going mistake your bastard for mine?”

  Pitt studied his boots and said nothing.

  He turned to his desk, clucking his tongue at Tyler's wide eyes. “Could have had an earl, had she muddled through a bit longer.” Matthew snapped the leather bank book open with a crack, startling Pitt but still not capturing his eyes. Scrawling Caroline's name over the note without a dram of trust for Mercier Pitt, he waved it out, forcing Pitt in close to reach for his prize.

  Plucking it back from eager fingers, he raised it high a moment. “Here is one thousand, all you and the lady will wring from me without a brace of pistols. Not because I fear your threats or her tongue, but out of gratitude at being rid of you both.”

  Pitt snatched forward and he raised the paper again. “And I will never see you again. If you spy me on the street, you had better cross before I catch your face.”

  He was satisfied enough with the man's saucer-eyed nod to part with the bank note. “Come on, then.” Matthew waved the check. “You had no trouble taking my wife under my roof. My money should not give you greater pause.”

  With enough decency to look ashamed, Pitt took the paper. He blew through the door like a wisp of smoke, closing it behind him.

  Falling into his chair Matthew relaxed, letting it cradle limbs shaking from drink and agitation. He watched Ty produce a handkerchief and press it to the green-glass mouth of a nearly empty gin bottle. Saturating the cloth, he raked fingers, gesturing at Matthew's damaged hand. “Let me have it.”

  Kate would have done the same, taking care of him and seeing to his wounds without offering any quarter for his stupidity. His heart began to ache, his eyes ached. He felt sick, and the tide of bitterness washed over him again. He winced as Ty dabbed the cloth to the knuckles of his left hand, and he jerked away. “Do not touch me. In fact, it is time you left.”

  Ty pressed harder, branding his torn flesh with the liquor. “How completely selfish of you. You are not the only one who lost her. Or loved her, you unfathomable ass.”

  The news was a fist to the gut. Matthew sat slack-jawed, throbbing left hand all but forgotten. Ty rammed the handkerchief into his pocket, feeding it in with two angry fingers. His face was turned down with anguish and tight with rage. “I told you once that any man who trifled with Kate had to be willing, able to give her what she deserved. Just because I could not, that doesn't mean my feelings for her ceased to exist.” Ty was furious, as much as he had ever seen.

  “I asked you once if we were in competition for her,” Matthew accused.

  “And I told you, truthfully, that we were not. A competition implies we had equal chances.”

  “I don't understand.” Suddenly he regretted the copious amount of spirits he had consumed since waking.

  “You were never in any danger from me. My affections could not have been
constant enough for her. Remember, I knew her before we all landed in Belgium. She was a quick enough study to see my stripes.” Ty sighed. “Besides, it was plain from the first moment I spotted you together, you were cast from the same mold.”

  “I'm sorry, Tyler.” In more ways than one.

  The hall clock interrupted, bellowing out four long chimes, and Ty stepped back. “I won't overstay myself.”

  No longer quite so saturated with drink, he realized how much of the day still stretched out ahead, and felt afraid of being alone. Matthew dreaded the maw of loneliness waiting to gobble him up the second Ty quit the house. “The company is welcome, even if I'm not much of it myself,” he offered.

  Ty shifted from one foot to the other a little guiltily, eyes pointedly fixed on the floor. “I am engaged to take Miss Fletcher riding in the park.”

  “Olivia Fletcher, Portsmouth's daughter?” Matthew was curious, despite himself. “She's not your sort.” She was young, and certainly not a widow.

  Ty chewed his lip thoughtfully at the protest, and when their eyes did meet, his were raw. “I find my tastes have changed. As well as myself.” He reached into his pocket, and Matthew anticipated the resurrection of Ty's handkerchief. Instead he produced a long vellum envelope. “I brought this for you. Do with it as you like, and you'll have no quarrel from me either way. For my part, I think it will help.”

  Ty tossed it to the desk. “You're in a bad way, Matthew. May as well be miserable there instead of here.”

  Matthew let the small parcel sit until the door closed and he heard the tell-tale clip clop of Ty's horses on the stones out front. Dragging it close with a finger, he turned it over a few times, trying to guess the contents before finally unfolding it.

  First-class Berth – The Halifax

  Bound for New York, United States