Chapter 70
Stephen stared up at the imposing façade of Horse Guards as Temberlay’s coach pulled up before it. He’d been here many times before, but this time he was entering as an accused coward.
“I assume Rothdale—Durling—was invited to be here?” he asked through stiff lips. “What guarantee do we have that he’ll come?” Stephen muttered, his fists clenching. If he got the chance, he’d put his fist through his face.
“Oh, he won’t want to miss this. He planned your downfall rather well. He’ll want to see you fully disgraced,” Nicholas said.
Stephen shut his eyes, remembered the months of blindness, fear. “His accusations nearly cost me everything, and still might—my career, my reputation, my sight—Delphine nearly married him. He would have ruined her life too.”
“But she didn’t,” Nicholas said. “And she’s doing her damndest to see that your reputation is restored.”
“Do I dare hope that she has forgiven me?”
“For lying to her, betraying her trust, using her?” Nicholas asked. “I think you’ll have to ask her. She’ll be here today.”
Stephen stopped walking. “Here? Why?”
“She insisted. Says she has evidence.”
“We have the flower, the vowel, what else could there be?” Stephen said. Did she want to see him shamed and disgraced? He was not sure he could bear that. He straightened his tunic, and marched up the steps. He had worn this coat for six years, through battles and skirmishes, victories and losses. If the judgment went against him, Fairlie would slice away the insignia, and leave him disgraced. Stephen remembered the tunic he’d worn at Waterloo, still in his footlocker. He hadn’t looked at it again. There was no point.
He was escorted along the halls by a detachment of soldiers, their boot heels ringing on the marble floors, muskets at the ready since Stephen was a prisoner. The door of the courtroom opened as they approached, and Stephen felt his chest tighten.
A mahogany table stood at the head of the room, and Stephen recognized the file containing the evidence. If his salvation from the charge of cowardice lay in that file, he hadn’t found it.
And as for the charges of theft, everything hinged on the vowel, and the book.
“Ready?” Nicholas asked, indicating a second, smaller table, where Stephen would sit to hear the evidence read out, and the sentence passed.
Stephen didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Delphine walked through the door at that moment. She met Stephen’s eyes for a brief instant before Nicholas went forward to take her arm and escort her to a seat. Browning was with her, he noted—her escort and bodyguard. Good—the sergeant would not allow harm to come to her. Not that she was afraid—she looked pretty and confident, composed, though she did not belong in in this masculine preserve. His heart contracted in his chest.
She turned as Durling came in, smartly turned out in his uniform as well, a smirk of triumph on his face. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Delphine. He gave her a charming grin, and moved toward her.
Stephen clenched his fist on his knee, and glared at the man, but Durling gave him only a cursory glance before turning his attention back to Delphine. She gave Durling a dazzling smile, charmed him with a single glance. She played the game well. Stephen’s skin crawled as Peter bowed over her hand, and his lips lingered on her flesh. He saw her bite her lip, and knew she was nervous. Two spots of high color appeared in her cheeks, and Stephen recognized the expression in her eyes as the same uncertainty he’d seen at the ball, the look that had made him rescue her from Rothdale in the first place.
Stephen only knew he’d started toward the man when he felt Nicholas clamp his hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into his seat. “Not now,” he muttered.
Delphine felt her heart melt when she saw Stephen in his tunic. It was how she’d pictured him, how she’d always known him before Waterloo, a hero in scarlet. It was how he’d looked the night of the ball, and on the day he’d arrived at the villa, shattered by the battle. She glanced nervously at Browning. Would his testimony, along with her own, be enough?
She avoided Stephen’s gray eyes, knowing looking at him now would undo her, but felt longing fill her breast.
She gritted her teeth and forced a smile when Peter arrived and bowed over her hand, and repressed a shudder when he kissed the naked flesh of her wrist above the edge of her glove. She saw Stephen begin to rise, intent on coming to her rescue once again, watched Nicholas stop him.
Delphine raised her chin and forced a placid smile, kept still when Durling’s knee touched her skirts as he sat. She was afraid he’d try to take her hand, so she clasped her palms together in her lap, squeezing them so tightly the leather of her gloves squeaked in protest.
The judges entered—Colonel Lord Fairlie, the regimental surgeon, a major she did not know, and a gentleman in civilian clothes she recognized as Sir Donovan Lewis, Lord Castlereagh’s secretary, and a friend of her father’s. She sent him a radiant smile. Sir Donovan smiled back, though he looked surprised to see her here.
“Delphine?” Fairlie also regarded his sister-in-law in surprise. “What the dev—what on earth—are you doing here?”
“She is a witness in this matter, my lord,” Nicholas said. Delphine felt Peter shift beside her, turn to look at her, his smug smile gone. She didn’t dare look at him.
Fairlie frowned, and her gloves squeaked again. He had the authority to send her out, of course, if he wished. “This is most unusual. Could you not have written down what you wish to say, or had someone deliver the testimony on your behalf?” he demanded. Eleanor, she knew, would never have been allowed to attend a court-martial.
“There is much that could not be conveyed in a letter, or entrusted to another,” she said firmly, meeting her brother-in-law’s eyes, holding his ferocious gaze.
He looked away first, and sighed. “Unless there is a strong objection by any of the other officers and gentlemen here, you may remain. I trust you will not faint?”
“I was in Brussels following the battle, nursed wounded men, saw blood and injuries and death, and I did not faint then,” she pointed out. Durling’s surprise was palpable now.
“Yes, I suppose you were. Very well. Let us proceed,” Fairlie said. “Major Hastings, read out the charges.”
The major put on his spectacles and began.
Cowardice. Desertion. Theft. Dishonorable conduct.
Each word was like a blow. Delphine kept her gaze fixed on Stephen’s scarlet back, mentally touching the bullet holes that marred his flesh under the garment. Did they still hurt? They hurt her. He was staring straight ahead, as if his blindness had returned. She regarded the grave faces of the men who sat in judgment, saw no hope in their eyes.
“Present the evidence, Major,” Fairlie said.
The major opened a file and took out a letter. “This statement was written out by a Major Kenneth Wilkins, a surgeon,” he began, “and signed as a true and honest account by Sergeant Tom Hallet.”
He read it aloud, the account damning, and Delphine held her breath.
Fairlie looked at the small crowd of witnesses. “Is Sergeant Hallet present?”
“He could not be located, despite an extensive search,” Nicholas said.
“He might have died,” the regimental surgeon said gruffly. “Even the most minor injuries can be fatal on the battlefield, or after.”
“Then is Dr. Wilkins here to confirm the veracity of this statement?” Fairlie demanded.
“Regimental records do not show a surgeon or even an officer by the name of Kenneth Wilkins,” Nicholas said. “Do you know him, Colonel?” he asked the regimental surgeon.
The man frowned. “No, but there were physicians and surgeons from all armies present. Perhaps he’s Dutch, or Belgian.” He rubbed his chin. “Mind you, most of those gentlemen did not speak English, and they all had foreign names.”
“Then may we set this piece of evidence aside for a moment and move on?” Nicholas asked.
�
�I think we must, at least in the hope that something will come up to clarify all this,” Fairlie pointed out. “I will add that the letter was brought to my quarters, pushed under the door. No one saw who delivered it. Still, the contents are too damning—” He glanced at Delphine. “Too shocking—to ignore. Go on, Major Hastings. What other evidence of cowardice do you have to present?”
The major flushed slightly. “Well none directly, my lord. There are a number of letters from officers who were interviewed once the accusation against Major Lord Ives was known.”
“Gossip?” Fairlie asked.
“Recollections, my lord,” Hastings said. “None of these officers witnessed the events Sergeant Hallet’s statement describes, but Major Ives is described as a taciturn man who kept to himself, and refused to join the other officers in their leisure pursuits in Brussels.”
“Did he do his duty?” Sir Donovan Lewis asked.
“There are no statements to say that he did not, and he is described as an exemplary officer by his men,” Hastings replied.
“Are any of those officers here today?” Fairlie asked.
“Lieutenant Greenfield has written a letter recanting his testimony, though he could not be present today,” Nicholas said.
“Is there anyone at all here to speak for you, Major?” Fairlie asked Stephen.
Delphine shot to her feet, and Browning rose to stand beside her. Durling gaped at her. Fairlie frowned impatiently. “Do sit down, Delphine. What could you know of these matters?” He turned to Browning. “Who are you, and what have you to add to these proceedings?”
“This is Sergeant Alan Browning of the Royal Dragoons,” Delphine began, but Fairlie held up a hand.
“Please allow him to speak for himself.”
She raised her chin. “I’m afraid that is impossible. Sergeant Browning was injured at Waterloo. A lance struck his cheek, and damaged his tongue. He has asked me to speak on his behalf,” Delphine said. She noted the confusion on Stephen’s face, and ignored it.
The surgeon beckoned Browning forward, and examined his mouth, then nodded.
“How can he be of assistance here?” Fairlie demanded. “Unless it was Major Lord Ives’s bayonet that did for him.”
“On the contrary,” Delphine said. “Major Ives saved the sergeant’s life.”
She felt Peter stir beside her. “How can you know that if he cannot speak?” he murmured.
Stephen turned in his chair to look at her, and at Browning, a frown creasing his brow.
“Sergeant Browning arrived at the villa—”
“Let the record show that Lady Delphine means the villa where I was billeted, Chateau des Pommes. My lady wife turned the house into a hospital after the battle,” Fairlie said. “Go on, Delphine.”
“Sergeant Browning arrived, and his wound was cauterized—” Even the surgeon squirmed at that description, she noticed, though Browning remained calm. “Still, he got up the next day, insisted on assisting other patients, including Major Lord Ives.”
“What were the major’s injuries?”
The surgeon sat forward. “From what I remember, he had three bullets in his back. His arm and two ribs were broken, and he was blind. We did not expect him to live, nor did we hold much hope for the recovery of his sight.” He peered at Stephen. “You look remarkably well, Major.”
Browning untied the bundle and took out Stephen’s battle-scarred tunic and held it up. Durling swallowed audibly. “Does this look like the uniform of an officer who spent the battle hiding in safety?” Delphine asked.
Donovan Lewis blanched, Fairlie frowned, and the surgeon beckoned to Browning to bring him the tunic. He turned it over gingerly, and nodded. “The holes in the tunic are consistent with the reported injuries.” He looked at Stephen in astonishment and shook his head. “A remarkable recovery indeed, Major. In my opinion, these marks, and the blood, suggest that this is not the tunic of a coward.”
“And do we know how the major saved Sergeant Browning’s life?” Fairlie demanded.
Delphine held out the letter that Browning had carefully written, and the Bible. Nicholas carried it to Fairlie, who peered at it closely.
“Sergeant Browning could not read or write, and had no way of communicating once his voice was gone. His mother taught him the Bible by heart, and he counted the words as he recited them, chose the ones that would help him make his meaning plain. He copied them out, learned to read and to write so he could help repay the major’s kindness,” Delphine said.
“What is your recollection of saving the sergeant’s life, Major Lord Ives?” Fairlie asked.
Stephen stared at his manservant in surprise. “You were the one unhorsed in the middle of the charge,” he said. “You’d spoken to me before the call sounded, said the charge looked like a forlorn hope . . .”
Browning nodded.
“Your horse went down, and you were left standing in the middle of the charge, injured. You would have been run down, killed.”
Browning nodded again, his eyes bright.
“What did you do?” Fairlie asked Stephen.
“It was a simple thing. I reached out a hand to him, and he put his foot on my stirrup. I took him a few yards on, and set him down where he would be safe. Then I rode on.”
Durling shot to his feet. “How do we know that’s true?” he demanded, his face red.
“Is it true, sergeant?” Fairlie said.
Browning put his hand over his heart.
“And he is holding a Bible,” Delphine added, giving Peter a sharp little smile. She saw panic pass through his eyes.
“What of the other charges?” Durling demanded. “Theft and dishonor—as an officer of this regiment, I demand that he answer those accusations.”
Delphine shut her eyes. This would be the easy part, would it not? Stephen was still looking at Browning in astonishment.
“Have you evidence of theft to present against the accused, Major Hastings?” Fairlie asked.
The major took several documents out of the file. “This is a list of items found in Major Lord Ives’s quarters after the accusation was made known, things other officers later identified as their own property. The list was signed by yourself, Colonel Fairlie, and His Grace of Temberlay, as the officers who performed the search. Others came forward later with lists of their own, noting other personal items that had gone missing but were not found. It was assumed those things were lost, sold, or pawned.” He flipped through the papers until he found the one he wanted. “In fact, I have a letter here from a Lieutenant Greenfield. He came to Horse Guards a few weeks ago to report finding a ring that belonged to him—a rather valuable heirloom—in a pawnshop here in London.”
Fairlie looked at Nicholas. “Could Major Ives have visited a pawnshop upon his return to London?”
Nicholas shook his head. “It would have been quite impossible. He was recovering from the injuries and wounds described, in my custody, and was unable to see.”
“Could a servant have gone for him?” Major Hastings asked.
“Major Lord Ives’s valet was killed at Waterloo. His only servant at the time was Sergeant Browning. I’m sure you’ll agree it would be almost impossible for a man who cannot speak or write to negotiate a price in a pawnshop.”
Browning opened his mouth to show his damaged tongue once again.
“Then might another person have pawned the stolen items?” Fairlie asked.
Nicholas shrugged. “I assume the thief did so, my lord.”
Fairlie turned to Hastings. “What else, Major?”
Nicholas rose to his feet. “I would like to ask Lady Delphine St. James to give her testimony now,” he said, and went to offer her his arm. A chair was brought forward for her, and set near the judges’ table.
Stephen watched Delphine come forward with her head high, her skirts swirling around her long legs. She kept her expression placid. She glanced at him as she passed, then looked away, her cheeks turning a fragile shade of rose. Stephen noticed how e
ven the regimental surgeon’s customary scowl softened at the sight of her, and Sir Donovan Lewis’s faint smile suggested admiration. Even Major Hastings blinked at her through his spectacles, captivated.
“What have you to say, Delphine?” Fairlie asked his sister-in-law.
“I very recently found something,” she said. She paused and looked around, first at himself, then at Nicholas, then at Durling, pinning him to his chair with pointed disdain. The suspense built. She opened her reticule and took out a book, the book, and held it up.
Durling made a strangled sound.
“I was given this book as a gift,” she said. “It is a rather valuable book of poetry, and—”
“Did you receive it in Brussels?” Fairlie interrupted.
“No, it was given to me here in England—last week, at my father’s house.”
“And who gave it to you?” Fairlie asked.
“Viscount Durling presented it to me,” she said. “A token of affection. My mother—the Countess of Ainsley—saw him give it to me upon leaving Neeland Park, if you wish to ask her. She thought it a romantic gesture.”
“I purchased it—at a pawnshop!” Peter said, shooting to his feet. He was red as his tunic, and sweating, his eyes wide.
“Which pawnshop, Peter?” Delphine asked sweetly.
“Why, the same one! The one in Stepney!”
Fairlie’s lips pinched like a noose drawing tight. He looked at Major Hastings. “I don’t recall anyone mentioning exactly where in London the pawnshop was located. Did you mention that, Hastings?”
Hastings shook his head. “I did not, Colonel.”
Durling turned pale now. “Sit down, Captain,” Fairlie ordered. Peter sank to the edge of his seat, his expression stricken.
“Lieutenant Greenfield has identified the book as his. His sister’s name is inside with the date 1812, and he saw it last among his possessions in Brussels, where he was billeted in the room next to Captain Lord Peter Rothdale’s,” Nicholas said, and turned to Delphine. “Did you find anything inside the book, my lady?”
“I found a gambling vowel. It was stuck between the pages.”
Durling rose to his feet again, but two guards moved forward, and he sank down again.
What a Lady Most Desires Page 28
