A Lady for Lord Randall

by Sarah Mallory

  At last the guns were limbered up and retreating back the way they had come. And just in time, for the French chasseurs were making a dash for the street. Randall had lost sight of Gideon. He looked round to see his brother had dismounted to help a fallen bombardier to his feet. Randall shouted a warning as he saw Gideon’s horse trotting off behind the gun carriages. There was no time for more, the French charged upon Randall, who resisted furiously. The narrow street meant only a couple of chasseurs at a time could attack, but as quickly as he despatched one another would take his place. He held Pompey steady in the centre of the street and fought fiercely, but he could not keep them all back. At least two chasseurs swept past him, only to be brought down by Gideon who used his sword to deadly effect.

  The French kept coming. Randall’s arm was tiring when he heard the clear, ringing sound of a bugle. Behind the remaining Frenchmen he saw the welcome sight of British cavalry bearing down upon them. His assailants turned to face this new threat and Randall allowed his aching arm to drop. The rain that had been threatening all day began to fall in a soft, silent drizzle.

  Breathing heavily, Randall looked back to see the last of the gun carriages lumbering away into the distance. A couple of French horses followed them, their riders lying lifeless on the ground. He wheeled Pompey, looking for his brother. Gideon was kneeling on the road, his sword still in his hand, his head bowed. Randall threw himself from the saddle and ran up to him.

  ‘Easy, Gideon.’ He caught the boy as he keeled over, easing him on to the ground and keeping one arm around his shoulders as he ran a practised eye over his body. Randall’s mouth tightened into a thin line. Gideon’s left arm hung down uselessly, slashed almost to the bone, and dark stains were beginning to spread over his red coat, which was cut to shreds.

  ‘Did we save your guns, Justin?’

  The words came out with difficulty, each word on a rasping breath.

  ‘Yes, we saved them, Gideon, thanks to you.’ Randall began to unfasten Gideon’s jacket, praying the sword wounds had not touched any vital organs.

  ‘Good. The men lost heart when Sheffield fell and Rawlins didn’t seem to know what to do.’ Gideon gave a faint laugh that ended in a gasp. ‘Not so easy as it seems, this soldiering.’

  ‘Indeed not. Try not to speak now.’ He eased open the tattered jacket. The shirt beneath it was crimson as Gideon’s life blood seeped away. Randall looked about him frantically. The artillery had disappeared and the cavalry had drawn the French back into the square to finish the fight. There was no one to come to his aid, but in his heart he knew from his brother’s rattling breath that he was beyond help.

  ‘It’s growing very dark,’ Gideon whispered.

  ‘It’s the rain,’ said Randall. ‘The clouds are very heavy.’

  ‘It did not work for me, your lucky charm.’ Gideon’s bloody right hand lifted the sword a few inches from the ground. ‘I took it. When I came to see you on Thursday. Hid it beneath my frock coat. Thought you’d not fight without it. Foolish of me, to think that.’

  ‘Yes. Damned foolish.’

  Gideon dropped the sword and clutched at Randall’s sleeve. ‘I did it for Chalfont, Justin. Mama would never tell you, but she is getting old. She needs you to look after the estates now.’

  ‘I shall do so, Gideon. As soon as this is over.’ Randall felt the grip on his arm weaken and added urgently, ‘Stay with me, boy. We will get you to a doctor very soon.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ The voice was no more than a thread. ‘Damned bloody business, war.’

  Randall did not reply. His throat felt thick and too clogged even to cough.

  ‘Justin, are you still there?’ Gideon’s eyes stared up sightlessly.

  ‘Yes. I am here.’

  ‘I didn’t do too badly, did I?’

  ‘You did well. I am proud of you, Brother.’

  ‘Good.’ The boy relaxed. Randall looked round again, cursing under his breath.

  ‘Where the devil is everyone?’

  ‘Too late for me.’ Gideon winced. ‘Tell Sarah I died well, Justin.’

  Randall bit his lip, but even as he tried to find the words to reassure Gideon the life went out of the boy and his head dropped to one side, as if he had fallen asleep. There was a flash of lightning and thunder reverberated through the air. The drizzle turned to a downpour and washed the blood and grime from Gideon’s young face.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Randall muttered. ‘I’ll tell her she can be very proud of you.’

  Above the noise of the rain Randall heard voices and running feet. Flint had arrived with a party of men. Randall laid Gideon gently on the ground and rose to his feet. He blinked rapidly.

  ‘Confounded rain is in my eyes,’ he growled to Flint, who was standing beside him.

  Thunder crashed and rolled around the skies. Raising his voice to make himself heard above the storm, Randall gave orders for Flint to take care of the body, then he walked to his horse and rode away without a backward glance.

  Gideon was right. War was a damned bloody business.

  * * *

  There was no time for Randall to dwell on everything Gideon had said, to do more than regret—bitterly—that he had stormed at Mary and changed the warm glow in her eyes to one of bemused horror and heartbreak. The unit had to retreat to Genappe to meet up with the other two divisions that were some way ahead of them. Apart from giving Rawlins a dressing down for letting another officer—even worse, a cavalry officer—take charge of his troop, he had said no more about the incident. At one point they came upon the main body of the cavalry drawn up beside the highway and Randall’s eyes narrowed when Bennington Ffog broke away and cantered towards him on his showy black charger.

  ‘Colonel Randall, sorry about your loss, old fellow. Your brother was shaping up to be a fine officer.’

  Randall nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He was glad to give his attention to Pompey, who had taken exception to the black’s posturing and swung his head to nip at the glossy flank that was temptingly close. Bennington Ffog was momentarily alarmed by the attack, but he was not going to be driven off until he had delivered the ultimate humiliation.

  ‘Died a hero, though, what? I told him to follow Uxbridge, but instead he stayed and saved your artillery division from being captured by the enemy. I shall be making sure Wellington knows of it.’

  Randall’s eyes narrowed in response to the fellow’s guffaw of laughter. He said coldly, ‘If he had stuck to his orders, my brother might be alive now, Colonel.’

  The laughter stopped immediately. ‘What? Oh, yes—yes, of course. Well, mustn’t keep you. You’ll be wantin’ to get your men settled for the night.’

  Bennington Ffog saluted and rode off, leaving Randall scowling after him.

  ‘What in damnation did he want?’

  Randall did not have to look round to know that it was Major Flint who had ridden up. His angry tone was unmistakable and perfectly matched Randall’s mood.

  ‘Offering his condolences,’ he said shortly. ‘I might ask the same of you. Why are you here?’

  ‘Bartlett’s division and my own are already bedded down for the night on the far side of Genappe. I came back to find Rawlins and show him the way, to save him taking the artillery pieces into the centre of another town.’

  ‘Very well. Let’s find the lieutenant.’

  He turned and Flint fell in beside him. Randall noted that his half-brother was leaving a safe distance between them: not that it was Pompey who was likely to be the aggressor this time. Flint’s brute of a horse was known to lash out at anyone or anything within range.

  Something of a Latymor trait, thought Randall grimly. Certainly one that he and Flint shared. And Gideon? No, his younger brother had merely been foolhardy.

  ‘He’d been sent ahead with Uxbridge,’ he
said suddenly. ‘That’s when he came upon Rawlins and his men trying to get the guns turned about.’

  ‘And the damned fool wanted his moment of glory.’

  ‘He had the Latymor sword. He must have taken it when he came to see me on Thursday.’

  And Mary was innocent.

  ‘The devil he did.’ Flint shot a quick look at him. ‘The men noticed you weren’t wearing it yesterday. Your lucky charm—’

  ‘It carries no more luck with it than that tree stump.’

  Worse, it had caused him to lose her.

  ‘With respect, Colonel.’

  Randall frowned, knowing Flint was never in the least respectful.

  The major continued. ‘It isn’t what you or I know, it’s what the men think. I’d wager it was the lack of the sword that panicked Rawlins and his men once Sheffield was dead. It’s why they were so quick to follow Major Latymor.’

  ‘‘Well, I am wearing it again now,’ snapped Randall, dropping one hand to the familiar, worn hilt at his side. His dress sword would be taken back to Brussels along with Gideon’s lifeless body. ‘Make sure the men are all aware of it.’

  He dug his heels into Pompey’s flanks and the grey responded by breaking into a canter. Damn Flint for being right. But it made Gideon no less a hero. If he hadn’t been there to whip up the men, God knows what might have happened to the guns. He would have to keep a close eye on Rawlins until another commanding officer could be found. It wouldn’t be easy, the Rogues were well named, every man of them a villain, but they’d perform as well as any unit in Wellington’s army, under the right officer. Give them the wrong one and they were as dangerous as those plaguey rocketeers whose damned missiles could never be relied upon to go in the right direction.

  * * *

  The morning found the Rogues taking up their position on a ridge above the Nivelles road with a square of infantry behind them. Looking down at the corn growing on the slopes before them, Randall could see it was full of Frenchmen, but they were retreating in the face of the deadly fire of the riflemen advancing upon them. However, it was not long before Randall’s troop came under fire from the enemy guns on the far hill.

  ‘Go to it, Rogues,’ he roared. ‘Show them what you can do!’

  Chapter Eleven

  Mary lay in her bed, eyes closed. She had dreamed that she was dancing with Randall, that he was looking down at her, smiling, his eyes shining with love. The happiness faded as memory returned. If ever he had loved her it had been short-lived.

  Two nights had passed since that dreadful evening at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball and she had heard nothing from Randall. She had returned to the Rue Haute, dry-eyed, too distraught for tears. Randall had accused her of taking his sword. That he should understand her so little, trust her so little, wounded her deeply. She refused to allow Lady Sarah to stay with her lest she incur even more of her brother’s wrath. Besides, Mary did not want company. No one could ease the pain within her.

  The morning after the ball, streets that had been noisy and bustling with activity throughout the night were eerily quiet. No bugles sounded, the cobbles did not ring with the sound of horses or marching feet. Mary had spent the day trying to come to terms with what had happened. Randall had left Brussels and he did not wish to see her again. It was the worst of partings, no soft words or tender looks to remember, just his chilling anger.

  ‘I did nothing wrong.’

  She uttered the words aloud more than once during the long Friday following the ball, while she roamed the schoolhouse, wandering aimlessly through the empty rooms. Jacques and Therese kept her informed of the rumours that were spreading like wildfire through the city. At first they said the French were repulsed; then that the British had been cut to pieces. Mary ignored them all and as soon as dinner was over she ordered Jacques to put up the shutters and she went to bed, but not to sleep. For a second night she lay awake for hours, at last falling into a fitful doze that was disturbed by dreams of Randall as she wanted to remember him, smiling at her, loving her. But with the dawn had come reality, and the pain was still there.

  A knock at the bedroom door roused her. She sat up as her maid came into the room.

  ‘I have brought your chocolat chaud, m’amselle. You slept well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mary lied. She could not tell her maid how she had lain awake in her bed, going over Randall’s words, trying to work out why he had thought her capable of betraying him.

  ‘Jacques went out early to see if there was any news.’ Therese put down her cup and bustled about the room, chattering all the time. ‘The thunder we ’eard yesterday, m’amselle, it was from a battle. At Quatre Bras.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mary felt nothing but a dull ache inside.

  ‘Many of the English they are leaving Brussels now, m’amselle. Perhaps you would like me to pack your trunks today?’

  I would advise you not to be in Brussels when I return.

  Randall’s last words to her cut as deep as when he had uttered them, but she would not run away.

  ‘I am not leaving Brussels, Therese.’ She sipped at her hot chocolate. Its soothing warmth put heart into her. ‘Do you and Jacques wish to go?’

  ‘Mais non, m’amselle. Brussels is our home.’

  ‘But if the French should come?’

  Therese gave a shrug.

  ‘They have been here before. The French, the British, it makes no difference, we will endure.’

  ‘And so will I.’

  ‘Tiens, m’amselle, you would be safer in Antwerp.’

  Mary wanted to cry out that she did not care what happened to her, but that would be foolish. When her sister’s lifeless body had been dragged from the Thames, Mary had railed against her, furious that Jane had given in, had deserted her. Perhaps now she understood a little more why Jane had ended her life, but she would not do so. She would not give in to the aching misery that pressed upon her heart. After all she was the injured party, not the earl. She raised her head and spoke in a firm voice to her maidservant.

  ‘I shall stay until we have reliable information on the situation.’

  And news of Randall. He might not want to see her again, but she was still desperate to know he was safe. She dragged herself from her bed. She must throw off this lethargy. There was much to do.

  Jacques was waiting downstairs for her, his face creased and anxious.

  ‘Mademoiselle, there are those who say the French are coming,’ he told her. ‘It would be best for you to leave. If they discover you are English...’

  She put up her hand.

  ‘I am staying. I do not believe this is anything more than rumour.’ But if it should be true? She might have to leave quickly. ‘However, you can fetch my horse from the livery stables and put it in the little barn at the edge of the gardens. In this present climate I would not be surprised if someone made off with it.’

  * * *

  Jacques hurried away and Mary went into her sitting room. A number of letters lay on her desk, including three from outraged parents informing her that they had heard of her behaviour at the Duchess’s ball and would not be sending their children back to the Rue Haute. She was not surprised. It would be all over Brussels by now that she had thrown herself at the earl, that she was his mistress. Acceptable for a high-born lady, perhaps, but not for a lowly teacher. She would have to close the school. Best to do it now, while only the dozen girls she had sent to Antwerp were still in her care.

  Mary sat down at her desk. She must write to their families. Her staff would continue teaching the children in Antwerp until their parents could fetch them. In the meantime she would close up the Brussels schoolhouse and sell it, if she could find a buyer.

  And after that? Mary stared at the blank sheet of paper on the desk before her. She had a little money, enough to live
on for a while, until everyone had forgotten her. Then she would open another school. In Paris, perhaps. Her French was impeccable and she was confident some of her father’s old friends there would help her. Or England. In the north country, far away from any of Randall’s estates. What did it matter where she went now? What did anything matter?

  A tear dripped on to the paper and she dashed a hand across her eyes.

  ‘Oh, do not be such a ninny,’ she scolded herself. ‘This melancholy will pass soon enough and then you will care very much, if you have not made provision for yourself.’

  She raised her head when she heard the knocker, and deep voices in the hall. Her heart leapt. It was Randall. Quickly she wiped her eyes and rose, shaking out her skirts.

  ‘Oh.’ Her soaring spirits plummeted. ‘Bertrand. Good day to you.’

  If he noticed her disappointment Bertrand Lebbeke gave no sign of it.

  ‘I am on my way from the hospital and saw the schoolhouse was inhabited. You should have left Brussels by now, Mary.’

  She spread her hands. ‘As you see, I am still here. I sent the children to Antwerp, the school goes on there without me.’ She invited him to sit down. ‘Is there any news? Any real news, I mean, rather than the incessant rumours that Jacques brings me.’

  ‘Well, the French are not yet at the gates,’ he said, smiling a little.

  ‘And was yesterday’s action decisive?’

  He shook his head. ‘I do not think so. The Allies fought bravely, although the artillery did not arrive in time to protect them.’

  So Randall did not fight yesterday. He was safe. Mary’s relief was so great it made her feel light-headed and it was an effort to concentrate upon Bertrand’s next words.

  ‘Brussels is overflowing with wounded soldiers,’ he said gravely. ‘The hospital is full, we have been working all night, but the number of injured men requiring attention grows by the hour.’ With a stab of remorse Mary realised how tired he looked as he rubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘Many are being tended in the streets. The mayor has made an appeal for bedding and supplies to be brought to the Grand Place. Perhaps you have not heard. They need food, bandages, anything that can be spared.’