The Last Waltz: Hearts are at stake in the game of love... (Dorothy Mack Regency Romances)

by Dorothy Mack

  “How dare you tell those oafs I am your mistress!” she flared, turning a blazing glance on the fair-haired giant at her side.

  “Your pretty gratitude overwhelms me, ma’am,” he replied with a mocking bow. “I beg pardon for such indelicacy, but I didn’t wish to hit two men obviously in their cups, especially when I am a guest in their country.”

  Adrienne had calmed down by now. Fortunately the street was not too well lighted, but by his voice and costume she knew her rescuer as a British military officer and she did not wish to rouse the curiosity of an Englishman. In a voice struggling to be cordial, she thanked him for his timely intervention. He bowed again and made a motion to hail a passing cab, which she stopped by grabbing his arm. Still in her role of grateful receiver of favours, she informed him sweetly that she had already contracted for a sedan chair, which was due any moment.

  “I intend to see you home,” the stranger said shortly.

  “That won’t be necessary.” Adrienne spoke through gritted teeth, but her lack of enthusiasm for his company had no effect on the good Samaritan at her side. When it became apparent that she would not be allowed to undertake the journey on her own, she pretended to feel queasy after her ordeal and insisted on walking to avoid telling him her exact direction while her brain scrambled around trying to discover a way to give her escort the slip.

  It had been an ill-fated outing from the start, and now Adrienne’s cup of bitterness was to overflow as she was forced to endure a homily on the evils of gambling and the folly of going about unescorted. Not that she listened to her insufferably pompous attendant as he struggled to express himself in halting French; she was too intent on escaping him. In high dudgeon that disguised a rising panic, she refused to dignify his remarks with any reply, merely indicating by hand signals which way they should turn.

  Her chance came when they had almost reached the street where the Castles had lodged since their arrival in Brussels. A man stopped her escort to ask directions. Adrienne took instantaneous advantage of his momentary inattention, fading back a step and running around the corner they had just negotiated. She slipped into the shadows of the first deep entranceway, not a second too soon, as her erstwhile rescuer came pounding past. Her muttered prayers that her luck would hold a few seconds longer were answered as she managed to race ahead and attain the safety of her own building unchallenged.

  On the night of Adrienne’s third gambling adventure, Miss Beckworth did not even attempt a show of working. For an hour or two she simply sat unoccupied and almost unmoving, her face a study in concentration and doubt. From time to time her lips moved soundlessly as though rehearsing a speech, and she had already made one or two tentative movements indicative of an intention to rise out of her chair, movements that had ended by her sinking back onto its seat, when her face assumed an expression of fixed determination that was translated into an abrupt spring from her reclining position. She proceeded directly to a small table under the window, from the drawer of which she extracted a sheet of paper, and after some slight searching, a pen and some ink. Her movements still reflected purposefulness as she resumed her seat by the table bearing working candles, where she carefully mended the pen and began to write.

  After a few moments, though, her resolution apparently faded, the pen faltered and paused above the last word. Another long moment went by, during which Miss Beckworth sat staring into space with her bottom lip gripped in her teeth before she set the pen down and rapidly scanned the words on the paper. She reread them twice more, made an abortive motion toward the pen, then seized the paper and crumpled it into a ball. After this action, she reverted to staring into space and was actually caught unprepared by the sound of a key in the lock. A hasty glance at the clock revealed that it still lacked twenty minutes to midnight as the girl in the blond wig entered quietly.

  “You are early tonight.”

  Adrienne grimaced and sank wearily into a chair. Avoiding her companion’s eye, she began to remove the pins anchoring the wig in place.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “After a time it gets hot and gives me the headache.”

  If this explanation was intended as a red herring, it failed in its intention. “Were you losing?” pursued Miss Beckworth, watching the girl’s face closely as she removed the wig and shook out her hair, running her fingers repeatedly through the damp, flattened curls until they stood out on end.

  “I lost a few louis, nothing to signify.”

  “You did very right to leave, then,” declared Miss Beckworth. “To continue playing once one begins to lose is fatal, my dear.”

  Under the approving glance of her companion, Adrienne shifted uneasily. “That wasn’t quite the way it was,” she confessed. “Normally I should have beaten my opponent. No, truly, Becky, I was the better player,” she insisted, interpreting the other’s expression as one of doubt, “but there were too many onlookers about, watching and making conversation, which I thought exceedingly ill-mannered of them; it quite destroyed my concentration.”

  Miss Beckworth sat very still for a moment, staring searchingly at the young girl, who fidgeted under that stare, her fingers moving nervously among the tresses of the wig in her lap.

  “Adrienne, this isn’t going to answer,” she said at last. “It is only a matter of time before someone makes improper advances to an unprotected girl and…” She broke off as the guilty colour sprang to Adrienne’s cheeks, before continuing grimly, “You may as well open the budget and tell me everything that happened tonight.”

  Eventually the whole story did come out under close questioning. Miss Beckworth’s mind was a parade ground of changing pictures, one more horrifying than the next, to judge by her dismayed countenance. Adrienne leaned over to pat the hands clasped together with white-knuckled pressure.

  “Relax, Becky. It was a close-run thing, but it is all over now.”

  “Yes it is! You must see that you cannot continue with this foolishness any longer. Not after tonight. It is simply too dangerous! You must stop!” Miss Beckworth looked imploringly at the girl, who had risen to her feet during this impassioned speech.

  “I am truly sorry to disoblige you, Becky dear, but I cannot stop yet. It is the only way to get the money.” Adrienne’s voice was gentle, but it was the almost sorrowful expression on her face that convinced Miss Beckworth that further argument would be fruitless. She watched blankly as the girl left the room.

  The sound of the door clicking shut released her from the spell of immobility, however. She jumped out of her chair, strode over to the window table, and removed another sheet of paper from the drawer. This time there was no hesitation in her manner as she again took up her pen. She had covered the entire sheet with her controlled copperplate script before she so much as raised her head from the task to look over the mantel clock. Half after midnight. It seemed incredible that less than an hour ago she had been so uncertain of her course as to be incapable of action. There was nothing uncertain in the hand that wrote the direction on the sealed letter and then carefully concealed the result in her workbox. Within another thirty seconds, she had extinguished the candles and followed Adrienne into the bedchamber.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was a brilliant and warm morning, but Miss Beckworth was scarcely conscious of the lovely spring day as she drank her coffee in nervous little sips and darted assessing looks at her companion when Adrienne’s attention was engaged elsewhere.

  Like most of the English in Brussels in the spring of 1815, the ladies avidly followed every movement of the field marshal in whose capable hands their continued safety rested. This morning Adrienne was reading an account of the first large entertainment given by the Duke since his arrival in the city three weeks before to take command of the allied forces.

  “My goodness, Becky, not only was there a concert and a ball followed by supper at the Salle du Grand Concert, but he hosted a dinner party before all this at the Hôtel de Belle Vue, which was attended by their majesties the King
and Queen of the Netherlands!”

  “King William has been quite visible since his arrival. I suppose it gives his new Belgian subjects an opportunity to get to know him.”

  “Oh, Becky, it says here that Madame Catalani performed at the concert. How I should love to hear her sing!”

  “I had that privilege a few years ago in Vienna. She has a magnificent voice.”

  Silence descended while Adrienne continued reading a list of the distinguished guests in attendance at the Duke’s ball. She mentioned several prominent names and experienced a vicarious satisfaction in learning that her friend recalled meeting one or two in the dim past. “I never knew you were so well-connected, Becky,” she said with teasing admiration.

  Miss Beckworth shrugged. “It’s all water over the dam at this juncture.” She glanced across the table in time to witness Adrienne’s unsuccessful attempt to stifle a gasp as her fingers clutched the paper convulsively.

  “What is it, my dear?”

  “N-nothing. I was afraid I was going to sneeze. I see Sir Reginald and Lady Armbrewster were also present at the ball. Did you not once say you were acquainted with them?”

  “No, I did not, and if it was the mention of Colonel Lord Creighton of Wellington’s personal staff that brought on your sneeze, perhaps I should tell you I read the account earlier.”

  For a minute Adrienne was deprived of further speech; then she rallied. “Oh! Well, nothing could be more unlikely than that we should encounter Lord Creighton, such a quiet life as we lead.”

  A guilt-ridden Miss Beckworth caught the note of uncertainty in Adrienne’s breezy tones and sighed. She had known it wasn’t going to be a simple matter to explain. “I’m afraid nothing could be more likely, my dear. In fact, I am in the expectation of receiving a visit from Lord Creighton momentarily.”

  “Momentarily?” Adrienne bounded up with a hunted expression and cast her eyes around the room as if seeking a hiding place, before common sense came rushing back. She subsided onto her chair once more as Miss Beckworth made soothing noises.

  “Not literally, child, but I received a communication from Lady Creighton yesterday in which she stated that she had written Lord Creighton by the same post and had directed him to call at his earliest convenience.”

  Tears shimmered in Adrienne’s eyes. “How could you do this, Becky? You know I wish to have nothing to do with this man who forbade his wife any contact with her own cousin!”

  “There was really no option, dearest, if we are to remove to England soon. Besides, Colonel Lord Creighton is Lady Creighton’s son, not her husband, who died some time ago, and indeed, Adrienne, she wrote me the most comforting letter with not a trace of condescension. She is most willing, nay eager, to assist us in our difficulties. Here —” reaching into a pocket in her plain morning gown for an envelope — “read the letter for yourself. I am persuaded you will agree that she is sincerely well-disposed toward us.”

  Adrienne, who had been growing increasingly agitated during this speech, snatched at the envelope and removed two sheets of pressed paper. “Does she give her son’s direction?” she muttered to herself, casting a quick eye over the first sheet of paper before discarding it to scan the second. “Ah, yes, Rue Ducale. It must be near the park.” The second page joined the first on the table as the girl pushed her chair back with a decisive motion.

  “Adrienne, what are you about? Where are you going?” Miss Beckworth’s voice sharpened as her charge dashed into the bedchamber and emerged in a few seconds wearing a shawl and tying the strings of a bonnet haphazardly under her chin.

  “To see Lord Creighton, of course.”

  “Adrienne, you cannot call on a gentleman unchaperoned!” her companion moaned. “What will he think of you?”

  “I can, and it doesn’t signify what he thinks of me.” The girl’s hand was on the entrance door when she looked back over her shoulder, a most unfeminine determination moulding the contours of her mouth and jaw. “I daresay he’ll be too relieved to have us off his hands to notice the proprieties in any case.”

  “Adrienne, no! Come back!”

  The reverberating slam of the door all but drowned out Miss Beckworth’s urgent commands even in her own ears. After a long moment during which she stood staring at the wooden portal, she sank back onto the chair and transferred her blind gaze to the sheets of paper lying on the table.

  “A Major Peters has called, my lord.”

  The man sitting behind an ornately carved desk looked up in startled irritation, his fierce concentration on the sheet of paper in his hand having prevented his hearing the butler’s preliminary knock. The frown darkening his brow vanished as he perceived the identity of his caller, however, and he came eagerly around the desk to grasp the extended hand of the smiling man who approached in the wake of the butler, cheerfully oblivious of the waves of disapproval emanating from the latter at such presumption.

  “Ivor, by all that’s wonderful! When did you arrive?”

  “I came in Lord Uxbridge’s train.”

  “I didn’t see you last night at Wellington’s affair. Uxbridge was there.”

  “I don’t travel in such exalted circles, Dominic, dear boy.”

  A snort of derision escaped the dear boy’s throat as the Earl of Creighton paused to give an order for refreshments to his waiting butler. This accomplished, he turned to find his guest gazing in an attitude of thunderstruck admiration at the neat blue frock coat that looked as if it had been moulded to its owner’s powerful shoulders, and the tightly fitting white net pantaloons of a staff officer.

  “My, aren’t we the dapper dog nowadays! You’ve come a long way from the Peninsula days when we were lucky to have a whole uniform on our backs, and if we did, it was sure to be covered with mud.”

  “Lord, yes! The mud of Spain will be one of my enduring memories.” The earl waved his guest to a chair in front of the fireplace before seating himself nearby. “Speaking of dapper dogs, the Duke himself was cast into the shade by Uxbridge’s magnificence last night. There’s nothing that sets off a dress uniform to more advantage than the furred pelisse of a hussar flung dashingly back over one shoulder. He was the cynosure of all eyes, absolutely slayed the ladies.”

  “I can well imagine. Everyone watching to see how old Hookey would receive him, no doubt.”

  “Well, naturally Wellington wanted Conbermere to command the cavalry again. He was pleased with his performance in the Peninsular campaign.”

  “And the Horse Guards in their infinite wisdom send him instead the man who ran off with his brother’s wife five years ago. Incidentally, Lady Charlotte will not be joining her husband in Brussels.”

  “That helps, of course. The Duke received Uxbridge quite cordially, but it would be awkward in the extreme to be forever running into his former sister-in-law at fetes, and we are very social this spring, let me tell you. Be prepared! Are you on Uxbridge’s staff? What do you think of him?”

  “I haven’t found him as difficult to deal with as rumoured. He’s got a reputation as a damned fine cavalry commander.”

  “He’ll need to be.”

  “It’s inevitable, then? Boney means to attack?”

  “I should think so. He’s routed Angoulême. What’s left to stop him? The old king certainly isn’t about to do anything effective from Ghent. And even if Napoleon’s protestations about wanting peace are gospel, the allied powers choose not to believe him. They’ve all refused to receive his overtures and will certainly make a push to remove him from the throne.”

  “There is some talk of abdication in favour of his son, is there not?”

  “Not from Bonaparte, and he has the wholehearted support of the army. I just hope the Duke has time to assemble an adequate force before the French cross the border.”

  “The War Office being dilatory as usual,” finished Major Peters with a grin.

  There was a brief lull in the conversation then as the butler appeared with a tray bearing a decanter and glasses. While t
he business of supplying the gentlemen with wine was being accomplished, Major Peters looked about him, idly at first, and then with widened eyes as the noble size and luxurious appointments of the room struck him.

  “Come into a fortune, have you, Dominic?” he queried when the door had shut once again behind the butler. “This place beats a bivouac in Spain all hollow, but I’d have thought you’d be bunking in with the rest of the bachelor staff.” He fixed a pair of bright dark eyes agleam with merry speculation on the face of his friend. “Doing the social bit up brown, are you? Or perhaps you’re thinking of tying the knot, hmmmm? I hear half the matchmaking mamas in the kingdom are here in Brussels with their hopeful daughters, not to mention a similar number of designing widows.”

  The earl set his glass down with a sharp little click and thrust himself back in the overstuffed chair with an impatient movement before addressing himself to the first of his loquacious friend’s observations. “This house is an accident, really. My mother was planning to come over this spring, so I made the arrangements to hire this place for her before I went back to Vienna for the Congress. Then of course Boney escaped from Elba, and I advised her not to make the trip.” His eyes warmed with sudden laughter. “For once she took my advice and stayed safely at home. Having leased the house, it would have been foolish to leave it empty when I was posted here, especially since Mama had already sent her majordomo over last month to get it ready. He hired the local servants, and I go on very smoothly here — at least I have done until now.” The scowl reappeared on the earl’s brow as he stared into his wineglass.

  “That will teach me to jump to ridiculous conclusions,” Major Peters said, smiling blandly as quick suspicion appeared on the features of his host.

  “Now, I wonder whose tongue has been wagging?” The earl’s voice was very soft.

  “Well, I did happen to get a letter from Corny, written when he was in Vienna,” Major Peters admitted.