Virtue v-1

by Jane Feather

  "I still have George's Yorkshire estate," Bernard said.

  "But it yields little now."

  "No, it's a sad fact that property needs to be maintained if it's to continue to support one," he agreed, sighing. "And maintenance requires funds… and, sadly, funds I do not have."

  "Not for such mundane concerns as estate maintenance," Agnes stated without criticism.

  "True enough, there are always more important… or, rather, more enticing ways of spending money." He swung himself off the bed. "On which subject…" He crossed to the dressing table. Agnes sat up, watching him, greedily drinking in his nakedness even though his body was as familiar to her as her own.

  "On which subject," he repeated, opening a drawer. "I have a wedding present for you, my love." He came back to the bed and tossed a silk pouch into her lap, laughing as she seized it with eager fingers. "You were always rapacious, my adorable Agnes."

  "We're well suited," she returned swiftly, casting him a glinting smile as she drew from the pouch a diamond collar. "Oh, Bernard, it's beautiful."

  "Isn't it?" he agreed. "I trust you'll be able to persuade your husband to reimburse me at some point."

  Agnes went into a peal of laughter. "You are a complete hand, Bernard. My lover buys me a wedding present that my husband will be required to pay for. I do love you."

  "I thought you'd appreciate the finer points of the jest," he said, kneeling on the bed. "Let me fasten it for you. Diamonds and nakedness are a combination I've never been able to resist."

  "I don't see your cousin this evening, Charlie." Judith slipped her arm through her escort's as they strolled through the crowded salon. She glanced around, as she had been doing all evening, wondering despite herself why the Marquis of Carrington had chosen not to honor the Bridges' soiree.

  "Marcus isn't much of a one for balls and such frippery things," Charlie said. "He's very bookish." His tone made this sound like some fatal ailment. "Military history," he elucidated. "He reads histories in Greek and Latin and writes about old battles. I can't understand why anyone should still be interested in who won some battle way back in classical times, can you?"

  Judith smiled. "Perhaps I can. It would be interesting to work out how and why a battle turned out as it did, and to make comparisons with present-day warfare."

  "That's exactly what Marcus says!" Charlie exclaimed. "He's forever closeted with Wellington and Bliicher and the like, discussing Napoleon and what he might decide to do on the basis of what he's done in the past. I can't see why that should be as useful as going out and getting on with the fighting, but everyone seems to think it is."

  "Battles aren't won without strategy and tactics," Judith pointed out. "And only careful strategy can minimize casualties." She reflected that perhaps nineteen-year-olds on the eve of battle, drunk on dreams of heroism and glory, probably wouldn't take this particular point.

  "Well, I can't wait to have a crack at Boney," Charlie declared, looking a trifle disappointed at his goddess's lack of enthusiasm for the blood and guts of warfare.

  "I'm certain you'll have your chance soon enough," Judith said. "As I understand it, Wellington's only waiting for Napoleon to make his approach and then he'll attack before he's properly in position."

  "But I don't understand why we can't just go out and meet him. He's already left Paris," Charlie complained in an undertone, glancing around to make sure none of his fellow officers in their brilliant regimentals could overhear a possibly disloyal comment. "Why do we have to wait for him to come close?"

  "I imagine it would be rather cumbersome to move 214,000 men at this stage in order to intercept him," Judith said. "They're strung out from Mons to Brussels, and Charleroi to Liege, as I understand it."

  "You sound just like Marcus," Charlie observed again. "It seems very poor-spirited to me."

  Judith laughed and took the opportunity to return the conversation to its original topic, one that interested her rather more. "So your cousin doesn't care for balls and assemblies. It's perhaps fortunate he doesn't have a wife in that case." She said it casually, with another light laugh.

  "Oh, Marcus is not overfond of ladies' company in the general run of things." "Why not?" Charlie frowned. "I think it may have something to

  do with an old engagement. But I don't fully understand the reasons. He has women… other sorts of women… I mean…" He stammered to a halt, his face fiery in the candlelight.

  "I know exactly what you mean," she said, patting his arm. "There's no reason to be embarrassed with me, Charlie."

  "But I shouldn't have mentioned such a thing in front of a lady," he said, still blushing. "Only I feel so comfortable with you…"

  "Like an older sister," Judith said, smiling.

  "Oh, no… no, of course not… how could I…" Again he fell silent and Judith could almost hear the recognition of what she'd said falling into place like the tumblers of a lock. She chuckled to herself. Charlie was well on the way to curing himself of his infatuation without the heavy-handed intervention of an overanxious guardian. Not that she was about to inform the most honorable marquis of that fact… Not that he was around to be informed, anyway.

  Marcus put in an appearance as the clock struck midnight. He could see no sign of his ward or Miss Davenport, although the world seemed gathered in the Bridges' salons. After greeting his hostess he strolled into the card room. The faro table was crowded, the atmosphere lively and good humored. Sebastian Davenport was a steady winner. The marquis stood watching the table intently. There was nothing amiss with the way the man was playing. He certainly had luck on his side, but there was something else. Some innate ability to make judgments on the odds. He examined Sebastian's face. It was quite impassive while he was making his bet, then the minute he'd declared, tossing his rouleaux onto the table, he was as relaxed and lighthearted as ever. A true gamester, Marcus thought. It took a combination of brains and nerve, and Sebastian Davenport had both. Marcus didn't think his sister lacked those qualities either, although he hadn't yet observed her play.

  Unprincipled adventurers, the pair of them, he decided. But he could see no reason at this point to expose them. Only the greedy and the foolish fell victim to hardened gamesters, and they got what they deserved. He would take steps to protect Charlie himself. "Davenport… a game of piquet?" The suggestion surprised Sebastian. He looked up at the marquis, remembering Judith's encounter the previous evening. But the suggestion was seemingly innocuous and piquet was Sebastian's game. "Why, certainly," he said cheerfully. "A hundred guineas a point?"

  Marcus swallowed this without a blink. "Whatever you say."

  Sebastian settled with the faro table and rose. The marquis was waiting for him at a small card table in a relatively quiet corner of the room. He indicated a fresh deck of cards on the table as he took his place. "Do you care to break them, Davenport?"

  Sebastian shrugged and pushed them across to the marquis. "You do the honors, my lord."

  "As you wish." The cards were shuffled and dealt and a silence fell between the two men. Sebastian had a full glass of claret at his elbow but Marcus noticed that although he seemed to raise it to his lips frequently, the level barely went down. A most serious gamester. And an expert card player. Marcus, who was no mean player himself, recognized that he was outclassed after the third hand. He relaxed, resigned to his losses, and began to enjoy playing with a master.

  "Well, my lord, this is a pleasant surprise." Judith's dulcet tones came from behind him and she offered him

  her most ravishing smile. "I have been sadly disappointed at your absence."

  "Stand behind your brother," he snapped, quite impervious to this coquettry.

  "I beg your pardon?" She frowned in puzzlement.

  "Stand behind your brodier, where I can see you."

  Comprehension dawned. She stared at him in dismay, all pretense at flirtation vanishing under the sting of such an unwarranted assumption. "But I wouldn't-"

  "Wouldn't you?" he interrupted, wi
thout looking up from his cards; it was a damnably difficult discard he had to make. "Nevertheless, I prefer not to take the risk. Now move."

  She stepped sideways, struggling for composure, seeking support from her brother. "Sebastian…?"

  Sebastian gave a rueful chuckle. "He caught you at it, Ju. I can't call him out for you. Not in the circumstances."

  "No, I don't think you can," Marcus agreed, discarding a ten of spades. "Not that you need any help from your sister." He watched with resignation as his opponent picked up the discard. "You'll not even spare me the Rubicon, I fear."

  Sebastian totted up the points. "I'm afraid not, Car-rington. I make it ninety-seven."

  "What were the stakes?" Judith demanded, this issue taking immediate precedence over hurt feelings.

  Marcus began to laugh. "What an incorrigibly unprincipled pair you are."

  "Not really," Sebastian said. "Ju, at least, has some very strong principles… it's just that they tend to be eccentric. Her view of ethics doesn't always coincide with the common view."

  "I don't find that in the least difficult to believe," Marcus said.

  "That's true of you, too, Sebastian," Judith pointed out. "You should understand, my lord, that we obey our own rules." Maybe a different form of flirtation would work with this intransigent marquis. If he preferred challenge to coquettry, she could offer him that.

  Disappointingly, Marcus shook his head. "That's provocation for another day, ma'am… I'll settle up with you in the morning, Davenport." He scrawled an IOU on the pad at his elbow and pushed it over. "Fill in the sum. What have you done with my cousin, Miss Davenport?"

  "He's gone off with Viscount Chancet and his friends. They had an engagement. And he is feeling very much in charity with me, my lord."

  Marcus stood up. "Mmmm. Somehow that doesn't surprise me. However, don't rest on your laurels, my dear." He pinched her cheek. "As I told you yesterday, you haven't yet tasted my mettle."

  "He's damned familiar with you," Sebastian observed as the marquis walked off.

  "Yes, and I could cut his throat," Judith declared. "I'm trying to flirt with him and he treats me like a tiresome child in the schoolroom. I think he believes that now he knows what we are, he can be as familiar as he pleases."

  Sebastian frowned. "That's perhaps understandable. Just so long as he keeps his knowledge to himself."

  Judith sighed. "I don't seem to be doing too well with my present strategy to ensure that he does."

  "You were confident enough yesterday," her brother reminded her, gathering up the cards. "And you've never failed yet."

  "True." Judith nodded resolutely to herself. "There has to be some way to persuade him to take me seriously. I suspect quarreling with him is the answer."

  Sebastian laughed. "Well, you're the fire-eater of the family, Ju."

  "Yes, and I intend to put it to good use." A tiny smile flickered over her mouth. She was unable to deny the prickle of excitement at the prospect of joining in a battle of wits and wills with the most honorable marquis.

  3

  "Good morning, Charlie." Marcus greeted his cousin the next morning. Charlie was already at the breakfast table facing a platter of sirloin and mumbled an answering greeting through a mouthful of beef.

  "How much did you lose at the tables the other night?" Marcus inquired casually, pouring himself coffee. "When you were playing macao at Davenport's table." He regarded the chafing dishes on the sideboard with an appraising eye.

  Charlie swallowed his mouthful and took a gulp of ale. "Not much."

  "And how much is not much?" Marcus helped himself to a dish of deviled kidneys.

  "Seven hundred guineas," his cousin said with an air of defiance. "I don't consider that beyond my means."

  "No," Marcus agreed affably enough. "So long as one doesn't do it every night. Do you play often at his table?"

  "That was the first time, I believe." Charlie frowned. "Why do you ask?"

  Marcus didn't reply, but continued with his own questions. "Did his sister suggest you play at her brother's table?"

  "I don't remember. It's not the kind of thing a fellow does remember." Charlie stared at his cousin in puzzlement and some apprehension. In his experience, Marcus rarely asked pointless questions, and it seemed this series might well be leading up to a stricture on gaming… familiar but nevertheless mortifying.

  But Marcus merely shrugged and opened the newspaper. "No, I suppose it's not… By the by…" He folded back the paper and spoke with his eyes on the page. "Don't you think Judith Davenport s a little too rich for your blood?"

  Charlie flushed. "What are you trying to say?"

  "Nothing much," Marcus replied, glancing briefly over the newspaper. "She's an attractive woman and a practiced flirt."

  "She's… she's a wonderful woman," Charlie exclaimed, pushing back his chair, his flush deepening. "You cannot insult her!"

  "Now don't fly into the boughs, Charlie. I doubt she'd deny the description herself." Marcus reached for the mustard.

  "'Of course she's not a flirt." Charlie glared at his cousin over the stiffly starched folds of his linen cravat.

  Marcus sighed. "Well, we won't argue terms, but she's too much for a nineteen-year-old to handle, Charlie. She's no schoolroom chit."

  "I don't find schoolroom chits in the least appealing," his cousin announced.

  "Well, at your age, you should." He looked across the table and said, not unkindly, "Judith Davenport is a sophisticated woman of the world. She plays a deep game and you're way out of your depth. She eats greenhorns for supper, my dear boy. People are already beginning to talk. You don't want to be the laughingstock of Brussels."

  "I think it's most unchivalrous, if not downright dishonorable, of you to insult her when she's not here to defend herself," Charlie declared with passion. "And I take leave to tell you-"

  "Please don't," Marcus interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "It's too early in the morning to hear the impassioned rambles of a besotted youth." He forked kidneys into his mouth. "If you want to make a cake of yourself, then you may do so, but do it when I'm not around."

  Charlie huffed in speechless indignation, his face burning, then he stormed out of the breakfast parlor.

  Marcus winced as the door slammed shut. He wondered if he'd chosen the wrong tactic in this instance. In the past, a cutting comment, a decisively adverse opinion, had been sufficient to bring Charlie back on the right track when he'd been about to stray into some youthful indiscretion. But then Charlie was no longer a schoolboy, and maybe the tactics appropriate for schoolboys wouldn't work with the tender pride of a young man in the throes of first love.

  He'd have to try some other approach. His fork paused halfway to his mouth as the approach presented itself, neat and most enticing. What better way to remove Charlie from dangerous proximity to Miss Davenport than to take his place? At present, Marcus had no mistress living under his protection. He had brought his last affaire to an expensive close without regret, before coming to Brussels. Supposing he made Judith Davenport an offer she couldn't refuse? It would most effectively remove her from Charlie's orbit. And just as effectively, it would cure Charlie of his infatuation, when he saw her for what she was. And for himself…

  Dear God in heaven. Images of rioting sensuality suddenly filled his head as he found himself mentally stripping her of the elegant gowns, the delicate undergarments, the silken stockings, revealing the lissome slender-ness, the supple limbs, the white fineness of her skin. Would she be a passionate lover or passive… no, definitely not passive… wild and tumbling, with the eager words of hungry need, the tumultuous cries of fulfillment unchecked upon her lips. Impossible to believe she could be otherwise.

  Marcus shook his head clear of the images. If they alone could arouse him, what would the reality do? The proposition took concrete shape. Yes, he would make Miss Judith Davenport an offer she couldn't possibly refuse: one beyond the wildest dreams of a woman who earned her bread at the gaming tables.r />
  An hour later, in buckskin britches and a morning coat of olive-green superfine, his top boots catching the sunlight like a polished diamond, his lordship set out in search of Miss Davenport. There was a powerful tension in the Brussels' air, knots of people gathered on street corners, talking and gesticulating excitedly. He discovered the reason in the regimental mess.

  "It looks like Boney's going to attack," Peter Wellby told him as he joined the circle of Wellington's staff and advisors deep in an almost frenzied discussion. "He issued a Proclamation a larmee yesterday, and it's just come into our hands." He handed Marcus a document.

  "He's reminding his men that it's the anniversary of the battles of Marengo and Friedland. If they've succeeded in deciding the fate of the world twice before on this day, then they'll do it a third time."

  Marcus read it. "Mmm. Napoleon's usual style," he commented. "An appeal to past glories to drum up spirit and patriotism."

  "But it usually works," Colonel, Lord Francis Tallent observed a touch glumly. "We've been sitting on our backsides waiting to catch him off guard, and the bastard takes the initiative right out from under our noses. We're prepared to attack, not defend."

  Marcus nodded. "It would have been worth remerrt bering that Napoleon has never waited to be attacked. His strategy has always been based on a vast and overwhelming offensive."

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Marcus Devlin had been vociferous in this view for the last week, but his had been a lone voice crying in the wilderness. "We did receive a report from our agents that he was taking up the defensive on the Charleroi road," Peter said eventually.

  "Agents can be fed mistaken information." Marcus's wry observation generated another silence.

  "Marcus, I'm glad to see you, man." Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, came out of a next-door office, a chart in his hand. "You seem to have had the right idea. Now, look at this. He can attack at Ligny, Quatre Bras, or Nivelles. Do you have an opinion?" He laid the chart on a table, jabbing at the three crossroads with a stubby forefinger.