by Mary Balogh
Morgan withdrew her hand from his.
“All I ask is one day,” she said. “One day.”
Even then she hoped that he would look beyond his own pain to see hers and redeem himself somewhat in her eyes. But all he did was look beyond her shoulder.
“Ah, is that you, Rosthorn?” he asked. “I must thank you for riding ahead of me to Brussels the day before yesterday and setting my mother’s mind at ease. Anxiety is a dreadful thing for women of tender sensibilities, and one really ought to do all in one’s power to alleviate it. I am doing as well as can be expected, you will be pleased to know, but of course I wish to consult an English physician as soon as possible.”
Morgan turned to look at the earl.
“You are leaving now, this morning?” he asked. “And you too, Lady Morgan?” His eyes swept over her simple muslin day dress.
“I am staying,” she told him, “until I have heard something from Alleyne. I am going to stay with Mrs. Clark or one of the other regimental wives if they will have me.”
“And how will you then return to England?” he asked her.
“I will find someone to travel with.” She lifted her chin. “Or Alleyne will find someone for me.”
“And your maid?” He looked about the pavement, which held no other female but her.
Morgan felt herself flush.
“She does not with to remain with me,” she said, “and so I am sending her home.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Talk reason to her, if you will, Rosthorn,” Lord Gordon said wearily. “Tell her that it is quite impossible for her to remain here without my mother to chaperon her. It is unthinkable. Tell her that her anxieties are foolish. Tell her she has no choice but to come with us.”
The Earl of Rosthorn looked at her with inscrutable eyes. She lifted her chin again. If he tried to order her to leave with the Caddicks, she was going to be very angry indeed and everyone on the street was going to know it.
“Why is Lady Caddick leaving Brussels when Lady Morgan cannot?” he asked Lord Gordon without taking his eyes off Morgan.
Cannot. Ah, he did understand, then.
“My mother is anxious to get me to an English physician,” Lord Gordon explained, his voice clearly irritated now. “Lady Morgan is in her care. It is outrageous of her to set her will against my mother’s and put her in such an awkward position. I daresay Bewcastle will have a thing or two to say on the matter if she remains stubborn. He is the one who appointed my mother chaperon.”
It amazed Morgan that she had ever felt even mildly attracted to him.
Lady Caddick herself stepped out of the house at that moment with Lord Caddick and Rosamond.
“Ah, there you are, Lady Morgan,” she said, a martial gleam in her eye. “I simply must insist that you accompany us whether you are dressed for travel or not. I will not take no for an answer. The Duke of Bewcastle will be informed of how much trouble you have been to me. Ah, good morning, Rosthorn. You will be gratified to see that Gordon is brave enough to travel though he is still in considerable pain.”
“Ma’am?” He bowed in acknowledgment of her greeting. “I have come to escort Lady Morgan to Mrs. Clark’s house. Her belongings are still here? I will have someone come to remove them within the hour. I wish you a safe journey.”
His French accent was quite pronounced. He spoke with pleasant charm—and a thread of steel Morgan had not heard in his voice before.
“See here, Rosthorn—” the Earl of Caddick began.
“Lord Alleyne Bedwyn, when he rode out of Brussels the day before yesterday,” Lord Rosthorn said, interrupting him, “instructed Lady Morgan to await his return, after which he promised to take her home to England himself. She remains by his authority. I will escort her in person to Mrs. Clark’s. She will be quite safe there. I will personally undertake to see that no harm comes to her.”
“Lord Rosthorn,” Lady Caddick said faintly, “you are a single gentleman in no way related to Lady Morgan. It would be most improper and irresponsible for me to leave her in your care.”
“Then you must remain, ma’am, so that she may be in yours,” he retorted.
Morgan turned and strode away along the pavement. She would not stay one moment longer to wrangle or, worse, to hear herself being wrangled over. Life had suddenly become very tiresome indeed. She was almost blind with anxiety over Alleyne, yet the people she had thought cared for her treated her as if she were a stubborn, willful, disobedient girl for wanting to find him. And the man who less than a week ago had declared such extravagant love for her expected her to put him before all other loves—even her love for her own family.
She would have given anything in the world at that moment to have seen Wulfric striding toward her—or Aidan or Rannulf. Or Alleyne.
Alleyne was dead. He must be.
He could not be dead.
Running feet sounded behind her, and Rosamond dashed around her and caught her up in a tight hug.
“I am so sorry about this, Morgan,” she said, tears swimming in her eyes. “I am so very sorry. I wish I could stay with you but I cannot.”
Then she was hurrying away again, back to the carriages, and Lord Rosthorn had come up beside Morgan and offered his arm without a word.
No, she was not quite alone, she thought, pulling herself together again. She still had this friend. And Mrs. Clark would welcome her. The wounded men needed her. And even besides all those facts she was Lady Morgan Bedwyn. She lifted her chin and unconsciously lengthened her stride as she took the earl’s arm.
Alleyne had always predicted that she would out-Bedwyn the Bedwyns one day. It seemed that he had been right all along. She was eighteen years old and striding along the street of a foreign city on the arm of a gentleman she scarcely knew, having just defied the will of the chaperon to whose care Wulfric had entrusted her and having just dismissed her maid.
But Alleyne was still here too. Today he would come, and tomorrow he would take her home himself.
He could not be dead.
HE HAD DONE SOME MAD THINGS IN HIS TIME, Gervase thought, things that had got him into any number of nasty scrapes. This was no scrape. This was downright trouble. What the devil had he done?
He had aided and abetted a young lady in defying and walking away from her appointed chaperon, that was what. Not just for an hour or a morning. Not even for a day. The Caddicks were leaving for England. Lady Morgan Bedwyn was staying in Brussels. And he had defended her decision to remain without them. He had promised to look after her himself.
I will personally undertake to see that no harm comes to her.
What he had personally undertaken, unless he was very fortunate indeed, was a leg shackle. What he had just accomplished, unless he could find some way of wriggling out of the situation, was the fulfillment of all his dreams of avenging himself upon Bewcastle. Once the Caddicks had arrived home and spread the word in the drawing rooms and clubs of London, Lady Morgan Bedwyn would either be totally ruined or she would be forced into marriage with him—either of which outcomes would be a vicious slap in the face for her brother.
He no longer wanted to avenge himself upon Bewcastle this way. Not through her. He liked her. He respected and admired her.
“Was I the one in the wrong?” she asked, her hand light on his arm, her eyes looking straight ahead, a martial gleam in them. “Was I?”
He guessed that it was a rhetorical question, but he answered it anyway.
“You were not wrong,” he told her. “The Caddicks are anxious to ensure the full recovery of their son, of course, and are understandably eager to take him home to England. But they also undertook a duty when they agreed to bring you with them to Brussels. They undertook to treat you with as much care and consideration as they would show their own family. They failed in that duty today.”
“Thank you,” she said. “It is what I thought too.”
“Once we have reached Mrs. Clark’s,” he told her, “I will make arrangements to
have your belongings fetched. Then I will call on Sir Charles Stuart again and, if necessary, ride out to Waterloo once more.”
Perhaps, he thought, he would find Bedwyn today. Perhaps he was injured and lying in a field hospital somewhere. Or perhaps the man would simply ride into Brussels from wherever he had been for the past two days, some reasonable explanation on his lips. Perhaps after all he could set out for England with his sister later today, or at the very least take over responsibility for her.
If that were to happen, Gervase decided, he himself would not delay in riding off into the proverbial sunset. But if it were to happen, it would be a miracle indeed.
Lord Alleyne Bedwyn was almost certainly dead.
“Thank you,” she said. “Is he dead, do you suppose, Lord Rosthorn?”
“You must not give up hope yet, chérie,” he said, setting a hand over hers on his arm. “I will do my very best to find him.”
“He is the most sunny-natured of us all,” she said. “The most charismatic, the most restless. He has so much vitality to share with the world, so much living yet to do. He only recently decided to try the life of a diplomat instead of taking the seat in Parliament that Wulfric would have secured for him. This is his first posting—is not that ironic? He cannot be dead, Lord Rosthorn. I would feel it here if he were.” She touched the fingers of her free hand to her heart.
He wondered how many hundreds or thousands of women were telling themselves the same thing today.
“If he were dead, he would have been found, would he not?” she asked.
He merely squeezed her hand. How could he tell her that untold hundreds of the unattended dead, especially the better dressed ones, would have been stripped naked even before the night following the battle was over? Only in the unlikely event that such a man was identified quickly by someone who knew him could an anonymous burial in a mass grave be avoided.
“Try not to think such thoughts if you possibly can,” he said. “Not yet.”
They passed four of his acquaintances—and hers—before they finally reached Mrs. Clark’s. He nodded affably at each of them. He doubted she even noticed them. But he wondered how long it would be before one or more of them discovered that the Earl and Countess of Caddick had left for England this morning. Then there would be scandal in Brussels as well as in England.
He had exposed Lady Morgan Bedwyn deliberately to gossip and speculation at his picnic in the Forest of Soignés less than two weeks ago. Now, when he had no such intention, he was about to expose her to a great deal more. Not that this was all his fault, of course. She would have stayed anyway. She would have come striding over to Mrs. Clark’s with or without him.
On the whole, despite the danger to himself, he would prefer that she came with him.
Mrs. Clark met them on her doorstep, hugged Lady Morgan when she heard her story, and was soon assuring her that she was very welcome indeed to stay, provided she did not object to sharing a very small room with her hostess.
NONE OF SIR CHARLES STUART’S EMBASSY STAFF had heard anything of or from Lord Alleyne Bedwyn. It was clear to Gervase that the annoyance they had shown yesterday had by now turned to alarm. There was no logical explanation for his failure to return except that he had somehow been wounded or killed in the action south of Waterloo. Efforts were even then being made to discover whether the letter he had carried to the Duke of Wellington had been delivered. Gervase announced his intention of riding out to the battle site again. He would check with Sir Charles’s staff when he returned, he promised, and pass on any information he might pick up.
He found nothing, of course. The road south was still crowded with men and conveyances moving in the opposite direction from the one he took, though it was not quite as clogged as it had been the day before. The Forest of Soignés was still strewn with debris. The battlefield looked more than ever like a wilderness from hell. But there was nothing to be learned of Bedwyn’s fate even though Gervase spoke to many people and checked at villages and farmhouses along the way. He searched among the wounded wherever they were gathered.
Lord Alleyne Bedwyn seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth—probably literally.
It was with a heavy heart that he rode back to Brussels. What hope could he still hold out for her? Would it be irresponsible even to try?
But Lady Morgan Bedwyn, he had discovered, despite her extreme youth, had character. It was not up to him either to give her hope or to withhold it. All he could offer her were the facts.
Neither Sir Charles’s embassy staff nor he had been able to discover any trace of her brother’s whereabouts. And yet there was a small piece of news. The letter Lord Alleyne Bedwyn had carried to the Duke of Wellington had indeed been delivered into his hands.
CHAPTER IX
IT WAS STRANGE HOW THE HEART CLUNG TO HOPE even when there was no reasonable basis for it, Morgan found. And how life went on.
She was strolling in the Parc de Bruxelles with the Earl of Rosthorn. They were watching the swans glide gracefully across the lake, leaving a gently rippling series of V’s behind them on the blue water. It was a lovely area in the heart of the city and a beautiful summer’s day. She could feel some of the tension of hours of tending the wounded seep from her bones in the warmth of the sun.
They had not talked about Alleyne. Not really. When one of the ladies had called her to the door at Mrs. Clark’s and she had seen who her visitor was, she had seen too the answers to all her questions in his eyes.
“Nothing?” was all she had asked.
He had shaken his head gravely. “Nothing.”
It was perhaps absurd that they had said no more on the subject. But what more was there to say? He had suggested that she take a break for an hour or so and walk to the park with him. Mrs. Clark, who had just risen from her bed after snatching a few hours of sleep, had agreed that Morgan needed some fresh air and relaxation and excused her from her duties. It was a measure of their preoccupation, perhaps, that neither she nor Morgan had thought about the desirability of a maid’s accompanying her so that the proprieties would be observed. But then, there was no maid to spare.
Besides, the whole idea of strict propriety and etiquette seemed irrelevant under present conditions.
Alleyne was dead, Morgan supposed. But her mind could not grasp that harsh reality. Not yet.
“I wish Wulfric were here,” she said suddenly, breaking a lengthy silence.
“Do you, chérie?” He looked down at her in that way he had of making her feel that she had his undivided and sympathetic attention.
She thought then that perhaps her words might seem insulting.
“You have been wonderfully kind,” she said. “But I cannot expect you to keep on giving your time to me and my concerns.”
“I can think of nothing and no one to whom I would prefer to give it,” he said, his voice low and very French.
Just a week or two ago she would have interpreted both his words and his tone as provocatively flirtatious. She would, perhaps, have answered him in kind. Now she was prepared to take his words at their face value, as the expression of the strange, unexpected friendship that seemed to have blossomed between them.
“Wulfric would know what to do,” she said. “He would know what to decide.” He would know when reality could no longer be avoided.
He would know when to pronounce Alleyne dead.
“If it is your wish,” Lord Rosthorn said, “I will take you to him, chérie.”
“He is in England,” she said, looking up at him, startled.
“I will take you there if you wish.”
She stared mutely at him, the lake, the swans, the beauty of the park forgotten. Had it really come to this, then? Was she going to have to go home to tell Wulf—and Aidan and Rannulf and Freyja? Was that to be her task, her role? She tried to imagine herself saying the appalling words.
Alleyne is dead.
“I will wait a few days longer,” she said. “Perhaps he will come even now. Perhap
s there is an explanation. Perhaps . . .” She could not think of any more possibilities with which to complete the thought.
“Let us sit down for a few minutes,” he suggested, pointing to a seat beneath the shade of a tree.
She slid her hand free of his arm as she sat. She rested her hands in her lap, palm up, and looked down at them.
“You are feeling betrayed, chérie?” the earl asked her.
“By Lady Caddick?” She clasped her hands. “I have not thought of her all day. I will miss Rosamond.”
“I meant by your young officer,” he said gently. “Captain Lord Gordon.”
“He is not my officer,” she said, pressing her hands more tightly together. “He never was.”
“But he thought he was,” he pointed out, “and you expected perhaps that you could rely upon his love. Do not be too harsh on him. He was quite badly wounded two days ago, and he was in obvious pain this morning.”
“I have seen a great deal of wounds and pain in the last two days, Lord Rosthorn,” she said. “And I have seen a great deal of nobility. I have seen a man die without uttering a sound even though he must have been suffering agonies—merely because, he told me, he did not want to distress the other men. I have seen desperately wounded men direct us to others more in need of our attentions than they. I have heard men apologize to us for being so much trouble. I heard a man tell Mrs. James to go and rest because she was almost asleep on her feet even though his dressing needed changing and he must have been very uncomfortable. I have heard men praise their comrades and other regiments and battalions than their own. I have heard no one praise himself.”
Except Captain Lord Gordon.
“He is very young, chérie,” Lord Rosthorn said.
“Two of the men at Mrs. Clark’s,” she said, “are fourteen and fifteen years of age. There are no two men braver though one of them may yet die from his wounds.”
