An Infamous Army

by Georgette Heyer

  An uncomfortable silence fell; the Colonel was looking abstractedly out of the window, one hand fiddling with the blind-cord. Judith felt herself impelled to say presently: ‘There was nothing more, I assure you. Do not be imagining anything foolish!’

  He turned and smiled at her. ‘My dear Judith, you are looking quite anxious! There is really not the least cause, I promise you. As for this affair of Perry’s, I’ll speak to Bab.’

  ‘Don’t if you had rather not!’ she said. ‘I daresay it is all nonsense.’

  ‘The scandal, if there is one, had better be scotched, however.’

  But Barbara, when she heard of Harriet’s suspicions, exclaimed indignantly: ‘Oh, that’s a great deal too bad! Of all the injustices in this wicked world! I treated him as I treat Harry—I did really, Charles!’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said. ‘The truth is, I suspect, that you were much more enchanting than you knew. Is Perry in danger of losing his heart to you, do you think?’

  ‘I think he might be made to lose it,’ she replied candidly. ‘But what a fool his wife must be!’

  ‘I believe she is in a delicate situation just at present.’

  ‘Oh, poor creature! Very well, I will make everything right with her. Then she may be comfortable again.’

  The occasion offered itself that same day. Walking in the Park with a party of friends, Barbara saw Lady Taverner approaching with her sister-in-law. She left her friends, and went forward to meet Harriet, holding up a frilled parasol in one hand and extending the other in a friendly fashion. ‘I have been wanting to meet you, Lady Taverner,’ she said, with one of her swift smiles. ‘I believe there is a nonsensical story current, and though I have no doubt of your laughing at it, I daresay it may have vexed you a little.’

  The hand was ignored. Lady Taverner turned scarlet and, with a glance of contempt, whisked round on her heel and walked away.

  Judith, sensible of the generosity that had prompted Barbara to approach Harriet, stood rooted to the ground in dismay. What could possess Harriet to behave with such rudeness? The folly of it passed her comprehension; she could only gaze after her in amazement. The path was full of people; twenty or thirty pairs of eyes must have witnessed the snub. She said in a deeply mortified voice: ‘I beg your pardon! My sister-in-law is not quite herself. I do not know what she could be thinking of!’

  She glanced at Barbara, and was not surprised to see her green eyes as hard as two bits of glass. A little colour had stolen into her cheeks; her lips were just parted over her clenched teeth. If ever anyone was in a rage she was in one now, thought Judith. She looked ripe for murder, and really one could not blame her.

  ‘That,’ said Barbara, ‘was neither wise nor wellbred of Lady Taverner. Convey my compliments to her, if you please, and inform her that I shall endeavour not to disappoint her very evident expectations.’

  ‘She is extremely foolish, and I beg you will not notice her rudeness!’ said Judith. ‘No one regards what you so rightly call the nonsensical story which is current.’

  ‘How simple of you to think so! The story must now be implicitly believed. By tomorrow I shall be credited with a sin I haven’t committed, which touches my pride, you know. I always give the scandalmongers food for their gossip.’

  ‘To give them food in this case would be to behave as foolishly as my sister-in-law,’ said Judith, trying to speak pleasantly.

  ‘Oh, I have my reputation to consider!’ Barbara retorted. ‘I make trouble wherever I go: haven’t you been told so?’

  ‘I have tried not to believe it.’

  ‘A mistake! I am quite as black as I am painted, I assure you. But I am keeping you from Lady Taverner. Go after her—and don’t forget my message!’

  Fourteen

  Judith did not go after her sister-in-law. She had very little hope of inducing Harriet to apologise, nor, upon reflection, did she feel inclined to make the attempt. She could not think Barbara blameless in the affair. However well she might have behaved in extending an olive branch, the original fault was one for which Judith could find little excuse. If Barbara wanted to dine in the suburbs (which, in itself, was a foolish whim) she might as well have chosen an evening when Charles would have been free to have escorted her.

  Judith acquitted her of wanting to make mischief. It had all been the result of thoughtlessness, and had Harriet behaved like a sensible woman nothing more need have come of it. But Harriet had chosen to do the one thing that would lend colour to whatever gossip was afoot, and had besides made an enemy of a dangerous young woman. It still made Judith blush to think of the scene. In Barbara’s place she would, she acknowledged, have been angry enough to have boxed Harriet’s ears. But such sudden anger was usually short-lived. She hoped that a period of calm reflection would give Barbara’s thoughts a more proper direction, and determined to say nothing of the occurrence to Charles.

  She heard her name spoken, and came out of her reverie to find herself confronting Lord Fitzroy Somerset, who, with his elder brother, Lord Edward, and their nephew, Henry Somerset, was strolling along the path down which her unconscious footsteps had taken her.

  Greetings and handshakes followed. Judith was acquainted with Lord Edward, but Lieutenant Somerset, who was acting as his uncle’s aide-de-camp, had to be presented to her. Lord Edward had only lately arrived from England, to command the brigade of Household Cavalry. He was twelve years Lord Fitzroy’s senior, and did not much resemble him. Fitzroy was fair, with an open brow, and very regular features. Lord Edward was harsh-featured and dark, with deep lines running down from the corners of his jutting nose and his close-lipped mouth, and two clefts between his brows. His eyes were rather hard, and he did not look to have that sweetness of disposition which made his brother universally beloved; but he was quite unaffected, laughed and talked a great deal, and seemed perfectly ready to be agreeable. Judith enquired after his wife; he had not brought her to the Netherlands; he thought—saving Lady Worth’s presence!—that the seat of an approaching war was not the place for females.

  ‘Your husband is not engaged in the operations, and so the case is different,’ he said. ‘But I assure you, the women who would persist in following the Army in Spain were at times a real hindrance to us. Nothing would stop them! Very courageous, you will say, and I won’t deny it, but they were the devil to deal with on the march, choking the roads with their gear!’

  She smiled, and agreed that it must have been so. She had turned to retrace her steps with the Somersets, and as the path was not broad enough to allow of their walking abreast, Lord Fitzroy and his nephew had gone ahead. She indicated Fitzroy with a nod, and remarked that his brother must not speak so in his hearing.

  ‘Oh, Fitzroy knows what I think!’ replied Lord Edward. ‘However, he is not an old married man like me, so he must be pardoned. Not but what I think it a great piece of folly on his part. Of course, you know Lady Fitzroy has lately been confined?’

  ‘Indeed I do, and I am one of her daughter’s chief admirers!’

  ‘I daresay. A nice thing it would have been had she been obliged to remove in a hurry!’

  ‘Depend upon it, had there been any fear of that her uncle must have known of it, and she could have retired without the least hurry to Antwerp. He does not appear to share your prejudice against us poor females!’

  ‘The Duke! No, that he does not!’ replied Lord Edward, laughing. ‘But, come, enough of the whole subject, or I can see I shall be quite out of favour with you! I understand I have to congratulate Audley upon his engagement?’

  She acknowledged it, but briefly. He said in his downright way: ‘I don’t know how you may regard the matter, but I should have said Audley was too good a man for Bab Childe.’

  She found herself so much in accordance with this opinion that she was unable to forbear giving him a very speaking glance.

  ‘Just so,’ he said, with a nod. ‘I have known the whole family for years—got one of them in my brigade now: handsome young devil,
up to no good—and I shouldn’t care to be connected with any of them. As for Audley, he’s the last man in the world I should have expected to be caught by Bab’s tricks. Great pity, though I shouldn’t say so to you, I suppose.’

  ‘Lady Barbara is very beautiful,’ Judith replied, with a certain amount of reserve.

  He gave a somewhat scornful grunt, and said no more. They had reached one of the gates opening on to the Rue Royale at this time, and Lord Edward, who was on his way to Headquarters, took his leave of Judith, and strode off up the road with his nephew.

  Lord Fitzroy gave Judith his arm. He had to pay a call at the Hôtel de Belle Vue, and was thus able to accompany her to her door. They walked in that direction through the Park, talking companionably of Lady Fitzroy’s progress, of the infant daughter’s first airing, and other such mild topics, until presently they were joined by Sir Alexander Gordon, very smart in a new coat and sash, on which Lord Fitzroy immediately quizzed him.

  Judith listened, smiling, to the interchange of friendly raillery, occasionally being appealed to by one of them, to give her support to some outrageous libel on the other.

  ‘Gordon,’ Fitzroy informed her, ‘is one of our dressier colleagues. He has seventeen pairs of boots. That’s called upholding the honour of the family.’

  ‘One of Fitzroy’s grosser lies, Lady Worth. Now, the really dressy member of the family is Charles.’

  ‘He has the excuse of being a hussar. They can’t help being dressy, Lady Worth. However, the strain of trying to procure a sufficiency of silver lace in Spain wore the poor fellow out, and in the end he was quite thankful to be taken into the family. I say, Gordon, why didn’t you join a hussar regiment? Was it because you were too fat?’

  ‘A dignified silence,’ Gordon told Judith, ‘is the only weapon to use against vulgar persons.’

  ‘Very true. It is all jealousy, I daresay. I feel sure you would set off a hussar uniform to admiration.’

  ‘Fill it out, don’t you mean?’ enquired Fitzroy.

  Sir Alexander was diverted from his purpose of retaliating in kind by catching sight of Barbara Childe between two riflemen. ‘When does that marriage take place, Lady Worth?’ he asked.

  ‘The date is not fixed.’

  ‘There’s hope yet, then. That’s Johnny Kincaid with her—the tall lanky one on her right. Perhaps he’ll cut Charles out. Very charming fellow, Kincaid.’

  Fitzroy shook his head. ‘No chance of that. Kincaid loves Juana Smith—or so I’ve always fancied.’

  Judith said: ‘Is that how you feel, Sir Alexander? About Charles’s engagement, I mean?’

  ‘I beg pardon! I shouldn’t have said it.’

  ‘You may say what you please. I am forced in general to be very discreet, but you are both such particular friends of Charles’s that I may be allowed to speak my mind—which is that it would be better if the marriage never took place.’

  ‘Of course it would be better! There was never anything more unfortunate! We laughed at Charles when it began, but it has turned out to be no laughing matter. It was all the Prince’s fault for making the introduction in the first place.’

  ‘Nonsense, Gordon! If he had not someone else would have done it. I am afraid Charles is pretty hard hit, Lady Worth.’

  ‘I am afraid so, too. I wish he were not, but what can one do?’

  ‘One can’t do anything,’ said Gordon. ‘That’s the sad part of it: to be obliged to watch one of your best friends making a fool of himself.’

  ‘Do you dislike Lady Barbara?’

  ‘No. I like her, but the thing is that I like Charles much more, and I can’t see him tied to her for the rest of his life.’

  ‘It may yet come to nothing.’

  ‘That’s what I say, but Fitzroy will have it that if Bab throws him over it will be the end of him.’

  ‘No, I didn’t say that,’ interposed Lord Fitzroy. ‘But you can’t live with a man for as long as I’ve lived with Charles, and come through tight places with him, and work with him, day in, day out, without getting to know him pretty well, and I do say that I believe him to be in earnest over this. I expect he knows his own business best—only I do wish he would stop burning the candle at both ends!’

  ‘He can’t,’ said Gordon. ‘You have to run fast if you mean to keep pace with Bab.’

  They had reached the Rue du Belle Vue by this time, and no more was said. Lord Fitzroy took his leave, Sir Alexander escorted Lady Worth to her own door, and she went in, feeling despondent and quite out of spirits.

  The Duchess of Richmond held an informal party that evening, at her house off the Rue de la Blanchisserie, which was situated in the northern quarter of the town, not far from the Allée Verte. The Duke of Wellington had, from its locality, irreverently named it the Wash-house, but it was, in fact, a charming abode, placed in a large garden extending to the ramparts, and with a smaller house, or cottage, in the grounds which was occupied, whenever he was in Brussels, by Lord March.

  The Duchess’s parties were always popular. She had a great gift for entertaining, knew everyone, and had such a numerous family of sons and daughters that her house was quite a rendezvous for the younger set. Besides the nursery party, which consisted of several lusty children who did not appear in the drawing-room unless they had prevailed upon some indulgent friend, like the Duke of Wellington, to beg for them to come downstairs, there was a cluster of pretty daughters, and three fine sons: Lord March, Lord George Lennox, and Lord William.

  Lord March was not present at the party, being at Braine-le-Comte with the Prince of Orange; and Lord William, who had had such a shocking fall from his horse, was still confined to his room; but Lord George, one of Wellington’s aides-de-camp, was there; and of course the four daughters of the house: Lady Mary, Lady Sarah, Lady Jane, and Lady Georgiana.

  The Duke of Wellington did not gratify the company by putting in an appearance. The redoubtable Duchesse d’Angoulême had lately arrived in Ghent, and he had gone there to pay his respects to her, taking Colonel Audley with him. But although the party was composed mostly of young people, several major-generals were present with their wives, quite a number of distinguished civilians, and of course Sir Sydney Smith, working his startling brows up and down, flashing his eyes about the room, and drawing a great deal of attention to himself with his theatrical eccentricities.

  Lady Worth, who arrived rather late with her husband, was glad to see that Harriet had torn herself from her couch and had come with Peregrine. It was evident that she had entered the lists against Barbara, for she was wearing one of her best gowns, had had her hair dressed in a new style, and had even improved her complexion with a dash of rouge. She seemed to be in spirits, and Judith was just reflecting on the beneficial results of a spasm of jealousy when in walked Barbara, ravishing in a white satin slip under a robe of celestial blue crape, caught together down the front with clasps of flowers. Judith’s complacency was ended. Peregrine, like nearly everyone else, was gazing at the vision. Who, Judith wondered despairingly, would look twice at Harriet in her figured muslin and her amethysts, when Barbara stood laughing under the great chandelier, flirting a fan of frosted crape which twinkled in the candlelight, the brilliants round her neck no more sparkling than her eyes?

  She glanced round the room, blew a kiss to Georgiana, nodded at Judith. Her gaze swept past Peregrine, and Judith found herself heaving a sigh of relief: she was going to be good, then! The next instant her spirit quailed again, for she caught sight of Harriet’s face, set in rigid lines of disdain, and heard her say in a clear, hard little voice to the lady standing beside her: ‘My dear ma’am, of course it is dyed! I should not have thought it could have deceived a child. Perry, let me remove into the salon: I find this place a little too hot for me.’

  That her words had reached Barbara’s ears was evident to Judith. The green eyes rested enigmatically on Harriet’s face for a moment, and then travelled on to Peregrine. A little tantalising smile hovered on the lovely mouth;
the eyes unmistakably beckoned.

  ‘In a minute!’ said Peregrine. ‘I must say how do you do to Lady Bab first.’

  He left Harriet’s side as he spoke, and walked right across the room to where Barbara stood, waiting for him to come to her. She held out her hand to him; he kissed it; she murmured something, and he laughed, very gallantly offered his arm, and went off with her towards the glass doors thrown open into the garden.

  ‘But what finesse!’ said Worth’s languid voice, immediately behind Judith. ‘I make her my compliments. In its way, perfect!’

  ‘I should like to box her ears, and Harriet’s, and Peregrine’s, and yours too!’ replied Judith in a wrathful whisper.

  ‘In that case, my love, I will remove one temptation at least out of your way.’

  She detained him. ‘Worth, you must speak to Perry!’

  ‘I shall do no such thing.’

  ‘It is your duty: after all, he is your ward!’

  ‘Oh no, he is not! He was my ward. That is a very different matter. Moreover, my heart wouldn’t be in it: Harriet offered battle, and has been defeated in one brilliant engagement. I cannot consider it to be any concern of mine—though I shall be interested to see the outcome.’

  ‘If you have taken it into your head to save your brother at the expense of mine, Julian, I tell you now that I won’t have it!’ said Judith.

  He smiled, but returned no answer, merely moving away to join a group of men by the stairs.

  The rest of the evening passed wretchedly enough for Judith. It was some time before Peregrine reappeared, and when he did at last come back from the garden he was in high fettle. Harriet, employing new tactics, had joined the younger guests in the ballroom, and was behaving in a manner quite unlike herself, chattering and laughing, and promising more dances than the night could possibly hold. Never remarkable for his perception, Peregrine beamed with pleasure, and told her that he had known all along that she would enjoy herself.

  ‘I am afraid you have come too late, Peregrine!’ she said, very bright eyed. ‘Every dance is booked!’