Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 03] (3 page)

Flinging himself from the saddle, Gideon rushed to the fallen man, grabbed his shoulders, and pulled. The thick, oozing mud clung to its captive, reluctant to release him, and although Gideon’s strength prevailed, his effort was futile. Bile surged into his throat. The man’s face had been blown away.

Just then Wellington cried, “Bonaparte’s taken horse to
Quatre Bras!
After him, lads!”

Fighting down his nausea, Gideon turned back to the waiting foot soldier and indicated the body. “He was a friend,” he said. “The picture belonged to him, so I shall keep it, but I must go. You stay here to protect the body from looters and see it gets a proper burial. Here are a few yellow boys for your trouble,” he added, digging for guineas. Tossing them to the man, he tucked the miniature safely away inside his jacket, flung himself into the saddle, and forced himself to concentrate on his badly depleted brigade and the mission that lay before them.

The battle of Waterloo was over, but pursuit of the French would not be abandoned, for the Duke was determined this time to drive Napoleon all the way back to Paris if necessary, and then to occupy the city. Only the dead on the blood-soaked field would rest tonight, Gideon thought.

Sending up a silent prayer for Penthorpe’s soul, and ruthlessly repressing a vision of tears replacing the laughter in those blue eyes in Cornwall, he looked back one last time and saw, scattered here and there in the mud where they had fallen from torn French knapsacks, a vast number of still colorful red and blue parade uniforms.

September 26, 1815

L
ADY DAINTRY TARRANT, HAVING
finished the final episode of the romantic tale she had been reading in the
Ladies’ Monthly Museum,
sighed, cast the issue aside, and said to the only other occupant of the morning room, a stout, gray-haired lady, “I simply do not understand, Aunt Ophelia, why every silly female ends her tale expecting to live happily ever after only because she is getting married. It puzzles me how so many women—in stories, at least—find just the right man and, at no more than a nod or a wink from him, fall quite desperately in love.”

Looking up from the journal in which she was writing, Lady Ophelia Balterley said, “One does not
fall
in love, dear child. One steps in it, rather like one steps into something in a stable yard. ’Tis a fact you should recognize yourself by now, having sent three no doubt eligible suitors to the right-about before getting yourself stuck with a fourth young man.”

Daintry sighed again, pushed back a stray dark curl that was tickling her nose, and turned to glance out the nearby window at a dreary prospect that looked more like February than late September. Gray clouds drifted low over the trees of Tuscombe Park, and a light drizzle dampened the landscape. One could not call it rain, for the water in the quiet courtyard fountain showed not a single ripple and the lake beyond the vast sweep of the front lawn looked like a slate-colored mirror. But it was not yet a day for riding, so here she was, sitting on a sofa with nothing more interesting than a magazine to occupy her time.

Glancing at her great-aunt, seated too near the hearth but seemingly unaffected by the heat from the roaring fire, she saw that Lady Ophelia was still watching her, having abandoned the journal resting on the wide right arm of her writing chair in hope of conversation. Short of stature and square in shape, Lady Ophelia was solidly built and enjoyed long walks each day as much as she enjoyed her studies. Having entered her seventy-seventh year, she was remarkably well-preserved, still able to read and write perfectly well without the assistance of spectacles, and possessed of a mind that was sharper than most minds of any age whatever. Lady Ophelia was an acknowledged Bluestocking, an admirer of such radical females as Mary Wollstonecraft and Mary Anstell, and not the least bit likely to apologize for the fact.

Smiling, Daintry said, “Do you suppose there really is such a thing as true love, ma’am—between a man and a woman, I mean? I do seem to be attracted to certain gentlemen, to be sure, which is just as well, since Papa is determined above all things to see me married to one, and I try to believe each time that perhaps this man will do; however, in the final event, I find he won’t do at all, so now here I am, betrothed to a man I have never even clapped eyes upon, merely because Papa has decided I am incapable of choosing a husband for myself.”

“Your father is scarcely a better judge of men than you are, for goodness’ sake,” Lady Ophelia replied. “Only look at the specimen he picked for your sister, Susan, for no better reason than that Seacourt Head lies opposite Tuscombe Point.”

“But Seacourt is a most charming gentleman,” Daintry protested. “He is very handsome, and Papa still says—even after ten years—that it was an excellent match, since it brought all the land around St. Merryn’s Bay into the family.”

“Well, it did not do any such thing, since the Seacourt portion will no doubt go to Sir Geoffrey’s son, if he ever has one, but property and money are all that matter to the English male. It was precisely the same when I was a gel. Fortunately for me, my papa was a man of foresight and vision who saw no good reason for me to live, after his death, in another man’s pocket—or under his thumb, which was most likely to have been the case, of course. I’ve got a perfectly good man of affairs in Sir Lionel Werring, but I call the tune, and really, my dear, there is no urgent need for St. Merryn to cast you into marriage at all, for you will inherit half of my fortune, after all, which will make you quite independent of any male.”

“Yes, ma’am, but I have not inherited it yet, nor do I desire to do so in the near future,” Daintry said, twinkling at her. “And until I do, it is my duty to obey Papa.”

“A duty made up by males to suit themselves,” Lady Ophelia retorted. “Men created the entire world to suit themselves.”

Daintry chuckled. “You know Mama has a spasm whenever you say such things, and Reverend Sykes does not approve either.”

“Oh, quite, but that does not alter the fact that men have it all their own way. Do not tell me that any woman had a hand in deciphering the word of God, for I know she did not, nor did any female write the Bible or dream up the nonsense written about the Creation. Moreover, women used to have a great deal more power than they have today, for recollect that amongst the Greek and Roman gods females were quite as powerful as the males, and in even more ancient societies, females frequently ruled the roast. It was thought, and not unnaturally,” she added dryly, “that man was born of woman, rather than the other way round, making Eve, not Adam, the first inhabitant of this earth. But men, once they began to sort out religion to suit themselves, promptly decided to make Eve a villainess, blaming her for that whole stupid apple affair just as if Adam had had nothing to do with it. I am quite thankful to know that had it all happened in England, the courts would have held
him
responsible, though they would have done so out of the foolish notion that only men are wise enough to make the important decisions in life.”

“Yes, ma’am, so you have frequently told me,” Daintry said, making no attempt to conceal her amusement, “but I am not certain that an English magistrate would go so far as to admit to anyone, ever, that he would have supported Eve in that particular case.”

“Yes, well, I am glad to see you still think for yourself,” Lady Ophelia said briskly. “For that you must thank me. Your father would never have taught you to do so, nor would he have been stirred to provide any governess who could teach you more than the basic accomplishments thought suitable for a female to learn. You would have learned no Greek or Latin, though you might have got a bit of Italian, and I daresay he would have let you learn French. Despite that rascal Napoleon, the language still enjoys favor with the
beau monde,
though not as much as it once did, to be sure. Perhaps it will come back into fashion now that the Continent has been made safe for travel again.”

Daintry laughed. “Only if that dastardly Bonaparte does not break free again as he did last year. And as for my learning Greek and Latin, ma’am, you know perfectly well that I have not got the least turn for either language.”

“You know as much as most men who fritter away their time at Oxford or Cambridge,” Lady Ophelia said acidly, “and much more than most women. If we are ever to regain our proper place in this world, women must be better educated. ’Tis absurd to teach them only to be entertaining and decorative. Why, in ancient Celtic tribes, women fought right alongside their men in battle, and I can tell you that if a woman had locked up that dratted Napoleon, he would not have got loose again for a hundred days or more to work his dreadful mischief. Only men are stupid enough to believe that others will play by rules that they themselves have ordained, just as only a man can be stupid enough to believe that a gel who has unbetrothed herself three times in as many years is likely to remain betrothed to a fourth man only because he commands her to do so.”

Daintry was accustomed to her great-aunt’s penchant for changing a subject mid-sentence, so she didn’t blink, saying only, “Papa threatened dire consequences if I fail to obey him, ma’am, and you know he is perfectly capable of keeping his word. I doubt I have the courage to jilt Penthorpe, in any case, since I do not even know him. What possible reason could I give?”

“I should think not knowing him would be reason enough, myself. Good gracious, child, he could be a rake or a scoundrel. Even your father don’t know him, and only arranged the thing because he was exasperated with you. Also, the lad is a viscount, and it suited St. Merryn to be connected with his old friend’s nephew. I daresay he knew Penthorpe’s father, too.”

“Yes, because they were all at Harrow together. It is the one fault he can find in Penthorpe that from some cause or other the poor man had the misfortune to go to Eton.”

“Well, your father would have gone to Eton, too, in the old days and not have thought it any misfortune,” Lady Ophelia said tartly. “Had it not been for the falling-out between his papa and Lord Thomas Deverill, he would never have gone to Harrow, nor would he have sent your brother Charles there. All foolishness, that feud. I never had any patience with it. When Jervaulx lost his elder son in that tragic riding accident just days before Waterloo, your father would say only that he’s got another son somewhere and that he ought to get on back to Jervaulx Abbey instead of lingering in Cornwall, pretending a concern for all the miners out of work, when he is neither needed nor wanted and really desires only to keep up the price of Gloucestershire corn. However, that is all by the way. I meant only to explain that Eton was always the Tarrant men’s school before that idiotish feud, and your father certainly did not let Seacourt’s having gone to Eton dissuade him from giving your sister to the man.”

“I do not pretend to care which school any man attended, ma’am. They all seem much of a muchness to me. I know Charles hated Harrow while he was there quite as much as any man I know who went to Eton hated it there. All of them are harsh places, are they not? I have observed that it is only after men leave their schools that they seem to acquire a love for them.”

The morning-room door banged back against the wall just then, and a damsel who looked a good deal like Daintry, with the same rosy complexion, dark curls, and twinkling eyes, burst into the room, her white muslin dress rucked up under its blue satin sash, and her right stocking crumpled around her ankle. A second child, ethereally fair and slender, followed gracefully and silently in her wake, her light gray eyes wide and watchful.

“Charlotte,” Lady Ophelia exclaimed, “what have you been about? Pull up your stocking at once, and try to remember that a lady enters a room with dignity, not like some whirling dervish.”

Seeing Charley bend swiftly to do as she was told, Daintry smiled at the second child, patted the place beside her on the sofa, and said, “Come, sit by me, Melissa, and tell us what you two have been doing to occupy yourselves this dreary morning.”

Melissa looked guiltily at Charley but moved obediently to sit beside Daintry, giving no response to her question.

Nor was it necessary for her to do so. Tugging at her second stocking, Charley looked up with a laughing face, her eyes twinkling mischievously as her gaze darted from her aunt to Lady Ophelia and back again. She said, “We’ve done away with Cousin Ethelinda. We decided to amuse ourselves without her today.”

Stifling laughter, Daintry looked at Lady Ophelia, but although the old lady disliked untidiness, she was as immune to being shocked by Charley’s declarations as Daintry was. “And just how have you accomplished that feat,” she inquired placidly. “Did you murder the poor woman?”

Charley chuckled appreciatively and straightened up to deal with her sash, saying, “No, though it is frequently a temptation, ma’am. She is such a wet-goose, you know, and says such dreary things to us. She doesn’t
know
anything at all.”

Lady Ophelia said, “I cannot argue against that fact, but it is scarcely a proper sentiment to hear from the lips of a gel no more than ten years of age.”

“Really, Aunt Ophelia, it is the latter end of September, as you must know since we celebrated your birthday more than six weeks ago, so my eleventh birthday is less than half a year off, and Melissa will be ten, two whole months before that. We are growing quite old. Soon we shall be turning down our hems and putting up our hair, and we do
not
like stitching samplers, which is all that Cousin Ethelinda can think of for us to do.”

Daintry glanced at Melissa, sitting quietly with her hands folded in her lap. “Surely, our cousin also teaches you to play the pianoforte, and to work with globes and read improving works. I know she possesses many worthwhile accomplishments, and my governesses taught all those things, as well as trying to teach me the sort of things Aunt Ophelia was determined I should know.”

“Well, at least the things Aunt Ophelia teaches one are interesting,” Charley said, giving a final twitch to her skirt before turning and flinging herself down upon a cushion near Lady Ophelia’s feet. “I do not intend to become a weeping willow like Cousin Ethelinda. She is not a proper governess, in any case, but is merely attempting to oblige so as not to seem so much of a barnacle upon Grandmama as she otherwise must appear to be.”