Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 03] (2 page)

Gideon murmured, “But then, Caroline was shown a picture of Prince Florizel, as he liked to call himself, painted a good ten years or more before she saw it. And you cannot say Prinny was any great prize on the Marriage Mart, Andy, aside from his rank, that is.” Gazing at the miniature Penthorpe had handed him, he didn’t think his friend would be as gravely disappointed as the Prince of Wales had been twenty years before.

What Gideon saw was a pair of laughing blue eyes, a tip-tilted nose, and pouting cherry-colored lips in a piquant little face surrounded by a cloud of sable ringlets. Her cheeks were the color of dusty roses, and except for the merry twinkle the artist had managed to capture in her eyes, she appeared to be both fragile and sultry. Her lips looked as if they longed to be kissed, and her lashes were so thick that they seemed to weigh her eyelids down, giving her a most beguiling look. An instant, intriguing sense of gentle warmth spread through Gideon’s body, stirring curiosity and much more primitive sensations, and he found himself wishing he might see her smile like that at him.

“Looks a bit spoilt, I thought,” Penthorpe said. “Her sister was much the same till she married Seacourt. But maybe you didn’t know she’d married him. You ain’t been back in a while, now that I think about it. I went home last year, after the Peace, of course, then joined up again to be in on Boney’s capture, but you stayed over here the whole time, raking and larking about with Lord Hill’s people, didn’t you?”

Gideon nodded, still looking at the miniature. Reluctantly and with an odd sense of loss, he returned it, thinking back to a day in his youth, not many months after his mother’s death, when he had told his brother, Jack, that he meant to learn all about the feud between the Deverills and the Earl of St. Merryn even if he had to go to Tuscombe Park and demand that the earl tell him what their father would not. Jack had informed on him, of course, and he had taken a thrashing for what his father had called his damned insolence. He had not thought of that feud in years, but now, gazing at Lady Daintry’s fascinating likeness, he began to think he ought never to have allowed a mere thrashing to deter him from learning more about the Tarrant family.

Not that opportunity had often come his way. He had been sent to Eton soon after that unfortunate episode, and except for school holidays—spent as often with his maternal grandparents as with his father—he had enjoyed little time in Cornwall during the intervening years. First there had been Cambridge, and then, because he was the second son, a career in the army. That his father had become sixth Marquess of Jervaulx the previous year (following the unexpected demise of the last male twig on the senior branch of the Deverill family tree) had changed little in Gideon’s life, although the one letter he had received from Jack in the meantime indicated that his graceless brother greatly enjoyed his position as the new heir to that great title.

“Gideon, look there,” Penthorpe said suddenly, his words accompanied by an ominous thunder of cannonfire from the opposite ridge. “Boney’s moving on the chateau!”

Startled, Gideon saw at once that Penthorpe was right and ruthlessly dismissed all thought of Cornwall from his mind, riveting his attention instead on the formidable duties at hand.

That opening salvo, accompanied by a rhythmic beat of drums and a strident blaring of horns, could have been heard for miles and filled the misty air with a heavy cloud of smoke. Eight thousand men stormed Chateau Hougoumont, but Gideon could see at once that the huge fortress would be nearly impossible to take. That realization strengthened his confidence, and he said calmly, “They may take the orchard, Andy, but our lads will hold firm inside.” Handing him the telescope, he added, “Keep watch now, for I must see to the others. And guard your fears, man. Our position is strong. This line extends for three miles along the ridge, and Boney can’t even see the reserves in the valley behind us. He’s in for a shock. You may take my word for that.”

Gideon maintained his air of confidence as he moved from man to man of his squadron, checking to see that each was awake and that men and horses alike were ready either to defend their present position or to charge if the order came. But his earlier concern had not been banished entirely, for that annoying little voice at the back of his mind soon reminded him that Wellington’s advantage of position was counterbalanced by Napoleon’s superior artillery and cavalry. And while British morale was certainly equal to that of the French, the same could not be said of the Dutch, Belgian, and North German troops who also fought under the Duke’s command. Wellington had tried to offset that shortcoming by mixing his troops so that halfhearted and inexperienced men—of whom he had far too many—would be supported and influenced by those who were better disciplined and more accustomed to battle. Gideon could only hope the plan would work.

When he returned to his place beside Penthorpe, he saw with satisfaction, even before he took back the telescope, that the British still held Chateau Hougoumont. A ring of dead French soldiers encircled the place, their once gaudy uniforms scarcely recognizable now for the mud in which they lay, and most of the remaining activity appeared to be shifting to a new target.

“Damned reckless of them to have expended so much effort on an invincible target,” Gideon muttered, “but how like Bonaparte to indulge in such a waste of lives and resources, as though men were unlimited. Surely, it will lead to his undoing in the end.”

“I hope you ain’t counting on it,” Penthorpe said testily, “for there is Ney now, moving his men on the farmhouse. I know it’s him, because I saw that red hair of his even without the telescope, when he took off his helmet for an instant just before they began to move.”

Gideon chuckled. “I hope you, of all people, don’t condemn the Frenchman for the color of his hair.”

“Well, you ain’t one to talk either,” Penthorpe said with a grimace. “Yours may be dark enough now to pass for auburn, but as I recall the matter, you began life at Eton as Carrots Minor.”

“So I did,” Gideon said cheerfully. “Recollect that Jack’s hair was reddish then, too. He had long since convinced everyone to call him Deverill, however, so he was even more displeased than I was when Carrots Minor stuck, because some of the cheekier lads promptly dubbed him Carrots Major.”

With a thoughtful air, Penthorpe murmured, “I wonder how this lot behind us would enjoy addressing you as Major Carrots.”

“Just you try that on, my lad, and see what you get for your trouble,” Gideon warned, straightening to his full height.

“Oh, I’m mum,” Penthorpe said, grinning, but the grin faded at the sound of a fresh salvo from below, and he added more grimly, “I say, Gideon, try as I might, I can’t get shut of the notion that today’s my last one on this earth. If Boney gets me, will you go to Tuscombe Park and tell them I’m frightfully sorry and all that, but … well, you know the drill.”

“I do, indeed, but don’t be nonsensical, Andy. You’ll make it through this day and whatever follows, if only to go to Tuscombe Park yourself and see if this aged and decrepit lass still looks anything like her miniature.”

A sudden silence fell, broken almost at once by another roll of drums and a trumpet call. Staring into the valley, Penthorpe said quietly, “I hope you’re right, but even though you’ve pulled me out of some awful scrapes in the past, Gideon, I don’t believe you can do it today. I’m no coward, truly, but please—”

“Don’t trouble your head,” Gideon replied gruffly. “I’ll do it if I must.” Wanting to divert Penthorpe’s thoughts and still keep an eye on the activity below and an ear cocked for orders, he said, “How is it that this Lady Daintry’s such an heiress if she’s got an older sister? For that matter, St. Merryn’s fortune ought to go with the property. Isn’t there a son?”

“Oh, aye, to be sure, her brother, Charles Tarrant. Poor fellow went to Harrow is why you don’t know him. He gets the Tarrant estates, of course, but it seems that besides the settlement her father will make, my wench will inherit the fortune of a great-aunt, a truly redoubtable old lady, according to my Uncle Tattersall. In her seventies, she is, though, so she can’t last long. From some cause or other she has money all her own. I don’t understand it myself, because she ain’t a widow, so it don’t stand to reason that she ought to have much—lives with St. Merryn, too—but my uncle assured me the wench is due to come into at least twenty thousand a year from her, just like I said.”

A French horn sounding the charge below diverted Gideon’s attention again, and he saw instantly that the French, under cover of the heavy cannon smoke, meant to break through Wellington’s center to open the road to Brussels. French bombardments were centered on the Dutch-Belgian divisions below, and even as he snatched the reins of his horse from the soldier who held them and snapped at Penthorpe to get to his unit, he saw the foreign troops break ranks and throw down their weapons. In wild confusion, pushing and sliding on the slippery ground, they turned and surged back up the slope toward the safety of the Allied main line with the French appallingly close behind them.

Leaping to his saddle, Gideon shouted to his officers to prepare to support the infantry. The order to charge came a split second later.

Riding powerful horses and waving their long sabers, the British cavalry attacked with murderous fury, cutting through the densely massed French columns to wreak terrifying mutilation and death. The trampled wheat grew red with blood, and even in the thick of battle, above the din of horns, drums, clashing swords, pounding hooves, and gunfire, Gideon could hear the shocking screams and appalling groans of wounded and dying horses and men.

Despite his best efforts to keep his units together, they soon became scattered, though the Allied forces held strong. When they regrouped sometime later at the base of the ridge, he did not see Penthorpe, but Wellington was waiting for them, astride his magnificent chestnut war-horse, Copenhagen. Ordinarily reserved in his manner toward his men, the Duke was so pleased that he received them now with a slight lift of his low cocked hat and the words, “Life Guards, I thank you!” Gideon grinned at his nearest officer and saw his own pride reflected in the man’s widened eyes and parted lips.

But the battle was far from over. The British infantry quickly formed squares, turning the ground into a chessboard and entangling the French cavalry, whereupon the British cavalry charged again, driving the French back; but Bonaparte called in his reserves, and his army rallied, threatening Wellington’s center and forcing the Duke to call in his reserves. By half past seven that evening, with the sun nearing the western horizon, the British main line had become badly weakened.

Gideon caught sight of Penthorpe near an inn called
La Belle Alliance,
but soon afterward Bonaparte hurled a huge wave against Wellington’s line, nearly breaking through, and by the time the French had been repulsed, Gideon had lost sight of Penthorpe again. The center was crumbling, the Duke’s men exhausted, and his reserves were used up. But with bulldog tenacity Wellington had already begun to reorganize his forces.

Bonaparte had the edge, Gideon thought, watching grimly as he signaled his men to regroup. The little upstart’s men still thought they would get to wear the parade uniforms they carried to march into Brussels, but the Duke could yet prove them wrong.

French cannons were fired, the British replied in kind, and the smoke grew so heavy that for a time the enemy troops were lost from sight. Hearing the cry
“Vive l’Empereur!”
Gideon knew a new charge had begun, but still he could not see. Then, as he raised his saber in warning to his men to expect a command, the smoke cleared briefly, revealing line upon line of flashing bayonets appallingly nearer than he had expected.

“Fire!” he cried, and the command echoed down the line till it was lost in a thunderous explosion of cannon fire. When the smoke cleared again, three hundred of Napoleon’s Old Guard lay dead or dying on the ground. Moments later Wellington galloped along the entire front line on the magnificent Copenhagen, waving his hat aloft and shouting, “The whole line! Advance!”

The battle was won. The French infantry, cavalry, and artillery had merged pell-mell into a great seething mass of panic. Some units tried to hold formation and fight, while others were trying to effect an orderly retreat, but the panicked masses were bent upon fleeing the blood-soaked wheat fields as fast as horses or their own legs could carry them.

The sun had set, and in the gray dusk, clouds of low-lying smoke enveloped whole sections of the field as Wellington’s army pushed its way through the wreckage. Mangled bodies of dead and wounded men and horses lay jumbled together, surrounded by the debris of battle—plumed helmets, shakos, bearskin hats, gaiters, odd shoes, boots, knapsacks, metal breastplates, mess bowls, knives and forks, cannonballs, lances, sabers, torn bits of gold braid and lace, epaulets, flags, bagpipes, bugles, trumpets, and drums—each item telling its own sad story.

Grimly fighting his stomach’s reaction to the gory sight, Gideon forced himself to keep his mind on his duty. Realizing he was near the inn, he looked anxiously around for Penthorpe but did not see him. His men waited quietly for orders, and when Wellington raised his hand, Gideon spurred his horse nearer to hear what he would say. As he did so, he saw an infantryman stoop suddenly to pick up something from the ground, and there was still enough light left for him to see the dull flash of gold. Swerving his mount toward the man, Gideon snapped, “What’s that you’ve found there, soldier?”

The man looked up, saw his epaulets, and quickly saluted. “Damned if it ain’t a lady’s picture, sir,” he said. “These Frenchies’ve dropped some o’ the damnedest things.”

“Let’s have it,” Gideon said, his stomach clenching in apprehension. The soldier handed up the miniature, muddy but perfectly recognizable. Not bothering to conceal the tide of fear that swept over him, Gideon scanned the nearby ground, his gaze passing swiftly over bodies that could not be Penthorpe’s but lingering wherever a shape seemed at all familiar. Bodies lay all around him, and the dreadful groaning and screams of pain were such that he knew he would hear them in his dreams for years to come. Suddenly, in a hollow not far from where the miniature had been found, a lanky mud-covered figure caught his eye. The man lay facedown in the mud, but his helmet had slipped to one side, revealing a few locks of relatively clean reddish hair.