*
“What do you mean, you cannot help me? I did not climb up those blasted stairs just to give my regards to the War Office, by Jupiter.”
Arthur’s happy mood had not lasted long. First he’d called at Lieutenant Thomas Durbin’s family’s home, only to find the knocker off the door. A surly footman at the service entrance had been no help, even after accepting Captain Hunter’s coin. Then Arthur had gone to Whitehall, only to find that most of his acquaintances were off getting ready for the victory march. A smooth-cheeked soldier was left on duty, to his—and
Arthur’s—regret.
“Do you know who I am, Private?” Arthur shouted in his best battlefield tones.
“Yes, sir, Captain Hunter, sir. My lord.” Everyone knew one of the most decorated officers of the last campaign. The private still could not get him Lieutenant Thomas Durbin’s current address. “It’s classified, sir.”
“Cut line, Private. Since when is a junior officer’s direction a matter of national security?”
“Since the lieutenant is being held for court-martial, sir. Orders are he’s to have no visitors.”
“What? What charges were brought against him? Dash it, man, I would know. The lieutenant saved my life.”
“The, ah, charges include dereliction of duty, disobeying orders, disrespect for his superior, and desertion.”
“Since his commanding officer was that fool Falcott, I am not surprised that disrespect for his superior is included, but the rest is hogwash. The lieutenant was one of the bravest, most valiant officers on the Peninsula, dash it. He ought to be leading today’s celebration. And if you do not tell me his whereabouts, Private, you’ll find yourself sweeping the streets after that same parade.”
The lieutenant was in the guardhouse, and it took Arthur three hours to get him out. The hardest part was finding the officers to sign his release, once Captain Hunter had told his story: It was General Falcott who’d engaged the French while peace was being negotiated. Without support from the rest of the British troops, Falcott’s infantry was cut down by the French. Sent by Wellington to find where the devil Falcott’s brigade was and why the deuce they were not in camp, Captain Hunter had found the remnants of the unit. Lieutenant Durbin had rallied his handful of men to make a stand, despite knowing how hopeless their situation. Arthur fought by the lieutenant’s side until the French withdrew, thinking reinforcements were arriving, and he could lead the intrepid troop back to the British lines.
On the way, though, they’d encountered yet another French gun emplacement, and Arthur was injured. He would have bled to death right in the dust if not for the tourniquet Durbin had tied. Then the lieutenant and his men had stood over Captain Hunter, defending him, losing more brave soldiers, until help arrived. No, Arthur would not let the lieutenant be court-martialed for Falcott’s feeblemindedness in wanting to win one more battle, from his position of safety.
But Falcott was a friend of the prince’s, Arthur was told. They could not make the general look bad. Since Arthur was running out of time to return to the hotel, change into his dress uniform, and get to the blasted parade grounds, he very succinctly told everyone he saw precisely how bad General Falcott was going to look in the newspapers, the broadsides, and the print-shop windows, when Arthur got done telling the true story. And they could not stop him, by Harry, because he was resigning. Besides, Falcott might be a friend of Prinny’s, but Captain Arthur Hunter was named after Wellesley, his father’s friend, not after Pendragon, a mere folk hero.
The lieutenant was freed into Arthur’s custody pending an inquiry. A private, closed door inquiry, the War Office officials begged. Arthur saluted without comment and went to retrieve the lieutenant.
Durbin was almost choking to hold back tears of joy and relief. He kept shaking Arthur’s hand, until the captain felt a lump in his own throat. Thomas was pale and weak, for the guards had barely fed him, it seemed, and never let him out of his cell for exercise or fresh air. His clothes were filthy and his sandy hair was matted. He could hardly walk to the hired carriage, so Arthur had to help support the younger man, ignoring his own aching leg.
“Why didn’t you send for me, blast it? You know I would have told those fools what really happened.”
“But you were lying near death in some peasant’s hut. The fever, my messenger said. No one else knew what had occurred, and the army did not want too many questions asked. They needed a scapegoat for all those brave boys who died that day, after peace was declared.”
They both were silent a minute, remembering. Then the captain swore again. “Dammit, couldn’t your uncle have vouched for you? Lord Avery holds great power in Parliament, so his word should have seen you exonerated.”
Thomas shrugged his too-thin shoulders. “But Falcott is my uncle’s bosom bow, which is why he bought me a commission in the fool’s unit. Uncle Avery washed his hands of me the instant the army brought charges. He wouldn’t listen to criticism of his old friend, and wouldn’t have a coward in the family, he said.”
“So much for family feeling. I suppose he left Town to avoid the gossip. The house is all shut up.”
“That wouldn’t matter. He disowned me, told me never to enter his doorway again.”
“The bastard. Have you other family in London?” The lieutenant shrugged again and then took a fit of coughing. Arthur rapped on the carriage roof and directed the driver to stop at the corner, where a stand had been set up for the celebrations, selling lemonade and oranges along with pennants and ribbons and whistles. Arthur was not sure how many more times he could clamber into and out of the coach before he fell straight on his face, but he fetched a jug of lemonade and a meat pie from another vendor.
When Thomas could speak again he told his rescuer that no, he had no other relations, and no friends, either. He’d learned that in prison, when none of his comrades answered his messages, until he’d run out of funds to send any more.
“So what will you do? Where shall I have the driver take you? I can’t imagine you’d wish to go back to the barracks.”
“About as much as they want me there.” Thomas bit into the meat pie, not caring that the juice was running down his chin. “I’ll have to get my traps eventually, but no, I would rather sleep in the streets than go there.”
Arthur was not about to let Lieutenant Durbin sleep in the gutter. He owed the lad for his life, and for not asking about him sooner. But he couldn’t take him back to the hotel. There were no rooms to let, and no space in Simmons’s little bedchamber to put a pallet. Besides, the young officer needed tending, and Arthur would be too busy with his duties to Princess Henrika to see to his welfare. Miss Thurstfield’s suite had plenty of room for an extra bed, and Arthur just knew she and her companion would be competent and caring, but it would never do, of course. Matters of propriety would force this poor hero into some ramshackle riverfront rooming house until Arthur could make other arrangements. There simply was not time this afternoon, for Lord Wellington would have his head for washing if he missed the ceremonies. This was not the time to offend the general, not when Arthur needed his signature on Lieutenant Durbin’s release.
Then Captain Hunter recalled the perfect place to take his young charge, a place overrun with idle servants, positively teeming with the gentler sex, and abounding with amenities. Arthur ought to know, for he paid the bills at Huntingdon House.
6
That all bills be paid on time.
“You said you needed an escort, Sylvia. Since I was
busy, I have furnished you with one.”
“You always did have a deplorable sense of levity, Arthur. I would have thought that now you had risen to Henry’s title you would have assumed a modicum of his dignity.”
“No, did you? But I am not teasing, you know. You lectured me at great length, if I recall, about my duties to the family. Providing you with a resident gentleman seemed to be a close second to providing an heir. I believe your words were that you had not had a good night’s sleep since Henry’s passing, worrying over the safety of the household with no man to protect you. Well, Lieutenant Durbin is the bravest man I know, so you should rest easy tonight.”
“He is a coward! A deserter!”
“Rumors. All false. The lieutenant will soon be awarded a medal for his gallantry under fire.” Even if Arthur had to give him one of his own.
As usual, Sylvia did not listen to any view but the one she held. “How dare you bring such a despicable creature into my home.”
Arthur politely refrained from mentioning precisely who owned Huntingdon House, brushing at a speck of dust on his sleeve, instead.
Sylvia understood his unspoken message and changed tack, nearly grinding her teeth: “What I meant by a gentleman was a proper escort for my sister, as you well know. She’ll be cut dead if she is seen on your lieutenant’s arm.”
“Nonsense. He will be accepted, nay, honored if you show your approval. I thought you had enough credit with the dowagers to sway public opinion, among the
ton
at any rate. I’ll take care of the military.”
Sylvia helped herself to another bonbon. She did not know whether to be flattered that her brother-in-law thought she held such power, or to be offended that he placed her with the dowager set. “I am not in my dotage, you know. But I do have considerable
influence in
the
beau monde.
I suppose such a thing as bringing him back into favor is not beyond my capabilities.”
“The lad’s uncle is an earl, remember, so it’s not as if he’s a mere nobody.”
“But he is in such bad odor.”
“He’ll wash up nicely,” Arthur said, choosing to misinterpret her latest complaint. Then he added, “He saved my life, Sylvia. Without him, Cousin Nigel would be viscount, and you would be living in the dower house in Suffolk, most likely with Aunt Aubergine.”
Sylvia quickly popped another sweet in her mouth to replace the bad taste of such a dire fate. “I suppose we do owe him some kind of assistance. But to take him around with us?”
“I intend to see he is added to the guest lists for the ambassadors’ balls and such, so you won’t have to beg your friends for extra invitations. Of course you’d be welcome to accompany him, if you’ve a notion to meet the Ziftsweig delegation. And Miss Ferguson would be included, of course.”
He was holding out a carrot, she knew, dangling the chance to hobnob with royalty. She could hardly do better for her sister, but Sylvia was never satisfied with one bonbon, or one carrot. “Do you know, I think it might be just the thing if we held a ball to reintroduce your lieutenant here. Of course there would not be time to organize a grand entertainment, but if you get your Austrian friends to come, the
ton
will flock after them.” Who knew, perhaps Wellington would come. Or Prinny. She’d never held a proper come-out for her sister Elizabeth, what with mourning and waiting for Arthur to come home to pay the bills. Now seemed a golden opportunity. “That would truly show the Polite World that we welcome Lieutenant Durbin in our home.”
“Oh, a ball would be much too much effort for a lady of your tender sensibilities. I’d never ask such a thing of you.”
“Gammon.” Sylvia jumped off the couch and rang the bell pull for her butler to bring pen and paper, her social calendar, and a fresh pot of tea, with those special seed cakes of Cook’s. “Elizabeth can help pen the invitations. I wonder how soon we can have new gowns made up? And the ballroom chandelier will have to be taken down for washing. I never liked those crocodile-legged chairs in the Blue Parlor. I don’t suppose…?”
He waved his hand. “Send me the reckoning.” He knew she’d never had intentions of doing otherwise, anyway. “We’re all agreed, then, to make Lieutenant Durbin welcome at Huntingdon House?”
The question—the entire expensive discussion, in fact—was academic, as the lieutenant was already ensconced in the best bedchamber, being catered to by half the staff under the direction of Miss Elizabeth Ferguson. Sylvia had decided to have a spasm when Arthur introduced his houseguest, but the viscountess’s sister had taken one look at the weary, woebegone soldier and began issuing orders for hot water, nourishing foods, a footman to assist him up the stairs, another to fetch him Henry’s robe from the attic. Miss Ferguson had a backbone, it seemed. Arthur approved. In fact, he considered a match between the pair an unlooked-for stroke of serendipity. Elizabeth had a comfortable fortune; the lieutenant had none. Oh, Arthur intended to see that Durbin’s uncle reinstated Thomas, but the lieutenant would have no army career to fall back on. A wealthy wife ought to suit him to a cow’s thumb, if Elizabeth’s coddling did not do the trick.
An excellent day’s work, Arthur congratulated himself, taking leave of his sister-in-law with adequate time to get to the reviewing stand. “Oh, by the way, Sylvia, do you know of a Sir Malcolm Fredenham?”
“Fredenham? That dirty dish will never be on the guest list for any ball of mine, I can assure you. He
came
calling on my sister during the Season. I sent him to the rightabout you may be sure.”
“What, is he a rakehell then?”
“No more than any other gentleman, from what I heard. But his pockets are sorely to let. Gambling, don’t you know. He’s hanging out for a wealthy bride, they say. Been turned down by more than one heiress’s father. What, does he owe you money?”