A gleam of understanding lit up her son's dark blue eyes. Lord Wrotham smiled grimly. Now it all became clear. His mother, ordinarily the most flighty of mortals, could become exceedingly single-minded when pursuing her own particular interests. Unable on her own to stop her only son from 69
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deserting her by playing on his sympathies for her helpless widowhood, she was now trying to entice him with the attractions of another of her sex. She must be getting desperate, he thought cynically to himself, if she was willing to relinquish to another female what little attention she was able to demand from him. Heretofore, even the slightest references she made to other women had been, if not derogatory, then certainly not complimentary, for in his mother's opinion, no other woman of any age could ever be as fascinating as herself. That she could even suggest her son might acknowledge the presence of another woman spoke volumes.
Until now it had never occurred to the Countess of Claverdon that anyone else could be of the least interest to her son. Supremely selfish and possessed of a delicate, fragile beauty that belied an indomitable will where her own wishes were concerned, she had taken her son's devotion to her as her due from the moment he had been born. Not content with reducing Christopher's father to abject slavery as he rushed to fulfill her every whim, she soon discovered that his son was equally susceptible to her smiles and her tears—until, that was. Lord Wrotham had been so disobliging as to break his neck on the hunting field and deprive her of her most constant source of masculine attention. Unable to support life without an ever-present adoring male, she had remarried, becoming Countess of Claverdon within the minimum amount of time that it was respectable to do so, and disabusing her son of the notion that his father—or any other man—meant 70
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anything more to her than a never-ending source of admiration.
This rather cynical view of his lovely mother had only intensified over the years. As a young man about town, Christopher had been able to witness firsthand her flirtatious behavior. To do the countess justice, she was always a charming and beautiful companion, continually exerting herself to cultivate masculine attention, even if it was only her son's. However, after her second husband had fallen victim to pneumonia, leaving her again bereft of guaranteed devotion, she had become rather tiresome in the demands she made on Christopher. Always gay and coquettish, she had treated him more as an escort than a son, an awkward and embarrassing role for one making his own entrance into society. Her stepson, Hugh, now Earl of Claverdon, had been most disappointing in that regard, as he had resolutely refused to worship her in the proper way. Possessed of a retiring nature, he remained happily at his principal country seat the entire year, never participating in the giddy social world in which his exalted rank would easily have established him as a leader. That he very generously gave over his entire house and staff in Grosvenor Square to his stepmother was quite beside the point when compared to his boorish insistence on staying in the country when she required his escort in town.
In a short while Christopher, bright, adventurous, and restless as a child, had grown bored with the endless empty rounds of the
ton.
Unable to derive enough amusement from courting risk at the gaming tables or in curricle races, he had 71
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cast about for something to make his life both more interesting and more meaningful.
Unlike his friends, who sought passion and romance in pursuit of the incomparables of the
ton
or the beauties on the stage, he was left entirely unmoved by the scores of females who did their best to ignite even the tiniest spark of response in such an eligible bachelor. A deadening familiarity with all the stratagems employed by beautiful women left him completely immune to the charms of the most lovely and talented females the capital had to offer. In short, the only person possessed of enough spirit and intelligence to interest and challenge the young Lord Wrotham had been that upstart genius, Napoleon Bonaparte, and, in some smaller part, the general's unflagging adversary. Sir Arthur Wellesley.
Convinced that the conflict raging on the Continent was the only place likely to offer him an opportunity to do something with his life besides waste it consulting with his tailor or whiling away the hours at White's, Christopher had purchased a commission in the First Hussars. Deaf to his mother's tears and her dire predictions of his immediate demise, he had headed for the Peninsula.
For one brief moment, he had considered remaining in England and taking an interest in the substantial estates left him by his father, but beyond ensuring that they were run smoothly and profitably, he found little to challenge him there. Besides, if he were to remain at home, he did run the risk of his frivolous parent descending upon him with a large 72
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house party determined on amusement that he would be expected to provide.
In fact, desperate to keep at least one captive male within a day's journey, his mother had suggested this very thing to him. Fortunately, when Christopher, firm in his resolve to follow the military life, had called upon her to bid her farewell, he had looked so handsome in his regimentals and had brought with him two brother officers whose appearances were so dashing, that he was able to convince the countess of the appropriateness of his choice.
The felicity of his decision was soon apparent to all, for Major Lord Wrotham had quickly distinguished himself as an officer whose good sense and cool courage could be relied upon in the most desperate of situations.
At Talavera he had even caught the eye of Wellesley himself as the First Hussars valiantly attempted to leap an unexpected and treacherous ravine right before engaging in furious fighting with the French. His own magnificent horsemanship and enthusiasm had urged others across when they might have hesitated and caused more confusion and disaster than there already was. At Ciudad Rodrigo he had again been conspicuous in the Hussars' repeated charges against the French cavalry as they strove to break through Picton's lines.
Eventually, courage and quick thinking had distinguished Major Lord Wrotham, even among men renowned for such things. He had begun to become well known—enough so that Wellesley, now Marquess of Wellington, in search of men he could trust to go into the fiercest pans of the battle and return 73
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unscathed with reliable information, had made him an aide. This hazardous position precisely suited Major Lord Wrotham, whose taste for excitement and risk had only increased since his arrival in the Peninsula.
But it was more than the test of his bravery and resourcefulness that made his experience there so gratifying. It was the chance to do something with his life, to contribute his own particular skills to a cause he believed in, that Christopher found particularly satisfying after years escorting a mother who measured her success in life by the tributes she received.
Thus it was with mixed emotions that Christopher had received the news of the Treaty of Paris. On the one hand, all that he had fought for had come to pass; on the other, where was he now to find any life as vital and challenging as the one he had been leading?
Fortunately for him, Wellington still had need of clever, observant assistants who were sympathetic to his particular concerns and accustomed to his way of doing things. Major Lord Wrotham was requested to accompany Wellington to Vienna, where the rivalries—political, social, and romantic—
were so intense as to make his new duties only slightly less hazardous than they had been on the Peninsula. If he was not dodging the eager embraces of amorous ladies determined to win the heart of a handsome, battle-hardened hero, he was avoiding jealous lovers, foreign politicians who mistrusted the motives of the British delegation, or spies who were suspicious of everybody. Still, it had been a heady experience made only headier by the escape of Napoleon from Elba. 74
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It was the Corsican monster's renewed threat that was responsible for Lord Wrotham's present unwilling appearance in London. Naturally, he had been flattered when the Duke of Wellington himself had pulled him aside one evening and requested that he return home to drum up support in Parliament for the creation of an army that would be equal to the battle that was sure to come. "To tell you the truth, Wrotham," he had declared, "I am not very pleased with what I have now got—inexperienced, ill-equipped, and not enough of them. And," he added regretfully, "many of them are strangers to me. What with so many fine lads from the Peninsula away in America, we shall have to ask Parliament to call out the militia in order to raise enough troops. I shall feel your absence here sorely, but you will be of more use to me in London."
So here he was, once again forced to grace his mother's drawing room and show at least some semblance of interest in her, for it would have been impossible to avoid doing so. Even had he not called upon her directly after he arrived in the metropolis, she was so well-informed of the least little
on-
dit
that she would have learned of his whereabouts within a day of his arrival. At least he had had the presence of mind to procure chambers for himself and his batman at Stephens's hotel in Bond Street before presenting himself in Grosvenor Square. This had secured for him some measure of privacy and peace of mind.
Unfortunately, to accomplish his task. Lord Wrotham was forced to go where men of rank and influence were, and he thus had more than ample opportunity to witness his parent 75
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disporting herself with the worshipful Lord Grainger. If it had been someone even a decade older than the besotted lord, Christopher would have been delighted to relinquish the role of escort, but even he, inured as he was to his mother's propensity for enslaving hapless males, was taken aback at the state of affairs, hence his presence in Grosvenor Square.
"Very well, Mama," he said with a sigh. "I shall take you to Lady Derwent's rout, but I am pledged to meet with Farrington at White's later in the evening, so you will not be able to dance until dawn as you usually do."
"Oh, Christopher"—his mother pulled a face at him—"I am not such a flighty creature as all that. Why, Nevill—that is Lord Grainger—always brings me home at a most respectable hour."
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All in all, the rout had not been all that bad. Lord Wrotham had been able to snatch moments of private conversation with two of Parliament's more influential members and had even borne up during a quadrille with his mother's protégé, who had turned out to be as vain as she was beautiful. But, buoyed by thoughts of his imminent departure to the Continent the minute his mission was accomplished, Christopher had been able to respond to her inanities with more than his usual patience.
However, it was with considerable relief that after seeing his mother safely home, he strolled leisurely to White's. Not that the sight of men wasting their minds and their inheritances on the turn of a card was any more enlightening than partnering women who could do nothing but call attention to themselves, but it did at least offer some sort of a mental challenge if one were alert enough to take it.
"Wrotham." A giant of a man waved cheerfully to him the moment the major crossed the threshold.
"Hello, Teddy, old fellow. How are you?" Christopher sustained a buffet on the shoulder that would have felled the average man.
"Devilish bored, I'll tell you," the giant responded with a woebegone air. "I tell you, this head-of-the-family bit is a plaguey business, it is. Nothing but people nattering at you all day long about one thing or another. If I could, I would give it all up for that miserably wet tent we shared in the mud at 77
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Ciudad Rodrigo." The new Marquess of Lindale dismissed the renowned Palladian villa and an exceedingly fine old Tudor pile he had recently inherited, not to mention a hunting box near Melton Mowbray, with a disparaging wave of the hand.
"But come, tell me what you are up to and what news you have of the lads in the regiment. What of Charlie Welbeck?
Was he forced to return to that dragon of a mother of his or did he marry that cosy little armful he was smitten with in Oporto?" And laughing and reminiscing about old times, he led his former comrade-at-arms into the gaming room. It was as though Christopher had never left. To be sure, the bow window in front was new since he had last been there and the proprietor was different, but the faces gathered around the gaming tables had not changed, nor had the bored and slightly vacant look in their eyes. Wrotham sighed. He never should have come here. It was no different from the rest of London in its empty pursuit of pleasure. Better to have returned to his chambers at Stephens's and pored over the latest dispatches. He glanced lazily about the room. No wonder Teddy was bored among this company of useless fribbles throwing away the fortunes they had been born with. His gaze stopped at one table, arrested by the sight of regimentals on a tall blond lad observing the play. At least here was a fellow officer, and by the look of his bronzed and weathered skin and the lines crinkling at the corners of the eyes of an otherwise young man, he was a soldier who had seen action somewhere in some sunny clime. He looked to be as out of place as Christopher was, but now Teddy was pulling him toward another table, where they were waiting for him to 78
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make a fourth at whist, and Christopher soon forgot the kindred spirit at the table in the corner as he put his mind to work on the cards in front of him.