The Officer and the Proper Lady (3 page)

‘It would seem that your appreciation of gowns en compasses a wide range of styles, Major Carlow.' Julia glanced down at her wine glass in alarm. It was empty, which could be the only excuse for such a remark. He was silent. Julia risked a glance up through her lashes. He was smiling, although whether that made it better or worse she had no idea.

‘Horses for courses, Miss Tresilian. Or in this case, gowns to suit personalities. You rep re sent virtue most charmingly. Another lady may better rep re sent…free dom.' He reached for her wine glass; she held tight to it, but his fingers lingered.

‘Even when that lady is married?' she asked, suddenly reckless, goaded by his touch. And jealous, she realized, appalled at herself. Which was insanity. The other day this man had yielded to a gallant impulse and saved her from annoyance. That did not change the fact that he was nothing but trouble for any virtuous woman. He was probably deliberately provoking her.

Major Carlow shrugged, still amused. Pre sum ably cross and indiscreet virgins were an entertaining novelty for him. ‘If her husband does not build good fences, he must expect poachers in his coverts.'

‘Really, Major! Ladies are not game birds for you to bag,' she snapped.

‘I am sorry to disillusion you, Miss Tresilian, but for some, it is always open season.'

‘Well, I am sorry for you then,' she declared roundly. ‘For when you are married, you will have to spend all your time building your own fences and worrying about poachers. Poor woman,' she added with feeling.

‘But I have no intention of marrying, Miss Tresilian. I have
an elder brother already doing his duty by the family name, so your sympathy for my imaginary bride is quite unnecessary.'

‘I am certain she would do you a great deal of good.' For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of bitterness in the mocking eyes.

Julia found she wanted to cry. Here she was at her very first
ton
party and not one of the respectable men of easy circum stances her mother dreamed of had ex changed so much as a sentence with her. And what was she doing? Bandying words with Hal Carlow, who was the last man in Brussels she should be seen with. No-one respectable was going to talk to her now, and she had lowered herself to discuss quite shocking subjects with him.

‘You disappoint me, Miss Tresilian.' And indeed, the amusement had gone from his eyes and there was a distinct hint of storm clouds back again. ‘I did not think you one of those ladies who believes that all rakes are capable of redemption and that it is their duty to try to accomplish that.'

‘Redeem you?' Did he mean what she thought he meant: that she expected him to fall for her? That she wanted to reform his wicked ways, to have him run tame at her command? ‘You, Major Carlow, may drink yourself under the table, fall off horses and break your limbs, gamble until your pockets are to let and dally with married ladies until an enraged husband shoots you, for all I care.' She thrust her wine glass back into his hand. ‘And, should you survive all that, I will pity you, because you will end up a lonely man, realizing just how empty your rakehell life is.'

That was a magnificent parting line, she told herself, sweeping round and stalking off without the slightest idea where she was going. It would have been rather more effective without the crack of laughter from behind her.

The reception room had been thrown open into a gallery
running the length of the rear of the house with views south out over the ramparts towards the Fôret de Soignes. Now, late at night, a few lights twinkled from amidst the dark blanket of trees.

‘A splendid position, is it not?' a voice beside her asked. ‘Of course, it is not good for security. The Capel house hold were burgled the other day by rogues with a ladder from the ramparts.'

‘Oh, how unfortunate.' Julia pulled herself together and turned to find a sombrely dressed man of medium height and with mouse-brown hair standing at her side. ‘But the walks on the ramparts are very charming unless it is windy.'

‘I beg your pardon for addressing you without an introduction,' the man continued. ‘Only there seem to be none of the chaperones within sight, and it does seem so awkward, standing here pretending we cannot see each other. I should leave.'

‘I am sure we can pretend we have been introduced,' Julia said. How refreshing, a respectable gentleman who was worried about polite form. ‘I am Julia Tresilian.'

‘Thomas Smyth.' He bowed, Julia inclined her head. ‘Are you a resident of Brussels, Miss Tresilian?'

‘My mother and I have been here for some months, Mr Smyth.'

‘A charming city. I am touring and had hoped to visit Paris, but that is out of the question now. I shall have to return home without that treat, I fear.'

‘Wellington will defeat Bonaparte,' Julia said, mentally crossing her fingers, ‘and then you may return.'

‘I doubt I will be at liberty. In August, I take up a living in a parish in Suffolk.' As Mr Smyth turned to face her, she saw he had calm hazel eyes and non de script features. With his unassuming manner, he exuded a feeling of tranquil common sense.

‘You are a clergyman, sir?'

‘A most fortunate one. I was a scholar, with little hope of advancement, then my godfather secured me the patronage of an old friend of his and I find myself with the most delightful country parish. It will be lonely at first, I have no doubt, to be a bachelor rattling around in a large vicarage.'

Julia murmured something polite, her mind racing. Was Mr Smyth, on the strength of two minutes' conversation, telling her that he was
available?
Surely not.

‘Perhaps, if I were to find your chaperone, we could be properly introduced?' he asked. ‘I have hired a horse and curricle for the duration of my stay: you might care to take a drive one afternoon?'

He is! Oh my goodness, one party and I have already met a respectable gentleman who is interested in me! Mama will be so pleased.

‘That would be most pleasant,' she said, smiling. ‘Thank you. Lady Geraldine Masters or, if she is not free, Lady Marriott.'

She watched his well-tailored back as he left the gallery, contrasting his re strained neatness with a certain flam boy ant gentleman. There was no comparison, of course, and no doubt which a respectable young lady of modest means should be associating with, she thought with a certain wistfulness.

H
al had the reputation of never losing his temper. It was a valuable characteristic, whether on a battlefield, in a gaming hell or looking down the barrel of a duelling pistol. He reminded himself of it, while his friends ragged him about his assignation with Mrs Horton.

‘So you can't describe her boudoir?' Captain Grey said, pushing the bottle across the table to Jameson.

The major caught it as it rocked perilously. ‘Too caught up in the toils of passion to notice, old chap?'

‘You must recall something,' Will wheedled. ‘Don't be a spoil sport, Carlow. Mirrors on the ceiling? Silken drapes? Golden cords? A bath with swan-headed taps?'

‘I cannot describe it, because I have not been in it,' Hal said, taking a swig of claret.

‘What?' The captain's chair legs hit the ground with a thump. ‘But we saw you, last night. Damn it, the way you were looking at each other, you might as well have called the town crier in to announce what you'd be doing later.'

‘I changed my mind.' Hal stretched out and took hold of the bottle, just as Major Jameson reached for it again.

‘You changed your mind? Bloody hell.' Grey stared at him. ‘Are you sickening for something?'

‘No. Are we going to the Literary Institute, or not?'

‘We're not moving until we hear why you didn't stagger out of the luscious Barbara's bedroom, weak at the knees after a night of passion,' Jameson said, obviously fascinated. ‘Cards can wait.'

‘I never stagger weak at the knees after a night of passion,' Hal said. ‘I stride. Last night I changed my mind and, no, I do not intend telling you why.'

‘My God,' said Grey, awed. ‘She'll be hissing like a cat this morning.'

‘You are welcome to go and try putting butter on her paws, if you like,' Hal suggested, making his friend blush and grin. ‘But naturally, I sent a note of apology.'

‘Citing what reason, exactly?'

‘Pressing military duties.'

They subsided, agreeing that even Lady Horton would be placated by such an irrefutable excuse under the present circum stances. Lieu tenant Hayden, silent up to this point while he demolished the remains of the fruit tart and cream, looked up, his chubby face serious. ‘Turning over a new leaf, Carlow? New Year's resolution or something?' The others laughed at him, but he just grinned amiably. ‘I know, it's May. Thought you might be getting into fighting trim—early nights, clean living.' He sighed. ‘It'll be the betting next and then we'll all be in the suds. How will we know what to back if you give it up?'

‘I am not giving up gambling or betting and I am not giving up women,' Hal said, trying to ignore the strange sensation inside his chest. It felt unpleasantly like apprehension. Or the threat of coming change.

He had watched Julia Tresilian walk away from him in her modest little home-made gown, her nose in the air, her
words ringing in his ears, and he had laughed. It was funny, it genuinely was, that a notorious rake should give his head for a washing by a prim nobody who had about as much clue about the things she was lecturing him on as the canary in a spinster's parlour.

And then he saw her cross diagonally in front of Barbara Horton and felt suddenly as though he had eaten too much rich dessert: faintly queasy and with no inclination to dip his spoon in the dish for another mouthful. What he wanted was a draught of sharp, honest lemonade.

He wanted Miss Julia Tresilian. As he stood there staring blindly at the chattering crowd, it hit him like a thunder bolt.
He wanted Julia Tresilian.

It was impossible. It had sent him back to the hotel last night with his head spinning, and it woke him up at hourly intervals all night with waves of panic flooding through him. He was losing his mind, he told himself at break fast, washing mouthfuls of dry toast down with cup after cup of strong black coffee. He never spent nights tossing and turning—not before battle, not before a duel. He, Hal Carlow, did not lose sleep over some prudish little chit.

She was an innocent, respectable young woman. A gentle man did not toy with such a woman—not unless he meant marriage. Hal did not want to marry, and he most certainly could not marry a girl like that. Not with his reputation, all of which had been hard-earned and was entirely justified.

He was not fit to touch her hand, he knew that. She might be almost on the shelf, she might be dowerless and of no particular family. But decency and integrity shone out of those expressive brown eyes and all he had was his honour as a gentleman—and that was telling him to run a mile before he touched her, physically or emotionally.

Hal drained his glass. If he had fallen in love with her, he could under stand it. But he had not. He hardly knew the girl.
Men he knew who had fallen in love mooned about writing poetry, or lost weight, or likened their beloved to a moonbeam or a zephyr.

Not his brother Marcus, of course, Marcus had spent most of his court ship in a state of violent antagonism to Nell, but they were obviously the exception. Marcus was the sort of virtuous son and heir who did things properly, took his pleasures discreetly and then settled down, married and produced heirs. But a second son did not have that obligation, although that did not stop family disapproval when he acted on his freedom.

Hal shrugged away memories of tight-lipped arguments, sighs and youthful disgrace. He wasn't a youth any more, he didn't feel like mooning, he couldn't think of a line of poetry, and Julia was neither a moonbeam nor a zephyr. She was innocent, sharp-tongued, pain fully honest, intelligent and pleasant to look at. He was not in lust either. In fact he shocked himself even thinking about physical passion in the same sentence as Julia's name. And he could not recall the last time he had shocked himself. And yet, he wanted her. Ached for her.

This is a passing infatuation,
an inner voice lectured him,
or you've been overdoing things. Just keep out of her way and you'll get over it.

‘Right.' He grounded the empty bottle with a thump. ‘The Literary Institute it is.'

The eminently respectable Institute was where the gentle men of the British community re treated daily to use the library, write their letters, read the London papers and argue about the best way to deal with Napoleon.

It was also a front for a gaming hell. How their sharp-nosed wives had not discovered this was a mystery to Hal. Men whom he knew were living in Brussels on the economic plan, necessitated by excessive gaming, could be found cheer
fully losing hundreds of pounds a night, often to him. It just went to prove, he thought, handing his cloak, hat and sabre to the attendant, that men were incapable of reform, whatever women believed.

‘I'll see you down there, just need to look something up,' he called, turning into the library as they clattered off down the stairs into the candlelit fug of the gaming rooms. The
Landed Gentry
was on the shelves and he began to thumb through until he found Tresilian.

Here they were: her father David, younger brother of the present baronet. Hal cross-checked Sir Alfred Tresilian, Bt. A modest marriage, a quiverful of children, so pre sum ably uncle had no great re sources him self. David had married Amelia Henry, there were two children—Julia Claire and Phillip David—and he was marked as deceased 1810.

What had that achieved? Hal asked himself, as he walked into the card room and chose a table. Nothing, except to feed this ridiculous obsession.

 

Julia had been correct about her mother's reaction to the Reverend Mr Smyth. After checking with the vicar of the English church in Brussels she pronounced him eminently suitable. ‘Not that we must put all our eggs in one basket,' she warned Julia. ‘There is nothing wrong with meeting more eligible gentlemen.'

‘No, Mama,' Julia agreed. She allowed herself the pleasure of a ride in Mr Smyth's smart curricle and then, in the space of three days, was gratified by introductions to Mr Fordyce, the confidential secretary to Lord Ells worth, a diplomat dealing with British relations for the new King of the Netherlands, and Colonel Williams, a widower in his forties with a fifteen-year-old daughter. She attended a small dance, a musicale and a charity luncheon.

At none of these events did she see Major Carlow, which
was, of course, a relief. At frequent intervals she recalled the way she had spoken to him and his laughter as she had stalked off, and her cheeks burned afresh. Frequently she saw the blue uniform of the Light Dragoons amongst the scarlet and the green of other regiments and her heart would behave oddly for a beat: but it was never Hal.

She did see Major Fellowes at the musicale, and whispered to Lady Geraldine that the slimy dragon was there. Her ladyship kept her close and raised her eyeglass when she saw him watching. His retreat was highly gratifying.

Julia was becoming accustomed to her new life. In the course of one week her world had been turned on its head and she felt as she had after that glass of champagne: slightly dizzy and surprisingly confident. Mrs Tresilian, receiving every detail with great interest, was de lighted.

On the last Saturday in May Julia got up early, dressed in one of her new gowns, picked at her break fast and then fidgeted, waiting to be collected for an all-day picnic in the Fôret de Soignes.

It was the most talked-about event for weeks and now, as she looked out at a cloud less sky, she could hardly believe she was attending. Her gown was more than suitable, thank goodness. Madame Gervais, the elegant
modiste
that Mama had discovered in the Lower Town, had shown them the illustration in the
Journal des Dames et des Modes
.

‘The hat composed of white and lilac satin,' Julia had translated from the French. ‘Ornamented with bows of ribbon and a cluster of flowers.
Robe de satin lilas
…lilac satin—I suppose I had better have muslin—trimmed entirely round the bosom and at the bottom with a large quilling of blonde lace. Gloves, pale tan, shoes of lilac kid.' She studied the drawing. ‘I like the way the hat brim turns up and the detail of the sleeve.'

And now she was tying the thick, smooth ribbons under
her chin while Mama fluffed up the sleeves and the specially dyed lilac kid slippers peeped out from under the blonde lace—not quite as lavishly applied as in the illustration, but a positive snip at three shillings and six pence the yard. Would Major Carlow think this gown a model of
chaste simplicity?
But he was unlikely to be at something as staid as a picnic, she supposed.

‘Now, be sure not sit down on the ground until the blankets are spread,' Mrs Tresilian fussed. ‘I do not know what it is about picnics, but the most tidy young ladies always come back looking complete romps.' She frowned. ‘And I worry a little about it being in the woods—do not go wandering off alone, dearest, or with a gentleman, even Mr Smyth.'

‘Why not?' Phillip enquired. He was watching all this early morning prinking with close attention. ‘What's in the woods?'

‘Er…wolves,' Julia explained, earning a chuckle from her mother and sending Phillip off on a new game of Hunt the Wolf that the landlady's kittens found highly entertaining.

Lady Geraldine's barouche arrived on the stroke of nine. Mr Masters had gratified his wife by accompanying her, and they had already taken up Miss Marriott, a picture in lemon muslin and scalloped lace with a cottager hat trimmed with artificial prim roses.

Felicity chattered; Julia simply sat drinking it all in. Around them, the cream of Brussels Society streamed out through the Namur Gate on the road south through the forest to Ixcelles and its lake, the site of the picnic. Mr Smyth waved from his curricle, a friend beside him. She saw groups of officers on horse back and numerous carriages like their own. This was going to be a picnic on an epic scale and someone had organised it with military precision.

‘Miss Tresilian?' Mr Masters was looking at her in concern. ‘Are you chilled? You shivered.'

‘No, sir, thank you. I am not cold. A goose just walked over my grave,' she said with a smile. It would not do to spoil everyone else's enjoyment with foolish premonitions. But the sight of all those brave scarlet coats, the sound of masculine laughter and shouts, the clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels reminded her vividly of why all these men were here. Soon, within weeks perhaps, troops would be streaming south out of this gate, down towards the French border. Towards war.

But no-one spoke of it in so many words. Not of the death and destruction to come, only of the politics, the tactics, as though they all just happened to be gathered in Brussels as an extension of the Congress in Vienna. And the balls and the parties must go on and everyone must pretend—on the surface at least—that the storm was not coming.

Her nerves were still jumping when they reached the picnic site on a rise of ground over looking the lake. Tents had been set out for refreshments, for sitting in the shade, for the ladies to retire to. The band of the 52nd Foot played by kind permission of its colonel. It was, Lady Geraldine remarked, as though a Hyde Park review had been dropped into the midst of a garden party.

Mr Smyth was there to help her down from the barouche, Colonel Williams strolled past with his daughter and stopped to talk, his eyes appreciative when he looked at her, and then both gentlemen were cut out by Mr Fordyce who swept her off to the break fast tent with the aplomb of the seasoned diplomat.

It was all very glamorous and rather unreal. Her gloomy visions of battles evaporated in the face of sunshine and tables with floral arrangements and Charles Fordyce fetching her hot chocolate and tiny pastries.

Only Julia could not be easy. Someone was watching her. She could feel it like the touch of a finger on her spine, the
merest pressure. She scanned the sweep of meadow in front of her, but everyone was sitting or strolling and not paying her the slightest attention. She shifted in her seat and looked into the refreshment tent. But there were only bustling waiters and assiduous gentlemen fetching laden plates of delicacies for their parties.