By afternoon the following day, they arrived at Pamplona. Nick reported to General Rowland Hill, who immediately gave him permanent command over the recruits he had brought with him and gave him another half dozen who had experience. He was able to keep Sergeant O’Neil as his
aide-de-camp,
and he met his immediate superior, Captain Troy Stanhope. Nick now had thirty men under his command; Captain Stanhope had four times that number.
While his men settled into camp, Nick rode the perimeters of seiged Pamplona and surveyed the ramparts of the impregnable fortress, bristling with guns. Captain Stanhope then assigned him two artillerymen to explain the siege guns, the six-pounder light guns, the various size cannon, and the caissons of artillery ammunition. Nick asked many pertinent questions so that tomorrow he could teach his men exactly what they needed to know.
It had been a long day, and Nick was grateful for the hot food O’Neil brought him, along with a bottle of Spanish wine. He washed and shaved before he retired, and as he lay abed in his bivouac tent he felt a sense of accomplishment. He rehearsed what he would say to his men tomorrow. Before their lesson on guns, he would lay down the law about drunkenness. Experience of his father’s drinking had taught him it was often responsible for the vilest excesses of brutality. Nick was thankful his days had been so busy that he had had no time to waste in wishful thinking about Alex.
In London, Alexandra was doing some wishful thinking of her own. She had visited some publishing houses with a proposal for a satirical book about the
beau monde
. All had rejected the idea. They were only interested in a real-life confession and
exposé
by a leading hostess of Society, providing that it was salacious enough. So, for the moment, she realized that writing fiction was out, and picked up her sketchpad.
An hour later she had completed a satirical lampoon of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, at the Burlington House reception. It was George’s head on the body of a bloated hippopotamus, in a pond filled with food and drink, all floating toward his open mouth. She drew bottles of champagne, as well as peacocks, swans, and pheasants sporting alarmed looks as they neared his gaping maw. Then she sketched eels, lobsters, and oysters, trying to swim away as they awaited their turn to be devoured. She thought for a moment, then underneath the picture she printed: HIS ROYAL HIPPO ATTENDS BURLY HOUSE RECEPTION.
Alex waited until Dottie went out with Lady Spencer in her carriage, then with the help of Sara she went to Rupert’s chamber and gathered some articles of clothing from his wardrobe.
“You don’t really intend to go out dressed in your brother’s clothes, mistress?” Sara sounded shocked.
“Don’t call me mistress; it is
mister,
if you please!” said Alex, pulling on trousers with a strap that went under her instep. She fastened the shirt buttons and pleaded, “Help me with this infernal neckcloth. See, I’m growing more like Rupert every minute,” she said with a grin. “God, how does the male sex put up with starched shirt points that cover their ears?”
Sara giggled. “Gives them an excuse not to hear anything a female has to say!”
When Alex tucked her red-gold curls beneath the brown tie-wig, Sara stood shaking her head in disbelief. “I’d never know you were a girl.”
“I’m not a girl; I’m a woman, a devious woman,” Alex asserted. “Now, if my grandmother returns while I’m out, pull the lace curtain back on the upstairs front window as a signal.”
Alex walked to the office of William Cobett, who turned out a weekly newspaper advocating reform called the
Political Register
. She asked to speak with the editor, and her spirits lifted as the man looked at the lampoon she had drawn and gave a great guffaw.
“I’ll take it,” he said decisively. “Four bob.”
Alex blinked. “Four shillings?” Her spirits sank. “Surely, it’s worth a guinea?”
“ ’Oo the bleedin’ ’ell do ye think ye are, Cruickshank?”
Alex knew well that George Cruickshank was London’s leading caricaturist, whom Society feared with a vengeance. She began to bargain and finally lowered her price to five shillings.
“Four bob, take it or leave it! Maybe next time I’ll raise it to five, or ’ow about an article on reform? Climbin’ boys, or reducin’ child-labor hours? Somethin’ to pull the ’eartstrings, and sell papers.”
Alex thought it over and agreed to the four shillings. As she walked back to Berkeley Square, she turned the money over in her pocket.
What a pittance! It’s a bloody good thing I don’t have to earn my own living.
Tonight was the night that Hart Cavendish was to pay his lost wager and take Alexandra wherever she wanted to go. Once again she called on Sara to conspire with her. She needed to borrow evening clothes from Rupert, but had to wait until he finished dressing and left for the night. Alex poked her head around his chamber door and whistled with appreciation. “Death and damnation, Rupert, who the devil are you trying to impress?” He was wearing new black satin knee breeches and a new blue brocade evening coat.
“That’s for me to know, and you to find out, Miss Inquisitive.”
“
Cherchez la femme,
unless I miss my guess!” Alex chortled.
Rupert colored. He had learned from Harry Harding that his sister, Olivia, was definitely in the marriage market and her family would welcome a viscount with open arms. Harry had told him confidentially that the entire family would be at Almack’s tonight, and Rupert was determined to put his best foot forward. The only thing that bothered Rupert was the fact that Kit had shown a marked interest in Olivia, and he knew he could make no definite plans regarding the heiress if Kit was still interested.
“Good night, and good hunting!” Alex called after her brother as she watched him descend the stairs and pick up his hat and cane. Then she slipped into his chamber and took his black formal clothes from his wardrobe. For good measure she also took his black evening cape.
Sara helped her into her brother’s starched white shirt and assisted her in arranging the neckcloth. Alex was almost ready when they heard the carriage. “Sara please go down and tell Hart Cavendish not to come in, but to await me in the carriage.”
Sara blinked. “I will go down and
ask
the duke if he would be so kind as to await you in the carriage.”
Alex laughed. “Don’t worry, Sara. He
will
be so kind.” She draped the cape over her male attire, hid Rupert’s best wig beneath it, and grabbed a hand mirror. She passed Sara on the front steps as she was coming back into the house. “I left Dottie a note, filled with evasions of course. Thank heaven she is late.”
Hart opened the carriage door from the inside and helped her up. “Where am I taking you?” he asked with a grin.
“Hold this,” she said, thrusting the hand mirror at him. “I’ll tell you in a moment.” She positioned the mirror he was holding, whipped out the tie-wig, pulled it over her hair, and tucked in the straying curls and wisps. Then she threw the cape from her shoulders to reveal her formal male attire and answered his question. “You are taking me to White’s.”
Hart’s mouth fell open. “Alexandra, you cannot be serious!”
“I have never been more serious in my life.”
“I cannot take you to White’s; it is a club for males only.”
“Hence the male attire. Oh, Hart, don’t turn all prudish; please go along with this mad lark.”
His glance traveled over her from head to toe, then back up again. “If I wasn’t honoring a wager, I would refuse you, Alex.”
She began to laugh. She was well aware he would have refused if she’d asked him to take her. That’s why she’d made the wager. Making good on a bet was a point of honor for gentlemen of the
ton
.
Hart Cavendish held his head high as he and his companion strolled into White’s, but he could not prevent the two spots of color on his cheekbones. He took Alex into the dining room, not because he was ravenously hungry but because it would delay the hour when he must take her into one of the gaming rooms.
Alexandra immediately noticed that the deference rendered to a Duke of the Realm was above and beyond that which ordinary mortals received. Everyone from doormen to porters and waiters bowed and scraped the moment they departed the carriage with the Devonshire ducal crest on its door. Even the other members who were at White’s tonight went out of their way to greet Hart, revealing that they were both eager and flattered to be acknowledged by a duke.
Alex perused the menu, trying to decide what to eat for dinner. The waiter gave all his attention to Hart, who ordered rump of beef with shallots and mushrooms and was about to order for her when he caught the warning look in her eye. “I shall have roast duck stuffed with oysters and walnuts.” The waiter took her order without even looking at her. When Hart ordered a bottle of Burgundy, Alex added, “I’ll have rum shrub.” This was a popular drink she had never tasted, made with rum, lemon, sugar, and almond.
When Hart saw that none paid particular attention to Alexandra, he began to relax and enjoy their conspiracy, though he was still nervous about taking her into the gaming rooms. They both declined dessert; Hart was about to reach for his cigar case and order a brandy when he thought better of it, knowing that Alex likely believed what was good for the gander was also good for the goose.
Alex leaned closer across the table. “I want to read the infamous betting book.”
Hart rolled his eyes and moaned in mock resignation. “Is there no depth of male folly to which you will not sink?”
“I’m not sure; I’m not yet familiar with all your follies.”
Hart led the way toward the front bow window, where the betting book was kept on a nearby high desk. Alex ran her fingertips over the great leather-bound volume, wondering if she was the first female to ever open and read it. She saw that many of the entries were mundane bets on horse races at Epsom or Newmarket, cricket games or boxing matches, but every so often there was an entry that seemed utterly preposterous. On a rainy April day, Lord Alington had bet a friend a thousand pounds on which of two drops of rain would first get to the bottom of the glass in the bow window!
There were pages of bets regarding various battles in the Peninsular War, and Alex closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer to keep Nick Hatton safe. When she opened her eyes she saw a bet that His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, had made. “Good God, even Prinny records his wagers in this book!”
Hart laughed. “The most outrageous bet he ever made was with the late Charles James Fox. They wagered on which side of Bond Street the most cats would be found. The wily Fox, knowing how felines liked sunshine, took the sunny side and won thirteen to naught!”
Alex imagined the ridiculous picture the pair must have made, searching for cats up and down Bond Street. “You will be relieved to know that I do not wish to place a wager in the book; there is a limit to my folly. However, I am avid to go into a gaming room.”
When Hart adamantly refused to allow Alex to buy her own counters, she did not argue, for all she had was the ten pounds pin money that Dottie had given her. They walked around the room, and when Hart saw that Alex was paid no particular attention, he relaxed his vigil and sat down to play baccarat, while Alex stood to watch. In a short time she wandered off, curious about the other games of chance in the smoke-filled room.
Alex stopped to watch a game of
vingt-et-un
, or twenty-one. Just as she decided to sit down to try her luck, she felt someone pinch her bottom! She turned around quickly to find two gentlemen behind her but could not decipher which one was guilty. One was Lord Brougham, and Alex blushed furiously, thinking he may have recognized her. She turned back to the game and waited apprehensively for Lord Brougham to say something. She heard nothing, but all at once she certainly
felt
something. It was Brougham’s hand caressing her buttock. She mastered the urge to slap his face and slipped away, back to the safety of the duke.
Hart was raking in his winnings. When he stood up from the table, Alex confessed in an urgent whisper, “I’m afraid I have been recognized. Lord Brougham pinched my bottom!”
Hart Cavendish looked angry. “I don’t think he recognized you, Alex, but for pity’s sake stay away from the old rue.”
“But he must know I’m a female, Hart, or why would he touch me there?”
Her companion stared down at her with a perplexed look on his face. “How the devil am I to explain such behavior to you?” He ran his hand through his blond hair a couple of times, then said carefully, “There are some men who are attracted to boys, Alex.”
She thought that over for a moment, then for clarification asked, “You don’t mean
sexually
attracted?”
“I’m afraid I do, shocking as that must seem to you.”
Alex found it more puzzling than shocking, but the thing that filled her with chagrin was that young males in society were well-informed about the facts of life, while females were kept in virtual ignorance. “Lord Brougham has a wife,” she said tentatively. “Do you suppose she knows?”
“Good God, no. Such a vice is not bandied about, Alex,” he said repressively. “It would cause a horrendous scandal.”
Alex tucked the information away, delighted that she was becoming privy to the salacious peccadilloes of the
beau monde
. She had enjoyed herself excessively, and as they drove back to Berkeley Square, she told Hart and thanked him for being such a good sport. She covered her male attire with the long evening cape and removed her brother’s tie-wig. “My grandmother may still be up.” She ran her fingers through her hair to ruffle the flattened-down curls.
“Let me do that,” Hart said huskily.
Before she knew it, he was beside her with his long fingers threaded through her hair. “You have a natural audacity that calls out to me.” He held her captive for his kiss.