A Loyal Companion (11 page)
Authors: Barbara Metzger
Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #Victorian, #Regency, #Historical Romance
A
cheat. Ivory tuner. Captain Sharp. I got that straight from one of the old carriage horses who used to take the last earl to White's. Among the privileged class, cheating at cards was a worse crime than beating one's wife. Then again, among the lower orders, stealing a loaf of bread was a worse crime than beating one's wife. There was not even a law making the latter illegal.
A male dog will half die before turning on a bitch, no matter the provocation, yet men, who spout of honor, think nothing of harming persons smaller and weaker. This is all of a piece, I suppose, with their considering women chattel. Women are not allowed to vote, hold property, take part in government, or manage their own estates, because they are not deemed competent. Yet, and here is the part that truly muddles my mind, men let women raise their children!
Anyway, from what I could hear from gossip on the street, the pigeons who roost at Boodles' at night, Major Conover has been accused of cheating at cards by—who else?—Ansel Berke. Lord Conare was in the game, held in a private room of Scully's, a gambling hell in Half-Moon Street. Conare, predictably, seconded the charge of double dealing. Two other noblemen held hands in the fateful game, but they were so castaway, they could only recall seeing
Conover enter the room. They were assured by both Conare and Berke that Conover had, indeed, won their blunt. They were suitably outraged to be shown the extra ace, found on the next deal, after Conover was gone.
The major had gone to Scully's with Captain McKinnon of the Home Guard, the pigeons understood, but they separated after half an hour or so. McKinnon lost sight of Conover in the smoke and crowded rooms, he later said. The major took a few turns at hazard, played a couple of rounds of vingt-et-un, and held the faro bank for a short while. Then he wandered into some of the back parlors, according to Scully himself, looking for more interesting play. After that he went home to bed—and awoke to find himself branded a cheat.
I smelled Preston Conover's hand in the plot: another vicious whispering campaign, with Berke doing the dirty work, more charges that couldn't be disproved, Major Conover an outcast again. I could howl at the injustice of it. All my hard work! By St. Bernard's beard, if I had that mangy Conare here, I'd tear him limb from limb, I'd shred him from guts to gizzard, I'd… be chained in the backyard.
If a man fuzzes the cards, loads the dice, or deals from the bottom, he mightn't pay his debts either. No one will play with him. They won't even talk to him. Men don't seem to mind losing fortunes honestly; they only care when they think they've been diddled.
Strange, no other creature but man gambles. Tippy says betting can be a disease, just like distemper and rabies. Sometimes men who cannot afford to lose gamble just as hard as those who can. They only need a stake and a little luck. Or just a marked deck.
"You can't send a letter, Sunny, it ain't proper." Hugh was having breakfast at Atterbury House at his sister's insistence, and not enjoying his gammon and eggs at all. A man didn't like a bear garden jaw with his kippers. At least Lady Atterbury never left her chambers till noon.
"I didn't send a letter, Hugh," Sonia insisted. "I sent Fitz." She was too distracted to sit still, which wasn't doing much for Hugh's digestion either.
"And?"
"And nothing! A footman brought Fitz home. He said there was no message, nothing. The young misses have already been sent to visit their mother's people in Lyme. That's all the footman knows, or would say." She banged her cup
down on the table. "I've got to see him, Hugh!"
Hugh spread jam on a piece of toast and pondered the matter. "Can't see how you can if he don't want you to. He's got the right of it, too. Got to keep your name out of the bibble-babble. Best you stay out of the coil."
Sonia snatched the toast out of her brother's hand. "Hugh, you don't mean to say you think he's guilty?" she demanded before taking a bite of the bread.
"I never said I do, just that you should keep clear while he's under such a cloud."
"Then you do believe Darius would never, ever do something dishonorable?"
"Darius, eh? I thought the wind sat in that quarter. Too bad, sis, you'll
have to set your cap at some other poor sod. The governor will never hear of you
marrying a dirty dish." He held a hand up in defense. "Not that I think he ain't honorable. Play cards with him m'self any time, if my pockets weren't always to let." He made sure she was eating while he buttered another slice. "And look who's laying evidence against him. Everyone knows Conare wants the title and Berke wants you."
"Me?" she squeaked, spitting out crumbs. "You mean this is all my fault?"
"Don't be a ninny. The feud with Berke goes back years before you put your hair up and your skirts down. Be hard to prove they set the whole thing up, though, with the only witnesses admitting they were drunk as wheelbarrows. It'd be Berke's word against Conover's, if Berke said it outright. Instead it's all lies and rumors."
"Then what's to be done?" Sonia wanted to know.
Hugh swallowed a large bite. "I told him to ship out. Nobody'd think the worst of him, least of all the fellows who've fought by his side for years. He said he's thinking on it."
She pounded her fist on the table. "It would be just like him to think he could simply go off without saying good-bye. Well, he can't."
Hugh munched some more. "Yes, he can. Better that way. Can't say I want m'sister in such a hugger-mugger mess."
"Hugh." He knew that tone from old. He left his toast and bolted for the door. "Hugh Randolph, you get that muttonhead of a major in Grosvenor Square Park at two o'clock this afternoon or else."
"Or else what?" he asked from the door, sure he didn't want to know, wishing his orders had come through yesterday.
"Or else I'll go to Ware House myself, or I'll inform Grandmama he compromised me, or I'll just tell Blanche Carstairs you wet your bed till you were twelve."
Sonja sat on the same bench where she'd first spoken to Darius just a few weeks ago. It seemed like forever, he was so much in her thoughts. Now he could be leaving England, and she might never see him again. She wouldn't think of that. Instead she'd let her anger cover the pain, anger that he'd go away without a farewell, without leaving her one last memory to cherish. She sat rigid on her bench, her hands folded in her lap, a statue in a blue velvet pelisse. Even Fitz couldn't tease her into playing.
Maisie sat on the neighboring bench with her knitting, and Ian was getting up a flirtation with two nannies pushing prams. A nearby clock struck the hour. He was late. He wasn't coming.
Then he was there, looking more handsome than she'd ever seen him, now that his face was fuller and not so wearied. He bowed to her, but didn't take her hand or sit next to her. He didn't speak, either.
She cleared her throat. "You came."
"Hugh seemed to think it was worth my life, and his, had I not."
"But you did not want to." It was a statement, not a question. If he heard the hurt in her voice, he did not, could not, respond. He stared toward the trees, not looking at her.
"No, it is not wise. And there is nothing to say."
Nothing to say? Sonia bit her lip. "I, ah, wanted to know about the children. Will they be happy in Lyme?"
"Happier than here, I hope. Suzannah's parents are well on in years, but they love the girls. They used to visit, before… Her old nurse is still there, anxious to help coddle them, I am sure, so they'll do. They wanted to say good-bye, you know, but it was very early in the morning."
"I see," she said, but her coldness told him that she didn't see at all, didn't understand that he couldn't have borne another emotional scene. 'Twas hard enough parting with the three moppets he'd come to love as his own, without watching them cling one last time to her. Not when he had hoped for so much more.
"They swore they would write. And they were excited about visiting their grandparents and the seashore. I promised they could each have a pet of their choice when they got there. Benice can pick between a puppy and a kitten, and Gen already decided she wants a pony. Tina seems content with her stuffed Mimi. Not quite fair to the grandparents, I'll admit, but now they have something to think about on the journey."
"That was clever of you." She pleated the velvet of her pelisse. "They are wonderful children. I'll miss them."
"I, ah, had my solicitor draw up new papers, naming their grandfather as guardian if… just if. Milo wanted them to be raised at Ware, but this is better, I think. I know I have no right to ask you to look after them or anything—you'll have children of your own before long—but could you write to them? About Fitz or whatever, just at first, so they don't feel abandoned?"
She waved that aside. Naturally she would write the children, and visit them, too, but what about her? Didn't he care that she'd feel lost, abandoned? "Shall you write?" she asked, knowing how improper, how forward, was her question.
Darius chose to misinterpret. "The children? Of course, if I can."
Sonia thought that if she had a gun, she'd shoot him right then and save the French the trouble. "When do you sail?"
"Sail?" Now he turned to look at her, but Sonia had her head down so the brim of her bonnet hid her face. "I thought you knew, I am not rejoining the regiment just yet."
She looked up at that, blue eyes filled with hope. "But Hugh said…"
He turned away quickly. "I thought about it, but I cannot." He started to pace along the path in front of her, jabbing his cane into the loose dirt. "I made a mistake years ago." He paused at her sharp intake of breath. "No, not with the girl. I had nothing to do with Hermione but a few dances here and there. The mistake was in not meeting Berke. Milo thought it best, since her family already suffered so much grief, and I was off to the war anyway. He said he'd rather chance losing me to a better cause than a sordid affair."
"He loved you," she said softly.
"I shouldn't have listened. The hatred festered in Berke, and backing down did me no good. I let him win without firing a shot. Berke and the other highborn asses who rule this town control my life. I cannot go where I choose, I cannot make friends where I wish. I cannot speak my mind. Or my heart."
That traitorous organ made him turn back to Sonia, to see if she understood what he could not put into words, what his circumstances and his principles would not permit him to say.
Sonia nodded. At least his suffering matched her own. She hadn't been mistaken, then. The last threads of her anger melted away.
He went on: "I am sorry for so many things. I regret my troubles have rubbed off on you, but I am not sorry to have had your… friendship. Never that."
"You intend to duel him, don't you?"
"It's the only way. The first time they called me lily-livered for not meeting him. I didn't care. I knew I was no coward, and Milo knew, and the men who served with me and under me knew. They were all who mattered. I did not have to prove anything to these useless, empty-lived parasites. Now I do, so I can reclaim my birthright, my freedom. I need to live my life the way
I want."
"What if you kill him?" She couldn't bear to think of the other.
One side of his mouth lifted in a grim half smile. "Thank you for the confidence. I'll have to leave the country, of course. The family has property in the Colonies if the general won't take me back. But I'll try not to have it come to that if I can."
"Please," she told him, bringing the rest of the smile to his face. Then she asked "When?"
"You don't need to know that. You know too much already. Lud, a proper gentleman never discusses such things with a lady."
"When?" she asked again, quietly.
"Hugh was right, you are a determined little minx. No matter, for I do not know the time or place yet, and would never reveal them if I did. You might get some odd notion in that thick, pretty head of yours to interfere or notify the magistrates. No, don't look so innocent. I can almost hear the wheels spinning in your brainbox. I haven't confronted Berke yet, although I doubt he'll be hard to find. He's waiting for my challenge so he can have the choice of weapons. He knows I'd pick swords, for I am much the better fencer, even with a bad leg. With swords there is less chance of an unintentional mortal wound, too. That's not what he wants, so he'll make himself available. This afternoon in the park, tonight at some gaming hell or other."
"And there is no other way?" Sonia held her hand out, and he took it in his.
"Believe me, this is not the way I would have chosen. Berke thrust it upon me, and now it is the only solution."
She nodded. "I do understand."
He squeezed her hand in his larger one and tried to make light of the matter. "What, no arguments? No stiff lip and crossed arms? No stamping feet as Miss Randolph demands her own way?"
She shook her head.
"What? Not even one plea or threat to make me change my mind?" he teased. "Don't you care?"
The tears shining in her eyes told him how much she cared, but her words only said: "How can I come between a man and his honor?"
Easily. You hit him behind the knees.
N
ow he couldn't stand on his honor, or on his leg.
I looked up at the trees, searching for the squirrel I was supposed to be chasing. What do you know, the little nutter got away! As I rushed past, though, I heard an audible snap as the major's bad leg gave way beneath him. Once the chaos died down, the sawbones eventually found a bit of shrapnel in the leg when he went to set it. He said that's why the thing never healed in the first place. Now the major will not even have a limp, once the bone mends. Oh, what a good dog I am!
So was I wrong, or does the end justify the means? Darius seems to feel that a life without honor is not worth living. I, however, need him alive for what I consider the greater goal. I never argue with another's beliefs. He had his, I had mine. Mine won.
Still, this honor thing bothers me like a flea bite I can't quite reach. Tippy says to remember the "But Brutus is an honorable man" bit. Sure, with his knife in his best friend's back.
Keeping the promises that suit one, repaying gaming debts and not merchants' bills, this is not honor. Honor is when no creature molests another at the water hole.
Tippy says that what goes around comes around, yet I am satisfied with the results of my actions. There will be no challenge while the major is flat on his back. There will be no duel while he cannot leave his house.
Happily, and the more so for being unforeseen, he also gave up his cigarillos. The stench in his bedroom was too great even for the major, when he couldn't step outside or stand by the window to make the noxious smoke dissipate. Unfortunately, he took up drinking. What goes around comes around?
Master Hugh moved into Ware House to help the major and his batman, Robb. Then some of Hugh's friends came to call, to help bear the major company. Without the children, the place soon resembled a barracks, with hard drinking and gambling. The other officers made a point of playing cards with Major Conover, standing by one of their own, as it were, and drinking toasts to his health.
I took to visiting Ware House evenings when Miss Sonia was out on her social rounds. This was better than sitting up on the carriage box with the driver, who tipped his jug a few times himself. At least at Ware House there was food. The major held no grudges, so most nights I was also offered a sip of something, which I refused after watching his friends muddle their minds, curdle their stomachs till they cast up accounts, turn mean, sleepy, sad, or just plain silly. The next day they drank the hair of the dog! The hair of the dog! That's disgusting!
They say Dionysius gave wine to men as a blessing. Some favor he did them! The god taught Icarius how to ferment his grapes, the story goes, and the villagers killed the first vintner in a drunken rage, thinking he'd poisoned them! They hid his body under a tree, and Icarius's family would be looking for him still if his dog hadn't stayed howling at the grave. Good dog, Moera. They named a star after her, too.
Robb makes sure the worst drunks get sent home, and the belligerent ones are not invited back. The batman and Hugh—on Miss
Sonia's orders—and I, for obvious reasons, keep watch over the major like three hens with one chick. We don't let the visitors tire him, we won't let him use the crutches until the physician gives approval. He is healing; he hasn't got Berke's bullet in him; he is not on some boat for America. I am delighted. I just hope Major Conover isn't drinking to drown his sorrows.
Sonia was still a Toast. Everyone knew a duel had been avoided by her dog's clumsiness, which they thought hilarious. Anytime a nobleman falls on his arse, especially one who disdains the title, society is amused. They all wanted to hear Miss Randolph's account. As soon as Hugh revealed that the major had indeed intended to call Ansel Berke out, that a challenge would be forthcoming directly he was fit, the ton gave Darius back some respect. They might laugh at him, but they did not despise him so much. Curiously, the charge of cowardice had been more a black mark against him than the trumped-up accusations of cheating. Hugh was relieved, and so was Admiral Cathcart, who made the trip from three doors away to visit the fallen officer. And laugh.
Lady Atterbury swore she never wanted to see the mongrel again, that he'd brought nothing but trouble. Elvin Randolph should be horsewhipped, she decreed, for foisting a hobbledehoy female and her harum-scarum hound on unsuspecting gentle-people. Then she commandeered all of Blanche's novels, shut herself in her bedchamber, and didn't come out for days.
She gave copious orders through Bigelow that under no circumstances was Sonia
to visit the household across the square, no, not even if her own brother was
there. Sonia was not permitted to stay home, either. Nor, under the direst of
threats, was she to create any more scandals. Bigelow's translation: "Bachelor
fare. Ape-leader. Great-Aunt Sophrina in Yorkshire." Sonia didn't even know she had a Great-Aunt Sophrina in Yorkshire.
Lady Atterbury, or Bigelow, also had a few choice words for the disappearing butler: "Guard the front door, or leave by the back door." Every time Miss Randolph or her dog went by, Marston wished he were tied to the hall table, like Jason to the mast, to resist the temptation to flee. But he stayed and held the door, accepted calling cards and nosegays, and sighed with relief when Miss went out of an evening. He nearly wept with thanksgiving when she came home without incident.
So Sonia resumed the social whirl. If she was considered too ramshackle by the highest sticklers, keeping low company and getting into scrapes, she behaved prettily enough for the rest of the Quality. If she had to go out, she decided, she would show the shallow elite what a Randolph was made of, not hide her head nor wear the willow. She wore her prettiest gowns, gathering compliments and admirers like fallen leaves. She laughed with them over Warebourne's predicament, when she was not staunchly defending him. Mr. Brummell was heard to chuckle at Fitz's antics, and Sir Montescue Pimford wrote a poem to Miss Randolph's loyalty to her friends.
Hugh raved to the major about Sunny's success, and the other officers reported that Miss Randolph danced like a dream and smiled like an angel. Darius had another drink.
Unfortunately, Sonia's foray into society threw her into close association with Lady Rosellen Conare and her brother, Ansel Berke. Sonia could not renege on previous commitments without seeming horribly rude, so she learned to tolerate the baron's company. Perhaps she could make him see what a goosish thing this was, his pursuit of vengeance. She even felt sorry for him. Pursuing heiresses was degrading enough.
"I'm glad to see you laughing at the bounder," Berke gloated. "For a moment there I was worried. I know how you females admire a uniform. And your tender sensibilities must have been aroused by the unfortunate orphans. Very proper sentiments, my dear. No one can fault you for having a gentle heart. Now, of course, you've discovered for yourself what a paltry fellow he is. I'm glad. Now I can reveal that as soon as this unpleasantness is over, I plan to ask you a particular question," he said with a simpering smile, while his teeth gnashed at the delay. His creditors were lining up at his door. He needed some crumb to toss them. "Dare I hope what your answer will be?"
He could hope all he wanted. She didn't feel that sorry for him.
Darius thought he'd be ready for Bedlam if he didn't get out of the house soon. For sure they'd have no china left, the way he bounced it off the walls. And if he had to listen to more praise for Miss Randolph from men who could call on her, go riding with her, dance with her, hold her, blast them, he would soon be calling out half the British nobility and all of the Home Guard!
So he exercised his leg while his watchdogs were still abed, and the confounded real dog was scrounging breakfast at his own house across the square. He couldn't chance Fitz getting under his feet and toppling him again. He refused any other setbacks. The leg healed remarkably quickly this time without the piece of shot. Darius was strong and healthy now, never having taken a fever or an infection from this recent surgery. Recuperation was swift, surprising even the medicos from the War Office. He was not fit to sit a horse yet, so there was no talk of his rejoining his unit, but he was fit enough to go out and kill someone, though no one spoke of the duel. It was illegal, after all.
Having satisfied the doctors of his health, Darius moved downstairs, where he could get to the rear courtyard to gain strength and proficiency with the crutches. He refused to try the park, where someone—someone with blond hair and blue eyes, for instance—might see him stagger about. Watching from the front windows as she exercised the dog in the square early in the mornings did even more to speed his recovery. Finally he was able to join her.
The crutches were just about the only thing holding Darius back from taking Sonia in his embrace; holding the exuberant dog's collar so he didn't jump was just about all that was keeping Sonia from throwing her arms around the major. Then they remembered where they were and that nothing had been said between them.
"How nice to see you out and about, Major Conover, and looking so well."
"And you are looking lovelier than ever, Miss Randolph. Thank you for the basket of fruit and the other treats from your kitchens."
So it went. They compared letters from the children, the progress of her brother's promotion, the health of Lady Atterbury and Blanche. Small talk, but they were together. They spoke more with their eyes, the briefest of touches when they both petted the dog at once. He came every morning after that and took over Fitz's exercise, to rebuild his own muscles, he said. He threw sticks, played keep-away, and hobbled around and around the square until he graduated from crutches to a cane. Every morning he purchased a posy from the flower girl to tuck in Sonia's bonnet or pin to her gown. Every morning they all shared meat pasties from the pieman, who was growing wealthy on the little entourage. Sonia was still escorted by her maid and footman, and Conover's batman, Robb, came along, too, at first to make sure his master didn't overdo, then to enjoy the company, Maisie Holbrook often went home with a posy in her mobcap, too. And Fitz invariably wolfed his pie down so fast, then looked so piteously hungry, that the major usually bought him another. Then they all went to sit with the admiral for a bit, Darius content just to watch Sonia as she told the old gentleman about this party or that play.
Darius never knew such peace. He tried to convince himself that this was enough, if he never had more. He didn't believe himself for a minute.
Sonia felt she merely existed for most of her day and night. She really came alive only for the two hours in the morning. "Do you think you might be up to a picnic?" she asked hesitantly, fearful he might refuse.
He knew he should. Nothing was changed; she should not be with him.
"I went on a lovely picnic to Richmond last week. The gardens were beautiful."
He knew all about it, having heard from one officer how exquisite she looked in a teal blue hussar-style riding habit. "You know, the kind with braid and trim up and down." The fellow used his hands to show where the trim went. He was lucky he could still use a fork. Darius was treated by another gentleman to an account of how Miss Randolph sat her roan mare as if she were born there, which she nearly was, according to Hugh: "M'mother was a notable horsewoman. The only thing she and the governor had in common, besides us, of course." Darius could almost picture Sonia on horseback, wind tousling her golden curls and bringing a flush to her cheeks. Then again, he could picture other ways for her hair to be tousled and her cheeks to be flushed. No, he really should not be around her. Not if he hoped to maintain any sanity whatsoever.
"The physicians have forbidden me to ride yet," he said with both relief and regret.
"Then we could take the carriage," she hurried on. "And we don't have to go as far as Richmond, so your leg won't be jostled. We could just take the coach to a grassy place off the carriage path in Hyde Park."
He was tempted. Oh, how he was tempted. Sonia on a blanket in the sun, away from prying eyes and wagging tongues…
"And we'll invite Hugh and Blanche to come along for propriety's sake," she pressed, determined to have more time with him, one way or another.
Thud, thud, tap. That was two legs and a cane coming back to earth. "And I suppose the dog, too? Very well, as long as he doesn't dunk me in the Serpentine."
The day set for the picnic was not ideal. Hugh thought it might shower. Blanche thought it might be buggy. Robb thought the ground might be too damp for the major to sit on. Sonia and Darius were going, period.
They took two carriages. To Hugh's delight, he got to drive the major's curricle, with the highbred bays. Blanche sat with Hugh, and Robb stood at the back as tiger and guardian of the beloved matched pair. Sonia and Darius followed in the dowager's open landaulet, with Maisie and Fitz and the picnic basket. Ian rode with the driver.
Because the ton didn't parade at such an unfashionable hour, they had the park nearly to themselves. Nursemaids and governesses found the day too dismal to linger with their charges. Sonia didn't notice the overcast skies, and Darius was pleased the gabble-grinders would not have Sonia's name to chew. Hugh found a spot where the tanbark dipped close to the river, and a little knoll and some trees made a pretty vista. They took a short walk while the servants tethered the horses and spread blankets and pillows and enough food to feed twice their number. Or half their number and Fitz.
They passed one other couple, Sir Wesley Norbert and Mrs. Quentin-Jones, who were less likely to run to the tattle-baskets than most, so Darius was able to relax. He was grateful, in fact, to sink down onto the blankets with his back propped against a tree and a cushion under his leg, after their brief stroll. He wasn't used to carriage rides or uneven ground. Besides, sitting down, he didn't have to concentrate on where he was putting his feet. He could stare at Sonia to his heart's content, drinking in the sight of her in nile green jaconet, with clusters of yellow rosebuds and ribbons strewn around. Who cared if the sun did not shine? She was springtime to him.
