Carola Dunn (10 page)

A few minutes later he walked on with a hat in his hand, praying he wouldn’t meet any acquaintances. The straw, though not of the finest quality, was closely woven. Instead of extravagant plumes he had had the woman adorn it with a circlet of daisies and a big white bow. Lady Sophia would have looked upon it with incredulous contempt. He hoped Fanny would like it, with her love of flowers, and he knew she would accept it in the spirit in which it was given. It would suit her fresh prettiness very well.

“Oh Roworth, how delightful!” Setting it atop her curls she rushed to the looking glass. First he had turned up at the picnic, and now a new hat, as though to prove to her that he was not the toplofty creature she had accused him of being. He made it very difficult to remember the difference in their stations. Pink-cheeked, she turned and beamed at him.

He smiled back. “Charming.”

“How very kind of you. But you shouldn’t have. It was entirely poor James’s fault I lost my hat.”

“Undoubtedly, but I found it. And judging by where I found it, it was my clumsy foot that extinguished its last hope.”

She laughed. “Last hope is right. I could not have gone on wearing the wretched thing much longer.” All the same, she had seen James step on it. Felix was giving her an excuse to accept his gift as reparation, but ought she to accept? Suddenly shy, she said, “I was saving for a new one. Will you not let me pay you for this?”

“Madam, do you think to impugn my honour as a gentleman?”

“Heavens, no, I should not dare. Thank you, my lord. Thank you very much.”

“Shall we take Anita to the park to show it off?” He spoke with an air of defiance, and Fanny realized that Lady Sophia might well be taking the air at this hour. Apparently he’d decided not to let her whims rule his actions. “You haven’t already fed the swans today, have you?” he asked.

“No, and I’d love to go, but Anita is napping. She was downright crotchety this morning, still exhausted from the picnic and from the excitement of having children to play with. Later perhaps?”

He shook his head, regretful, but also slightly relieved. “I’m engaged for afternoon tea.”

“At the Daventrys’?”

“No, the Somersets’. Lady Sophia is offended with me.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Fanny, more tactful than truthful, “but as you said before, she will doubtless relent. What is she vexed about now? For several days now you have only been to the park with us too early for her ladyship to be about,” she pointed out, concealing her hurt behind a teasing manner.

Felix appeared to be hunting with some desperation for an answer when the door knocker sounded. Fanny went to the front door and found a boy with a huge bouquet of crimson roses. Her nose buried in the blooms she returned to the parlour.

She extracted a card from the fragrant flowers. “From James Barnstaple, with his humble apologies. How sweet of him, when I was so unkind.”

“You are too forgiving!” said Felix roughly. “He got what he deserved.”

“I came to no harm,” she pointed out, surprised at his tone.

“No, I daresay you have often had to employ such methods. Barnstaple told me you have been courted by half the officers in the regiment.”

She flushed as crimson as the roses. “He had no business telling you any such thing.”

“But it is true? Why did you marry none of them?”

And that was none of his business, yet her answer burst from her with such vehemence that her voice shook. “I shall never marry a soldier!” War had robbed her of too many people she loved, father, mother, friends, and a certain stalwart young officer...

But one must not live in the past. Once more she buried her face in the flowers, this time not to enjoy the fragrance but to hide her emotion. “Are they not beautiful? I must find a vase for them.”

She escaped to the kitchen, still wearing the hat. Felix had the lowering feeling that she had forgotten all about his gift.

Some time later, he was about to leave for the Somersets’ lodging when again there came a knocking at the front door. Fanny was above stairs, so he answered it himself, ignoring Madame Vilvoorde’s scowling surveillance.

It was a courier from Nathan Rothschild in London. He brought advance news of another shipment of gold, arranged by Mr Herries who was back in England. Of more immediate interest was a report that the previous morning Napoleon had still not left Paris.

Mr Rothschild’s letter advised him to keep the courier at hand in case of need, so he sent the man to a hotel. Since he didn’t know the Duke’s whereabouts and was about to see the Military Secretary, he went straight to the Somersets’ with his news.

Lady Fitzroy, her bloom showing her fully recovered from her confinement, presided over the tea-tray, watched with fond pride by her husband. Lady Georgiana and Lord George Lennox were there, too, and Colonel Sir Alexander Gordon, and one or two others.

After making his bows, asking after the baby, and accepting a cup of tea in fragile Limoges porcelain, Felix drew Fitzroy aside into a window embrasure.

“Boney was still in Paris yesterday morning,” he said.

“How the devil do you know that already? Did your courier find a leak in the dam?”

“Not exactly. As Gordon suggested, my courier sprouted wings and flew over the wall. My employers only use those particular couriers in emergencies as they are less reliable, though faster, than the usual. And they don’t want it generally known that they use them at all.” He grinned at Fitzroy’s puzzlement. “Pigeon post, Paris to Dieppe, Dieppe to London.”

Fitzroy laughed. “May I tell Gordon?” He called the colonel over.

Gordon arrived with a plateful of cucumber sandwiches and queen cakes. “I’m filling up so you needn’t fear starving at dinner,” he said. “What’s new?”

“Roworth’s courier took your advice and flew across the border.”

“Huh?”

“Pigeon post,” said Felix.

He and Fitzroy grinned as, after a startled moment, Gordon guffawed.

“What is the joke?” cried Lady Georgiana. “Do tell us, pray.”

“It is never wise to ask what gentlemen are laughing about,” Lady Fitzroy chided gently.

With a barely perceptible shake of the head at the colonel, Fitzroy said, “Sorry, Georgy, Emily’s right. I can tell you, though, that the Monster is still in Paris.” He turned back to Felix. “I’ll make sure the Duke hears tonight. He still thinks it likely we’ll be waiting for the Russian and Austrian armies to arrive and then marching into France. Now come and have some sandwiches before Gordon snabbles the lot.”

When Felix returned to Madame Vilvoorde’s to change for dinner, Frank was in the parlour reading a newspaper while Fanny put Anita to bed. Trusting the captain’s discretion as he trusted Fanny’s, he waited until she came down, then told them the courier’s news, and how it had reached England.

“I have never understood how pigeons can be counted on to deliver messages,” Fanny admitted. “They always seem such silly birds.”

“Perhaps that’s why they can do it,” Felix proposed. “They only have a single idea in their heads, which is the location of home. Nothing can distract them.”

“Nothing but a hawk or a sportsman with a shotgun,” grunted Frank. “To be sure they are fast, and Old Hookey may be glad to know Boney was in Paris yesterday, but I’d like to know where he is now.”

“Don’t be such a crab-apple,” said Fanny.

“I just wish we had some of the 12-pounders the Duke keeps trying to get us. Or these new 24-pounder carronades, though I daresay they would go to the Field Artillery, being too heavy for us. They are supposed to be good with Colonel Shrapnell’s case shot.”

“Do you find Shrapnell’s shells effective?” Felix asked.

“The French don’t like ‘em,” he said, grinning, restored to good humour.

“And Whinyates’ rockets?”

Frank pulled a face. “We are not so enamoured of Whinyates’ rockets. Mind you, they’d frighten the horses to death if they went anywhere near ‘em.”

Felix laughed. Fanny was glad they were on such friendly terms, though she wished they would talk about something other than weapons.

* * * *

Though by no means a regular church-goer, Felix attended morning service at the English church the next day. He was already feeling virtuous, having been most abstemious at the Hôtel d’Angleterre the previous night. Lieutenant Barnstaple’s drunken example had reinforced the lesson of an embarrassing episode in the south of France, when overindulgence had led to his embracing Miriam--unexpectedly, if not precisely against her will. He still was not sure just how to interpret her response at the time.

Admittedly, after the dinner last night he had called on his mistress, but only to find her gone. Katrina Lisle had left a letter for him, explaining that in view of flying rumours she had sought refuge with relatives near Bruges. Under the circumstances, he wasn’t sure whether his continence counted as a virtue.

Virtue, however, was not his chief purpose in going to church. He knew that Lady Sophia had far too great a sense of propriety to turn her back if he addressed her in the church yard afterwards.

In a modest walking dress of Pomona green silk, and a thoroughly immodest bonnet with no less than five green and white ostrich feathers, the Goddess was a delectable sight. Major Sir Henry Bissell shared a pew with the Daventrys, his smug air suggesting that he considered he had stolen a march on the count, who was, of course, a Catholic. The dark Rifle green of his uniform admirably set off Lady Sophia’s lighter green gown. He was not at all pleased when Felix approached them after the service.

“Good day, Lady Sophia.”

“Good day, my lord.” She was reserved but not, he thought, more so than usual.

They exchanged commonplaces on the weather and then, knowing that she would spend the afternoon at home reading sermons, he requested, “May I have the pleasure of riding with you in the park tomorrow?”

She looked unwontedly uncertain. “Thank you, sir. I have been invited to the Guards’ cricket match at Enghien...”

“Lord Roworth.” Her mother, who had been chatting to a friend, turned towards them. “I cannot allow Sophie to go so far as Enghien squired only by those delightful--but so very young!--Guardsmen, even though the Duke was quite positive last night that Bonaparte is still in Paris. As it happens, Daventry and I are otherwise engaged tomorrow.”

“I am on duty,” said Bissell, scowling, then added with a hint of malice, “and even for Lady Sophia’s sake, St Gérard will have nothing whatsoever to do with that English madness called cricket.”

Taking Lady Daventry’s hint, pleased with her confidence in him, Felix said promptly, “I shall be honoured to escort Lady Sophia, if you will entrust her to me, ma’am.”

“Most kind,” said the marchioness, bestowing a smile of approval. “You will be quite safe with Lord Roworth, Sophie.”

“Yes, Mama,” she murmured.

In the event, the outing proved singularly tedious. Though Felix had enjoyed playing cricket in what he was rapidly coming to think of as his distant youth, as an uninvolved spectator he found it boring. Besides, he received only a third share of Lady Sophia’s scrupulously divided attention, since Lord Albert and his fellow-ensign accompanied them. Their puppylike infatuation with the Goddess he found only briefly amusing. Nor did he enjoy the good-natured but dismissive way they treated him as a venerable elder, and a civilian at that.

“As if I were ninety, not nine-and-twenty!” he exploded to Fanny when he reached home. She giggled. “And as if a pair of colours were the only important thing in the world.”

At that she looked sad. “Those Hyde Park soldiers will learn soon enough what war is about, poor boys.”

“What’s Hyde Park?” Anita asked. “Is there swans there, like in our park?”

So Felix took her on his lap and told her about the swans and ducks on the Serpentine, and of the fashionable parade every fine afternoon during the London Season, where ladies showed off their best hats.

“Tía Fanny weared her best hat today, when we did feed the swans. Tío Cav said it is dev’ish smart.”

“Anita, you must not repeat that word,” said Fanny, and then she caught Felix’s eye and they both burst out laughing, for no particular reason that he could afterwards discern.

He was glad he had bought her the devilish smart hat, even if that was not quite how he’d have described it. Was Mercer in love with her, to throw compliments about like that? She deserved better than that profane captain. He recalled with relief that she had sworn never to marry a soldier.

Late the following afternoon, another of her admirers arrived at Madame Vilvoorde’s. Moses Solomon had galloped ahead of a slow-moving coachload of gold from London to bring electrifying news.

Following Fanny into the parlour, he announced importantly, “Napoleon left Paris yesterday, my lord, in the early hours of the morning. His headquarters are said to be at Beaumont, though Mr Rothschild had no definite word on that.” He gave Felix two letters, one addressed to the Duke of Wellington.

Felix had just come in after riding in the park with Lady Sophia--and the count and Lord Garforth. He seized his hat and gloves from the table. “This cannot wait. I’m off to the Duke’s.”

He strode out, knowing he could rely upon Fanny to take care of the weary courier. Moses failed to hide his delight at being left in her hands.

As he hurried towards the Rue Royale, Felix read his letter from Nathan Rothschild. After repeating the news of Bonaparte’s movements, his employer went on to stress the utmost importance of keeping him informed of developments in Belgium. Felix had two couriers at his disposal. Once they had been despatched back to England, in the event of further urgent news he must come himself.

Rothschild went on to discuss business matters, closing with an assurance of his complete confidence in Felix. The wisdom of his decision to employ Viscount Roworth had been proved again and again.

Felix was gratified to have earned the gruff banker’s rare praise. Fanny would be pleased and proud of him. Folding the three close-written sheets, he slipped them into the inside pocket of his coat and entered the Duke’s Headquarters with a spring in his step.