Highest Stakes (28 page)

  "Jacobites! The whole damnable lot do nothing more than blather on impotently about restoration!" Sir Garfield said.

  "'Tis ironic, is it not, that the throne of England was endowed by Parliament to the one man who truly didn't want it! 'Tis said of George the First that he knew nothing, he desired to know nothing, and he did nothing. The only good spoke of him at all was that he would have loved nothing more than to hand the English Crown
back to its heredity successor
."

  "I can't say which is easier to swallow: to live under the tyrannical Stuarts or under the war-mongering Hanoverians. George the Second will have us a bloody province of his beloved Hanover before 'tis all over. Mark my words on it!"

  "Regardless of kings, sir, we are obligated by treaty to act in our allies' defense. Though I don't deny the King has his own agenda," Philip replied.

  "Englishmen have no business fighting on the Continent. It wasn't enough to fight Spain; now we would commence hostilities with France," Sir Garfield said. "If an Englishman must die, better in defending one's own country, I say."

  "But surely, Father, you would not allow France to overrun all of Europe?" Charles protested.

"Again this tedious talk of politics and war!" Beatrix rolled her eyes.

  "As you say, my lady, immensely tedious," Philip agreed with warm sympathy.

  "My dear gentlemen," Lady Felicia interrupted, "if the conversation is to continue on this bellicose theme, Beatrix and I shall retire to the drawing room. We shall not wait for you, so pray enjoy your port. And, Major,"—she paused—"I shall have a chamber prepared for you. It is far too late for you to ride back to your lodgings. Don't you agree, Sir Garfield?"

  "Just so, madam. Just so," he agreed affably enough.

  "My sincerest gratitude, my lady." Drake rose in a bow as she and Beatrix departed. The footman, leaving in their wake, promptly returned with several bottles of Portugal's finest vintages, and then produced several chamber pots, placed convenient to each gentleman.

  While the footman returned to refill their wine glasses, Sir Garfield stood to relieve himself. "Thought I'd bloody well burst before the women left." As he filled the vessel, he grunted and then sighed with satisfaction. "It's damnably inconvenient to drink in mixed company!"

  "Quite so, sir," Philip agreed, gratified that the baronet had at least the courtesy to turn his back to the table.

  Speaking over his shoulder, Sir Garfield revisited politics. "So the question remains, Drake, where do you and your family stand?"

  "Following family tradition, I daresay Edmund is hedging his bets," he replied with a smirk. "He has joined the so-called Patriot Whigs who pay court to the Prince of Wales."

  Sir Garfield remarked, "Forming an alliance with the future heir shows foresight as well as ambition, I'd say."

  "Quite," he replied curtly, uninterested in discussing his brother.

  Resuming his place at the table, Sir Garfield took up his glass. "But what of
your
ambitions?" he asked.

  "For the moment, His Majesty has my future in his hands. While we've thousands of troops on the Continent, it is said King Louis would render assistance to restore the Pretender."

  "Do you give any credence to such talk?" Charles asked.

  "The threat may be credible. The Scots are either gullible enough or naively loyal enough to raise the Pretender's standard yet again. 'Tis yet hard to say how much support they might garner among the English, but we could expect some trouble from that quarter." Philip's reply was pragmatic.

  "What of your leanings, Major? You wear the King's regimentals, but do you favor the King, his heir, or the Pretender?" Sir Garfield asked.

  "In sum, I am first and foremost an Englishman, loyal to my country to my very death. As to the King, I defer to the poet John Byrom." The major raised his glass in a sardonic salute:

"God bless the King, I mean the faith's defender,
God bless, (no harm in blessing), the Pretender,
But who Pretender is, or who is King,
God bless us all, that's quite another thing."

  Sir Garfield thumped the table heartily. "Here, here. Damn the Papists, the Jacobites, and the Hanover-lovers, too!" he bellowed, now well in his cups.

  "I would that I could join you in the army," Charles replied in growing resentment of his father's injunction.

  "Ever seen a battle, Charles?" Philip demanded of the callow youth. "The cannon charge is deafening, the smoke acrid and smothering as it hits one's lungs. Ever seen a man die? Once he realizes he's hit, the sheer panic is replaced by a vacuous disbelief glazing his eyes as his lifeblood drains slowly away. Furthermore, have you ever killed a man? Once one has regained enough composure to survey the aftermath of battle, the stench of blood and grotesque scene of miscellaneous disembodied parts scattering the field is sickening. It's ubiquitous and inescapable. War is not the romantic drivel conveyed to us by poets, Charles. War is emphatically unromantic. It is massive and overpowering death."

  "The man's right, Charles. War's a vile business, vile business!" Sir Garfield said.

  "But it is one's duty and honor to defend one's king and country. A soldier's life has purpose!" Charles rejoined.

  "'Tis no purpose at all for an only son! I say, leave war to the ones who can be spared!" his father retorted.

  "Indeed, 'tis precisely why the
spare
son is so highly recommended," Philip remarked laconically.

  "'Twas not exactly what I intended, Drake," Sir Garfield blustered.

  "I comprehend
precisely
your meaning, sir," he replied evenly. "'Tis true, Charles, that some must fight. I would that I needn't; however, soldiering is one of few honorable professions open to a younger son. Some achieve glory and others an early grave, and I confess I aspire to the former." Philip laughed, altering the conversation's morose tone.

  Sir Garfield stifled a yawn. "I aspire to a comfortable bed and a fluffy pillow. So I bid you good night, Drake." He then emptied his last glass of port, and on the second attempt, hefted onto his feet.

  The younger men followed suit and staggered up the stairs to their respective chambers.

Having brought no change of clothing, Philip undressed for bed and moved to snuff the candle. He was arrested by a light scratch at the door. Snatching on his breeches, he opened it with a mild curse. There stood Beatrix, garbed in her dressing gown, with her long, blond hair tumbling freely over her shoulders.

His gaze raked over her, and his instincts overruled his judgment.

Casting a cursory glance down the hallway, he hauled her brusquely into the privacy of his room.

  "Now what the devil are you doing here?" he asked.

  Beatrix suddenly grasped the weight of her actions. She was alone with a man in his bedchamber. She trembled at her own daring, but any trepidation was now overcome by something more powerful… rousing… exciting. She had never before experienced such a physical awareness, such a heightening of her senses as in this illicit moment.

  "I-I desired a private word," she began.

  "And the matter was so urgent it could not wait until morning?"

  "Quite urgent, I assure you." she said and boldly entwined her arms about his neck. "But suddenly I've forgotten what it was." She pressed herself against him and reveled in the sensation of the thin silk against his bare torso.

  Philip tried to ignore the sudden stirrings of arousal. No
gentleman
would seduce a young woman under her father's roof, though one could debate who was the seducer when a nubile young woman appears half dressed at said gentleman's room in the dead of night.

  He considered the point moot and attempted only halfheartedly to extricate himself from her hold.

  "One would hope you are well aware of the danger you court in coming to my room like this," he said softly.

  "Danger?" she whispered back provocatively. "What kind of danger?"

  Purposefully he angled her hips to him and gripped the globes of her buttocks.

  She gasped but made no move to retreat.

  His low and husky voice breached the silence. "I believe you have just made a most irrevocable decision, my lady."

  The line now crossed, there was no turning back.

T he
morning dawned foggy with a light, misting rain, unfavorable conditions for spectators but advantageous to the incognito rider. Having garbed herself again as a lad, Charlotte tightly bound her bosom and even added light padding to her clothes in order to better simulate the male form.

  She wore an oversized jacket, a muffler up to her chin, and her long honeyed tresses were tightly confined in a snug-fitting jockey's cap. Thus prepared, she waited impatiently to present herself for Robert's inspection.

  He returned from his brief meeting with Sir Garfield and the racing stewards and declared, "All is in readiness, and Philip has agreed to assist."

  "Philip?" she asked dubiously. "What can he possibly do?"

  "Never underestimate the talents and resourcefulness of the man, Charlotte. Major Drake will sit with the Wallaces and do what he does best, provide diversion at any sign of trouble. I am entirely confident in his abilities and am astonished at how warmly the master of Heathstead Hall embraces him. He will play this to our advantage."

  "I know he's your friend, Robert, but there's something about him I just can't trust."

  "He is given to caprice, I'll admit, but he's been as a brother to me. Besides, how could I not trust a man who saved my life?"

  "How could you not," she replied.

  "Drake shall attend to Sir Garfield. Now, as to your disguise." He circled once to inspect her and grinned appreciatively. "You are
nearly
the same young scamp I first mistook you for those years ago. But wait, there is something missing…" He cocked his head, studying her. "Indeed, I have it." He grinned broadly.

  As he stooped to the rain-softened ground, scooping up half a handful of mud, she looked her question, and to her chagrin, he smeared it on her face.

  "It's not horse dung, but I had to do something to counter such a suspiciously pretty face."

  She laughed outright at the shared remembrance of their very first encounter after she and Jemmy had milled in the stable yard.

  Robert nodded approval at his finishing touch, and he continued coaching her. "Now you are a lad who has taken his mount for an airing. I believe you shall pass muster to any but the veriest scrutiny. Now, what is your name?" he grilled.

  "Charlie Devington, your cousin, recently apprenticed in Lichfield."

  "Just so." He nodded. "But when you speak, Charlotte, and don't do so more than necessary, remember to lower your voice and evade eye contact as much as possible. Avoid Jeffries. He is the one I am wary of exposing you. He won't be fooled for a moment by your disguise."

  "But he has been a loyal friend to both of us for years. Why should you doubt him now?"

  "Suffice to say I question his loyalty only if his livelihood at Heathstead Hall should come into jeopardy. I shouldn't blame him, of course, but pray try to keep your distance from him."

  "I understand. I shall not let you down. We shall prevail, Robert."

  "Yes, my love. We shall."