Lessons in French (15 page)

"Hmmm," Callie said. "Perhaps I will subjugate him and marry him after all, and keep

him enslaved to my smallest wish for years."

"Yes! Exactly like Sir Thomas," Hermey agreed.

"I daresay it would annoy Dolly to have him call on me."

Hermey's eyes widened. "Oh
yes
!" She caught Callie's arm. "Oh, you must. For that

alone."

Callie looked down at the letter. She blinked. "Yes," she said resolutely. "Yes, I think I

must."

The London physician did nothing to allay Trev's worst apprehensions. He had ordered

Jock to bring back the finest professional man he could locate, and the valet had gone

right to the top, it seemed. Dr. Turner came with excellent credentials, chief ly that he

was an esteemed friend of Sir Henry Halford, president of the Royal College and

physician in ordinary to the sovereign. According to Sir Henry's letter, Trev could repose

his full confidence in Dr. Turner, to whom Halford preferred to delegate his regular

practice while he was in attendance on the king.

With that strong a recommendation, there seemed little hope that Turner's discouraging

opinion could be dismissed as quackery. He didn't even try to replace the medicines with

his own concoctions, as every other doctor Trev had ever known had done. After the

examination, he sat with Trev in the parlor, writing instructions in a businesslike manner,

before he finally looked up and said in an even voice that the duke would be wise to help

his mother to put her affairs in order.

His meaning struck Trev like a blind-side blow in a sparring match. He had thought

tentatively of future concerns, of course. He'd even sent his letter just yesterday to the

French Chapel Royal in Little George Street, to request the attention of a priest to his

mother's illness. Merely as a comfort, because he knew she must have been unable to

attend any mass herself for some time. Certainly not for any idea of immediate danger.

But to have it said so frankly, by a medical man… Trev found he could not seem to grasp

the news. He only sat motionless, gazing at the physician's pen as it scratched across the

page.

When he finally composed himself far enough to protest that she had been improving

since he arrived, Dr. Turner merely nodded. That was characteristic of such cases, the

doctor said; the patient underwent a sudden burst of energy and activity just before the

final crisis, caused by migration of blood from the lungs to the heart. The winded speech

and high color in his mother's cheeks were a sign of this phase. It might last a few days or

a month, but she was much debilitated, and the doctor did not think she had a great deal

of strength to spare.

Dr. Turner had brought with him a nurse, and a surgeon to assist with bloodletting.

Trev was not fond of surgeons. He recalled too well the sensation of faintness and nausea

that had accompanied the bleeding treatments his grandfather had insisted upon until

Trev was old enough to bodily rebel. He had not let a knife or lancet touch him since the

age of eight, and he didn't intend to allow it again, however imprudent and eccentric that

might be. He didn't think his health had suffered a jot from keeping his ill humors shut up

inside, though he was willing to admit it might have contributed to his dubious character.

He imagined trying to speak to his mother about putting her affairs in order and felt a

familiar and potent urge come over him—the strong desire to be elsewhere. London. Or

Paris. Or better yet, Peking. He hardly realized that Dr. Turner was rising to depart, or

even felt the sleet on the back of his own neck as he escorted the physician under an

umbrella to lodging at the Antlers. He woodenly expressed his gratitude for the doctor's

forethought in making a professional nurse available for as long as his mother might

require it, and promised to convey all instructions to the local surgeon. When he stood in

the street again, he could think only that he needed fortification before he could face his

maman. Not to put a fine point on it, he needed to be deeply, blessedly, besottedly drunk.

Not at the Antlers, of course. Nowhere in Shelford. Feral instinct pointed him toward a

small alehouse that he recalled having passed on the Bromyard road. He was not a

habitual tippler; he liked to keep his wits about him too much for that, but barring Peking,

drink seemed the only recourse. He began to walk, holding the umbrella until the wind

threatened to collapse it, and then put his face down and strode into the stinging drops.

At the pace he set, it was hardly more than a quarter hour before he saw the low

thatched roof and cheerful smoke rising up through the sleet. As he pushed open the door,

the scent of damp, sweaty wool and home brew engulfed him, carried outside on the

rumble of laughter and talk.

He shoved his way in among the crowd of laborers and idle sportsmen. The Bluebell

was clearly one of those places deplored by moralists in lecture and print, where all levels

of society mingled on free terms. A convivial gathering to escape the weather,

relentlessly masculine but for a barmaid who could give back as good as she got—it was

just the situation Trev preferred at the moment. He used his smile to ruthless advantage,

obtaining a tankard from the barmaid and a jeer from the table she ignored on his behalf,

but he bought them all a round and dragged up a stool, downing his ale in one long

draught. He knew well enough how to purchase a welcome here.

The crowd was in the middle stages of alcoholic mirth, singing bawdy songs and

wagering on whether a carter could lift a table on his back with five men atop it, when a

pair of gentlemen joined the company. They stood near the door, peeling out of wet

overcoats and checking the oilskin covers on the locks of their rifles.

Trev left off watching the carter's losing struggle and glanced at the newcomers as they

hiked their guns into a rack. It took him a moment to recognize Major Sturgeon, dressed

as he was for shooting and wet to his skin. The two men seemed in excellent humor in

spite of the weather, hanging a bulging game-bag beside their guns. Sturgeon's

companion appeared to be some respected local squire. Men touched their forelocks and

vacated the inglenook by the fireplace, leaving the best seats open for the new arrivals.

Trev set his stool back on two legs, his elbows propped behind him on a table. The

others were laughing and yelling at the carter now, goading him for his defeat, while he

shouted back, red-faced, demanding another try and making himself look a fool on top of

a failure. He was clearly not the sort to take a ribbing.

Trev lifted his mug in the air and began to sing "The British Grenadiers." He raised his

voice over the carter's hot complaints. "Whenever we're commanded to storm the

palisades," he bellowed in good John Bull style, "our leaders march with firelocks, and

we with hand grenades!" By the time he got to
"tow, row, row, row, for the British

Grenadiers!
" he had his own table singing along at the top of their drunken lungs. He

finished off his ale and saw Sturgeon looking at him with a cold gaze. The rest of the

tavern had taken up the song in loud chorus, forgetting the carter in their new enthusiasm.

A familiar sense of waywardness possessed Trev, a moody antagonism riding on the lift

of ale and latent violence that he could always find in a place such as this. He f lipped an

insolent salute to Sturgeon. The officer only stared back. His good humor seemed to have

evaporated.

Trev wondered if the major had realized what basis they had for acquaintance beyond

their meeting at the Antlers. From his scornful expression, Sturgeon appeared to bear

Trev a marked dislike, considering only their brief contact the day before. So Trev

followed up the grenadiers with more songs in a military mode, offering a few British

camp tunes he'd learned from the wounded Light Bobs who'd hobbled alongside him in

the baggage train. None of those tattered infantrymen had been in a patriotic mood, and

the lyrics were all highly disrespectful, in addition to being lewd, taking cheerful and

deadly aim at worthless officers and lack of pay. As he'd expected, there were enough

worn-out soldiers in the Bluebell to approve this theme. They took it up with fervor.

Trev could see Sturgeon's face growing ever more rigid. As the major's lips curved in

disgust, Trev sat back, gulping ale, abandoning the thin skin of gentility. He knew this

wild temper in himself—he'd regret it later, but at the moment it was amusing. Sturgeon

deserved an insult, by God, for crying off on Callie.

With a wink and a lift of his mug toward his prey, Trev plunged into a song about a

deserter, singing merrily in celebration of cowardice. It was a lampoon of "The British

Grenadiers," set to the same melody, but the words turned upside down. Instead of

storming the palisades, this grenadier hero repaired to town a little too early in the verses,

and found a girl who cried "Hurrah, boys," and fondled his grenades. The twist in the

usual words had the men at Trev's table laughing so hard that they were spitting.

Trev could see the furious color rise in Sturgeon's face. Still he grinned and plowed into

the next stanza, where the craven grenadier turned tail, stuck branches in his

unmentionables to impersonate a bush, and ended up with a promotion. In the original

ditty, he'd been made into a grenadier sergeant, but Trev slotted "major of
dragoons
" into

the verse instead, which fit the cadence better anyway. His tablemates were almost

prostrate with hilarity. The man next to Trev gripped his shoulder as they all leaned

together and howled,
"Tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!"

He was well into the third round when the voices round him died away to a sudden

quiet. Trev recovered his balance as his neighbor let him go. His chair legs hit the f loor,

an audible thud in the new silence.

Sturgeon stood over him, white and stiff. "You puling French bastard."

Trev rose from his seat. "
Oui,
Monsieur?" he said politely and made an unsteady bow.

He had not expected to draw blood so soon.

"Shut up, you fool."

Trev gave him a sweet smile. "But what have I said to offend you?"

Someone giggled drunkenly behind him. Sturgeon's lip curled. "It's enough to know

what you are."

"Indeed." They were of a height, with Sturgeon at an advantage in weight. Trev drew a

breath to clear the ale fumes from his brain. "But explain further, my friend. What am I?"

"
Blackmail,
" Sturgeon hissed through his teeth, almost a whisper, so low that Trev

wasn't sure if he'd caught the word or if the major had called him a blackguard. He

wondered if he was more inebriated than he had thought.

"I fear you must speak more plainly," he said, "if you wish for everyone to hear."

The major drew his lips back over clenched teeth. He reached out and gripped Trev's

lapel, but said nothing.

Trev pried his fist loose, thrusting it away. "You may unhand me," he said coolly. "And

be sure that I know what
you
are. We've just been singing about it, eh?"

The major seemed to swell, the blood beating in his temple. "
Shut up
! You nauseating

bloodsucker, shut up."

"I'll tell you what's nauseating," Trev said in a conversational voice. "A man who

insults a lady and then comes skulking back and bleating for her favor. Keep your

distance, Sturgeon; she doesn't wish to see you."

"You dare!
You
!"

"Of course I dare. Do you suppose she has no friends to take her part?"

Sturgeon was dead white with rage. "By God, I ought to kill you, you slimy little

French worm."

"You son of a whore," Trev said calmly. And then he repeated it in French, for good

measure.

Sturgeon stood so still that Trev could see the faint tremor in his fingers as he yanked

off his glove. In the slow instant, Trev felt his own blood rise with a mad pleasure. A

decade of rage pressed in his chest, lost years, impotent shame that he had stood and

taken that blow from Callie's father and left her to be slighted by a man like this. With a

sense of fascinated doom, he watched Sturgeon fold his glove over his fingers and lift his

arm.

A duel, it was to be. He was that much an English gentleman.

The major slapped him across the face, the glove a brisk snap against his skin. "Name

your weapons."

Trev hauled back and struck with a right cross before Sturgeon's mouth was even

closed. He put his full weight and five years of ringside training and all his hatred for

arrogant English gentlemen behind it, smashing Sturgeon's jaw with an impact that he felt

all the way to his heart, deep down in his chest.

He caught the officer utterly off guard. Sturgeon went down backwards, sprawling

against a table. Men leaped up to stay clear. Someone grabbed Trev's arm, restraining

him. He turned round and threw another punch, hard to the gut of the major's esteemed

comrade. The man doubled over. Trev jerked free of some eager bystanders and saw his

tablemate hurl a blow at Sturgeon before the major could launch himself at Trev.