The Mercenary Major (19 page)

The memory of other pleasures intruded sharply— Jack Amberly offering her a single section of orange, Jack Amberly sheltering her from the wind in his arms, Jack Amberly kissing her to distraction. Another world beckoned, his world, a wider, more various, more dangerous world, a cold, dark, hungry world outside. She told herself to ignore that call. Letty had found a very satisfying life among the
ton
. Victoria would too. It would take time and resolution, but she was equal to the task. The blur of colors and shapes resolved itself into familiar faces. And her spirits lifted to see her father whirl Letty around the floor.

Then Jack Amberly danced into view with Sarah Nevins in his arms, and Victoria realized how long the remaining weeks of the Little Season would be.

As they descended the grand staircase to the waiting carriage, Katie asked, “You do like Cousin Jack better than you did before, don’t you, Tory?”

“Yes,” said Victoria.

“Oh. I wondered because you hardly seemed to see each other tonight at all,” Katie said.

Victoria laughed a short sharp laugh that threatened to turn into a sob. She hadn’t really seen anything at Lady Nevins’ except Jack Amberly.

**** 15 ****

J
ack stepped out of the Swan and pressed the upstanding collar of his uniform closed against the damp chill of a foggy morning. He folded his arms across his chest, tucking his bare hands between his arms and his sides. Giving himself a little shake as if he could dispel the cold, he strode off, a ragged soldier down on his luck. On a corner not far from the tavern, he passed Gilling. Their eyes met, and Jack shook his head. The corporal walked on. Hengrave had not been at the Sprats meeting Jack had just left.

A few streets farther on, having made sure neither was followed, the friends fell into step.

“Our spy’s playing with me,” said Jack. He had been so sure that if he could gain admittance to the small back room he would find his friend.

“He’s a cagey one, Bandit,” Gilling agreed.

Jack lapsed into a satisfying roll of Spanish, abusing his own stupidity and the spy’s manhood. The spy had used Hengrave as bait.
“Sergeant Hengrave wants to see you, sir,”
Lovett had said to Jack the first time he’d been invited to the back room, but, of course, the sergeant hadn’t been there.

The leader of the back-room meetings was the man with the protruberant eyes Jack had seen that first night in London. The man was a compelling speaker. A soldier who met regularly with the Sprats would come away feeling he had a part in a noble cause, for which no sacrifice was too great. Jack suspected it was a feeling headier than wine or ale for men suddenly idled by peace and unwanted by their country. And those hungry, desperate men were going to act soon. That much Jack had learned.

“Got orders for tomorrow,” he told Gilling.

His friend’s gaze sharpened. Tomorrow twenty thousand Londoners would gather for the second Spa Fields meeting, hoping to hear that their petition had reached the Regent and that their government was prepared to relieve the distress of the poor.

“At the signal I go to Wallen’s, Snow Hill,” said Jack.

“That’s all? What is Wallen’s?” asked Gilling.

“Let’s go see,” Jack said.

They turned their steps east, speculating about the Sprats’ plans as they walked. At Snow Hill they stopped. A number of streets came together at the top of a rise. Men coming south from Spa Fields could enter the area by a half dozen streets and lanes and disperse into the city along three major routes.

“Not an easy position to defend, is it?” Jack noted. “And what’s the target here?” Respectable shops were doing a brisk trade in spite of the damp cold.

Gilling shook his head and studied the neighborhood. He pointed to a sign opposite, and they crossed the street.

Mr. Wallen’s shop, when they reached it, gave a sudden ominous turn to their speculations, for Mr. Wallen was a gunsmith.

“Damn,” said Jack.

“This could be ugly, sir,” said Gilling.

Jack had to agree. A mob in Madrid on
Dos de Mayo
in ‘08 had slaughtered every Frenchman in sight. With the Sprats arming themselves at the very time when Londoners were most distressed by cold and hunger and lack of work, bloodshed was likely.

Jack sent Gilling into the shop on the pretext of inquiring whether Mr. Wallen would purchase a gun that had seen service at Waterloo. Outside Jack went up the street and down a twisting alley, finding Wallen’s back entrance.

In the hack as they returned to Letty’s, they talked over the situation. “At the signal, the Sprats leave the meeting headed for targets in the city, at least one of them a gun shop that could arm a hundred men. The spy knows, but my guess is he hasn’t told anyone who isn’t in on it. Too risky if the plans fall through,” Jack suggested.

Gilling nodded. “Bastard’s going to wait for the action to start. Can we spoil his game, sir?”

Jack thought he’d like nothing better. “We could tell Bow Street or the Home Office, if we knew who gives the spy his orders, and if we had Hengrave out of it.”

“It’s a rifleman’s plan, isn’t it?” Gilling asked quietly.

Jack had been thinking that, too. Hengrave must be deep into this plot. “It is. Small tight groups, acting independently. One gets stopped, the others go on.”

“Never stop them all.”

Jack agreed. “Can we stop them at Wallen’s? Can we keep a mob out?”

“Defended tighter spots, sir,” Gilling replied grimly.

“If Hengrave’s in it,” said Jack, “he’s not going to wait for a signal at the meeting. He’ll be in position sooner.”

Gilling agreed.

“Tonight then, let’s put a watch on the gun shop and the Swan.”

“Tonight?” asked Gilling. “Aren’t you forgetting something, sir?” He grinned at Jack, but there was a certain grimness in his eyes.

“Tonight’s Letty’s ball, isn’t it?” Jack could hardly claim to have forgotten, given the household’s preparation for the event, but he hoped he sounded sufficiently indifferent. He was not looking forward to another evening watching Victoria Carr dance with her suitors.

He had been staying well away from his heiress, but he’d almost cracked two nights before. Standing in the shadows at the foot of Letty’s great stair, he watched Victoria Carr pass in that flimsy piece of rose silk she considered a wrapper. It occurred to him then that he could follow her to her room. He stood in the dark imagining it until he’d been in a painful state of wanting.

He had to laugh at what his thoughts of her had been. Since the Nevins’ ball she had acquired a larger court, men richer than Henry Wright, and even one titled suitor, Mayfield’s cousin, Lord Albury. Easier to think about the battle ahead than the ball.

“Gilling,” he said. “You take the first shift.”

Letty received the last of her guests just after ten, and felt the nervous quiver in her stomach subside. Dorward had not come. It had been necessary to notify him of his only daughter’s come-out, of course, but Letty felt that her letter had been masterful in pointing out the advantages to Katie and Victoria of being presented under her aegis and at her expense.

Timothy, the youngest footman, saw her enter the ballroom and crossed to her side, offering a glass of champagne from the tray he carried. He winked at her and retreated before she could scold. She sipped the champagne and looked about. Everything was as lovely as she had imagined it would be.

Her ballroom occupied one half of the first floor of her house. The polished wood underfoot and the sparkling chandeliers above, the swags of greenery along the frieze, and stands of white hothouse flowers under each of the arched windows gave a fragrant, festive air to the scene. The white Doric columns setting off the entrance and the dais for the orchestra needed no dressing up. Two sets of twelve couples were dancing without obvious crowding, and across the landing the drawing room was filled with guests enjoying cards and refreshments.

However, it was all for nought if Victoria and Jack would not speak to each other. Ever since Lady Nevins’ ball each had avoided the other with a studied attention that meant profound feelings were being denied. Letty herself was an expert at such self-discipline, but she hated to see Helen’s son and Ned’s daughter denying their obvious passion for each other. Perhaps she had been wrong to encourage Victoria’s distrust of Jack or Jack’s interest in other young ladies. Now the girls would leave and then Jack, and she did not know if Ned would ever come again once he returned to Wiltshire, and her house would be empty and she would have failed Helen.

She shook her head and looked about for a flower arrangement to pour the champagne into. She would not get melancholy now. She would start with Jack.

“You think I have a chance?” Bertram was saying to Jack as they watched a quadrille. Katie was dancing with Richard Kindel, and Reg, as usual, had contrived to partner Cida. Lonville was apparently not in attendance.

“I cannot violate my cousin’s confidence, George,” Jack answered, “but have you noticed the girl’s face when you enter a room?”

Bertram took a sip of champagne. “I think Lady Dorward accepts me,” he said.

“Lady Dorward has a good heart. She wants Katie to be happy.”

“I wrote to Dorward.”

“Very proper,” said Jack, watching Victoria Carr execute a particularly graceful turn.

“Damn, Bandit. Katie has not seen my arm. The empty sleeve is one thing, but the arm . . . it’s ugly,” he finished bleakly. He took a long swallow of champagne.

Jack reached out and lifted the glass from his friend’s hand. “Bertram, you could strip down to the skin to make your offer, and you would not change Katie’s mind. She sees you whole. She knows the arm is missing, but she sees a whole man.”

His friend stared at him briefly, then broke into a smile that erased all the bitterness from his young face. “I thought so,” he said. “I just couldn’t believe it.”

“Believe it.”

Serious again, Bertram asked, “Gilling at the Swan?”

“Yes. Did you hear more today?”

“King Street, Earl Street. I had my man check. Gun shops at both places.”

Jack frowned. “What are they going to do with the guns? Who or what is the target?” he asked.

“You don’t think the Regent?” his friend queried.

“You would know better than I,” Jack replied.

“The mob abused him some at his birthday parade, threw bricks, that sort of thing, but I don’t think Prinny stirs up fierce hatred,” Bertram concluded. “Do we tell anyone yet?”

“Not till we find Hengrave,” Jack said grimly.

Bertram nodded. “I sent my man to back up Gilling. I’ll take the second shift with you, Jack.”

The set ended, and as Jack watched Bertram thread his way through the other guests to Katie, he saw Letty coming across the ballroom. He knew that look in her eyes.

“Jack,” she said, frowning. “I need your help. My ball is a disaster.”

“It looks to me as if your guests are thoroughly enjoying themselves, Aunt Letty,” Jack said.

“But you cannot have failed to notice Victoria’s effect on the gentlemen present.”

Jack glanced at his aunt, undeceived. “I’ve noticed,” he said dryly.

“Then you must see the problem. Here I have invited a score of young ladies who are being neglected.”

Jack laughed. “Aunt Letty, you are shameless.”

“Seriously, Jack, you must do your share of the dancing. I don’t expect you to offer for any of them. I have been sadly mistaken in the character of Sarah Nevins. But if you would dance, it might awaken some of the other gentlemen to the merits of these girls.”

“Done,” said Jack.

She smiled at him and gave his shoulder a pat. “And do dance with Victoria once, Jack. It would look most particular if you did not,” she said as she turned away.

“Shameless and transparent, Aunt Letty,” he said. He looked for Miss Carr, but turned away from the sight of Richard Kindel saying something to make his heiress smile. He found himself face to face with Felicidad.

“Joaquin, you have given up on Miss Carr? No?” she asked.

“Good evening, Cida,” he said. “No heiresses for me.”

She laughed and fluttered her little black fan, looking beguilingly beautiful. “So why are you so
frio
, so cold to me? For the sake of the past you should be kind. I did teach you about
amor
, Joaquin, and you liked it. You wanted it even when you hated me.”

It was true, and it was one of the things that had wounded his pride, but he was no longer the boy who had suffered for that longing. “Cida,” he said. “I do not hate you, but I cannot trust you.”

“So, you understand my rules.” She shrugged. The black eyes swept over him. “Never trust a
ladron
, a thief.”

He had to grin at that.

And she smiled back. “So dance with me, Joaquin. I could tell you what I overheard today.”

Jack offered his arm and led Cida onto the floor. The musicians fortuitously began a fairly sedate quadrille that allowed partners frequent opportunities for an exchange of words.

“Sidmouth spent three hours with the Prince today,” Cida told Jack at their first opportunity to talk.

“You heard this from Lonville?” Jack asked.

“Later Arthur and Sidmouth talked. I heard them.” Cida gave one of those little shrugs that said she had no scruples where her self-interest was concerned.

When the dance brought them together again, she revealed, “The Regent left town earlier this evening.”

So the Home Office had been alerted, Jack thought. “What does Sidmouth expect?” he asked.

Cida raised a delicate brow, her revelations apparently at an end.

At midnight Jack bowed to the last of Letty’s requests and his own weakness and asked Miss Carr to dance a waltz. His heiress was more glitteringly lovely, more remote than she had ever been. She wore white in deference to society’s dictates for girls making their come-out, but as always she had contrived to add a touch of fire to her dress. This evening a brooch of garnets and pearls was pinned to the soft gathers between her breasts.