The Rake's Redemption (2 page)

Horseguards, London, 1812

Thomas Stainford cursed the clink of iron on stone as he strode across the parade ground. He never would understand what had possessed the normally reliable Wright to send his Hessians to his boot maker, Hoby of St James Street, to be cobbled and shod. It would take weeks to recover their glove like comfort. If the boots could survive four years of campaigning with a few leather patches tacked on the soles then surely they were a match for the streets of London.

Since it was less than a mile from the Stainford town house in Jermyn Street to Horseguards Thomas had chosen to walk this morning. Only to find himself struggling to maintain any sort of pace. The November day was bleak, bitter and overcast, but his shirt was sticking to his back with the gentle exertion of walking. He knew he wasn’t really fit enough to return to service. The only sensible course was to express regret and take himself back to his sick bed. So Thomas stiffened his back, damned the sentry for letting sympathy show on his face as he saluted, and marched through the portico into the grim interior.

Inside the atrium an aide, the gorget round his neck polished to rival sunlight, watched him approach with a mixture of bored curiosity and disinterest.

“Sir Edmund Hewston please.”

The man’s expression changed abruptly to relief. “Viscount Alsbury?”

“I am, Lieutenant.”

“If you would follow me, my lord, Sir Edmund is awaiting you.” Was there a hint of reproach in his voice? Judging by the alacrity with which the Lieutenant took off it was not done to keep Sir Edmund waiting, but Thomas stuck to his measured pace as he followed the aide through long corridors. Finally the man opened one of the interminable doors to announce him, “Sir Edmund, Major the Viscount Alsbury.”

Thomas couldn’t help being gratified by his welcome. Sir Edmund rose and advanced with outstretched hand. “My boy, how are you? I was glad to hear you were recovering. Though maybe not so far along that road as your reply suggested? Port?” He accepted Thomas’ refusal, but beckoned to the aide who passed a filled glass to him. “Thank you, Mather. If you are well enough, Thomas, I have a task you might undertake.”

“I should be obliged, Sir Edmund. Convalescing is a tedious business. I am not quite recovered, but perfectly able to undertake some work.”

“Not even partially recovered, if you ask me. You seem to have difficulty standing on your feet, sir. Better sit down I think.” Thomas had always liked Sir Edmund. The Major General had a reputation for intrigue, but relished plain speaking. “It’s not exactly an exciting job, but it does promise some amusement. And opportunity. Fellow called Horsley. Sir Theodore Horsley. He’s raised a battalion of militia to defend us from invasion. Sanctioned by my predecessor. God knows why, the French haven’t thought of mounting an invasion for years.”

Sir Edmund rose to refill his empty glass and chivvied Thomas when he went to rise too. “Sit still, man. No need to stand on ceremony here. I attended a review three days ago. Biggest shambles since his Royal Highness’s last militia camp at Brighton. Just a single battalion, and they couldn’t all march in the same direction. I wouldn’t let them fire their muskets in case they killed each other. Or me. Need some training.”

“You want me to train them?” Thomas worked hard to keep the lack of enthusiasm out of his voice.

“Well not to teach them the quadrille. Horsley thinks he’s going to take them to Spain to aid the Peer.”

“But if they are militia?” The men had been enlisted for home defence and could not be made to serve overseas. A splendid opportunity this: training a rabble for a deluded glory hunter. Thomas found his mind switching to alternative ways of occupying his time while he waited for his body to heal. Society had some very pleasant distractions to offer.

“Quite. Though it would be useful for some of them to list with the regular army. God knows we’re short enough of men. But at present this battalion is ill trained and lazy. The best thing about them is their name: the Loyal East Mercian Volunteer Regiment of Fencible Infantry, God save us. Sort them out for me, Thomas. Once they are in better shape we may have a way to get them to Spain.”

“I take it Sir Theodore will resent my assistance with his regiment, Sir Edmund?” It would do Sir Edmund no harm to be reminded that his plan had flaws.

“Yes, of course he will. Don’t be a blithering idiot, Thomas. The volunteers are his excuse to put on the glorious scarlet coat and strut about in front of the grateful ladies he’s saving from ravishment. He won’t welcome you interfering. But interfere you will.” Hewston stopped his diatribe abruptly and looked at his visitor, who sat unperturbed. “Bad business, Thomas. A second duel. How is Charles?”

“My brother is well, Sir Edmund. He’s with Colonel MacKenzie and the regiment in winter quarters at Ciudad Rodrigo.” The last thing Thomas wanted were questions about the confounded duel.

“MacKenzie won’t have you back, you know. Nor will the Peer have you on his staff. There’s thorough disapproval of what you did. Are you up to this?”

“I do know how a battalion should be trained, sir.” If Sir Edmund valued plain speech, Thomas could answer in that coin.

“No doubt of that, my boy. I meant your condition.”

“I grow stronger every day, sir.” Soon, with the exercise he took each morning, he might approach the fitness of a small child.

“A question neatly evaded. I take it you want to return to the war?”

“Yes, I do. Till the business is finished.” And so he could fulfil the promise to his father to look after Charles.

“How will you do that, Thomas?” Sir Edmund was leading up to something.

“If Colonel McKenzie will not have me back and the Peer will not have me on his staff, I will exchange into another regiment.” It would mean leaving the men he’d fought beside for four years, but better than sitting idle in England while they died in Spain.

“You could do that, Thomas. There is another way. If you can persuade and train enough of the Loyal Volunteers, you can take them to Spain as the second battalion of your regiment. McKenzie could do nothing about it. What do you say to that?”

“I’d be pleased at the chance, sir.” In truth Thomas was delighted. His own battalion meant promotion to Lieutenant Colonel. Sir Edmund’s game made sense: leave Horsley to pay for the militia till they were ready for Spain, then use the bounty of ten guineas a head for joining the regular army to persuade the men to volunteer. “Would the Peer object to me, sir?”

“Not so much as he’d welcome your troops. He disapproves of your behaviour, not your competence, Thomas. In four years you’ve cut a swathe through the French and he heartily approves of that. He does not approve that you’ve also cut a swathe through the ladies of the Peninsula, and shot any of their husbands who objected. Not exactly a testimony to your diplomatic skills, is it?”

“No, sir.” No point in objecting to a fair assessment.

“You’ll need to be clever about how you handle Horsley. No more duels, Thomas. That would finish you. And I want the battalion shipped by March in time for the campaign season. Mather has your orders, and a copy of Horsley’s. Report back to me in four weeks, Thomas. Promise me the trained men by then, and we’ll finalise the business.”

“Sir.” Thomas could feel excitement surging through his weakened veins. He wasn’t going to be bored for the foreseeable future.

By some mysterious telepathy Lieutenant Mather opened the door at that exact moment, to lead Thomas back through corridors festooned with paintings marking centuries of military history.

“The capture of Philadelphia.” His guide had noticed his interest in one massive canvas.

“Thank you, my father served with Howe.” And might himself have walked down this corridor as Viscount Alsbury before he sailed for the American Revolutionary War. Had he been better tempered then, before his disappointments began?

“Your orders, sir.” Mather was proffering a bulky package. “The East Mercian Volunteers are based at Farnfield, on the Northamptonshire county border

That he hadn’t expected. Farnfield. Not ten miles from Oakenhill. Since he’d come to his senses in his old room at Jermyn Street the thoughts of Judith Hampton had been more insistent. In his enforced idleness it took all the discipline he’d built up over four years not to let himself dwell on her, but there really was no reason to waste energy on foolish wonderings.

“I know Farnfield. Thank you, Lieutenant.” Thomas returned the man’s crisp salute and went out into the dour November day. The voice of caution was whispering that this was a remarkable coincidence, but Thomas felt light enough in his mind not to care or wonder about what fluke had brought about this circumstance.

Despite the panache with which he left Horseguards it was an exhausted and irritable Major Thomas Stainford who reached Jermyn Street twenty five minutes later. Graham Wright materialised even before his master had finished bellowing for him, but still earned himself a reprimand. “Time you left the maids alone, man, and attended to your duties.”

“Yes, milord. Which duties would you have me attend to?” He watched with tolerant amusement as his master’s shako bounced off the side table, then stooped to retrieve it as it skidded across the marble of the hall floor. “Shall I clean your sword, my lord? Or scour your pistols?”

“Horses. I shall be leaving for my godmother’s estate tomorrow.”

“Very good, milord. Will you be riding or driving the phaeton?” Graham Wright didn’t expect an answer so much as a torrent of abuse. A wise servant knew precisely how much provocation to offer up and the right time to do so.

“Neither. I’ll ride in the landau like a fat merchant. You can lead Swiftsure.” Thomas paused. Graham Wright had served him for eight years, the son of his father’s head groom, and was no doubt vastly interested in what took his master to Northamptonshire. “I’m to train militia. The right sort of job for a disgraced convalescent.”

“Very good, milord. I’m sure they’ll be grateful for your instruction.” Wright’s demeanour betrayed not one hint of sarcasm, but Thomas knew his man better than that. Without Wright’s determined care he would have died on the frigate bringing him home. The
Teriad’s
doctor had been a sot, and in contrary winds the voyage from Oporto had taken two weeks. The fever from Thomas’ infected wound should have finished him and then they’d have slung his corpse over the side instead of carrying him ashore at Tilbury three weeks ago.

“Excellent countryside thereabout for riding, milord. I recall from our previous visits. Milord.”

With a few words Wright had understood exactly what was required of him back then. The Hampton’s groom couldn’t believe how flush and generous his new friend was. Mornings in the alehouse were far more agreeable than trying to keep up with his hard riding mistress. But he wasn’t paying Wright to indulge in sentimental moonshine now. “We’ll leave in the morning. I’ll dine with my godmother tonight.”

“Yes, milord.”

Thomas sat down to read orders that instructed Lieutenant Colonel Horsley to cooperate with him on pain of dismissal. Thomas smiled at the thought of how that should endear him to Sir Theodore. As if it mattered; before he’d finished with the Volunteers, they’d all be cursing him, officers and men alike. As would Wright if he started to reminisce again about past times in Northamptonshire.

~

His hostess pounced as soon as Thomas walked through the front door of Bedford Square. “I’m told you arrived at Horseguards looking like a cadaver, Thomas.” Lady Guilmor paused in her denunciation, but only so that she could scrutinize her godson. She must have decided he was in no imminent danger of collapse for she resumed her tirade. “What was the point of that? Were you looking for sympathy?”

“It’s a delight to see you too, godmother.” Thomas knew there was warmth under Amara Guilmor’s apparent frost. He’d never doubted the depth of her affection, nor the value of her influence. “It would be a waste of time to expect sympathy from Sir Edmund, as you well know.”

“My brother has no regard for weaklings, that’s true. He enjoys his scheming too much.” The words were said with a quiet satisfaction. “Still, he has offered you a fine opportunity, Thomas. It might even impress your father. You’ll use Trefoyle of course? The militia barracks is only seven miles from there.”

“Thank you. I had anticipated the offer. That’s why I came to dine tonight.” With his godmother he could be quite shameless, she would have respected nothing else. “Trefoyle’s very practical. Unless you’ve redecorated it since I’ve been away.” He smiled and waited for the explosion the tease was bound to bring.

“Why would I do a damn fool thing like that? It’s not like this place that Guilmor says has to be kept up to the fashions. Pink stucco one year, Egyptian chairs the next. Never getting value from the stuff before you’re throwing it out. Wasteful. Trefoyle’s for living in.” By which she meant the furniture and decoration were robust enough to survive her tribe of godchildren running riot in it. “It was the younger Hampton boy you ran with, wasn’t it Thomas?”

“John, yes. Though I kept up with Jeremy in Spain. Till he was killed at Busaco.” It hadn’t taken his godmother long to get to her point, and Thomas waited for what he knew was to come, much as his battalion would stand before the advance of a French column.