What a Lady Most Desires (30 page)

“Have you evidence of theft to present against the accused, Major Hastings?” Fairlie asked.

The major took several documents out of the file. “This is a list of items found in Major Lord Ives's quarters after the accusation was made known, things other officers later identified as their own property. The list was signed by yourself, Colonel Fairlie, and His Grace of Temberlay, as the officers who performed the search. Others came forward later with lists of their own, noting other personal items that had gone missing but were not found. It was assumed those things were lost, sold, or pawned.” He flipped through the papers until he found the one he wanted. “In fact, I have a letter here from a Lieutenant Greenfield. He came to Horse Guards a few weeks ago to report finding a ring that belonged to him—­a rather valuable heirloom—­in a pawnshop here in London.”

Fairlie looked at Nicholas. “Could Major Ives have visited a pawnshop upon his return to London?”

Nicholas shook his head. “It would have been quite impossible. He was recovering from the injuries and wounds described, in my custody, and was unable to see.”

“Could a servant have gone for him?” Major Hastings asked.

“Major Lord Ives's valet was killed at Waterloo. His only servant at the time was Sergeant Browning. I'm sure you'll agree it would be almost impossible for a man who cannot speak or write to negotiate a price in a pawnshop.”

Browning opened his mouth to show his damaged tongue once again.

“Then might another person have pawned the stolen items?” Fairlie asked.

Nicholas shrugged. “I assume the thief did so, my lord.”

Fairlie turned to Hastings. “What else, Major?”

Nicholas rose to his feet. “I would like to ask Lady Delphine St. James to give her testimony now,” he said, and went to offer her his arm. A chair was brought forward for her, and set near the judges' table.

S
tephen watched Delphine come forward with her head high, her skirts swirling around her long legs. She kept her expression placid. She glanced at him as she passed, then looked away, her cheeks turning a fragile shade of rose. Stephen noticed how even the regimental surgeon's customary scowl softened at the sight of her, and Sir Donovan Lewis's faint smile suggested admiration. Even Major Hastings blinked at her through his spectacles, captivated.

“What have you to say, Delphine?” Fairlie asked his sister-­in-­law.

“I very recently found something,” she said. She paused and looked around, first at himself, then at Nicholas, then at Durling, pinning him to his chair with pointed disdain. The suspense built. She opened her reticule and took out a book,
the
book, and held it up.

Durling made a strangled sound.

“I was given this book as a gift,” she said. “It is a rather valuable book of poetry, and—­”

“Did you receive it in Brussels?” Fairlie interrupted.

“No, it was given to me here in England—­last week, at my father's house.”

“And who gave it to you?” Fairlie asked.

“Viscount Durling presented it to me,” she said. “A token of affection. My mother—­the Countess of Ainsley—­saw him give it to me upon leaving Neeland Park, if you wish to ask her. She thought it a romantic gesture.”

“I purchased it—­at a pawnshop!” Peter said, shooting to his feet. He was red as his tunic, and sweating, his eyes wide.

“Which pawnshop, Peter?” Delphine asked sweetly.

“Why, the same one! The one in Stepney!”

Fairlie's lips pinched like a noose drawing tight. He looked at Major Hastings. “I don't recall anyone mentioning exactly where in London the pawnshop was located. Did you mention that, Hastings?”

Hastings shook his head. “I did not, Colonel.”

Durling turned pale now. “Sit down, Captain,” Fairlie ordered. Peter sank to the edge of his seat, his expression stricken.

“Lieutenant Greenfield has identified the book as his. His sister's name is inside with the date 1812, and he saw it last among his possessions in Brussels, where he was billeted in the room next to Captain Lord Peter Rothdale's,” Nicholas said, and turned to Delphine. “Did you find anything inside the book, my lady?”

“I found a gambling vowel. It was stuck between the pages.”

Durling rose to his feet again, but two guards moved forward, and he sank down again.

“I have the vowel Lady Delphine refers to,” Nicholas said, and presented the bloodstained note to Fairlie. “It is made out to Major Lord Ives, and signed by Captain Lord Rothdale.”

The colonel's eyes popped. “This is for a considerable sum. Was it paid?”

“No, my lord,” Stephen said. “The vowel was missing from my tunic after the battle.”

Major Hastings checked his lists again. “There are several other vowels reported among the stolen items, all of them signed by—­” He looked up at Durling in surprise. “Captain Lord Rothdale.”

Peter was red and sweating. “I do not recall any such thing,” Peter said. “How do we even know that the vowel came from the book?” he demanded. “It might well be a forgery.”

Delphine took the vowel from her brother-­in-­law, and opened the book. “There, do you see? The mark on this page—­I believe it is a bloodstain—­is the same as the one on the vowel. There was another item I found in the book. May I speak of it?”

“I think you must,” Fairlie said.

Durling bolted for the door. “I have an appointment,” he muttered. “I cannot remain a moment longer.”

Fairlie signaled to the guards as he rose. “You will resume your seat, Captain. You are—­for the moment—­an officer of the Royal Dragoons. If you have testimony to give, we will hear it.” They waited until he sat again, looking miserable.

“As I was saying,” Delphine began again. “I found another item in the book.”

Every man in the room sat forward in his seat.

“On the night before the battle, I attended the Duchess of Richmond's ball. You recall, my lord—­you were there as well.”

“Indeed,” Fairlie murmured.

“Do you remember the pink daisies I wore in my hair that night?” she asked.

Fairlie frowned. “Yes, I suppose so. Why do you ask?”

“When Lord Uxbridge called for all officers to join their units for battle, I was dancing with Major Lord Ives.” She looked at Stephen. “Do you recall that, my lord?”

Stephen nodded.

“I gave him one of my daisies, you see, a token for luck, the way ladies once gave knights going into battle their favor. I saw him put it into the inside pocket of his tunic—­here.” She indicated her left breast. He promised to carry it into battle.”

All eyes turned to Stephen. “Did you do so, Major?” the surgeon asked.

“Yes,” Stephen said. “It was in the same pocket as the vowel.”

“I did not expect to see my flower again, but I did,” Delphine said, and picked up the book again. “Do you see this mark next to the one made by the vowel? It was made by my daisy, which is also marked with bloodstains.”

“Do you have the daisy now?” Fairlie asked.

“I returned it to the gentleman I gave it to that night,” she said, and looked at Stephen.

He reached into the left pocket of his tunic and took it out.

“It would be mere speculation as to how the items in Major Lord Ives's pockets ended up in Captain Lord Durling's possession after the battle, of course but . . .” She let her voice trail off, watched the judges look at Durling in horror and disgust.

“If I may, my lord, may I point out one last piece of evidence?” Nicholas asked. He crossed to the table and located Hallet's testimony among the other documents. He put it in front of Fairlie along with the vowel.

“The handwriting on both is the same,” Fairlie noted.

“Impossible!” Durling cried. “It is a forgery, a sham!”

Delphine opened her reticule again and added a small bundle of pages to the pile. “These are notes that were sent to me at Neeland a week past, by Viscount Durling,” she said.

Fairlie examined one. “The handwriting is the same as that on Sergeant Hallet's testimony.”

Mayhem broke loose. Durling made a break for the door, only to be seized by the guards. He struggled, screaming curses. “Bitch!” he called Delphine, glaring at her. Stephen was on his feet before anyone could stop him. He planted his fist in Durling's face for that insult. Durling's head snapped back, and blood spurted from his broken nose.

Fairlie drew his sword and stalked toward Durling as he hung in the grip of the guards. “Captain Lord Peter Rothdale—­Viscount Durling—­I hereby charge you with theft and dishonorable acts unbecoming of an officer,” Fairlie said. He raised the sword, and Durling whimpered, sagged, but the guards held him up. The Colonel sliced away the insignias on his tunic. “I should have allowed Major Lord Ives the privilege of doing this,” he said. “You are unfit to wear the uniform of a Royal Dragoon. He nodded to Stephen as he sheathed his sword.

“But it's not true,” Durling pleaded, trying to free himself.

“Then you shall receive a hearing. Lock him up,” Fairlie commanded, and waited until the prisoner had been dragged away, still protesting his innocence.

“Shall I look at that hand of yours, Major Ives?” the regimental surgeon asked, looking at Stephen's punch-­bruised knuckles with a grin.

Fairlie straightened his coat. “Is there any further testimony before we conclude this matter?” He looked at Delphine with a proud smile. “Anything to add, Dilly?”

“No, my lord. That's all.”

“Very well. I will ask everyone other than the judges to withdraw until we have decided the verdict in this matter.”

O
utside the courtroom, Stephen watched as Nicholas hugged Delphine.

Stephen shook Browning's hand, saw the gratitude in the man's eyes, and thanked him.

“The verdict shouldn't take long,” Nicholas said.

“What will happen to Durling?” Delphine asked.

“Disgrace. He'll be stripped of his commission, cut socially, ruined—­especially if Stephen presses his claim for payment of the vowel. Is that enough?”

Stephen watched the blood rise in Delphine's cheeks. “No, not nearly.” She drew off her glove. “If I were a man, I'd challenge him to a duel, shoot him dead.”

“Hell hath no fury like Lady Delphine St. James,” Nicholas quipped.

Stephen met her eyes. “Again I owe you my thanks,” he said.

She searched his eyes, then looked down at her hands, a blush rising over her cheeks. “Better than an apology, but I did only what was right, my lord.” He longed to touch her, to take her in his arms, but she stood stiffly beside Nicholas.

“May I call on you tomorrow?” Stephen asked.

Delphine didn't reply. She smiled faintly, politely, but it was a smile without any promise at all.

C
olonel Lord Fairlie mopped his brow and turned to his fellow judges. “That did not go as I expected.”

The regimental surgeon chuckled. “No, indeed. It was obvious to me at the presentation of his bloody coat that the man was not a coward. And to have a champion like Lady Delphine!”

Donovan Lewis leaned forward. “May I speak? I was sent by Lord Castlereagh to observe these proceedings, and to act if necessary. His lordship remembers Major Lord Ives from Vienna. Ives served as a diplomatic aide there, and assisted with a rather delicate, very secret matter. He undertook a mission of great danger to stop a plot that may have embarrassed His Majesty's government and other important persons. It is not a matter Lord Castlereagh is at liberty to speak publically about. I hope it will be sufficient to say that his lordship gives Major Lord Ives the highest commendation, and his personal regard. In my own opinion, seeing the evidence, I believe it is quite clear that Lord Ives proved his valor at Waterloo as well.”

“And Viscount Durling?” Fairlie asked.

Lewis rose with a shrug. “I know nothing of him, good or bad—­well, at least until today. I daresay the army can deal with him without help from Whitehall.” He rose. “Shall I inform Lord Castlereagh that the verdict went as he hoped?”

Fairlie rose and held out his hand to the secretary. “You may tell him so indeed.”

 

Chapter 71

“O
h, the terrible stories I've heard!” the Countess of Ainsley said as she hurried into the sitting room, pulling off her gloves. “Lord Durling is disgraced, branded a coward and thief!”

Delphine barely looked up from the book she was reading. “Truly? Then I shall consider myself lucky not to have accepted his proposal.”

“Indeed you may! I am putting it about that you were clever enough to see through his charm. Your reputation will not suffer.” She saw a bouquet of flowers on the table by the window. “How marvelous—­who are they from?”

Delphine smiled. “From Lord Castlereagh. I had tea with him the other day. He asked after you.”

“Did he indeed?” The countess asked “Charming man. Pity he hasn't a son, or a single brother you might consider.”

Delphine rolled her eyes. Once her mother got past the shock of Durling, Delphine would have to break the news that she and Sebastian were leaving for the Continent, going on a grand tour. She was running away, of course, but she could not bear to remain in England, not with a chance of running into Stephen at a ball or the theater, seeing that cold restraint in his eyes. She had to get away, give her battered heart a chance to mend. By the time she returned, surely her mother would understand that she had no wish to marry, and was, as the saying went, past a maiden's last prayer.

Stephen had been exonerated. He had called at Ainsley House the following day, and she had asked the butler to say she was not at home. She wished him well, hoped he would be happy, but her heart was in tatters. He had been perfect in her eyes, and then he wasn't. He had betrayed her trust, made a fool of her, and broken her heart. Of that he was guilty, even if he was innocent of everything else.

“Did you know the Earl of Lowe has disowned Durling?” Her mother prattled on. “His only living son! He was most disturbed by the stories that are going around about his heir robbing corpses, stealing from his fellow officers, shaming the family name, and running up astronomical gaming debts. He swears he shall leave everything that is not entailed to his cousin, and will not set eyes on Peter again in this life. The blackguard was even stripped of his commission money when he was thrown out of his regiment. He has nothing, not even the kindness of friends to rely on, since he hasn't any of those either.”

“Well deserved, I'm afraid,” Delphine said simply. “Or at least from what I've heard.” If her mother knew she'd gone to Horse Guards in broad daylight, been present for a court-­martial, and given testimony, she would faint.

“But you look so pale, my dear,” her mother said. “You must be devastated.”

“Truly, I'm not,” Delphine insisted. Her mother took her hand, patted it.

“Not to worry. We'll sit down tomorrow and make a list of eligible gentlemen, look at some new pattern books. A trip to the modiste is just the thing you need to put the roses back in your cheeks.”

Delphine smiled wanly. It would take a good deal more than that.