A Difficult Disguise (12 page)

“The blue-nosed man died?”

“No, much more than that,” Fletcher explained. “The blue-nosed man had gotten himself transferred to another group. Of course, as the blue-nosed man moved, so too did Beau, only to be informed by his superior officer that he had positioned himself in the wrong place. Beau, with, I am told, just the merest elevation of one eyebrow, turned to see the blue nose to his rear and stated firmly, ‘Non-sense. I know better than that. A pret-ty th-ing, in-deed, if I did not know my own tr-oop.’ ”

Billy laughed aloud at the mental picture Fletcher’s words conjured. “Is that how he sounds?” she asked once her giggles were under control. “What an odd way of speaking.”

“An affected drawl, I grant you, but although I should dislike it terribly in anyone else, Beau has always been able to bring it off beautifully.”

“And his dress,” Billy pursued. “Is it true that he is copied by every man with any pretension to good grooming and fashion?”

“I have copied his simplicity most outrageously,” Fletcher admitted unashamedly, for he had long admired his friend’s unstated elegance and predilection for cleanliness, “although I have not gone so far as to spend hours tying a cravat or taken to bathing in milk. I can say that the air in London, never particularly healthful, has been greatly improved by Beau’s oft-copied prescription for daily bathing and sparkling clean linen.”

Billy, scratching at yet another itch, silently agreed with Beau’s prescription. “Yet now he and the Prince Regent are quarreling. Poor Mr. Brummell. He must be terribly unhappy.”

Fletcher, after tossing the remains of the cheroot into the flames, moved to recline against the trunk of a nearby tree. “He’s resigned to it, I’d say,” he said, reflecting on Beau as he’d last seen him. “Although he is gambling too high of late. He always did make a fine art of folly. I don’t foresee a happy future for Beau, to tell you the truth, now that Swellfoot is known to no longer favor him. It’s a damnable pity, for Beau—and not that fat, spendthrift, grandmother-chasing flawn—is truly the First Gentleman of Europe.”

Sensing that Fletcher’s mood had once more turned inward in the silence that followed his last words, Billy spoke again. “Mr. Brummell cannot be the only man of note in London. Tell me about the others.”

Fletcher, who had been remembering Beau as he’d last seen him, playing too deep at White’s and losing badly, found himself to be more than willing to change the subject. He told Billy of Henry Luttrell, whom he had seen that last day in town, making his groom laugh with tales of Henry’s agile wit. Then he quoted Samuel Rogers, a man so thin his friends believed he most resembled a cadaver, on the subject of marriage: “ ‘It matters little whom a man marries, for he is sure to find the next morning he has married someone else.’ ”

Billy frowned at that disparaging male remark, the female in her struck. “That wasn’t funny,” she complained, shoving a stick into the fire. “What do London gentlemen do besides drink and gamble and poke fun at women? I should soon be bored with sitting in White’s window, laughing at the people getting wet in the rain outside.”

“Too tame for you, Billy-boy?” Fletcher questioned, remembering how bored he had been among the hustle and bustle of London society in full flight. “I tend to agree with you. Evenings can be the worst if one is not a dedicated gamester. Take rout parties, for instance.”

Billy sat forward, for now Fletcher had indeed captured her interest. “Oh, yes, do tell me about rout parties. They sound like such fun.”

“Fun?” Fletcher repeated, grimacing. “Billy, I’ve had more fun cleaning my teeth. No real conversation exists at a rout, no cards, no music, no dancing. It is nothing more than a woman’s excuse to throw open her house and show off her furnishings. The hostess must, of course, invite at least three times the people able to stand shoulder to shoulder in her house at any one time, just so that she can tell all her friends that her party had been a ‘veritable squeeze.’

“A guest spends at least an hour in his carriage, awaiting the moment his coachman can inch forward to the front door, then waits through another hour on the stairs in order to shake hands with the lady of the house. After that it is a matter of winding, sheeplike, from room to room, elbowing, twisting, turning, and winding through drawing room, saloon, bedroom, and salon, only to find oneself back on the threshold, totally winded and longing for the comfort of one’s carriage, which, of course, is waiting at least three blocks distant. Rout parties—a pox on them!”

Billy felt herself fast becoming depressed. London was not at all as she had supposed it. “But what about the theater? Surely you must have something kind to say about London theater?”

“For young men?” Fletcher considered the thing a moment, wondering what aspect of theatergoing would most appeal to a young lad. “There is Fops Alley, I suppose. An enterprising gentleman can station himself there and then go behind between the acts to chat with the actresses, who can be most appreciative.”

“Do you do that?” Billy frowned, not knowing why the thought of Fletcher cavorting with actresses distressed her. As a matter of fact, the thought of Fletcher being anywhere other than this secluded gorge, with anyone else but her, conjured up a most totally unlovely picture.

“I did, long ago in my grasstime. I’ve learned to appreciate what is going on out in front now that I am older. But we are talking of London in general, not myself in particular. And although I may be feeling a bit jaded at the moment, I must admit to there being plenty to do for a young fellow a few years older than you.

“There’s boxing or fencing in Gentleman Jackson’s, or with Shaw the Lifeguardsman, for instance, or riding in the park, going out on the strut, or visiting friends. Dear Lord, there is no end to the visiting. A fellow could make a career of visiting, as Henry Luttrell has.” And with that, Fletcher reached out, took up his hat, and placed it over his face, as if to signal that he was about to go to sleep.

Billy, feeling the beginnings of a cramp in her left leg, stretched herself out and dutifully tried to imagine London as Fletcher described it. It sounded nearly as boring as Patterdale, although there did seem to exist more for a person to do to bore her.

Then she brightened, remembering that Fletcher most probably had been trying to make London sound as unappealing as possible, in order to dissuade her from ever thinking of running off to such a place rather than meekly allowing herself to be led to a nasty aunt in Tunbridge Wells. And what a hum that story was! Surely a young woman could find more excitement in the metropolis.

Having so buoyed herself with that thought, she set out to learn more about Fletcher Belden, the man. “Hedge said you fought in the Peninsula. Was it terribly exciting?”

Fletcher lifted the hat from his eyes and regarded Billy consideringly. What mischief could the boy be planning now in that fertile imagination of his—thoughts of running away to make a name for himself in the army? He smiled, knowing Billy would be fair and far out if he tried that. There’d be precious little room for downy-cheeked babies in a peacetime army.

“Exciting, did you say?” Fletcher responded, flashes of memory flitting through his brain. Yes, he had to admit it, war could be exciting.

Billy shrugged, searching for another word. “Well, was it interesting? I mean, Hedge said you served with the duke. Surely it had to be wonderful to watch the great man in the field?”

Fletcher closed his eyes and thought about the Duke of Wellington. He laughed aloud as a sudden thought struck him. “He shaved himself. Every morning, no matter what. Shaved himself, packed his own things, and emerged dressed from his tent each morning before light. Try as I might, I never beat him.”

He suddenly sobered. “And he never asked a man to do what he himself wouldn’t. As a result, his men would do anything he asked. Yet, at the same time, at heart he despised the ranks, calling them the scum of the earth. Only when he wanted the impossible from them did he address them as ‘my lads’—and then, by God, they’d do it for him. Not once, but a hundred times.”

Billy bit her tongue as she realized she had been about to say something that would give her away, for she had learned all this and more about the Iron Duke long ago. “They trusted him to bring them through, I should imagine,” she said, peering through the darkness to try to read Fletcher’s expression.

“We all did,” Fletcher agreed, allowing the hat to slide down over his eyes once more. “I can remember a night I rode the perimeter with Wellington and we approached the sentry on the way back into camp. Someone had changed the signal and neither the duke nor I knew the countersign. Imagine it—the commander-in-chief being denied admittance to his own camp. But I shouldn’t have worried. The sentry, a good Irishman with the heart of a lion, took a look, snapped his musket to the salute, and piped up heartily, ‘God bless yer crooked nose. I’d sooner see it than ten thousand men!’ ”

“That’s wonderful! Tell me more,” Billy pleaded, leaning forward, entranced.

“I asked him—twice, as I recall—and he just kept grinning and nodding, saying,
Sí, sí,
all but pushing the stick skewering the thing in my face. Now remember, I hadn’t had meat or much of anything else in nearly two weeks, so I took a bite.” Fletcher pulled a face at the memory of the taste that had nearly gagged him. “And that, my young friend, explains how I learned that ‘rabbit’ is not an international word.”

Billy, lying on her side opposite Fletcher across the dying fire, a blanket across her hips, her head sleepily propped on one hand, asked companionably, “And what was it, really, if it wasn’t rabbit? You said it looked like a rabbit.”

Fletcher shifted slightly as he reclined against a tree trunk, at his ease for the first time since awakening that morning.

How he had allowed himself to be gotten on the subject of his days in the Peninsula he didn’t remember—probably in yet another attempt to convince himself he was a man to the tips of his boots and couldn’t possibly be physically attracted to a young lad of no more than thirteen. But he had spent the last two hours happily reminiscing about a period in his life he had once believed he could never remember with any degree of fondness.

He smiled at a widely yawning Billy as he positioned a hand behind his head. “I never had the courage to ask, halfling, but I can tell you this much: I never heard a dog bark for the three days we were in that village.”

“That’s terrible! But you didn’t eat it,” Billy declared positively, no longer appearing to be the least bit sleepy.

“I have dazzled you, no doubt.” Fletcher grinned wickedly. “Let’s just say I didn’t mind sharing it with my men.”

“You did eat it?” Billy felt her stomach turn at the thought. “You and your men ate a dog? How could you? I would much rather have starved.”

Fletcher leaned his head back to gaze up at the stars that dotted the clear night sky, then looked across the fire at Billy’s stricken expression. “Oh, halfling, but I would much rather have not. War deals harshly with refined sensibilities.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Billy muttered halfheartedly as she felt very drowsy and wasn’t really listening with more than half an ear. She pushed herself up, fighting off sleep, to sit cross-legged, her hands on her knees, for the night had been going so well that she hated for it to end. “Tell me another story, please—but another funny one, like the one you told me about the beauty competition your friend held, giving the prize to the village girl who had the most teeth.”

“William Darley?”

Billy fell suddenly silent, for Fletcher had succeeded in riveting her full attention. “Who?” she breathed, feeling as if a large rock had just settled in her stomach.

“William Darley,” Fletcher repeated, looking at Billy oddly. “Hadn’t I mentioned his name? He was the best of good fellows, Billy-boy—a gorgeous man and the very devil of a bruising soldier. Sat a horse beautifully, too, as I recall. Saved my bacon a time or two as well. Damn, but I miss that lovable bastard. What a waste!”

“A waste? Wh-what happened to him?” Billy could barely get the words past her suddenly dry lips as she looked at Fletcher piercingly.

Fletcher took a long pull on the cheroot, allowing the exhaled smoke to slowly escape his mouth to rise in a wreath over his blond head. What had happened to William? What always happened to the good ones, the caring ones, the ones whose heart and mind could not accept the carnage taking place all around them? “He died,” he said at last, his voice terse.

“H-how?”

Would the boy never have enough? Fletcher sighed, reluctantly allowing the memory to overtake him. “The fighting had worn down for the day, finally, after a great cost on both sides. It had been a long day, ever since dawn, when one of the men on the perimeter had called out that we’d better look sharp because Old Trousers was coming.”

“Old Trousers? Did he mean Wellington? I know the men had a lot of nicknames for the duke.”

Fletcher laughed mirthlessly. “No, it wasn’t the duke. The French
pas de charge
, their forward movement, made a rub-a-dub noise, so when they approached we could hear them. It sounded like trouser legs rubbing together.”