Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress (13 page)

She sank into a chair.

‘I could have warned you, Marian,’ Edwin said. ‘But I didn’t think you were seriously going to marry him. He is not the sort to let a mere betrothal bar him from the pleasures of a willing Frenchwoman.’

‘It cannot be true,’ she rasped.

He thought she would believe it more easily than this. He rubbed his scar and drank more claret. Realising he ought to share, he poured her a glass and carried it over to her.

He tried again. ‘It is said Landon has boasted about marrying an heiress and becoming wealthy. He is spending freely.’

‘He would not say such a thing.’ She placed the glass upon the table without even looking at it.

Edwin sat in a nearby chair, drumming on its arm with his fingers.

Time to be bold.

‘If you do not believe me,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you to the
regimental office. You can ask the fellows there. More than one heard the tale in their correspondence.’

He gambled that she would not take him up on the offer.

She just stared at him, looking very unhappy indeed.

It was quite gratifying.

‘No need for that,’ she said in almost a whisper. ‘But I would like you to wait while I write a letter. Do you mind? I’d like you to take it to the regimental office today to be included in the next packet.’

He pretended to be put out. ‘Very well. I suppose I shall have to call upon Father anyway. See to his mail. Send word when your letter is ready.’

She stood and, without another look at him, walked out of the room with a determined step.

His victory was not entirely sweet. She had not fallen into his arms for comfort, but at least she had believed him.

He rose and finished the rest of the claret.

Allan eagerly opened this latest letter from Marian. He was in the stable, ready to give Valour a nice run. It seemed the best place and time to read it.

Besides, it had just been placed in his hands a few minutes before.

He stood in a ray of sunlight in Valour’s stall and unfolded the paper.

He read:

‘What?’ he said aloud. He read the letter again. ‘No!’

It was as if she’d run him through with a sword. The letter made no sense. It came without warning. Without explanation. What did
‘stand in your way’
mean? What did any of it mean?

It must be a mistake.

He checked the date, thinking this might have been written before their friendly, flirtatious discourse, but, no, it was dated three days ago. Valour whinnied.

Allan patted her neck. She was saddled and ready, but he could not think of anything but returning to his rooms and writing to Marian.

Over the next two weeks he wrote her three letters. Each was returned unopened. After the last one was returned, he heard that Tranville had travelled back to England. He had to think Marian had gone with him and his party.

It was dusk when he heard this news. Instead of returning to his rooms he walked along the Seine in the shadow of Notre Dame, the stone of its towers glowing gold in the setting sun. Boats of all sizes floated in the river as Allan imagined they’d done even before the old cathedral had had its first stone laid.

He walked until his thoughts were clear and his emotions quieted. It had been his duty to offer marriage, but it had always been her right to refuse him. A lady always had that right.

Allan would never know what might have happened between them had he not involved Tranville. He was convinced Tranville’s interference had sounded the death knell to his future with Marian.

His only choice now was to withdraw like a gentleman and try to plan what next to do with his life.

Knowing she would not be in it.

April 1817—London

M
arian sat behind the desk in the small library of her townhouse near Portman Square.

She tapped at the papers the man had shown her. ‘Are we truly going to make this happen, Mr Yost?’

The slim man, hair greying at his temples, cocked his head. ‘There is a great deal of interest. Soldiers from all over the country are willing to march, and many others are willing to sign the petition. We have only to say the word to set the plan in motion.’

She needed this Soldiers’ March. She needed something to occupy her mind and her passion.

The restlessness that had been her constant companion since leaving Brussels had been somewhat assuaged by plotting for this march. She had financed and organised it with the assistance of Mr Yost.

Marian had left Brussels almost two years ago. She’d returned to Bath to occupy her aunt’s house where she and Edwin had been reared. Ariana Blane had returned to London.
Edwin, her uncle and Mrs Vernon had gone on to her uncle’s country estate in Dorset, the one he’d inherited when he become a baron.

As Marian had predicted, her uncle lost interest in her as soon as they reached the shores of England and he could look forward to more interesting matters, like lording it over an entire estate and the surrounding countryside. No more was ever said about the betrothal.

Mrs Vernon wrote to her that she and Uncle Tranville had married, and that he and Edwin had sold their commissions in the army. Marian sent her a dutiful letter in return and waited out the time until her twenty-first birthday.

While in Bath she’d read with great concern about the plight of the soldiers returning from the war. Mr Yost’s essays about the Napoleonic war veterans in the radical newspaper,
The Political Register,
had made a great impression on her. When she moved to London, to her surprise the town house she purchased in Mayfair wound up being next door to Mr Yost.

He was also a friend of the liberal orator Henry Hunt. In early December she’d read of Mr Hunt’s involvement in the demonstration at Spa Fields where ten thousand had gathered to protest high prices and to advocate parliamentary reform. Unfortunately the meeting had turned into a riot, something that must not happen in her demonstration.

‘What does Mr Hunt say?’ she asked Yost.

Hunt was still a powerful figure in the movement for reform. Since the Spa Fields riots, though, Mr Hunt had withdrawn from taking any active role in protests against the government. Still, his support and advice would be invaluable.

Mr Yost regarded her with a serious expression. ‘He believes your plan can be implemented if done carefully.’ A
frisson
of excitement raced up Marian’s spine. This felt so right, as if it had been her destiny to see first-hand the courage and sacrifice of the British soldiers, so she would
understand their plight and have the passion to do something about it.

She sat back in her chair. ‘Oh, Mr Yost. Ever since I came to live in London, it has greatly pained me to see our Waterloo veterans begging on the streets in their tattered uniforms. I am determined to assist them all.’

The soldiers had come back from war to the high prices created by the Corn Laws and few opportunities for employment. The government, it seemed, had simply abandoned them.

But Marian would not. She knew first-hand what they had endured. She’d bandaged their wounds and quenched their thirst.

And watched them die.

And had fallen in love with one of them.

‘Hunt advises us to be careful,’ Mr Yost said. ‘The Seditious Meeting Act makes it illegal—’

Marian pulled herself back to the present. ‘—for a meeting of more than fifty people,’ she finished for him. ‘We must be very clever and lawful and peaceful.’

‘The Spa Fields meetings were supposed to have been peaceful,’ he reminded her.

She averted her gaze. ‘I know.’ She would never forgive herself if she led the soldiers into more violence and injury, as had occurred at Spa Fields.

Her idea was to craft their demonstration after that of the Blanketeers, weavers and spinners who, a month before, had been organised into a march from Manchester to London. They marched in groups of ten, precisely following the law. Unfortunately, their plan was thwarted before the marchers could reach London and later Parliament passed the Sedition Meeting Act making it even more difficult to carry out a demonstration, even a peaceful one.

She and Mr Yost would need to be even more clever.

He regarded her. ‘In any event, Mr Hunt approves. What say you, Miss Pallant?’

‘We proceed.’ She handed the papers back to him.

The door opened and Marian’s lady companion entered. Mr Yost glanced towards her and his colour heightened.

A smile flitted across her companion’s face.

Marian smiled at the flirtation between Blanche and Mr Yost. ‘Come in, Blanche. We are finished.’

‘I came to warn you of the time. We need to leave soon if we are to arrive at your friend’s house as expected.’ Blanche lowered her eyes. ‘How do you do, Mr Yost?’

‘I am splendid, Mrs Nunn.’ His voice turned rough.

Marian felt like applauding. This quiet romance blooming beneath her feet was delightful.

Blanche had sailed on the same boat back from Belgium as Marian. Her husband, a cavalry officer heavily in debt, had been killed at Waterloo, and the despondent Blanche had been attempting to jump overboard when Marian pulled her off the boat’s railing. She offered Blanche employment as her companion. Uncle Tranville had approved, perhaps because hiring a companion gave him an excuse to leave her in Bath and forget about her.

Whatever the reason, Marian was delighted Blanche had accepted the employment and was now sharing careful pleasantries with Mr Yost.

Marian rose from behind the desk. ‘I’ll leave you two and fetch my hat and gloves.’

Mr Yost looked at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. He probably had. ‘I ought to offer to escort you ladies, but I fear it would not be wise for Miss Pallant to be seen with me on the streets of Mayfair.’

Marian assured him, ‘Reilly will walk with us.’

Reilly was the corporal from Captain Landon’s regiment, their first patient in Brussels. He’d come to the servants’ door, begging for work, and Marian had instantly recognised him. She’d insisted he come in to be fed and, before he’d eaten his fill, she’d hired him to work for her. Reilly was now Marian’s butler and most loyal retainer.

All Marian’s servants had some connection to the war.
Her cook and housemaids were soldiers’ widows. Toby, her footman, had lost a leg at Waterloo. He had been one of the soldiers she’d pulled from the burning chateau at Hougoumont and though there were many tasks his impediment prevented him from performing, he was a tenacious worker otherwise.

Because of their connections to Waterloo, none of Marian’s servants would ever betray her. They were in support of the demonstration. Reilly and Toby both would take an active part in it.

Mr Yost reluctantly bade his farewell to Blanche—and to Marian—and returned to his house. Then Marian, Reilly and Blanche started out for Mount Street.

‘It is a pity Mr Yost could not walk with us, is it not?’ Marian remarked to Blanche.

Her companion blushed. ‘Indeed. His company would have been most agreeable.’

Marian smiled. ‘Most agreeable.’

The day was sunny, but so breezy they often had to grab hold of their hats to keep them on their heads. The wind echoed a return of Marian’s restlessness. She chastised herself. She was happy and free and her life had purpose. She had even received this invitation to again mix in society, something she’d done in only a limited way in Bath. She’d had her come-out in Bath, but never a London Season. That once had been a bitter disappointment, but since Waterloo mixing in society and wearing the latest fashions seemed unimportant.

Still, she could not refuse this first invitation to call upon Lady Ullman.

Her old friend Domina.

Domina’s life could not have taken a more opposite turn than Marian’s. Within a fortnight of arriving back in London from Brussels, Domina had married the widower Earl Ullman. Seven months later the new Lady Ullman gave birth. Marian read the birth announcement in the
Morning Post
. The Earl Ullman had a son by his new wife.

Marian had written a note of congratulations, and when
she and Blanche moved to London, she sent another letter informing Domina of her new lodgings. She pitied Domina. Her marriage seemed even more tragic than Marian’s might have been.

But Marian would not think of that,
could
not think of Captain Landon. She refused to do so. In fact, he rarely crossed her mind now. She rarely wondered where he was, if his wounds had healed.

If he had remained with that Frenchwoman.

‘You’ve turned quiet, Marian,’ Blanche remarked.

‘Have I?’ She blinked in surprise. ‘I must have been woolgathering.’

‘Are you concerned about this visit?’

Marian’s brows knitted. ‘I suppose I am. Domina and I did not part under the best of circumstances.’

‘Indeed,’ responded the companion.

Marian had already told Blanche about their escapade in Belgium, the plan to reunite Domina with Ollie before the battle and what had happened to Marian when they’d become separated. Marian had told Blanche everything except about Domina’s pregnancy.

And about Captain Landon.

Marian walked on. ‘I confess I am intensely curious about Domina. How she could marry so quickly.’

‘I must own some of that curiosity, as well,’ Blanche admitted. ‘I could not have married so soon after losing my husband.’

Marian slanted her a knowing look. ‘Ah, but time heals, does it not?’

Blanche blushed.

They reached Earl Ullman’s townhouse on Mount Street. It was a great deal finer than Marian’s snug little one.

‘Domina has done well.’ Marian craned her neck to see to the top floors.

Reilly sounded the knocker. ‘I will wait for you nearby, miss.’

Her brows rose. ‘Are you certain? Someone might offer you some refreshment if you come in.’

‘I’m hungrier for the fine day.’ He glanced at the sky. The April breeze had blown away the haze, revealing a rare peek at blue sky.

‘Do as you wish,’ she told him. ‘We should not be long.’

Reilly stepped back as a footman in pristine livery opened the door and ushered them in to a marble-floored hall decorated with jardinières of daffodils and classical-themed paintings.

‘How lovely the flowers are,’ Marian whispered to Blanche.

The footman helped them off with their coats and passed the garments to a waiting maid. After leading them up an elegant marble staircase he crossed through a doorway framed in gilded moulding to announce them.

Domina bounced up from a pale-pink brocade sofa and rushed over to Marian, her arms extended. ‘Oh, I cannot believe you are here! I have missed you so.’

‘You look wonderful, Domina.’ Marian meant it.

Domina’s eyes sparkled, her skin glowed with health and her red curls were bright as ever. As she grasped both of Marian’s hands, the skirt of her peach gown swirled around her ankles. The gown looked as new and fresh as its wearer.

Marian had expected to see evidence of suffering on Domina’s face, some indications she had endured the death of a lover, the birth of his child and marriage to a stranger.

Her friend looked perfectly radiant.

‘I am splendid now you are here.’ She squeezed Marian’s hands as fondly as if she had never betrayed her and allowed her to be abandoned in Brussels.

‘Let me present my companion…’ Marian turned to Blanche and introduced her to the new Lady Ullman. Marian briefly answered Domina’s polite questions about her situation. That she and Blanche lived on Bryanston Street. That they managed
to keep themselves busy. ‘Although I cannot say what we do,’ she added truthfully.

‘We must do something about your social life, mustn’t we? I will see you get invitations from Ullie’s friends.’

Marian started. ‘
Ollie
’s friends?’

Domina’s smile faltered for a brief moment. ‘
Ullie
’s. Lord Ullman, but I call him Ullie. He likes it excessively.’ She gestured for them to sit down. ‘I’ve ordered tea. I have so much to tell you…’

Where Marian had been brief, Domina indulged in great detail, telling all about meeting Lord Ullman within days after she and her parents came to London directly after leaving Belgium. He had proposed quickly.

‘After Ollie, of course, I felt I never could fall in love again, but, you know, Marian, he looks a lot like Ollie—’ The tea arrived, but Domina did not even stop to take a breath. ‘Ullie is older, as you might expect, but that is not a bad thing.’

‘How old is he?’ Marian managed to break in.

‘Forty-two, but he is quite robust. And he dotes on the baby, even though he has two children by his late wife.’ She leaned forwards and whispered to Marian, ‘It is fortunate that the baby looks just like him.’

Marian ought not to be shocked that Lord Ullman did not know the truth about the baby’s paternity; it was a protection for both mother and child, after all. Still, she suddenly felt very sorry for Harry Oliver’s parents. They would never know that a part of their son lived on.

‘You have had a baby?’ Blanche asked. Blanche loved children and lamented that she had never conceived by her husband.

‘A son!’ Domina said brightly. She avoided Marian’s eyes. ‘He is with his nurse, of course, but we miss him terribly. Nurse wrote to us that he is walking now.’ She paused. ‘We named him Harry.’

Marian felt another pang of sadness. Perhaps Domina was not as blissful as she wished to pretend.

There was no further indication of it as Domina chattered on. ‘Little Harry is third in line for the title. Ullie is excessively wealthy so he shall have every advantage—’

Domina had done the very best she could for Harry Oliver’s child. What right had Marian to judge her?

Domina went on to talk about Lord Ullman’s money, his influence, his country estates, the dresses being made for her, the ball she planned during the Season. Marian and Blanche could only listen and sip their tea.