Feather Castles (4 page)

Rachel stepped closer to place one hand on his sleeve and look into his face imploringly. “Guy—
please.
I am obligated to—” she extemporized hastily, “—to the Captain. He saved us when some villains would have shamed us. And him already wounded!”

“
Mon Dieu!
” he exclaimed, horrified. “I might well have arrived to find you both with your throats cut!”

“Indeed you might, and I acknowledge it was all due to my impulsiveness. Nonetheless, it is done. And—I really
do
stand in his debt.”

He frowned worriedly. “Then I also am indebted to the gentleman. So be it! We shall carry your brave rescuer into Brussels at least, and see to it that he rejoins his regiment.”

The nun, who had been observing this conversation with faint amusement, folded her arms across her ample bosom and waited.

“
Merci,
Guy!” Rachel exclaimed, delighted. “That is splendid!”

Sanguinet gave a grin and started for the inner door. “I shall look at this Captain. In here…?”

“Yes. Only you might better perhaps address him as—‘
le Capitaine.'
”

“What?” He checked in alarm and spun to face her. “The Devil! He's French?”

She nodded, and said innocently, “Will that matter?”

Sanguinet rubbed his chin and frowned. “He will have to be handed over to the military, of course, but—”

“Oh, dear! And his poor Mama so ill!” From the corner of her eye, Rachel saw Sister Maria Evangeline shake her head at the rafters, but plunged on. “He spoke of her so often. His mind wanders, poor creature, but it would seem that she lies in serious condition in—Worthing. He prays to reach her before—it is too late.”

“Worthing?”
Sanguinet echoed, incredulous.

“
Oui.
She is—er—half-English, I gather.”

He shrugged. “How unfortunate. I sympathize with the poor fellow. Still—
c'est la guerre.
Sister, if you will be so good as to summon my coachman, between us we will contrive to bear
le Capitaine
to the carriage.” He strode into the bedroom, calling over his shoulder, “We must be well on the road before noon.”

Rachel turned to the nun. “I know what you are thinking,” she whispered. “I told the most shocking untruths, I own it. Only—do not give me away, dear Sister, I beg of you. I
must
do what I may to help the soldier.”

The nun folded her hands and observed sternly that no good could come of falsehoods. “At all events, M. Guy will not allow him to board the yacht, so how do you propose to come about?”

Rachel's head tossed higher, and the infectious little grin that had first attracted Claude Sanguinet brightened her face. “
Guy
will come about. Never fear, dear ma'am. When
La Hautemant
sails from Ostend, my poor murderer shall be safely aboard!”

*   *   *

“A kiss, you pretty vixen!
Then
the necklace!” Lord Kingston Leith, his handsome features alight with laughter, dodged around the rose velvet chair in the small salon, reached for his latest inamorata, and sent a lamp tumbling. The lady uttered a squeal and fled behind the striped satin sofa. Whooping, Lord Leith snatched up and replaced the lamp and pursued the lady merrily.

A light rain was mizzling the Berkshire air, and Cloudhills seemed well named on this cool June afternoon. Leith's spirits, seldom depressed, were little affected by the weather, however, or in fact by anything. Although widowed these twelve years, and approaching his fifty-second birthday, he was blessed with both looks and vigour and, enjoying his single state to the full, had little desire to terminate it. He was wont to explain to concerned friends that he would never find a lady with whom he could enjoy the bliss that had glorified his first union. The truth of the matter, confided to a chosen few, was that he admired so many ladies it would be well nigh impossible for him to choose from among the pretty creatures. He was as generous as his heart was warm, so that his
chères amies
never left his protection with rancour; and if his largesse, both to his lady loves and the friends who constantly hung on his sleeve, tended to deplete the family coffers, his son and heir, Colonel The Honourable Tristram Leith, now with Wellington in Belgium, returned to England with sufficient frequency to ensure that the steward kept a firm rein on his lordship's excesses.

Blessed with a son he both admired and deeply loved, a pretty and conformable daughter, many friends, good health, and a large fortune, Leith's lot was a happy one. Cloudhills, the splendid country seat that his late wife had favoured, saw him seldom, for he preferred the excitement of the London scene. He was fond of the sprawling Tudor mansion, however, if only for the memories it evoked of bygone years (in addition to the income the farms and village brought him), and he made it a point to visit the estate at least once each quarter. The skeleton staff he kept at the house year round was well paid. The servants' hall might hum with comment over the fact that his lordship never arrived twice with the same lady on his arm, but the criticism was indulgent rather than censuring and few really held him to be the irreclaimable here-and-thereian the Countess Lieven had several times publicly named him.

His next wild clutch securing his lady, his lordship swept her to him and she gave him his kiss, following which they stood, clasped in each other's arms, laughing breathlessly. A discreet cough interrupted this pleasant diversion. Lord Leith chuckled, “Jove! I fear I am in the suds, m'dear!” And slanting a twinkling glance over his shoulder, asked, “Yes, Chesley?”

Mr. Chesley had been my lord Leith's butler for thirty years. He was an imposing gentleman, but his plump countenance, usually cherubic, was now markedly pale, and there was a distracted look about him that drove the laughter from his employer's grey eyes. Putting his lady aside, he turned fully, to ask, “What is it, Ches?”

“You have guests arrived, m'lud.”

“The deuce!” Leith ejaculated. “
Guests?
Here? Now, who the devil told 'em I was— who is it? Blast it all, there's no—”

“Mr. and Mrs. Garret Hawkhurst, m'lud. And—”

“Oh, is that all? Garret's a good boy and won't look down his nose at me; no more will his pretty lady. Show them—” He broke off in no little surprise as Garret Hawkhurst, his wife, and brother-in-law entered the room without waiting to be ushered inside. This breach of etiquette brought a vague disquiet to Leith. He turned to his companion, but that discreet lady had slipped out the side door onto the terrace. Mildly relieved, he advanced on his guests, hand outstretched.

“Hawkhurst! How very good of you to come and see me. And your lovely wife. Radiant as ever, m'dear!”

Euphemia Hawkhurst, who had always possessed more of countenance than pure beauty, looked elegant, but today her fine blue eyes were red-rimmed and distressed. She gave him her hand, made her curtsy, and said a quiet, “How do you do, my lord?”

Such formality between them was rare, and Leith eyed the tall young woman uneasily. Her coppery curls seemed darker than usual, but he realized that this was by reason of the fact she was very white. He wondered if her new babe was ill, perhaps.

Hawkhurst had gripped his hand with rather less than his usual bone-crushing power, and the lined face that had been freed of sorrow since Euphemia had entered his life some two years earlier, betrayed deep concern.

Glancing to the third visitor, Leith divined the reason for their lack of spirits. Young Simon Buchanan was hurt again, one arm carried in a sling and his features drawn and haggard. He always had been Euphemia's favourite brother; small wonder she was upset. “What, Buck?” he said, shaking the extended left hand gently. “That right arm of yours again? Best get rid of it, old fellow, or—” The trite words died in his throat. Buchanan was blinking mistily and looked positively anguished. An arrow of ice pierced Leith. His breath snatched away, he thought numbly, “There's been an action.”

There had been an undercurrent of excitement in London when he had left the city five days earlier, but he'd paid little heed to speculation that a final confrontation was shaping between Napoleon and Wellington. The duke had outfought the French before, and would do it again if it became necessary, but such an eventuality was unlikely—or so he had thought. Searching the sombre faces of the two men, he began to tremble. Not
Tristram?
Surely—not his dear, gallant, warm-hearted son?

Hawkhurst saw terror in the whitening face and, taking his wife's elbow, led her outside. “Perhaps you'd best seek out Sarah, my love. It would be easier if you told her.”

Euphemia glanced to Leith's frozen immobility, nodded, and moved quickly from the room.

“Sir,” Buchanan said hoarsely, “I wish—there was not the need. I wish I'd not—not to be the one—”

Leith stared at him blindly, a hand half-raising in an automatic need to ease the boy's distress. “A … battle?” he asked, through stiff lips.

“Yes, sir,” Hawkhurst confirmed, his deep voice grave. “A major action. We came here just as soon as Buck reached us.”

Leith blinked. “That was … very good of you, Simon.” He patted Buchanan's shoulder, trying to grasp this; trying to accept what these two fine young men were breaking as kindly as they knew. “You have been Tristram's closest friends. I—I am most—grateful.” His voice broke. He wrenched away, stumbled to the window and looked out, seeing only his son's handsome face and laughing eyes. Tristram
could not
be slain! thought Leith prayerfully. Wounded, perhaps. But—not … “Is he dead?” he asked, the thin thread of his own voice sounding very far away.

Buchanan flinched and his head bowed. Hawkhurst slipped a hand onto his shoulder, and he recovered himself. “I'm terribly sorry, sir. I've brought his things. Couldn't find his jacket. There were looters, you see, and—” Hawkhurst's grip tightened. He bit his lip, and added, “But—I knew you would want to have his dress sword and regimentals. Old Tris … always looked so—so splendid in—” A sob choked him. He threw a hand across his eyes and spun about.

Hawkhurst led him to a chair, commanded softly but firmly that he sit and rest, and, walking to the sideboard, proceeded to pour three glasses of cognac. He carried the first to Buchanan, watched his brother-in-law spill a good portion of the tawny liquid, cuffed him gently, then carried the second glass to Leith. Standing behind that rigidly straight figure, he said, “Here, sir. You need it.”

Leith turned, having swiftly brushed tears from his haggard features. Hawkhurst thought, “Poor devil. He's aged ten years!” But the hand that accepted the glass was steady, and the voice surprisingly calm when Leith remarked, “Poor Buck. You should not have let him come. He must be sadly pulled after so much travelling.”

“I could not have stayed him, sir. Nor would I have tried. But he is quite ill. You'll forgive him for—er, well, he loved old Tris, you know.”

Hawkhurst's cool control broke for just an instant, and the depth of the man's grief was a comfort to Leith. “We all loved him,” he said huskily. “May God bless his valiant soul. Do they bring him home, Garret?”

Hawkhurst strode hurriedly to the sideboard, took up his glass and dashed off a swallow that made him gasp.

Sadly, Leith said, “I feel that he would want to lie in the family plot here. Do not you agree? Tristram always loved Cloudhills.”

Hawkhurst stiffened and met Buchanan's pained glance, and seeing that wretched interchange, his lordship's eyes sharpened. “What is it? When was this engagement? And where?”

“On Sunday,” Buchanan muttered. “Near a small village called Waterloo. It lies a little less than ten miles from Brussels, just south of the Forest of Soignes.”

“Only three days,” said his lordship. “So they've not yet had time to bring … my son home.”

Again, that exchange of helpless glances. Hawkhurst said carefully, “There were so many casualties, you see, sir. From what Buck has said—”

“The dead and wounded were thickly strewn over two square miles,” Buchanan put in dully. “Two square miles!”

“Good God!” Leith gasped. “Is there any estimate of casualties?”

Buchanan did not answer. Hawkhurst said grimly, “We hear—between thirty and forty thousand. And ten thousand horses.”

Leith's jaw dropped and he stared in shocked silence.

Hawkhurst went on, “So you can understand, sir, with so many, why the burials began first thing the following morning, and—”

“No!” Leith's cry was wrung from his heart. “Do you tell me that my dear son was thrown into—into a common grave?”

“I'm afraid … as far as we can determine—”

“As—as far as you can—
determine?
” A gleam of hope crept into the agonized grey eyes. “Did none see him fall?”

Fortified by the brandy, Buchanan hove himself out of his chair. “St. Clair did. He said a shell had burst directly above Tristram. And—and that his head—”

“Oh, merciful Christ! He was—decapitated?”

Buchanan paced forward compassionately, his hand going out to the white-faced Leith. “No, no! Do not so tease yourself, sir. Tristram was slain by shell fragments, apparently. Lucian said he likely never knew what hit him.”

The dreadful words seemed to hang on the following heavy silence. Leith sank into a chair, hands clasped between his knees, his dark head, remarkably untouched by grey, downbent. At length he murmured, “Then no one really
knows
he's dead!” He looked up from under his brows. “Not with any certainty. He might very well be alive somewhere!”

Being well acquainted with the ebullient nature of Tristram's sire, Hawkhurst's mouth relaxed into a faint, sad smile.