Gallant Waif (39 page)

“Miss Farleigh, our dance, I believe.” An elegant young fribble bowed over her hand and led her into the next set.

“Have you heard, Miss Farleigh? ‘Tis monstrous exciting. Apparently some little whore has been passing herself off as a lady, when all the time she played spy for old Boney and whored for his officers.
And she’s here tonight!’
Her partner glanced around the room, speculating.

Kate glanced away, a sick feeling in her stomach. Let me just finish this dance, she prayed silently, then I can leave inconspicuously.

But it was not to be. As they moved through the stately steps of the cotillion she noticed her partner eagerly whispering his news to the others in the set. At one point he faltered, stopped and stared at Kate, aghast. He turned back to his source, whispered something and resumed the steps.

Only now he would not look her in the eye. His fingers did not so much touch hers as gesture disdainfully in her direction. The dance continued. Kate felt the ice surround her. No one looked at her. No one touched her. No one spoke to her.

Bitterness rose in Kate like bile. She had known how it would be.
This
was the reason she had never wanted to appear in society ever again. Had she been allowed to go her own way, she would not be experiencing this. Again.

“Ceddy, please escort me to my mama. I cannot think she would wish me to associate with a traitress!” Nose held high, a young lady abandoned the set in mid-movement.

In seconds, the ordered progress of the dance collapsed, as each of the ladies in Kate’s set marched righteously off the dance floor, escorted by their partner. Kate looked at her partner in mute appeal. If he would only escort her from the floor, she would be able to leave with a shred of dignity.

His face twisted in contempt. “My brother was injured at Salamanca!” he snarled, and stalked away.

Kate stood in the middle of the dance floor, frozen. She knew she had to move, to get away from all of the eyes, from the whispering and pointing. From the hate. The loathing. The avid speculation. But she couldn’t move.

Around her she felt the rest of the dancers faltering, the rising hum of gossip and conjecture. The music petered out in mid-tune as the last of the couples left the floor. It had the effect of focusing all attention on Kate. She felt the crowd gathering into a dense barrier, the seething, greedy stares of bored aristocrats, eager for sensation to alleviate their safe, pampered, dull lives.

Lions and Christians.

The thought gave Kate the strength she needed to move. She turned, seeking Lady Cahill with her eyes, but there was no sign of her. Kate moved slowly towards the circle of watchers, trying to ignore the barrage of eyes upon her, probing, malicious, scornful.

She had nothing to be ashamed of. She would not give them the satisfaction. She stiffened her spine. The way before her parted reluctantly. Ladies, who only hours before had claimed friendship, turned their faces coldly away. No one would meet her eye; a hundred eyes bored into her.

“Little better than a camp follower!”

“The cheek—to try to pass herself off like that in decent company!”

And one, less elliptical than the others. “Traitorous whore!”

Her body began to shake. She could do nothing. There was no standing up to insubstantial whispers from people who would not even look her in the face. She forced herself to keep walking, desperately hoping the trembling of her body was not visible to the observers.

Was there ever a room so long? Only four more steps. Three…two…

A powerful black-clad arm snaked out of the dense crowd and pulled her into the centre of the circle again.

“What—?”

“I think you must have forgotten me, Miss Farleigh,” said Jack. His normal tone of voice carried in the watching hush. Kate blinked up at him.

“My dance, I believe. Did you forget it?” He smiled down at her bewildered face, his casual manner belied by the implacable grip on her arm.

“But…” With everyone listening, Kate couldn’t say it. She
hadn’t
promised him a dance. He didn’t dance. Not since he was wounded, anyway. He only leaned against walls and columns, glaring at her. So why would he seek her out now? Now, when the world was turning against her again and she wanted nothing more than escape. Kate tried to pull away, but his hold on her was too powerful.

Ignoring Kate’s glance of pathetic entreaty, Jack moved steadily back through the crowd, towing her beside him, greeting acquaintances in a cheery tone as he went, for all the world as if they were not in the very heart of a major scandal, their every movement watched by hundreds.

His uneven footsteps echoed as he led her out on to the deserted dance floor. He finally released her arm, but took her hand instead. Bowing, he kissed it lightly. Kate stared at him in a daze. He grinned at her, a wicked, tender grin.

“Courage, love,” he whispered as he straightened up. “Let’s show them that an old cripple and a gallant war heroine are not beaten by a paltry bit of gossip.”

He nodded to the band. Kate followed his glance. Sir Toby was standing over the band in a very determined manner. He smiled and waved, then turned back to the band. The music started.

Kate’s eyes misted as she looked up into the handsome face bent over her. She had been prepared to withstand anything—scorn, mockery, disgust, revile-ment. His kindness had undone her.

Jack determinedly stumped his way through the intricate steps, his bad leg making a clumsy mockery of the movements. Kate gracefully performed her part, making adjustments for his limp where she could.

Jack’s eyes never left her face. Her head was held high, but she danced blindly. No one in the audience could see the tears which trickled down her cheeks unheeded. Jack wished he could take her in his arms, wished that strait-laced English society would bend their rules sufficiently to adopt the scandalous Viennese dance which was all the rage in Europe. Jack smiled at her tenderly. Yes, it would be wonderful to hold Kate in his arms for a waltz.

The ballroom might have been deserted, the audience silent ghosts. Only the strains of the band playing, the clumping of Jack’s shoes and the faint shuffle of Kate’s tiny satin slippers could be heard at first, then the murmuring started again.

The dance ended, but under Tubby’s supervision the next one started almost immediately. As the second dance drew to a close, Jack bent over her hand again and murmured, “Two dances are my limit, I’m afraid. A third and people will begin to think you are fast.”

Kate stared at him, stupefied. She was being pilloried as a whore and a traitress, and he was concerned that three dances with the same partner would label her
fast!
A bubble of hysteria rose in her throat. The music started again.

“My dance, I believe, Miss Farleigh. Off with you now, Carstairs. This lady is promised to me.” The whole room heard him, but without waiting for a reply Francis swung Kate into a country dance.

There was still no one else on the dance floor.

“Miss Farleigh, would you do me the honour of partnering me in the next dance?” A young man bowed over Kate’s nerveless fingers. He was dressed in immaculate evening attire, one empty sleeve pinned neatly back. Kate stared at him dumbly.

“You may not remember me, Miss Farleigh, but we met at Badajoz. Arnold Bentham at your service. Francis’s cousin.”

Kate glanced at his empty sleeve. The young man smiled. “No, Miss Farleigh, that arm I lost at Salamanca. You saved the other one at Badajoz, and I offer it now at your disposal. Shall we?” With his one remaining arm, Arnold Bentham swept Kate into the next dance.

Two other couples joined them on the dance floor—Francis and Andrew Lennox and their partners. There was no sign of Jack.

“Miss Farleigh, may I present my son as a desirable partner? He…he is a little out of practice, but I’m sure you will not mind that.” The well-modulated voice broke.

Kate turned, then stopped dead. Her prospective partner stood very still, smiling in her general direction, his hand resting on the arm of a middle-aged woman.

Kate’s face crumpled. It was too much. All this unexpected kindness. All this support. And now this.

It was Oliver Greenwood. Oliver Greenwood, whom she had first met as a terrified young lieutenant at Torres Vedras, with blood gushing all over his face. She had visited him several times since she had come to London, but he was the last person she’d expected to see at a ball. Oliver Greenwood was blind.

“Miss Farleigh, I would be most honoured if you would stand up with me,” said Oliver Greenwood, bowing in her direction.

Kate glanced at Mrs Greenwood. His mother’s face was working with emotion. She nodded at Kate, her eyes filled with tears.

Kate curtseyed. “The honour would be all mine,” she whispered through a mist of tears, and took her place. Immediately they were surrounded as others joined the set.

Francis, Tubby, Andrew Lennox and others, unknown to Kate, some whose faces were vaguely familiar to her, others who were clearly friends of Oliver Greenwood. And their partners, girls for the most part unknown to Kate, girls who smiled encouragingly at her and nodded their heads.

Somehow they got through the dance, Oliver being gently steered in the right direction by his fellow officers, and Kate too, for by this time she was completely blinded by her tears.

And by the time it finished she was not the only person with wet eyes.

“May I escort you to your guardian, Miss Farleigh?” said Oliver Greenwood.

“Not yet, young Greenwood,” a bluff voice boomed heartily from behind them. “I want to talk to this young lady.”

“Sir!” All the young officers snapped instantly to attention, Oliver Greenwood included.

Kate turned. Jack and a man in a plain, neat, dark blue coat were approaching her—a smallish, thin man, whose blue eyes twinkled at her from over one of the most famous noses in all Europe.

“My Lord!” she gasped, and sank into a curtsey.

“So it’s little Kate Farleigh who’s got my officers in knots, is it?” said the Marquis of Wellington. He smiled again at Kate, bowed and kissed her hand. A gasp ran round the room.

“Knew your father, m’dear. Very fine man he was. Sorry to hear about his death. Your brothers, too. Brave boys, brave boys. Know they would be proud of you.”

He took her hand and tucked it into his arm. “Shall we take a turn about the room?” Without waiting for a reply, he moved off, lowering his voice so that only she could hear.

“Young Carstairs filled me in. Pack of worthless gabble-mongers. But we’ll fix them. Face ‘em down, what? Show ‘em for the cowards they are, eh?”

Wellington moved slowly towards the crowd which pressed forward, eager to speak with the great man. As he did so, he introduced Kate, mentioning to this person that he was a friend of her family, to that person that she was a gallant young heroine, to another that she was a brave little lady, one of England’s finest.

They were soon joined by a group of older ladies, one of whom linked arms with Kate, clearly declaring her support. Kate blinked at her. The woman was a complete stranger.

She bent towards Kate. “Lady Charlotte, my dear. I’m so terribly sorry this happened. If I’d known…but we were all in the card room, I’m afraid, and only just heard what was happening.” She indicated the rest of her party. Kate recognised Lady Courtney and several others, but this glittering matron was a complete stranger.

Seeing Kate’s continuing puzzlement, the lady added, “I’m Arnold Bentham’s mother—you know my nephew, Francis.” As Kate suddenly nodded in comprehension, the lady continued, “You saved my Arnold’s life, Miss Farleigh. For that, you have my undying friendship and support, and that of these other ladies too.”

Kate slowly circled the room; on one side of her, the Marquis of Wellington, on the other, a collection of society’s most formidable matrons. She was dazed by the turn in her fortunes, unable to comprehend quite what was happening. She nodded, curtseyed and smiled, oblivious of whom she was meeting, who was shaking her hand.

Jack was there, a pace or two behind her, hovering protectively. She could feel his presence, sense his strength. She wanted to touch him, but she couldn’t. She turned to look at him over her shoulder. Their eyes met, caressed, clung, but she was moved forward inexorably, and they were separated by the crowd, pressing closer, eager to meet the Great Man and his protégée.