Читать книгу A Regency Gentleman's Passion: Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy / A Not So Respectable Gentleman? - Diane Gaston, Diane Gaston - Страница 14

London—June 1817

Two years after the battle of Waterloo, Gabe’s life could not have been more altered. Waterloo had ended the war and Napoleon had been exiled to Saint Helena, far enough away in the south Atlantic to pose no further threat. For a time, Gabe’s Royal Scots had been part of the Army of Occupation in France. Gabe wished they’d been sent somewhere more distant, not so close to Brussels, not so filled with reminders of what he most wanted to forget.

The orders finally came that the whole battalion would be shipped to Canterbury. Once there, however, Gabe’s battalion was disbanded and he was placed on half-pay. In what seemed like an instant he had no regiment, no orders and literally nothing to do.

Now he was in London and, like other officers let loose in a non-military world, was haunting the Horse Guards hoping to discover a regiment looking for officers, or visiting the War Office to get the forms necessary to write to regimental agents for a commission to purchase. On this warm June afternoon Gabe strode into the War Office to pick up more copies of the form the office had run out of the week before. Gabe had performed this same errand the day before and the day before that, without success. He was not optimistic that this day would yield a different result.

Three other officers of his acquaintance were on their way out.

“Deane!” one of them cried, slapping him on the back. “Come for more forms, have you?” He spoke with a thick Irish accent that had earned him the nickname ‘Irishman’.

“Indeed,” Gabe responded without enthusiasm. “Are you going to tell me they have a new supply?”

Another man, Major Hanson, stepped up. “Not going to tell you that. Webberly even offered a bribe if the fellow would find him one copy, but apparently there are still none to be had today. Maybe tomorrow, the fellow said.”

Webberly, the third of the trio, shook his head. “I was certain a bribe would work.”

Gabe gave him an impassive look. “I’d be grateful for the opportunity to pay a bribe.” What else was he to do with his money?

Hanson jostled him. “Do not speak so loud. The clerks will smell a profit.”

The clerks already knew of Gabe’s willingness to bribe them for more forms. He’d made the offer days ago.

Irishman laughed. “Now, Captain Deane, my dear fellow, are you so eager for a commission? It would mean leaving our company and the fine accommodations of the Stephen’s Hotel.”

They all had rooms in the Stephen’s Hotel on Bond Street, a place popular with military men.

Gabe responded with sarcasm, “Not at all. I’m merely pining for the lost luxuries of army life.”

“You are wasting your time today, Deane,” Hanson told him. “Come with us. We plan to make great use of a tavern and deprive it of several pints of ale.”

It was tempting to seek the oblivion that alcohol could bring. Most of the officers at Stephen’s Hotel drank too much, but, after Brussels, Gabe had learned that whatever you wanted to drown with drink was still with you when morning came. Along with the devil of a headache.

“Not this time.”

The men bid him goodbye, and Gabe proceeded to the clerk’s desk anyway.

The clerk barely glanced at him. “No forms today. Maybe tomorrow.”

Gabe tapped on the man’s desk with a finger. “If the forms do arrive tomorrow, will you save me some?”

The clerk raised one brow. “For the amount we agreed upon?”

Gabe gave him a level stare. “Indeed.”

The clerk grinned. “We have a wager going here as to who among you officers will be the first to break down and accept a commission to the West Indies.”

The 1st battalion of the Royal Scots was stationed in the West Indies. There were always commissions open there, because so many officers caught fevers and died.

Gabe had survived that dreadful place once; he had no desire to chance it again, even if it would free him from the tedium of London.

Gabe had already travelled to Manchester, the home of his youth and where his family still resided, a place he’d not seen for at least ten years. It was nearly like going to a foreign land. Factories and warehouses had sprouted everywhere. Nieces and nephews had sprouted as well, too many for him to count. His mother and father had turned shockingly old and neither they nor his brothers or sisters seemed to know what to do with him.

He’d wound up spending most of his time with a twelve-year-old nephew who asked question after question about every battle on the Peninsula and every detail of Waterloo. The boy had reminded him of Emmaline’s Claude, or, more accurately, what he imagined Claude might have been like if not for Badajoz.

After a few weeks of intense discomfort on all sides, Gabe made an excuse to leave. He suspected the family was relieved he was no longer there to distract them from the routines of running what was now a very prosperous drapery warehouse. With Manchester’s new mills and a canal that improved the shipping of goods, the town seemed to have turned into a Garden of Eden for cloth merchants.

After Manchester, Gabe visited his uncle on the hill farm. Even that idyll was about to be lost. Stapleton Farm was up for sale and his uncle would soon be vying with younger men by the scores who were also seeking employment. Had matters turned out differently in Brussels, Gabe might have bought the place. He’d learned his lesson, though. He belonged in the army. No sense dreaming otherwise.

He’d returned to London and the tedious days of applying for a commission. What odds were offered that he would be the one to break down and go to the West Indies? Surely he’d be a safe bet.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said to the clerk who’d already turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.

“Undoubtedly,” the man replied.

Gabe walked out of the office and back on to the street. He took a breath.

Lawd. He needed more to do. Exercising his horse in the morning and visiting the War Office or Horse Guards in the afternoon was simply not enough.

Most of his fellow officers attended society balls and other entertainments in the evenings, hoping to find a wealthy heiress to marry. Even that occupation was closed to Gabe. With the glut of younger sons in town, the son of a merchant was no matrimonial prize. Besides, marriage was not in the cards for him. He’d learned that lesson in Brussels.

Gabe walked slowly back to the hotel, ignoring the book shops, ironmongers, milliners and tea shops on Bond Street. Head down, he approached the entrance of Stephen’s Hotel, hoping not to see anyone he knew. He was not in a humour for friendly discourse on the weather or any other subject. As he entered the hotel, he removed his shako and threw his gloves inside it. Holding it under his arm, he crossed the hall, making his way to the stairway.

“Captain!” The footman who attended the lobby called after him. “Captain!”

He’d almost made good his escape. Turning, he fixed his fiercest glare on the unfortunate fellow.

The man took a step back. “Ah, sir.” He bowed. “You have a caller. Waiting in the front parlour.” The footman gestured to the room and withdrew posthaste.

Gabe clenched his hand into a fist. Who did he know in London who would call upon him? Allan Landon, perhaps? He’d seen Allan a few weeks ago, but neither of them had shared their direction. He knew other officers, but they were all staying in this hotel. If they wished to waste his time, they would simply knock at his door.

He rubbed his forehead.

On the other hand, he had written countless letters trying to find a commission. Maybe his caller had an answer for him.

He entered the room, dropping his hat on a table inside the door.

The parlour looked empty at first, although the curtains were open and fresh flowers were in a vase on the mantel.

A sound came from the high-backed chair facing the fireplace. A swish of skirts and a peek of a bonnet.

A woman?

She stood before him. “Bon jour, Gabriel.”

Emmaline.

She looked even more beautiful than the image of her that inhabited his dreams at night. Her lace-lined bonnet of natural straw perfectly framed her flawless face. The dark blue of her walking dress made her eyes even more vibrant.

Good God. After two years, she still had the power to affect him.

“What are you doing here?” His tone came out more sharply than he intended.

She clasped her white-gloved hands together. “I came to see you, Gabriel.”

He shook his head. “I meant, why are you in London?”

She fingered the front of her dress. “To see you.”

She had come to see him?

Gabe had laboured hard to bury the deep wound of losing her, but now she was here. Was it possible she’d regretted sending him away? Enough to travel this long distance to find him? Enough to search for him, to discover where he lived?

Against his better judgement, a tiny seed of hope germinated.

He managed to disguise the fact. “How did you find me?”

“With luck.” She smiled wanly. “A maid at my hotel said many officers stayed here.”

He really did not care about how she had found him. Only one question truly burned inside him. “Why did you come to see me?”

Her lips trembled before she spoke. “Oh, Gabriel. I need you.”

The hard earth he’d packed around his emotions began to crack.

She swallowed and went on, “I need your help.”

He came to his senses. “Help with what?”

She met his eye. “I need you to find Claude.”

“Claude.” The son who’d driven a wedge between them.

Of course it would be for Claude that she would travel all this way, to a foreign country that had so recently been at war with her birthplace.

She stepped closer to him. “It is so terrible. He is here in En gland.” Her gaze still managed to hold him in thrall. “Do you remember how he was so filled with hatred?”

Could he forget?

She took a breath. “He became a cuirassier to get revenge for—for what happened at Badajoz. What happened to his father. And to me. All these years Claude has not forgotten any of it. Fighting the English in the war was supposed to be the revenge, but, alors, you know what happened.”

“Why come to England, then, if he hates it so?” Wouldn’t Claude want to stay away and keep his mother away, as well?

She wrung her hands. “He remembers one name from that day—Edwin Tranville. He has come to En gland to kill him.”

Edwin Tranville. Gabe pressed his fingers against his temple. Damned Edwin Tranville. “What has this to do with me, Emmaline?”

Her eyes pleaded. “I need you to find Claude and stop him.”

What a fool he was. She’d come to England for her son, not for him.

He gave her a level look. “What makes you believe I would help you?”

She lowered her gaze so that her long dark lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. “Oh, Gabriel. Who else can help me? I cannot go to—to the gendarmerie and tell them my son wants to kill a man. I might as well send Claude to a guillotine. I came to you, because I do not know anyone else.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “I know only you.”

Her emotion shook him. He paced in front of her. “Well, I cannot help you.” His response was firm. “I have my own life to attend to, Emmaline. I am waiting for a new commission. Word could come any day and, when it comes, I must be here or the position will go to someone else.”

“You are not in the army any more?” Her gaze flicked over his uniform coat and her brow creased as if in confusion.

“My regiment was disbanded. I’m on half-pay.”

“Half-pay? What is that?” Her eyes widened suddenly and her voice rose. “Do you need money, Gabriel? I can pay you money to help me.”

“I do not need money,” he snapped. What he needed she could not give him, not without forsaking her son. “The army pays half of a salary when a soldier is idled, but do not concern yourself. I have plenty of money.”

“Even so …” she fingered the front of her dress “… I will pay for your help.”

Did she think he would accept money for such a thing? It galled him that she would presume they could make some sort of business arrangement after what they’d had together.

What he thought they’d had.

“How old is Claude now?” he asked.

She looked puzzled. “He is now eighteen years.”

“I was in the army, taking care of myself when I turned eighteen. Claude is his own man now. He must act on his own and accept the consequences.”

She seized his arm. “You do not understand. He will be caught. He will hang for murder.”

Her touch radiated through him. “That is his decision.”

“Non, non, Gabriel,” she cried. “You must stop him. He cannot hang. I cannot bear it.”

Gabe felt himself weaken. Claude was her whole world, more important to her than anything or anyone else. Gabe had carried Claude off the Waterloo battlefield for that reason—for her—even while the cries of countless other wounded men had filled his ears. He did not regret doing so, but how many times was he expected to rescue Claude for her?

He closed his hands around her arms and lifted her away from him. He must think of himself now. Not of Emmaline. “I cannot go looking for him.”

She did not relent. “Then find Edwin Tranville. Warn him. Tell him to hide himself until I find Claude. I will send word to you when Claude returns to Brussels with me.”

He blew out a breath. “I am not going to look for Edwin Tranville.” He wanted nothing to do with Edwin Tranville. “No more discussion.”

He walked to the door and opened it. If she did not leave soon, his rapidly eroding resolve might entirely wash away. “I bid you good day.”

He pictured himself holding her in his arms, inhaling her essence, feeling her warm curves against his body.

She paused to face him. “I am staying at the Bristol Hotel, if you decide differently.”

He closed the door behind her and immediately paced the room, angry at her for making this request, angrier at himself for hoping she’d come for him. He turned towards the windows and watched her step out of the building onto the pavement. She took a few steps, then stopped to look for something in her reticule. She pulled out a lace-edged handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

His insides twisted.

With one distraught glance toward the building she started to walk away.

But the three officers he’d run into at the War Office were approaching her, returning from the tavern, no doubt. They swayed with drink and talked so loudly he could almost hear their words. They exclaimed in pleasure when catching sight of her.

The three men circled her, doffing their hats and bowing, their greetings too exuberant, too ungentlemanly. She tried to push past them, but they blocked her path. She stiffened and tried again.

Three drunk men in red coats? It was like Badajoz.

Gabe sensed her panic as if he were inside her skin. He grabbed his shako and hurried out of the parlour, crossing the hall to the front door. As he opened it the three men were right there, about to step inside. Through them Gabe saw Emmaline rushing away.

Hanson put an arm around Gabe’s shoulder. “Deane, my good friend. You just missed the most delectable creature. In fact, you might be able to catch up to her if you hurry.” Contrary to his words, though, he pushed Gabe inside with them.

“She was a sight for sore eyes, that is to be sure,” agreed Irishman. “A pity Webberly scared her off. Never did know how to approach a lady.”

Webberly shoved him. “What lady would be walking out of Stephen’s alone?” He laughed. “Shall we wager on whose room she was visiting?”

Gabe clenched a fist. “I saw the three of you through the window. You frightened her.”

Hanson guffawed. “And you were rushing to her rescue? Great strategy, Deane! No better way to get a woman into bed than to come to her rescue.”

Irishman staggered ahead. “I’ve a bottle in my room if you’ve a mind to wet your whistle before dinner is served.”

“Come with us,” Hanson said to Gabe.

“No, I have an errand.” He drew back.

“Come to us when you are done.” Irishman gestured for Hanson and Webberly to hurry. “We’ll save you a drink.”

“Four-to-one odds Deane is going after that fancy piece,” Webberly cried.

The others laughed, but Gabe was already across the threshold. Once outside he ran out to Bond Street and managed to catch sight of Emmaline in the distance, walking alone.

He followed her, as he had that first day he’d glimpsed her in Brussels. Irishman, Hanson and Webberly were harmless enough, but that did not mean there were no other men out there who could pose a danger to her.

He stayed close enough to keep her in sight, all the while cursing himself for involving himself with her again, for even caring about her safety when she so obviously cared only for what assistance he could render her. As soon as she was safely back to her hotel, he’d wash his hands of her.

“It is none of my affair!” he said aloud, receiving a startled glance from a gentleman passing by.

Walking back to her hotel, Emmaline still trembled inside. The three officers had frightened her badly, bringing back the terror of Badajoz, but she’d collected her wits in time. Straightening to her full height, she had ordered them to leave her alone. They immediately backed off, apologising with exaggerated politeness. She was glad she’d not panicked and run away. Inside she still felt the fear, but she’d learned that, even when afraid, it was best to demand what she wanted.

She had not hidden her fears for Claude from Gabriel, however. She’d even mentioned the guillotine to him. She well knew that the British hanged men for murder, but her imagination kept showing Claude ascending steps to a guillotine. She again could hear the sound of the blade being raised, the excited rumblings of the crowd, the blade whizzing in its descent and the indescribable sound of it doing its work. It was as if she were still a girl standing in the Place de la Revolution holding her mother’s hand.

She forced herself to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, making her way to her hotel on Cork Street. It was not a far walk from Gabriel.

Gabriel.

How she had missed him. A part of her had wanted to weep for the joy of gazing upon him again, hearing his voice, inhaling his essence. The pain of sending him away had settled into a dull, enduring ache, but now the wound had reopened and bled freely again.

He was still so angry with her.

She could not blame him. He’d offered her his name and his protection and she’d sent him away, knowing that if she chose him her son would be lost to her for ever and she would never have a chance to help Claude find a way to happiness and peace.

It would be impossible to make Gabriel understand. It was not him she had rejected so cruelly. She simply could not turn away from her son, not when it was her fault Claude was so vengeful.

She should have defied her husband all those years ago, run away with Claude so her husband could not take him away from her. She’d been cowardly.

C’est vrai, she would never have met Gabriel, then. She would never have known those brief weeks of bliss with him. She would never have hurt him so acutely, either. Now she had wounded him all over again by coming to see him and asking for his help.

Her head was reeling. How was she to find Claude on her own? No one in England would help her, not with her French accent and story of a son who planned to kill an Englishman. Non, she would be reported to the English gendarmerie; perhaps she and Claude both would climb up to the scaffold.

She needed Gabriel. Needed him. Gabriel had found Claude on a battlefield littered with thousands of dead and dying men; he would know how to find him in England. Gabriel would protect her, as well, keep her safe from Edwin Tranville, who still frightened her as much as he had the day he’d tried to rape her and kill Claude, the day he’d laughed when the other men killed her husband. Emmaline should have killed Edwin Tranville herself that day. Gabriel had stopped her.

Gabriel.

Did all her thoughts return to him? When she had risen from her chair in the parlour she thought her heart might stop at the sight of him. She’d forgotten how grand he was, how formidable, a man who could do anything, even come through a battle unscathed to return her son to her.

And here she was, asking him to do it again, to find Claude against nearly impossible odds, to again snatch him from the jaws of death. She had no doubt that Gabriel could do it.

If he would agree.

Emmaline entered her hotel and told the hall servant to send her dinner to her room. She’d procured the most inexpensive room available, trying to conserve her funds so that she could pay Gabriel all she possessed to help her find Claude. Instead he’d been insulted by her offer of money.

Emmaline climbed three sets of stairs to her room and immediately took off her bonnet and gloves. She undid the buttons of the blue spencer she’d sewn to match her blue muslin dress. She was still French enough to take pride in her appearance.

When Claude had been recuperating, he’d wanted to learn English. She’d had plenty of time to sew while drilling him in English words and phrases.

If she’d only known why he wanted to speak the language.

She had sewn clothes for him, because he had outgrown his old ones, and next for herself, using as inspiration the gowns of the most fashionable English ladies who came into the lace shop. She’d been glad to see her clothes were not out of place in London.

Had Gabriel admired her appearance? She wished for his admiration of her ensemble as strongly as she detested the attention it had brought from the three drunken soldiers.

She lay upon the bed and stared at the ceiling, but her mind’s eye saw only Gabriel: his dark unruly hair; his chocolate brown eyes; the expressive mouth that had once pressed against her own lips.

She groaned.

She ached for him. Seeing Gabriel this day made her yearn for those glorious nights when he shared her bed. She’d been happy with him. Even with Claude in the army and Napoleon on the march again, those days with Gabriel had been the happiest she had ever known and she’d missed him every day thereafter. She pulled out the ring she still wore on a chain under her dress. This reminder of him rested always against her heart and kept him near to her, even after two years’ absence.

Finding Gabriel when she came to London had been far easier than she expected. One of the hotel maids here had told her to ask for him at Stephen’s Hotel.

“If he’s an officer and he’s in London, then he will be staying at the Stephen’s Hotel. Mark my words,” the girl had said.

She’d been correct. Emmaline arrived in London that morning and by afternoon she had found him. And lost him again.

Now what was she to do?

An idea occurred to her. If Gabriel was at the Stephen’s Hotel, maybe Edwin Tranville was there, as well. Non, if that were so, surely Gabriel would have told her. Besides, if Tranville were so easy to find, Claude would have killed him already and her strong, handsome son might already have hung by the neck for it.

Claude had grown strong again, even though it had taken him two years to fully recover from his wounds at Waterloo. As his strength grew, so did his restlessness. He finally asked to travel to Paris to visit her parents. Emmaline had agreed, hoping a change in scene would be good for him.

But he had never arrived in Paris. Instead a letter came, explaining his true destination and his avowed intent.

That had been a month ago. Where was he now? And how would she find him?

She came back to Gabriel.

She must think of a way to make him agree, though why should he help her when she had rejected him so cruelly?

She flung an arm across her face, trying to hold off the despair that threatened to completely overwhelm her.

She’d give anything to keep her son from throwing his life away. Anything. But what did she possess that would entice Gabriel to help her?

Emmaline sat up.

She had said she would give anything to save Claude.

Well, she would do more. She would give Gabriel everything.

Everything.

He would not refuse.