Louise Allen - Regency Scoundrels And Scandals

‘God’s speed.’ Dereham touched his hat to Eva and stretched out a hand to Jack. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet at a party in Brussels tomorrow night. I deserve one—I missed the Duchess’s ball, after all.’

‘Ball?’ Eva queried as they left him and wove their way through the last of the lines and into the baggage train.

‘Duchess of Richmond, I’d guess,’ Jack said. ‘Brussels was en fête when I came through. The whole mob of diplomats and their wives had arrived from the Congress—picnics, parties, you name it. A ball on the eve of battle would be no surprise.’

Behind them there was the boom of artillery as the guns began to fire. Eva looked back over her shoulder, knowing she was taking a last look at history being made.

‘Come on.’ Jack kicked the reluctant troop horse into a canter. ‘I want you well away from those shells.’

‘Your Serene Highness, welcome.’ A bowing butler, curtsying housekeeper, an expanse of polished marble flooring and a sweep of staircase. She was back. Back in the real world of status and duty and loneliness.

Eva smiled, stiffened her spine, said the right things and searched Jack’s face for any expression whatsoever. She found none. A respectful half-dozen steps to her left, hat in hand, he waited while their host went through his ceremonious greeting.

‘Would your Serene Highness care to go to her suite?’ She dragged her attention back to what Mr Hatterick—no, Mr Catterick—was saying. A wealthy banker, he was apparently part of the network of contacts, agents and safe houses that Jack and his masters maintained across the continent.

Just at the moment Mr Catterick was struggling to keep up the pretence that the Grand Duchess standing in his hallway was not dressed as a man and thoroughly grubby and dishevelled into the bargain. His question translated, she knew full well, into Please go and make yourself respectable so I know what I am dealing with.

‘Thank you, Mr Catterick.’ Eva produced her most gracious smile, then felt it turn into an involuntary grin as Henry emerged from the baize door at the back of the hall. ‘Henry, you are all right! I was worried about you!’

‘Yes, I’m safe and sound, thank you, ma’am, and all the better for seeing you and the guv’nor here. Did you know there’s a battle going on out there?’

‘Thank you, Henry,’ Jack said repressively, the first words he had spoken since introducing her to their host. ‘We had noticed. Are her Serene Highness’s bags in her room?’

‘Aye.’ The groom’s bushy eyebrows rose at the tone, but he took the hint and effaced himself into a corner.

‘I will go up now,’ Eva announced. The housekeeper hastened to her side and gestured towards the stairs. ‘Thank you, Mrs—?’

‘Greaves, your Serene Highness.’

‘Ma’am will do nicely, Mrs Greaves. Have you been in Brussels long?’ Eva maintained a flow of gracious small talk aimed at putting the nervous woman at ease. It carried them up to the bedchamber and she felt her shoulders relax as the turn of the stair took her out of Jack’s sight. She could feel the brand of his eyes on her back as clearly as if he had pressed his hand there.

The room, an over-decorated chamber that was doubtless the best in the house, was a bustle of maids unpacking baggage and pouring water into the tub she could glimpse behind an ornate screen. Eva almost sent them all away, then stopped herself. She was a Grand Duchess, she must behave like one and try to put the dream that had been the last few days behind her.

Sipping hot chocolate while lying in a tub of hot water while twittering maidservants flitted about with piles of towels, soap, a back brush and enquiries about gowns and stockings made such a contrast to how she had spent the morning that it would have been easy to convince herself that she had been in a fever and had only just awakened.

‘There only seems to be one suitable day gown, ma’am,’ Mrs Greaves said dubiously from the other side of the screen. ‘Most of your luggage must be missing.’

That gown was one she had bought in Grenoble with Jack; it was not, Eva thought defensively, anything to be ashamed of, however simple in cut and construction. She remembered him in the milliner’s, his expression desperate as he tried to find the right words to answer her queries—the only time she had ever seen him at a disadvantage. Her eyes swam with moisture for a moment and she pressed a towel to them, pretending soap had made them teary.

‘Indeed?’ she said languidly. ‘Never mind, that one will do for now, although I regret I will not be able to dress for dinner. I trust Mr Catterick will not be offended.’ Mr Catterick, she was sure, would not be offended if she chose to turn up for dinner in masquerade costume, he was so thrilled at her presence.

Clean, dressed and refreshed by a cold collation, Eva drifted downstairs, maintaining an outward calm she was far from feeling. The sound of gunfire was constant, the scene in the street when she had looked from the window was chaotic, the servants were barely concealing their agitation at the closeness of the French, and out there, in country she could picture vividly, the men she had seen this morning, the officers who had been so pleasant, were fighting for their lives in mud, blood and smoke and a hellish din.

Bonaparte had won, so they said, at Quatre Bras. Was he going to triumph again here at Mont St Jean?

And where was Jack? The butler, materialising just as her feet reached the marble of the hall floor, informed her that Mr Catterick and Mr…er…Ryder were in the study, making preparations for her onward journey to England. Could he assist her Serene Highness with anything?

Mr…er…Ryder, indeed! ‘Yes, thank you. I wish to consult an English Peerage if there is one in the house.’

‘Certainly, ma’am. If you would care to step into the library, ma’am, I would beg to suggest you will be comfortable in here while I fetch the volume down.’

Eva sat at a velvet-draped table and waited until the red leather volume was laid before her. ‘Thank you. That will be all.’

Ryder. Rycroft…Riddle…Ribblesthorpe. She made herself stop thumbing rapidly and began to work through carefully. There. Lord Charles Ryder, Earl of Felbrigge, deceased. Married…Children…Lady Amelia Ryder married his Grace, Francis Edgerton Ravenhurst, the third Duke of Allington. ‘Hmm. Dukes might be considered to be top-lofty,’ she mused out loud, recalling Henry’s vivid description of Jack’s father. But surely…

She searched again, this time for Allington. The current duke was Charles, definitely too old to be Jack, and his mother was not Lady Amelia and had died years ago. Ah, there it was, married the second time to Lady Amelia, the previous duke had fathered two more children. Sebastian John Ryder Ravenhurst and Belinda Ravenhurst, now Lady Cambourn.

Jack, she seemed to recall from her days in England, was a familiar form of John. So, Jack was, in fact, Lord…Eva frowned in concentration as she worked out the proper form of address for the younger son of an English duke. Ah, yes, first names. Lord Sebastian, and his wife, rather strangely she had always thought, would be Lady Sebastian.

Only of course he did not have a wife. And he was, by all accounts, at odds with his family. No, that was not quite right. He had spoken with somewhat wry affection of his numerous relatives. It was his father he appeared to have had the strained relationship with. That, and his own position as an English aristocrat.

He was not living this adventurer’s life for lack of money, nor, from the way Wellington had spoken to him, because of any disgrace. He just seemed to enjoy it.

Her lover, she mused, was a lord. A duke’s son. A very respectable position for a lover, in fact. Only she did not care tuppence whether he was a lord or a labourer, she just loved him. And he was no longer her lover. He might come to her tonight, if it could be done without risk of scandal, but it would not be the same. Out there, anonymous fugitives, they had been free, simply Eva and Jack, with only Henry’s sniff of disapproval to remind them of what the real world would say.