Chapter I
It still felt somewhat strange to be part of a gathering
of the creme de la creme of English society again and to
hear the English language spoken by virtually everyone.
Not that the English were the only nationality present, it
was true. There were also Dutch, Belgians, and Germans,
among others. But the British predominated.
Gervase Ashford, Earl of Rosthorn, was standing just
inside the ballroom doors at the house Viscount Cameron
had leased on the Rue Ducale in Brussels, looking about
him with considerable interest. He was searching for
familiar faces. He had seen several since his recent
arrival from Austria, but he expected to see more here.
The vast majority of both ladies and gentlemen looked
exceedingly young to him, though. He felt strangely
ancient at thirty.
Most of those young gentlemen, and a few older ones too,
wore military dress uniforms--some blue or green, but most
scarlet and resplendent with rich facings and multitudes
of gold lace braiding. Like peacocks, they outshone the
ladies in their pastel shaded, softly flowing, high-
waisted gowns. But the ladies looked delicate and very
feminine in contrast.
"One feels at a distinct disadvantage dressed even in
one's very best civilian clothes, does one not?" the
Honorable John Waldane said ruefully into Gervase's left
ear--the buzz of a hundred voices or more all raised to be
heard above the rest of the hubbub plus the sounds of the
orchestra tuning their instruments more than occupied his
right.
"If one came here with the intention of impressing the
ladies, yes, I suppose so," Gervase admitted with a
chuckle. "If one came to be an invisible observer, no."
Atthe moment he preferred to be as unobtrusive as
possible. He still felt a little self-conscious around
British people, wondering how much they remembered from
nine years ago, and wondering too just how much there was
for them to remember. Although there had been a few rather
public scenes, he was not sure how much of that whole
sordid business had become public knowledge. Waldane, who
had been one of Gervase's acquaintances at the time and
who had hailed him with the greatest amiability when they
ran into each other two days ago, had made no reference to
it. But, of course, the reputation Gervase had earned
since then was undeniably notorious to anyone who had
spent time on the Continent.
"Old Boney will probably be captured any day now and
dragged back to Elba and kept in irons for the rest of his
life if any of his guards have a brain in their heads,"
Waldane said. "These officers will no longer have an
excuse to play at such gallantry or to dazzle the ladies
with such a gorgeous display."
"Jealous?" Gervase chuckled again.
"Mortally." Waldane, slightly more portly than he had been
nine years ago when Gervase last saw him, and balding at
the crown of his thinning fair hair, laughed
ruefully. "There are some ladies one might enjoy
impressing."
"Are there?" Gervase raised his quizzing glass the better
to see to the far side of the crowded ballroom. He
recognized Lord Fitzroy Somerset, the Duke of Wellington's
military secretary, in conversation with Lady Mebs, and
Sir Charles Stuart, British ambassador to the Hague. But
his attention moved obligingly onto the young ladies, none
of whom he could be expected to recognize--or feel any
particular interest in if he did. His tastes did not run
to the very young. "By Jove, you are right."
His glass had paused on one member of Sir Charles's group,
who was even then turning half away from its other members
in order to greet the approach of two young officers of
the Life Guards, gorgeous in dazzling white net
pantaloons, scarlet coats, blue facings, and gold lace--
and dancing shoes instead of their cavalry boots.
She was a very young lady indeed--not long out of the
schoolroom if his guess was correct. He would not perhaps
have noticed her if Waldane had not set him to the task.
But, having looked, he was forced to admit that sometimes
one could draw sheer pleasure from simply gazing at
extraordinary beauty.
He was gazing at it now.
She was really quite outstandingly lovely, the more so
perhaps because the simplicity of her white gown was in
marked contrast to the bold richness of the uniforms worn
by the two officers. It was a short-sleeved, low-bosomed,
high-waisted gown of lace over satin--but Gervase was not
interested in the gown. His practiced eye noted that the
body beneath it was slender and long-legged, coltish yet
undeniably feminine. Her neck, long and swanlike, held her
head at a proud angle. And proud she had every right to
be. Her dark hair, piled elegantly and threaded with
jewels that might well be diamonds, gleamed under the
light of a thousand candles in the chandeliers overhead.
Her face--oval, dark-eyed, and straight-nosed--was
classical perfection. Its beauty was nothing short of
dazzling when she smiled, as she did in response to a
remark made by the officer on her right, raising a lacy
white fan to her chin as she did so.
It seemed to Gervase that he might well never have seen a
lovelier woman--if she could be called a woman. She was
little more than a girl really--but as breathtakingly
lovely as a perfect rosebud that has not yet burst into
full bloom.
Fortunately, perhaps, for the young lady in question and
any parents or chaperons who were hovering in her
vicinity, he preferred mature blooms to tender buds--they
were more amenable to being seduced. He had looked his
fill and was prepared to move his glass onward.
"That one would be well worth impressing," John Waldane
said, noting his friend's pursed lips and the direction of
his gaze. "But alas, Rosthorn, she has eyes for no man
unless his broad shoulders are encased in a scarlet coat."
He sighed forlornly and theatrically.
"And unless he is not a day older than two and twenty,"
Gervase agreed, noting the youth of the two Guards
officers. He must indeed be getting old, he thought, when
even military officers were beginning to look like
schoolboys playing at war.
"You do not know who she is?" Waldane asked as Gervase
turned away, intending to remove to the card room.
"Should I?" he asked in reply. "She is someone important,
I presume?"
"One might say so," his friend told him. "She is staying
with the Earl and Countess of Caddick on the Rue de
Bellevue, since their daughter, Lady Rosamond Havelock, is
her particular friend, though her brother is here too. He
is attached to the embassy at the Hague in some capacity
but is currently in Brussels with Sir Charles Stuart."
"And?" Gervase prompted, making a circular motion with his
hand as if to hurry his friend along.
"One of the officers talking to her--the taller, golden-
haired one on her right--is Viscount Gordon," Waldane
said. "Captain Lord Gordon, Caddick's son and heir. The
only son in fact. Hence the military commission in the
Life Guards, I suppose--all glory and gold lace but
absolutely no danger. They will prance around on horseback
on the parade ground, looking magnificent and sending all
the ladies into a collective swoon, but they would swoon
as a body themselves if this threat of war against Boney
were to prove more a reality than an exciting game."
"They may surprise us yet if given the chance for glory,"
Gervase said more fairly. He took one step toward the
ballroom doors. Obviously Waldane, mistaking his interest
in the dark-haired girl for something more personal than
it was, wanted him to beg for her identity.
"She is Lady Morgan Bedwyn," his friend said.
Gervase paused and looked back at him, his eyebrows
raised. "Bedwyn?"
"The youngest of the family," Waldane said. "Fresh from
the schoolroom, newly presented at court, the richest
prize on the marriage mart if she has not already been
snatched off it by Gordon. I understand that an
announcement is expected any day. You had better keep your
distance, Rosthorn, even if the wolf did remain behind in
England when she came here." He slapped a friendly hand on
Gervase's shoulder and grinned.
The wolf. Wulfric Bedwyn, Duke of Bewcastle. Although he
had not seen the man for nine years and had not
particularly thought about him in four or five,
nevertheless Gervase could feel all the cold fury of an
old hatred as he was reminded of him now. It was to
Bewcastle he owed the strangeness of these English faces
and these English voices, and his own self-consciousness
in being among them--his own people. It was to Bewcastle
he owed the fact that he had not been in England--his own
country, his father's country--since he was one and
twenty. Instead he had wandered the Continent, not really
belonging in France despite his French mother because he
was English by birth and the heir to a British earldom,
and not safe in many other European countries under French
occupation for the same reason.
It was because of Bewcastle--whose friendship he had once
cultivated--that his whole life had been turned upside
down and permanently changed for the worse. Exile really
had seemed almost worse than death for the first year or
so--that and the terrible humiliation and his impotence to
convince anyone that he had been wrongfully treated. He
had consoled himself eventually by becoming exactly what
he was expected to be--a rake who cared for nothing and no
one except himself and the gratification of his own
desires, whether sexual or otherwise. He had certainly
allowed Bewcastle to win in more ways than one.
Ah, yes, he realized in that flashing moment while he
still looked over his shoulder at Waldane, the hatred, the
burning desire to do Bewcastle harm in return, had not
faded in nine years. It had only been pushed beneath the
surface of his consciousness.
And now he was in the same building--the same room--as
Bewcastle's sister. It was almost too good to be true.
Gervase looked across the ballroom once more. She had one
gloved hand upon the sleeve of the golden-haired officer--
Captain Lord Gordon--and was proceeding with him onto the
dance floor, where the lines were forming for the opening
set of country dances.
Lady Morgan Bedwyn.
Yes, he could well believe it. She carried herself with
all the proud bearing, even arrogance, of a born
aristocrat.
He could make mischief if he chose, Gervase thought, his
eyes narrowing on her. The temptation was almost
overwhelming.
As she took her place in the long line of ladies, and
Captain Lord Gordon--a handsome young stripling--went to
stand opposite in the line of gentlemen, her full smiling
attention was on him. And he was very eligible--the son
and heir of an earl. Indeed, she was thought to be all but
betrothed to him.
The thought of causing mischief grew even more appealing.
She was doubtless an innocent, despite the arrogance. She
had probably been hedged about with governesses until the
very moment of her presentation and with chaperons ever
since then. He, on the other hand, was anything but
innocent. It was true that, despite his reputation, he had
only ever turned his seductive charms on women who could
match him in experience and, usually, in years too. But if
he chose to turn those charms on a young innocent, he
might perhaps succeed in turning her attention away from a
scarlet coat.
If he chose.
How could he not so choose?
As the music began, he felt the very definite stirrings of
a slight temptation. Though truth to tell, it was not so
slight either.
Lady Morgan Bedwyn performed the steps of the dance with
precision and grace. She was small-breasted, Gervase could
see, and willowy slender, neither of which physical
attributes normally aroused him sexually. He was not
aroused now, of course, merely appreciative of her perfect
beauty.
And yes--quite powerfully tempted to make trouble for her.
"Are you for the card room, Rosthorn?" John Waldane asked.
"Perhaps later," Gervase said without withdrawing his
attention from the dancers, whose feet were thudding
rhythmically on the wooden floor. "I must go in search of
Lady Cameron and ask her to present me to Lady Morgan
Bedwyn at the end of the set."
"Oh, I say!" His friend reached for his snuff box. "You
devil you, Rosthorn! Bewcastle would challenge you to a
duel even for raising your eyes to his sister."
"Bewcastle, as I remember it, does not deal in duels,"
Gervase said disdainfully, his nostrils flaring at the
remembered insult. "Besides, I am Rosthorn. It is quite
unexceptionable to request an introduction to the girl,
Waldane. Or even to invite her to dance with me. I am not
planning to invite her to elope with me, you know."
Though there was a wicked sense of satisfaction in imaging
how Bewcastle would react if he did run off with the girl.
Did he dare contemplate such a thing?
"Five pounds on it that she will insist upon dancing every
set with a scarlet uniform and will grant you no more than
the time of day," John Waldane said, chuckling once more.
"Only five?" Gervase clucked his tongue. "You wound me,
Waldane. Make it ten, or one hundred if you wish. You
will, of course, lose."
He could not take his eyes off the girl. She was
Bewcastle's sister, someone close to him, someone dear to
him. Someone through whom Bewcastle's pride and
consequence, even if not his heart, could be hurt. It was
doubtful that the man had a heart--any more than he
himself had, Gervase thought cynically.
It was strange how fate sometimes turned in one's favor--
though it was about time. Belgium was as close as Gervase
had come to returning home even though his father had been
dead for longer than a year and his mother had long been
urging him to come home to Windrush Grange in Kent to take
up his inheritance and his duties and responsibilities as
the new Earl of Rosthorn. He had been in Vienna when
Napoleon Bonaparte escaped from Elba in March. Now, two
months later, he had taken the tentative step of moving to
Brussels in Belgium, where the British and their allies
were beginning to gather in some force for the expected
showdown with Bonaparte. Many of the British who had sons
in the military had brought their wives and daughters and
other family members with them. A large number of other
Britons had come flocking there too simply because
Brussels during this spring of 1815 was the social place
to be.
And that number included Lady Morgan Bedwyn, sister of the
Duke of Bewcastle.
Ah yes, he was very much more than slightly tempted.
Fate had dealt him a potentially winning hand at last
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