Rogue's Reward (26 page)

“No, he won’t.” Leander Campbell grinned. “It has been an excessively busy morning and it began before dawn. Several players in our little drama lost some sleep, I’m afraid, besides the piper and his comrades. I have also been to see Sir Robert. His side of our bargain—the one that made him drop his murder charges against me—was a signed confession of his persecution of Lady Augusta. I made him do it in case he broke faith in spite of taking my money. He gave it willingly. His confidence that I could never use it was boundless.”

“But now that Lady Augusta is out of danger?” Lady Acton asked.

“Major St. John Crabtree is in trouble up to his neck. He has agreed to leave the country. I allowed him some funds, but first I obtained his gift of the deed to the bulk of his property—after all, the dowager countess paid for the most of it—plus the return of mine. I have passed his share on to you, Di. Deerfield is yours now, whether you want it or not.”

“Deerfield?” Walter looked up in surprise. It was obvious that he hadn’t known of it until this moment.

“Now don’t get squeamish, Downe. It’s the cost of marrying an earl’s daughter. You must take her property without quibble. It’s a charming house, you must agree, though at present in need of some minor repair. I rather tore things apart three weeks ago. Did you know it was full of the most cunning little hidden cupboards?”

Diana stood up and threw her arms around her brother.

“You dear thing!” she exclaimed. “We shall be neighbors. What could be more amiable?”

“It’s more than generous of you, old chap!” Walter said. “I’ll have to become a bishop to justify living in such a place. And now, I suppose I had better formally request your permission to marry your sister. For I realize that in spite of everything, I’ve never yet done so.”

Leander Campbell leaned lazily back in his chair. Sun streamed through the window and fired his dark hair into brilliant relief, though it shadowed his features.

“I don’t know if I can,” he said idly. “Unless Lady Eleanor would agree to give me her hand into the bargain. Doesn’t that seem like only justice?”

Eleanor leaped out of her chair and walked swiftly across the room. How could he? To offer the importunate schoolgirl her heart’s desire as a jest! He couldn’t mean it. For he could have no idea of the depth of her emotion and the changes she had gone through in these last two months.

What if she called his bluff and accepted? How would he get out of it? And if he did not, how would she manage when he became bored with her and regretted this idle gesture? He would seek a mistress, wouldn’t he? Someone sophisticated and worldly.

If only he hadn’t made his feelings so very clear:
I’m not sure that I could handle such a plain brown virago in my bed, after all.

She spun about and faced the ring of expectant faces.

“I’m damned,” she said softly, “if the new Lord Hawksley isn’t more enamored of self-sacrifice than Icarus. What noble gallantry! Good heavens, I’m sure you can find a more suitable mistress for Hawksley Park than me. I’m barely out of plaits and short skirts.”

He leaned forward and the sun lit his face. His eyes seemed ravaged by pain.

“Well, thank God for that!” he said lightly. “Now if you will excuse me, I have a ship to catch.”

“You’re still going to Belgium?” Diana asked. “What about Hawksley? You’ve an estate to run. And now you have your books back from Sir Robert, they will have to be inventoried and everything. Shouldn’t you oversee all that?”

“Dear Di, it’s the most annoying thing, I know. Duty is so tiresome. But I’m a soldier as well as an earl, my dear, and I have a commitment I must fulfill. Your mother has all the papers that you and Walter need, signed by me at some ungodly hour this morning, for you to wed and live happily ever after. I trust I may come back and celebrate with you. But before I can take up the reins at Hawksley, I’m promised to the Duke of Wellington for a spell. And though I’ve let this absurd business detain me for too long, I’m going now. Good day, Lady Acton.”

He stood and strode to the door. Each of them came forward to bid him farewell. Eleanor was compelled to do likewise. He caught her hand and raised it to his lips. Her heart thundered as he gently kissed her fingers.

Then he leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Marry for love, brown hen.”

And he was gone.

“Well, I’m damned,” Lady Acton said. “If your father hears you have turned down yet another eligible offer, Eleanor, you’ll be on bread and water for the rest of the summer. First Lord Ranking and now the Earl of Hawksley.”

Eleanor turned to her mother and laughed, a little unsteadily.

“Oh, fiddlesticks, Mama! Don’t you think I should wait for a suitor of the blood royal? And if that won’t do, perhaps I can hold out for a man who loves me?”

* * *

Eleanor refused to go into a decline. Her father soon relented and allowed her to attend all the social functions of the Season once again, although she would just as soon have sat at home.

Yet she dressed in her finest and waltzed and laughed as if nothing at all were wrong.

Lady Acton tactfully explained to Lord Ranking that perhaps her daughter was a little young yet, and he should allow her more time to make her decision.

“I do comprehend, my lady,” he said with a noble sniff. “Lady Eleanor is of such a delicate constitution, she must be wooed with discretion and patience. I pride myself that I am a man of the most amiable temper and tender sensibility. She shall not be distressed by my attentions, I assure you.”

Thus Eleanor had to suffer Lord Ranking’s idea of a discreet courtship, which mostly consisted of his creeping up to her at odd moments and giving her a damp but meaningful look.

* * *

If the gossips of May had been thrilled with the scandal of the trial, the news in June that the notorious Leander Campbell had been discovered to be the rightful Earl of Hawksley caused a sensation. Augusta, Dowager Countess of Hawksley, had all the papers to prove it, and Lady Acton leant her considerable influence to the cause.

A deputation was sent to Scotland to confirm the records of Mr. Campbell’s mother’s marriage to the late earl, along with the true circumstances of her death. One of the witnesses, the maid Fiona Mackay, was found still alive and she happily added her testimony to the case.

So as the summer heat took London in its dusty grip and the members of the
ton
began to think wistfully about leaving for their country estates, the word passed from mouth to mouth that it was true: Leander Campbell was indeed a peer of the realm. It was then generally agreed that no one had ever heard a more touching tale, and the dowagers vied with one another in declaring that they had always suspected it. Each one had secretly felt all along that Leander Campbell had all the qualities of a true aristocrat.

“Everyone else may have looked at him askance,” Lady Vane said one day in Eleanor’s hearing. “But I always knew that he was one of us. Such a noble and distinguishing bearing! And his mother was the descendant of an ancient Scottish royal lineage, so I hear.”

“Indeed. And when he returns from his duties fighting the Corsican Monster, we may be sure he’ll be looking about himself for a wife.”

At which, Eleanor started to walk away as the dowagers began to toss the names of various society beauties into the ring, only to hear one of them add: “And what about the Acton girl? Very plain, of course, but perfectly eligible to become Countess of Hawksley. Her dowry would do much to put Hawksley Park to rights. I understand the estate is much in need of repair.”

The news that Major Sir Robert St. John Crabtree had decided to sell up and move to the Colonies caused a tiny flurry of comment, but it was not so strange as to raise further question. No one in London except the Actons and the Harts knew that the major had prospered for twenty years by blackmail.

Then every other interest was supplanted. Bonaparte was on the move. The French Channel ports were closed. Almost every family had a brother or son in Brussels with Wellington. Napoleon was known to be the greatest general of the day. Would France overrun Belgium again? How many British soldiers could survive against the Emperor’s invincible Imperial Guard?

Eleanor knew nothing but agony. Major Lord Hawksley would be in the thick of it. He could be killed or maimed. She prayed fervently for his survival. Yet if he came home to England, she didn’t expect to see him privately ever again.

As Earl of Hawksley he would no doubt wed one of those ladies that the dowagers were busy gossiping over. If she wished to visit Diana and Walter at Deerfield, she would see him with a new wife. Obviously, the safest thing was to marry before he returned. Yet who was there, except Lord Ranking? No one else had shown any interest, and the Season was almost over.

Of course, if the news arrived that he would never return, it would be simple. She would never marry.

* * *

It was the hottest June in years. Thunderstorms built and broke in torrents most afternoons. London society seemed caught up in the intensity of the weather. Mrs. Boehm’s ball at Number Sixteen St. James’s Square was to be one of the finest affairs of the Season.

Eleanor wore her best ivory silk. She was determined to smile with just the right amount of kindness on Lord Ranking. Thanks to the presence of the Prince Regent, the room was packed with the most decorative members of the
beau monde
and no expense had been spared. Mrs. Boehm smiled with gratified triumph, certain she could declare her event a sad crush.

The first quadrille was just forming when a ripple ran through the dancers and they began to break apart to run for the windows. A crowd had poured into the square outside and the noise of shouting rose to the ballroom.

A lady turned from the window. “A carriage comes! Oh, dear God! They have some of those horrid French eagles. It is news from Belgium.”

Eleanor fought back waves of panic as a stranger in a dusty uniform burst into the room carrying two flags. He thrust his way through the crowd and knelt to lay the flags at the Prince Regent’s feet.

“Victory, sir! Victory!”

Prinny was instantly overcome. He began to weep hysterically, until one of the guests heroically dashed a glass of water into his face. With dripping chin, the future king was escorted into another room where he could read the dispatches away from the crowd.

Eleanor watched her father follow him in. She glanced around. More than one guest had broken down in tears, and everyone seemed to be leaving. Mrs. Boehm wrung her hands in despair at the ruin of her party.

“Come, dear child,” Lady Acton said calmly at her elbow. “Our illustrious Prince Regent will now drown his feelings in claret, but Lord Acton has just sent me a message from the inner sanctum. Wellington achieved a great victory south of Brussels on Sunday. Napoleon is crushed and flees back to Paris, our troops in hot pursuit. No doubt our facile friend is with them. But let us face it and find out. Casualty lists have been posted at the Horse Guards.”

Eleanor followed her mother as they joined the flock of ladies and gentlemen who jostled down the stairs and ran out into the street. No one had thought to put on a wrap or worry that the cobbles might shred their delicate evening slippers.

The carriage still stood in the center of a mob of frenzied people, the horses nervously tossing their heads.

“Boney’s beat! Victory!” several voices cried. “Waterloo! Waterloo!”

Lady Acton and Eleanor were swept along in the crowd. Within minutes they reached the throng around the List of Killed and Wounded. Here and there, a sob of anguish surfaced as someone discovered the name they dreaded to find on the list, and a wife or mother or daughter had to be helped away to hide her grief.

Tears ran openly down Eleanor’s cheeks. It was Thursday, the twenty-second day of June. Lee might already have been dead for four days. Her mother grasped her hand and held it firmly as they were jostled and pushed.

At last Lady Acton was able to reach the list.

Blind with distress, Eleanor clung to her mother’s fingers.

“It’s all right,” Lady Acton said at last. “His name is not there. Our difficult new earl has survived Waterloo.”

* * *

The next day the news was more complete. For several days afterward, extra details arrived in London.

“I have never fought such a battle,” Wellington was reputed to have said. “And I trust I shall never fight such another.”

And then at last there was news of Major Lord Hawksley, who had once been plain Leander Campbell. He was mentioned in dispatches. He was now, with the rest of the army, on his way to Paris.

Eleanor was caught in the wildest turmoil of emotion. He had survived. What happened to her now was irrelevant. He was alive.
He was alive
.

But how could she bear it when he came home and married someone else?

Lady Acton looked up from her writing desk as her daughter came white-faced into the room several mornings later.

“I have made a decision, Mama,” Eleanor said quietly. “I shall accept Lord Ranking.”

“Shall you?” Lady Acton replied with an idle wave of her pen. “Well, your father will be pleased.”

“I think I shan’t do better,” Eleanor stammered, as her mother’s shrewd black eyes smiled into hers.

“No doubt! A duke’s son. Well, well! There seems to have been a fashion for honorable self-immolation around Town this summer, but I wouldn’t stand in the way of such a splendid match. But don’t tell Ranking or your father quite yet, will you?”

“Why not?” Eleanor asked dully.

“Because I have a letter from Richard. Helena’s confinement is expected within a few weeks, and she is finding the wait very tiresome. They would like you to visit at Acton Mead. Go down to the country for a fortnight. If you are still enamored of Lord Ranking when you come back to Town, why then, we’ll have a splendid wedding. What do you say?”

“That I would love to go, of course,” Eleanor said.

She adored Acton Mead, her brother’s home by the Thames. It had been their grandmother’s, and she had spent many happy hours there as a child. She also dearly loved Richard and Helena.