An Infamous Army (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 4)

tedly that she was glad to have the escort of one gentleman at least that there was nothing for him to do but jog along beside the carriage with the best grace he could muster.

Lavisse and Barbara soon allowed their horses to drop into a walk; the barouche outstripped them, and was presently lost to sight over the brow of a slight hill. Lavisse studied Barbara’s profile with a faint smile, and said softly: ‘Little fool! Little adorable fool!’

‘Don’t tease me! I could weep with vexation!’

‘I know well that you could. But why?’

‘Oh, because I’m bored—tired—anything that you please!’

‘It does not please me that you should be bored or tired. I do not wonder at it, however. For me, these saintly Englishwomen are the devil.’

‘I don’t dislike Lady Worth, if only she would not look so disapproving.’

‘Consider, my Bab, she will do so all your life.’

‘Oh, confound her, I’ll take care she don’t get the chance!’

‘Ma pauvre, I see you surrounded by prim relatives, growing staid—or mad!’

‘Wretch! Be quiet!’

‘But no, I will not be quiet. Figure to yourself the difference were you to marry me!’

An irrepressible laugh broke from her. ‘I do. I should then be surrounded by your light-o’-loves. I have seen enough of that in my own family to be cured of wanting to marry a rake.’

‘You have in England a saying that a reformed rake—’

‘My dear Etienne, if you were reformed you would be as dull as the next man. You are wasting your eloquence. I do not love you more than a very little. You are an admirable flirt, I grant, and I find you capital company.’

‘Do you find your colonel—capital company?’

She turned her head, regarding him with one of her clear looks. ‘Do you know, I have never thought of that: it has not occurred to me. It is the oddest thing, but if you were to ask me, what does he look like? how does he speak? I couldn’t tell you. I think he is handsome; I suppose him to be good company, because it doesn’t bore me to be with him. But I can’t particularise him. I can’t say, he is handsome, he is witty, or he is clever. I can only say, he is Charles.’

The smile had quite faded from his face; his horse leapt suddenly under a spur driven cruelly home: ‘Ah, parbleu, you are serious then!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are lovesick—besotted! I wish you a speedy recovery, ma belle!’

Ten

Judith saw nothing of Barbara on the following day, but heard of her having gone to a fête at Enghien, given by the Guards. She was present in the evening at a small party at Lady John Somerset’s, surrounded by her usual court, and had nothing more than a nod and a wave of the hand to bestow upon Judith. The Comte de Lavisse had returned to his cantonments, but his place seemed to be admirably filled by Prince Pierre d’Aremberg, whose attentions, though possibly not serious, were extremely marked.

If Barbara missed Colonel Audley during the five days of his absence, she gave no sign of it. She seemed to plunge into a whirl of enjoyment; flitted from party to party; put in an appearance at the Opera; left before the end to attend a ball; danced into the small hours; rode out before breakfast with a party of younger officers; was off directly after to go to the races at Grammont; reappeared in Brussels in time to grace her sister-in-law’s soirée; and enchanted the company by singing O Lady, twine no wreath for me, which had just been sent to her from London, along with a setting of Lord Byron’s famous lyric, Farewell, Farewell!

‘How can she do it?’ marvelled the Lennox girls. ‘We should be dead with fatigue!’

On April 20th Brussels was fluttered by the arrival of a celebrated personage, none other than Madame Catalani, a cantatrice who had charmed all Europe with her trills and her quavers. Accompanied by her husband, M. de Valbrèque, she descended upon Brussels for the purpose of consenting graciously (and for quite extortionate fees) to sing at a few select parties.

On the same evening Wellington drove into Brussels with his suite, and Colonel Audley, instead of ending a long day by drinking tea quietly at home and going to bed, arrayed himself in his dress uniform and went off to put in a tardy appearance at Sir Charles Stuart’s evening party. He found his betrothed in an alcove, having each finger kissed by an adoring young Belgian, and waited perfectly patiently for this ceremony to come to an end. But Barbara saw him before her admirer had got beyond the fourth finger, and pulled her hands away, not in any confusion, but merely to hold them out to the Colonel. ‘Oh, Charles! You have come back!’ she cried gladly.

The Belgian, very red in the face, and inwardly quaking, stayed just enough for Colonel Audley to challenge him to a duel if he wished to, but when he found that the Colonel was really paying no attention to him, he discreetly withdrew, thanking his gods that the English were a phlegmatic race.

The Colonel took both Barbara’s hands in his. Mischief gleamed in her eyes. She said: ‘Would you like to finish René’s work, dear Charles?’

‘No, not at all,’ he answered, drawing her closer.

She held up her face. ‘Very well! Oh, but I am glad to see you again!’

They sat down together on a small sofa. ‘You did not appear to be missing me very much!’ said the Colonel.

‘Don’t be stupid! Tell me what you have been doing!’