A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

‘When you put it like that I do not seem to have any choice.’

‘Exactement. It is settled, then. I shall bring my cabriolet to collect you Monday morning.’

* * *

The day of the Grammont review dawned bright and sunny and Mary found herself looking forward to it. Bertrand collected her punctually and they made good time, arriving before noon at the flat plain on the banks of the River Dender. It was a perfect arena for showing off the massed troops, who were even then assembling. Mary had to admit the lines of hussars and heavy dragoons made a colourful spectacle against the dark backdrop of the woods. Gazing out across the plain, Mary realised they had been misinformed, for amongst the ranks of cavalry were batteries of horse artillery, the men scrubbing and polishing everything, including their horses, ready for inspection.

Many civilians had driven out from Brussels and they were gathering on a slight rise which would give them a good view of the review. As Bertrand drove the cabriolet to join them Mary spotted a dashing cavalry officer riding beside a lady in a pale blue habit. They made a striking picture, both mounted on pure white horses, but it was not the elegant image they presented that made Mary’s breath catch in her throat. The man was not Randall, she knew that, he was not quite so tall, yet something about the officer’s posture, the way he sat his horse, his hawk-like profile made her think of the earl. It must be Randall’s younger brother, Gideon Latymor. Harriett had told her he was a cavalry officer. But the lady—the resemblance between them was too great, she could only be his twin sister.

She glanced around nervously, wondering if the earl was present. Did he know Lady Sarah was in Brussels? That would not please him; he would want his sister safely out of the way, if there was a battle coming. But even so Randall would want to speak to Sarah today, and if he came this way he could hardly fail to see her, Mary, sitting with Bertrand in an open carriage. She quickly shifted her parasol, shielding herself from the handsome young couple and hoping, if the earl did appear, that her presence would go unnoticed.

‘We have some time before the review begins, I think,’ said Bertrand. ‘Would you like to get down and, what is it you English say—pull out your legs?’

His question diverted Mary. Her eyes danced and she replied with a laugh in her voice.

‘Yes, Bertrand, thank you, I would very much like to stretch my legs.’

She allowed him to help her down. The couple on their matching horses had ridden off to join a party of cavalry officers some distance away, but Mary decided it would still be wise to walk in the opposite direction, where they were less likely to bump into Randall.

The scene spread out on the plain before them was one of bustling preparation. Men ran about, riders cantered to and fro, the artillery pieces were being pushed and pulled into position and polished until they gleamed. She could not be sure, but she thought she recognised Randall’s troop in their dark blue uniforms, the officers with a red sash about their waists. Bertrand asked her if she wanted to take a closer look at the artillery and she quickly declined.

‘That is, unless you wish to do so?’ she asked him, aware that her reason for avoiding the guns was perfectly selfish. However, she could not be sorry when he shook his head.

‘I have seen the damage these machines of war can do. They hold no fascination for me.’

‘No, of course. They look very peaceful now, but when they are unleashed upon an enemy...’ she shuddered ‘...I do not like to think of it.’

‘Then do not. We are here to enjoy the spectacle they make, and to take from it some comfort. The duke is clearly setting out to show that his army is far superior to Bonaparte’s.’

They had reached the far end of the ridge and turned to retrace their steps.

‘What will you do?’ Mary asked him. ‘If war comes will you stay in Brussels?’

‘But of course.’ For a moment his cheerful insouciance disappeared. ‘My services will be in great demand, whichever side wins.’

Mary did not know what to say to this and they walked on in silence. They had almost reached Bertrand’s cabriolet when Mary recognised the big horse trotting towards them. And its rider in his dress uniform, a dark blue coat with gold lace and scarlet facings. His long legs were encased in pantaloons so white they made his dappled grey horse look even grubbier than usual.

She told herself sternly that she did not believe in war and disapproved of the milita

ry, yet she could not stop the flutter of admiration when she looked at Randall—he looked quite magnificent. Nor could she prevent the breathlessness that afflicted her and made her incapable of speaking as the earl drew rein in front of them. Thankfully Bertrand was not so tongue-tied.

‘Lord Randall, bonjour.’

‘Dr Lebbeke.’

A quick peep at his face was all Mary allowed herself. Beneath the shade of his cocked hat his countenance was as inscrutable as ever, but when she looked away she could feel his blue eyes on her. He would see the colour in her cheek, note her ragged breathing and he would draw his own conclusions.

And they would be correct. She fluttered her fan, mortified to think she was so transparent where Randall was concerned.

Bertrand was speaking and she tried hard to concentrate.

‘Your artillery troop is here, today, milord, the infamous Randall’s Rogues?’

‘Yes, Doctor, they—’ The earl was interrupted by sounds of a commotion coming from the nearby carriages. ‘What the devil is that?’

‘It is coming from the barouche over there,’ observed Mary, pointing. ‘Perhaps someone is ill. Bertrand, do you think you should—?’

‘Mais oui. I will see what I can do.’