A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

‘Fun? Confound it, Gideon, isn’t it enough that there are two of our family already caught up in this war?’

‘You count that mongrel Flint as family?’ Gideon’s lip curled. ‘God knows why you advanced his career.’

‘Because he is a good officer who looks after his men,’ snapped Randall. ‘Something you have yet to learn.’

With a curse Gideon threw himself out of his chair.

‘It is always the same,’ he said bitterly, ‘No one can do anything but you! Well, I have had enough. I have escaped from under your thumb, Justin, and I mean to distinguish myself in this campaign.’

Randall regarded him in silence. It would be useless, inflammatory even, to remind Gideon that he had never been under his thumb. Perhaps it would have been better if he had taken more responsibility for his siblings, instead of leaving their upbringing to Mama, but she had always said that looking after the children was her only solace and after the hell his father had put her though, with his insatiable appetite for women, he had not the heart to interfere.

He watched Gideon for a few moments. The boy was prowling up and down the room like a caged animal. At last he said quietly, ‘It is merely that I would rather you were safe back in Chalfont Magna.’

‘No! It is you who should be at the Abbey, looking after your interests. Mama cannot be expected to run your affairs forever, you know.’

‘I do know it, but it gives Mama an interest. Besides, we have an excellent steward and the present arrangement has worked very well for years.’

Randall wondered if he should tell Gideon that he intended to go back after this engagement. But it was never wise to think too far ahead. He might not survive, and if that was the case, Gideon was the next in line. And if Gideon should fall? Well, there were the younger twins, but they were still at school and his mother would have to hold the reins for a few more years yet.

He said, as much to reassure himself as Gideon, ‘I am not needed at Chalfont.’

‘Oh, aren’t you?’ Gideon retorted. ‘Do you know what our people think, Justin? They think you are just like Father.’

‘What nonsense. They know nothing about me.’

‘Aye, and that’s the trouble! Everyone thinks the reason you stay away from Chalfont Magna is that if you did your whoring there you would be wenching with your own kin.’ Gideon glared at him. ‘You should quit the artillery, Randall.

You are the sixth earl, your place is at the Abbey, not here. And if I had my way I would see that you were forced to go back and take up your responsibilities!’

Randall jumped to his feet. ‘Why, you—!’

‘My lord.’

Robbins’s entrance prevented Randall from replying. His man told him that one of the duke’s aides was downstairs and wanted a word. Randall excused himself, glad to leave the room before he said something rash. He had been close to losing his temper and uttering a blistering set-down to the insolent cub, and he really did not wish to do that, not tonight. Besides, on one point Gideon was right. He had left the running of the Abbey and the estates for too long in the hands of others.

* * *

When Randall returned, Gideon had put on his frock coat and was ready to leave. He was standing very stiff and regarded Randall with a defiant look.

‘Let us not part on a sour note.’ Randall put out his hand. ‘You are quite right, I should be thinking of settling down and leaving this business to younger fellows like yourself.’ He smiled. ‘I have no doubt you will acquit yourself well, Brother.’

Gideon’s eyes slid away from his, but he reached out and gripped Randall’s hand for a moment.

‘Yes, that is—thank you.’

‘Goodnight, Gideon, and I wish you success. Truly.’

He thought for a moment that Gideon would speak again, but he only nodded and quickly left the room. Randall listened to his footsteps dying away on the stairs, then with a shrug he called for Robbins to bring his hat and gloves and made his way to the Rue de la Blanchisserie and the Richmonds’ ball.

* * *

Mary did not enjoy her solitary dinner. When she had left Randall the streets had been busy with soldiers and wagons. There could be no doubting that the army was on the move. And yet the fashionable English would continue with their merrymaking. She thought of Randall attending the ball in all his military splendour. He would look magnificent, she was sure, but no more so than when he stood before her in the bedroom, quite naked, his lean body strong as whipcord, the muscled contours accentuated by the gleaming candlelight. She pushed away her plate. She would go to bed and try to get some sleep ready for her departure to Antwerp in the morning.

She was in her sitting room, trying to compose a short note to Randall when Lady Sarah Latymor was announced.

‘No, no, do not get up,’ cried her visitor, flying across the room and waving her hand in a peremptory manner. ‘We are such friends now we do not need to stand on ceremony. I have come to invite you to the ball.’

‘I beg your pardon?’