The Duke’s Impetuous Darling: Christmas Belles, Book 3 Read online

  "Society! It's the cure," announced their aunt with a flourish of one hand and the assurance of a lady used to histrionics. Gertrude, their mother's young sister, had left home at age eighteen to make her mark in the London theater. She'd trod the boards only a few times when the widower Earl of Marsden discovered her and swept her up into his arms, his family and his fortune by marrying her. "We’ll make the season bright. Heaven knows, we need a bit of cheer."

  Bee still had doubts. "Aunt, what of a simple dinner party instead? Should we not remember your recent malaise?"

  "No. We shouldn't. Not to worry, my girl." The roly poly silver-haired Countess winked at Bee and took two more scones from the tea tray for herself. This past May, Aunt Gertrude had suffered heart palpitations. Only the victory of the Allies on the field at Waterloo on her birth date had put a spring in her step. Lifting her dish of tea with one hand, she fluttered away Bee's objection with the other.

  Simms cleared his throat. “Will that be all, Madam?”

  Their aunt got a devilish gleam in her eye. “Do tell Cook I want a grand ice for the center of the table.”

  “Any special form, Madam?”

  “Napoleon,” she said with a giggle. “A melting Bonaparte! Too delightful! Too, too! Well. What do you think?”

  Del laughed.

  Bee caught her breath.

  Simms said, “Perhaps a unicorn?”

  Marjorie said, “I’d like a cupid.”

  “A naked little boy on the table?” Their aunt chuckled and fanned herself like a fainting actress. “No, it wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t. Ahem. At all. I like Napoleon better, Simms.”

  “As you wish, Madam.” His upper lip twitched as he suppressed a grin. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Tell Cook we want duck.”

  “Ten,” said Del because duck was her favorite dish.

  “A roast beef,” said Marjorie because she loved it.

  “A herd of cattle,” Bee said and her sisters agreed.

  “Charades, sleigh rides,” crooned Del.

  “Cards,” added Marjorie.

  "That's the spirit!” Aunt Gertrude ordered. "Do you good. A choice of proper gentlemen."

  Bee couldn't blame her aunt for wanting them all settled in the acceptable bonds of matrimony. But one couldn't marry just anyone.

  Marjorie smiled, mischievous as a dark angel, her purple eyes aglow. "I haven't ever had a beau. I wouldn’t know how to entertain one."

  Bee pursed her lips. Marjorie hadn't ever uttered one word about wanting a husband. Why was that?

  "I will be happy to help you, Aunt," Marjorie volunteered.

  Of course, Marjorie would like to assist their aunt to hostess a grand party. Why not? Since their father had died and left the sisters penniless, Marjorie welcomed any chance to work her magic on any so foolish as to cut a deck of cards with her.

  It was up to Bee to show all three of them some good sense. But how? Even if she wrote to Griffith in Paris and explained the best reason to stop this party, he'd not be able to respond quickly enough to nip this idea in the bud. "Honestly, Aunt. You are ambitious with this project."

  "Darling, I'd welcome the company. So would your sisters. Am I right, girls?"

  Marjorie agreed.

  Delphine too.

  "Oh, Bee, you don't have to dance," said Marjorie, consoling her by reaching over to squeeze her hand. Bee had confided her fears about Alastair's loss.

  "Yes, you do," chimed in their aunt. "It's only proper. We've no definite news of young Alastair and when Griff arrives, we can ask him what he's done to find him. So you must dance, Bee."

  Bee shook her head. Without a home or funds as they had been since their father's demise, they'd accepted their aunt's invitation to come to Marsden Hall to live. Their aunt and her step-son, Griffith, gave them money but the sisters smarted at the charity. Marjorie had taken to improving her talents in the art of cards. Delphine hoped one day to earn a salary for her teaching at the orphanage. While Bee had been promised a bounty by the Customs for identifying the smuggler Blue Hawker, they hadn't caught him yet. Even if and when they did, the bounty would not support a family of three for more than a year. She needed more.

  "Now, now." Aunt Gertrude inclined her head toward Bee, a sweet look of appeal on her lips. "To meet the eligible men of society is necessary."

  "There are so damn few left," said Del. At their aunt's gasp of reproof, she added, "Sorry. Very few left."

  Bee wanted Alastair, only Alastair. Had done all her life. He'd never known. She'd never intimated. Before her father's downfall, she'd been courted by many a man. But she'd never felt her heart throb for anyone, save Alastair. She'd refused every offer and some had been quite grand.

  But without him, not knowing what had happened to him, she was bereft. Without dowry or reputation, she didn't look for any other suitors, either. He, a second son of a viscount, had gone to the Army to support himself. His pay, just as he'd told her in May, was meager. If he'd come home, if he'd been promoted, he might have earned a bit from his title—and asked for her hand. But why would a well-decorated Army captain wish to marry a woman whose family was so thoroughly dishonored?

  Yet all that was moot. Alastair had not come home. Now it was time she face facts.

  Aunt Gertrude thought it helpful to host a house party, even necessary to put Bee and her sisters out into society again. They could not remain here for the rest of their lives upon their aunt's and her step-son’s dole. Besides, Marjorie and Del might each find a man they could love. Bee would be remiss if she refused her aunt's kind efforts at their rehabilitation.

  So if Del wanted to flirt and Majorie wanted to waltz—or cheat, Bee would not dissuade them. She might not be able to be gay, but she'd smile and dance and support this party. Yet for her own future, her own self-respect, Bee had to consider other ways to live. Sad to say, only a few were open to her.

  Chapter 2

  December 5, 1815

  Hotel Charost

  Rue de Faubourg St. Honoré

  Paris, France

  “This way, sir." The young subaltern led Alastair Demerest up the flight of stairs with a disdain that told him he didn't believe he was a captain and his superior. True, Alastair's threadbare uniform did not inspire confidence. Yet, the man would soon learn he was wrong to doubt his need to speak with Colonel Lord Marsden. Still, the young man sought to cow him by bounding up the marble steps. Alastair struggled to keep up. Winded, he paused a moment and rested his good arm upon the marble banister. His gaze took in the glory of the abode that was now the official residence of the Occupying Troops of His Britannic Majesty's forces in France and headquarters for the Allied Commander-in-Chief, the Duke of Wellington.

  "Not bad. Pauline Bonaparte had good taste," he murmured to himself as he admired the pristine decor and the entrance up to the Grand Salon. The subaltern had told him as they waited for Griffith to send word down he'd receive him, that Napoleon's licentious sister had owned the house until the Government bought it last year for the Duke of Wellington.

  "Captain Lord Lowell?" Griffith rushed over the threshold of the Salon. A grin burst over his craggy features as he strode forward to catch him close. "By God, Alastair, it is you!"

  "None other!" Relief washed through him like a soft spring rain. To see a friend when he'd spent weeks, months, wondering if he'd ever know even himself again went far to restore his confidence.

  "Come in. Dear god, you are wounded. What a sight you are, you old dog! Let me help you." Griff, the same height and broad build as Alastair, wrapped an arm around his back and lent him his support. "You may return to your post, Subaltern."

  "If I were more stable, I'd show you who's the old dog." Alastair chided his childhood friend, rejoicing at the sight of one pal who had survived the carnage in Belgium.

  "Save your breath, man." Griff led him forward. "Christ's bones, I never thought to see you again." His words were laced with unshed tears.

  They matched Alastai
r's. "I'd say the same, but I'm too damn tired from climbing those steps."

  Griff wiggled his brows. "I have a reward for you."

  "It better be brandy."

  Griff snorted in laughter. "Very stong. Very old."

  They limped along the balcony together toward the Salon. Inside amid the multitude handling the details of the British Army's occupation of her former enemy, Alastair saw numerous chairs, generously upholstered. "I'll gladly sit in this first one, Colonel."

  "Lieutenant!" Griff shouted to a soldier working at a broad gilt desk. "Bring that cognac here. The cheese and bread too."

  "You look like hell," Griff said with a scowl as he helped Alastair sink into the chair.

  "Why, thank you, Colonel," Alastair said with a feigned smile.

  The young officer appeared before them with a tray laden with the refreshments.

  "Thank you, Lieutenant." Griff stepped back to look Alastair over. Hands to his hips, he blanched. His large blue eyes took in each miserable detail. The slice to Alastair's left cheek. His left arm in a sling. His ginger movement to ease the discomfort that still plagued him from what the surgeon had told him appeared to be a French cuirassier's sabre cut to his ribs. "Glad as hell you're here."

  "That's two of us," Alastair said as he hoisted the brandy in salute. "Pardon me while I savor this, will you?"

  "Drink the whole damn flask." Griff pushed it closer, then pulled a chair over to sit facing him. "How did you get here? Know I was here in Paris?"

  "Everyone knows where Wellington sleeps." He savored the liquor, his throat parched from his wanderings in the city to find this house.

  "I'm certain. But how did you get here?"

  "Mostly? I walked. Got a ride with a troop wagon coming south from Charleroi."

  "Dear god," Griff said simply, his word explaining how stunned he was.

  "I was in hospital there for...well, I'm not certain how long. Since I fell, I suppose. I told the surgeon I needed to go to Paris. I said I had a friend here who could recognize me, finally, and give me papers for home."

  "And all this time? Where have you been? How have you lived?"

  Alastair took a satisfying drink of the brandy. "As near as I can figure out, someone—perhaps one of my own men—found me on the field after the guns went silent. He told others in the hospital that he shoved me into a wagon and I went in a tumbril to a field hospital. Dozens of other poor creatures and I were piled on top of each other like bread from the oven."

  Griff cursed. "It was a nightmare to pick up the wounded and care for them."

  Alastair winced. "No need to tell me. I lived it. Badly." He indicated his injured arm.

  "What happened to your arm? Your face?"

  "Broken arm. Must've fallen on it. As for the face? Who knows what caused it. I have no memory of the battle. Damn glad we won, though." He lifted his glass in a toast and took another swig.

  "Any idea why you wear a foot soldier’s uniform?"

  Alastair shrugged. "One doctor said he thought mine must've been in rags and rather than let me go about naked, some kind soul took this infantry sergeant's uniform and put it on me."

  Griff indicated the short sleeves. "Guess we don't have too many infantrymen with arms as long as yours."

  Alastair grinned. "My boots are too small and yes, if I took them off now, you'd see how short my trousers are too."

  "What a nightmare. Not you. But what happened to you. To all the wounded. Dead."

  "You cannot imagine how hideous it was, Griff. No one has good records in our field hospitals of who's there. One surgeon for hundreds of wounded. Volunteers from the villages to do the nursing? A problem, that."

  "Why didn't you speak up, tell them you weren't infantry and—”

  Alastair shook his head weary of his journey and this story. "I would have if I could have. But it seems, I didn't speak for months."

  "What?"

  He tried not to be bitter. "I didn't know anyone for the longest time."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I didn't even know myself. Not my name, my rank. Even my country. The men I was with told me I was English. That I spoke gibberish, but they were English words. They'd picked me off the field because they heard me crying for help." And Bee. "They threw me in the wagon."

  "How is that possible? Not to know yourself?" Griff asked. "You had your uniform?"

  "Evidently not."

  "But why? Rifle shot doesn't blow off your uniform or—”

  "No. Scavengers steal it." He shook his head. "But you must know how hideous it was."

  Griff scowled. "We've had reports. The animals—”

  "Animals?" Alastair scoffed. "Is that what you heard? Maybe you'd call the creatures who came to rob the wounded and the dead that, but from the stories I've heard from those brought in from the field, I'd call them devils."

  "Men?"

  "Women. Children, too. Came to kick and prod the wounded and the lifeless. Those who couldn't fight? Those too weak to resist? Those heathens robbed them. Cut their buttons from their uniforms. Took their shakos. Their coats, shoes, sabres, pistols. Even the trinkets from their pockets. A few cut the gold fillings from the mouths of the dead. Left those still breathing, whimpering and sobbing, naked to the mercies of the night, the stars and God."

  "Dear Lord."

  "I assure you, He did not walk battlefields. But next time—”

  Griff grew stern, angry. "There'll be no next time, Alastair."

  "I hope to heaven you're right, Griff. Because the next time men slaughter men, you'd better have enough surgeons, even enough wagons to carry the wounded away and try to save them. You'd better have guards, too, from what I've heard of those who suffered these thieves, lots of guards who patrol the fields and preserve the final dignity of those who fought and fell."

  Griff stared at his folded hands, but his mouth went rigid. "We had your name on one of the rolls of wounded. Then there was nothing. No record of where you were."

  "The infantryman who was beside me in the cart died. Or so said one of the women who nursed us. And she did not know my name. Whatever happened to the rolls with my name on them, I have no idea."

  "We thought you were dead. But we had no evidence. So we assumed...the worst. Those in your regiment who survived the day told us of a series of rockets that the French line rained on your position. Nine of your men are dead."

  "I'm not surprised."

  "You don't remember?"

  Alastair shrugged. "Not a thing. I remember the start of the battle, the charge, the pounding of hooves, but then...nothing. When I came to awareness again, I was in a wooden barn with other wounded. Hundreds. Bleeding, crying, dying. I was with men whose uniforms I didn't understand. My mind was blank. Without an idea of where I was or what I was doing with all these mangled, moaning men, I couldn't recall anything. I asked what I was doing there, or I guess I did. The doctor told me it was August. I'd lost weeks, a month or more. I had no name, no past, no rank, no future. But I did speak English."

  "You didn't know who you were?" Griff asked in horror.

  "No name. No past. No future." Only the face of a young woman, black-haired, blue-eyed—and her name. Bee.

  Griff grimaced. "Well you are here now, thank god. Drink up. Eat. More as you feel better. Tonight and until I sort your reappearance, you'll billet with me."

  He nodded. "I don't wish to be a burden, Griff."

  "Burden? We thought you dead. Gone. So a burden you are not. I’m damn thrilled to have you with me."

  "I want to go home, Griff." Bee needs me. I need her. “I've got to go quickly.”

  "And you will. We will. As soon as I can get the duke to issue my orders."

  "You're going home, too?" Alastair took another sip of the strong liquor.

  "I am. I was promised leave for Christmas, but given no dates. Now that I see you, and your needs, I'll press Wellington for orders. You can't go anywhere in your condition without help."

  "I made it here, di
dn't I?"

  "Nearly six months after Waterloo? Wherever you've been, whoever helped you survive, it's a miracle. I'm taking you home. As soon as I get papers."

  "I'm not arguing with you." Alastair let his eyes drift closed. He'd made it. Didn't think he'd ever see Griff again, or even a British uniform, let alone home. And Bee.

  "You're a scarecrow. We'll have to get you a uniform. Borrow one from a man here. We'll find someone your height. Can't go home in those."

  He looked like a pauper. Smelled like one too.

  "I've two rooms in the Hotel Rivoli," Griff rambled on while Alastair munched on the soft white cheese and the crisp bread. "Old but warm. The service from the boulangerie downstairs is excellent. The bed is big enough for two, but you'll have it all to yourself. Ah-ah. I insist. From the looks of you, you need it."

  "I must tell you I don't sleep well."

  "Hell, Alastair. None of us does."

  "I mean I have problems sleeping. I wake up at all hours. Walk the floor. During the day, I have times when I sit and my mind is blank. I rock, they tell me. Just sit and rock."

  "Battle madness."

  Truth was, his thinking was not right. He had dark moods, impulsive needs to walk the floor. Bright light made him angry. Loud noises too. He was better than he had been, or so said the attendants. But he was not repaired. Not whole. If he ever could be. "Is that what they call it?"

  "You're going home. With time and peace, you will grow well."

  "I hope you're right. One man said he'd seen another man like me, but he used to wake up screaming and break everything in sight."

  Griff put a hand to his shoulder.

  Alastair tried to smile, but the taut pull of skin from the slash to his left cheek prohibited that. He took another satisfying swallow of the brandy and felt the rush. Putting it aside, he didn't wish to lose any detail of this conversation to alcohol. He took in the bustle of the other officers. Two more colonels. One Horse Guard. One Grenadier. A general who had managed to survive. All whole, unscarred. "I'm simply happy to see a face I know."