John Eaton arrived in the midst of a December sleet storm. He shook off his caped greatcoat, handed it to the butler, and was shown into Kit’s presence. “Ah, Lord Hatton, how wise you are to remain before your own fire with a decanter of whiskey at your elbow on such a day.”
Kit poured Eaton a drink and wasted no time with small talk. “My account is overdrawn, John. How could such a matter slip past your attention?”
“I assure you it hasn’t. I am most concerned about the state of your finances, my lord.”
“What is the ‘state of my finances’?” Kit asked with sarcasm.
Eaton coughed. “It is obvious that your expenditures far exceed your income.”
“But I inherited my father’s wealth; where is it?”
“The answer lies with you, my lord.”
“I beg to differ, sir! You are in charge of my investments; the answer lies with you!”
“Your father made wise investments in shipping and cargoes. Unfortunately, war with the United States has resulted in many of the vessels being seized. Henry also invested heavily in America; since then, however, we have lost possession of thirteen colonies.”
“I thought we were at war with France!”
Eaton rolled his eyes. “We are, my lord, and wars drain a country of its money. Wars have led to the breakdown of the narrow personal management of Parliament by the Regent and the ministry.”
It was double-talk to Kit Hatton. “You said there was money to be made from war.”
“Only if one wins, my lord,” Eaton said dryly. “These two wars are rapidly depleting England’s wealth. They have resulted in high prices, heavy taxes, and massive unemployment.”
“It is my depleted wealth I care about; I need money!”
“I warned you about using ready cash, did I not?”
“You did,” Kit acknowledged, “but you also said you would loan me whatever money I needed, at lower interest than the bank would charge … two percent I seem to recall.”
Eaton coughed again. “That is two percent per month.”
“But that’s twenty-four percent a year!”
“As opposed to bank rates of twenty-six percent, my lord.”
“What about these bills?” Kit pointed to a sheaf of papers beside the whiskey decanter. “I signed an authorization for you to handle all my financial business affairs.”
John Eaton picked up the bills and examined them. “These must be paid annually: taxes on Hatton Hall, land taxes, tax on this London town house, annual wages for the servants and staff.” Eaton didn’t even acknowledge the clothing or food and wine bills.
“Dear God, if the taxes go unpaid, I shall lose my property! You should have at least paid the taxes!”
“I am a financial advisor, not a nursemaid.”
“Then advise me, Goddamn you!”
“Your investments are almost depleted; they are worthless as collateral. I’ll make you another loan to cover your year-end expenses, but I shall have to hold the original title deed on Hatton until the loan is paid off.”
Kit reluctantly went to his bedchamber and returned with the original deed for Hatton Hall. He handed over the document with its official red seals, warning, “I want this back, understand?”
“You can easily pay back the loan if you cut down on life’s luxuries, slash your expenditures, and abjure self-indulgence.”
“I am a Lord of the Realm,” Kit said through clenched teeth.
“Then I suggest you do what other titled lords do when they suffer financial difficulties—marry an heiress.”
After Eaton departed, Kit’s thoughts did not linger on his bills; they became preoccupied with the much more pleasant vision of Alexandra.
At that moment Alex was watching Dottie read a letter she had just received from Lord Staines.
My Dearest Dorothy:
I deeply regret that I will not be able to spend Christmas with you. My doctor has confined me to bed, insisting that I have suffered a mild seizure. Damned fellow won’t be told that my best medicine is you, my love.
Yours alone, Neville
Dottie packed immediately. “I know it’s only three days until Christmas, but I’m off to nurse Neville, darling. Far preferable to spending Christmas with your brother and the Hardings. Guard your reputation, Alexandra. Rupert must escort you to all the festive entertainments, and Sara must go out with you during the day.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Alex ordered, feeling relief that her forays to Champagne Charlie’s would go undetected.
Chapter Twenty
On the front lines in France, the Royal Horse Artillery had no time to celebrate Christmas. Captain Nicholas Hatton’s men were in pursuit of Soult’s army, while other divisions had been given the safer task of blockading Bayonne.
Slowly but surely, they took one hill after another, forcing the enemy to retreat and reform its line of defense farther back. They drove Soult’s army from Gave de Pau to Orthez, then they captured that position also. The terrain had treacherous mountain passes and raging rivers, and more than one of Nick’s men drowned. He shepherded them as best he could, but he now had command of an entire battalion of a thousand soldiers and could no longer give them all his personal attention.
With each victory, Nick grew more confident that the end was in sight. At night he moved among the campfires, encouraging his men and restoring their flagging morale. “In every village we pass through, I see more and more deserters from the enemy army. I can spot them a mile off with their cropped heads. Half of them are barefoot, and an army without boots is staring defeat in the face!”
Nick silenced rumors that were negative and repeated those that fostered hope. “Our scouts estimate there are more than five thousand deserters scattered over the countryside. Marshal Soult is mounting his last possible defensive. He knows the end is close!”
Captain Hatton’s men began to believe him when they captured St. Sever. Soult’s troops retreated so quickly they had no time to destroy their magazines. More and more, the soldiers’ talk turned to victory and what they would do when the war was over and Napoleon defeated. Most wanted to leave the army and return to England. Some, to Nick’s amazement, wanted to become career soldiers. There was another war raging in the United States and the American continent held a fascination for many. Nicholas Hatton wanted nothing more than to return home. When the war was over, he would resign his commission and leave the army. First, however, Nick knew he must remain alive long enough to seize victory.
Early in the new year, Alex went round to Coutts Bank with money. Dottie was still in the country with Neville Staines, so Alex decided she would take over their financial difficulties. She learned that her grandmother had borrowed five thousand pounds and was already in arrears for three hundred pounds interest. She handed over the money she had made from Champagne Charlie’s and realized, with a sinking heart, just how long she would have to keep on performing if she were to pay off the actual loan and not just the interest. Alex knew she had no option; Dottie had assigned the deed to Longford Manor as collateral.
When she arrived home, she was surprised to learn that Kit Hatton had called and left a note for her. When she read it she was even more surprised that he was inviting her for an evening at the theater tonight. He apologized for the short notice and sounded eager for her company. She scribbled her acceptance and had a footman take it round to Curzon Street.
They saw a Sheridan play, and Alex found that she enjoyed herself immensely. Then Kit took her for a late supper.
“I went home to Hatton Hall for Christmas, but it was so gloomy, rattling round the place alone, I couldn’t wait to get back.”
Alex was flattered that he gave her his undivided attention, but at the same time she suspected it was because he had seen her with Hart Cavendish and it had aroused, not jealousy exactly, but rivalry perhaps. Kit assumed Hart was competing with him for her hand. She hid her amusement and did not disabuse him of his assumption. “I don’t suppose you�
�ve seen much of Rupert lately?”
“Well, over Christmas he was busy with his new family, but truthfully, marriage hasn’t cramped his style at all. Being a husband hasn’t curtailed our outings together; I’m starting to view marriage in a different light.”
Alex searched his face for any sign of mockery, but his gray eyes held only sincerity. Her gaze lingered on his dark, heavy brows and slanting cheekbones, then her glance lowered to his square chin, with its deep cleft. He really is one of the handsomest men I’ve ever seen in my life. If only I were starting to view marriage in a different light.
A few hours later at home in her bedchamber when her dream began, the face with the dark, heavy brows and slanting cheekbones played a prominent role. He was so close Alex could feel the heat of his body and see the blue shadow on his square chin. She reached out a finger and dipped it into the deep cleft with a delicious shiver. But the man who dominated her dream was not Kit Hatton, it was his twin, Nicholas.
In St. Sever, Nick Hatton had little time to sleep, let alone dream. Wellington had given his troops orders to press on relentlessly and assured them that their northern allies were poised to take Paris.
Captain Hatton discussed strategy for taking their next stronghold with his lieutenants. Mont de Marsan was extremely important because it served as the enemy’s great central depot. Snow fell heavily all day and helped to conceal their advance. By late afternoon, the battalion had accomplished its goal and captured Mont de Marsan. But before Nick had time to praise his men for their victory, there was a massive explosion as powder magazines blew up, filling the air with acrid, black smoke and the sky with orange flames. The number of casualties was great; the dead were dismembered, and the living received horrendous wounds.
Hatton ordered a field hospital be set up, and himself picked up and carried in casualties, all the time raging and cursing at the Gods of War. Seeing his men burned black sickened his soul. Within days, they had orders from Wellington himself to move on. The great man, who was suffering from a heavy cold, rode Copenhagen through the March snowstorm to bring General Hill word of Marshal Soult’s position on the River Aire. They stormed the enemy’s position en masse and forced them to fall back wearily toward Toulouse.
Wellington was relentless. In less than a fortnight he had gathered all his generals and their troops and ordered them to attack Toulouse. Soult decided to stay and fight, making a last vicious stand. The ensuing bloody battle left the wounded and dead from both sides lying everywhere. Captain Nicholas Hatton, buoyed by the courage of his men, felt immense satisfaction when he saw them fight, using the defensive tactics he had taught them. Late in the day it became obvious to British and French alike that Soult’s resistance was useless. The defeated army began to flee.
Nick turned quickly in the saddle to see a dragoon riding him down, intent on decapitating him with a flailing saber. Nick fired his pistol point-blank, which saved his life, but the Frenchman and his mount barreled into him, knocking him from the saddle. Nick was momentarily stunned by the fall; as he got to his feet he heard Slate screaming. He stared in horror as his gray writhed on the ground, his guts protruding through a gaping gash in his underbelly. In a flash, Nick cocked his second pistol and put a bullet in Slate’s brain.
The battlefield had no shortage of riderless horses, but before he grabbed the trailing reins of one, Nick laid a loving hand on Slate’s still-warm flank, and the lump in his throat threatened to choke him. He looked about him and realized that the fighting was done, the battle won. As he picked his way through the carnage, Nick took little joy in the victory. Their casualties were heavy, and the enemy had fled, leaving behind hundreds of wounded men.
It was midnight before he had checked on the men in his battalion. As he lay in the darkness, physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted, blessed sleep eluded him. Nick railed against a God thirsty for blood and vengeance. When I came here, everything in the world had been snatched away, except Slate. You weren’t satisfied until you took that one last thing from me! He felt raw, sapped, desolate, a breath away from madness. But as he lay there in the dark, a strange transformation began to take place. Slowly, gradually, peacefully, a calm descended and his sanity returned. Nick knew that, except for Slate, he had no regrets. The adversity of war had taught him things he could not have learned anywhere else. Though he was more cynical, his belief in himself and his abilities was now unshakable, and his self-worth had doubled. He closed his eyes and dreamed of home and Alexandra.
“The extra five shillings a week you’ve given me since Christmas has made a world of difference, mistress.” Sara bobbed a curtsy.
“Call me Alex, and please don’t genuflect to me, Sara. I am no saint.” Alex had promised her a raise when she thought her grandmother was a wealthy dowager, so she had had no option but to give Sara a little of the money she earned at Charlie’s.
“I just want you to know how much I appreciate it. I’m able to buy my mother a few luxuries she’s never had before.”
“How is your mother, Sara?”
“She was well the last time I went round. The winter’s not been kind to Maggie, though. She’s been very poorly. Spring is in the air today, so let’s hope she starts to improve.”
“You are right, spring is in the air. Why don’t we take a walk and go to visit them, Sara?”
“Oh, could we? I’ll take her some tea; it’s so expensive.”
Alex reflected on the high price of the imported luxury and gave thanks that dear Neville Staines footed the food bills at Berkeley Square. She sent up a quick prayer for Neville’s full recovery. Dottie had returned from nursing him a fortnight ago, and reported that he was vastly improved, but yesterday she had gone back for a few days, just to make sure.
Outside, the pale sunshine reflected in the windows of the houses they passed. When they neared Regent Street, they saw that the lovely weather had brought all the vendors out to peddle their wares. Old women selling spring flowers tempted Alex to part with her money, but she resisted, knowing she must buy Sara’s mother something more useful. They went into a shop, where Sara bought two ounces of tea and Alex selected a pot of honey. Then impulsively she picked up a second pot for Maggie Field.
As they walked toward the squalid streets, Sara warned, “Better hide these things or they’ll be snatched from our hands by the first raggedy little bugger who runs past us.” She slipped the tea into her pocket, and Alex followed suit. The houses in the slum seemed more dilapidated than Alex remembered, and the warm day brought an unbelievable stench to the entire area.
Inside, Alex explained to Sara’s mother that when she had visited last time, she had been dressed in her brother’s clothes. They all enjoyed a good laugh, and when the older woman saw the tea and honey they had brought her, she was overwhelmed. Alex moved apart to give them some privacy and pretended not to notice when Sara slipped some shillings into her mother’s hand. They stayed for half an hour, then said their good-byes and knocked on the door across the hall.
“I heard her say come in,” Sara said. She lifted the latch, and the two young women stepped across the threshold. “It’s Sara. Are you feeling any better?”
Maggie was reclining on a narrow horsehair sofa, and she struggled to sit up. When she saw that Sara had someone with her, the smile of welcome faded, and her sunken eyes went wide with horror. “No … no … get her away,” she gasped.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Field. I came before with Sara. I was dressed in my brother’s clothes.” Alex touched her hair self-consciously as Maggie stared at its color as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “I brought you some honey.”
“Alexandra … get away from me,” she gasped.
“She’s afraid you’ll catch her consumption,” Sara explained.
“She knows my name!” Alex was surprised. “Maggie, do you know me, or perhaps my grandmother?”
“No!” The denial was too swift. Too painful.
Maggie Field, you do know me. Margaret Fiel
d … Margaret … Alex’s hand covered her mouth, then it slipped down over her heart.
“Your name is Sheffield … Margaret Sheffield, isn’t it?”
The woman fell back on the couch. “Go away … don’t look at me!”
Alex stepped back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“We’d better go,” Sara said.
Alex nodded and followed her outside.
“Your face is as white as a sheet. Do you know Maggie?”
“I knew her once.” Alex pressed her lips together. As her feet moved swiftly, carrying her away from the decaying streets, she could not bring herself to discuss the matter with Sara. She needed to sort out her tangled emotions. Her thoughts were in disarray, her feelings were in chaos, and her tranquility was completely shattered.
As Alex distanced herself from the slums and walked through Soho toward Mayfair, her thoughts became clearer. When they got to Berkeley Square, she turned to Sara. “I’m not coming in; I have somewhere I must go.”
Sara hesitated. “Would you like me to come with you?”
“No”—Alex shook her head—“but thank you.” She carried on walking to Curzon Street, then turned the corner into Clarges. She was admitted into the town house by the usual servant. “Is my brother at home?”
“I am, Alex, but not for long.” Rupert, dressed in his driving coat, came down the stairs into the entrance hall.
“You are going driving; that fits into my plans perfectly.”
“Unfortunately, you don’t fit into my plans. I’m off to the spring meet of the Four-In-Hand Club.”
“They’ll have to manage without you,” Alex said decisively. “I need you to drive me somewhere, Rupert.”