Chapter 39
Murphy’s Law of Relationships #92
“Not everything takes longer than you expect.”
The general stopped at their table, his face an unreadable block of lined granite. “Gentlemen, may I join you?”
Robert, and reluctantly Rig, stood, and offered the General a chair. Sitting, they studied each other for a moment.
“I am General Mountharron. I wish to speak with you about your duel with my son. Do you plan to go through with it?”
Rig nodded. “If your son is.” He knew the endless frustrations with his hopeless situation—and brandy—led him to confront Mountharron, but that wasn’t the heart of it. “He purposely insulted Miss Graham to get my attention. She is too fine a woman for me to ignore that.”
The general sighed and nodded. “Yes, I was in the room.” He drew out a folded paper and laid it on the table. “Percy is my youngest son, and continually needs to prove himself to me and his older brothers. Unfortunately, he often confuses bravery with foolishness, social influence with creating on dits.” He pushed the paper across the table to Rig. “That is a written apology. I will have him come here and do so personally. I hope it will suffice. There will be no duel tomorrow.” The general stood, leading Rig and Robert to do likewise.
“I expect your son to never say another word against Miss Graham,” Rig said. “If I hear different, I will find him.”
The general studied Rig for a moment, then nodded. “Understood. I ask that you do not speak of this altercation to others, for my son’s sake, and mine. He still has much to learn.” The General held out his hand.
Rig took it firmly. “I have no reason to share it, sir.” Shaking hands with Robert too, the general wished them good fortune and said goodnight.
Robert fell into his chair, with a whoop and an “Unbelievable.”
Pocketing the apology note, Rig grinned. He might even get around to reading it. The general’s intervention did feel like a last-minute reprieve. More whiskeys were ordered along with cigars.
Later, young Mountharron, with a well-packed nose and two fine shiners, gave a curt apology for his words and left. Considering how the room quieted when Mountharron appeared, and how Rig was eyed throughout the rest of the evening, he was not sure it mattered if he kept the altercation to himself.
It was one in the morning and White’s remained filled with energetic men standing in groups either drinking, or gambling at tables, or both. Robert, while berating White’s for harboring the ‘wild coxcombs,’ went off in search of a game of Hazzard or Picquet. Rig chose to just sit and enjoy what turned out to be a really fine cigar. Close by, he listened to various conversations going on around them.
Several gentlemen, particularly the men in blue and red officers’ uniforms, discussed how the British forces under Wellesley were being harried by the French Army under King Joseph, Napoleon’s brother. The consensus was that the British and Spanish would continue to retreat into Portugal to avoid almost certain defeat in battle.
A few made verbal wagers on when Wellesley would retreat back across the Portuguese border. Rig smiled. In officer’s school, the Talavera Campaign along with Corunna”s had constituted part of a week-long course which struck most prospective officers as an annoying waste of time. The Napoleonic Wars were ancient history. Rig grimaced at the memory. While he agreed with the sentiments at the time, he appreciated the study far more now, having participated in a Napoleonic campaign. He got a kick out of knowing how Wellesley’s campaign would really play out.
Rig noticed several men laughing around a podium, writing in a large book opened there. When the men left, Rig wandered over to see what was so entertaining. The book turned out to be filled with handwritten bets, large and small, on horse races and boxing events. A good number were patently silly wagers, such as “Mr. Edward Small will be able to usher Miss Penelope Tashenby out on the balcony alone at Thursday’s soirée at Grenville Hall” and “Mr. Theodore Peets can drink a tankard of ale standing on his head.” Below were written often absurd amounts, in the hundreds and thousands of pounds, betting for or against the assertion with the names of the people involved. Then there were new entries betting that the British army would avoid battle. While Rig remained engrossed in reviewing such curious bets, Robert strode over, saying he was ready to leave as he’d lost most of his winnings.
Rig pointed to the book. “Are these bets serious?”
“What do you mean, old boy?”
“I mean are these actual bets? There are huge sums wagered here.”
“As serious as Nelson’s right arm. Of course they are honored. If we had something guaranteed to bet on, you might make the needed sums to avoid prison.”
“A number of these wagers are idiotic. Can bets be on anything?”
“Absolutely. Why, do you have something in mind?”
As though jolted by an electric shock, he had an inspiration, a new hope. To avoid displaying his long hand, he gave the quill to Robert and said, “Write this down. General Wellesley will meet the French in battle on—” Rig hesitated a moment, almost positive that he remembered the date, close to his mother’s birthday. “On July 28, 1809, at the Spanish Town of Talavera.”
Robert eyed his friend. “You aren’t in your cups, are you? Thinking clearly?” Rig nodded. “Are you certain?”
“Yep.”
“Well, how much are you willing to bet?”
“A thousand pounds.”
“Everything?”
“It won’t do me any good in prison, when none of my creditors are accepting partial payments.”
“Au contraire, mon ami. That money can buy you better prison accommodations and food.”
“Nonetheless, that’s what I’m betting.”
Robert shook his head and offered a lopsided grin. “As I’ve noted before. You, sir, are entertaining. Well, in that case . . .” and added his name with “will happen” next to his own one thousand pounds.
“Robert, what are you doing?”
“I am upping the chances of you, and of course me, making a great deal of ready meggs.” At Rig’s frown, Robert laughed. “Gold, quid, guineas. You have too much gumption to be making a bad bet, not one this outlandish. I have the funds to cover my wager but smell good money in this.”
Waving a hand at the room, he said, “These good gentlemen will up their bets attempting to beat each other to win a larger percentage of our 2,000 pounds if we lose. If we win, we win everything they have bet. I know a good number of gentlemen who cannot resist betting against such long odds, or each other.” He smiled knowingly. “And they will be honor-bound to make good their losses.”
“What about two bets?”
“Such as?”
“That Wellesley will win the battle but retreat the next day.”
“Do you have any money left?”
“One hundred pounds of my pay.”
Robert did more writing in the book, then turned to the hall and in a loud voice called out, “New wagers in the book.”
~ ~ ~
August 10th
Melissa fussed with the bodice of her new ball gown, one she hurriedly bought today with her inheritance. The green accentuated her tan, which had yet to fade. She could do little about it, but the color did match her eyes. She worked to make herself presentable, a maid piling her hair on top of her head, holding it fast with a small tiara.
Exceedingly annoyed with her uncle and his rushed preparations, Melissa grabbed her reticule and a shawl, though the evening was warm. Meeting her uncle, she frowned at him. “I am as ready as I can be with so little notice.”
After a long delay, Uncle Thomas had suddenly agreed to bring her with him to London. Hurrying the trip, he urged the teams to exhaustion. When they arrived, waiting for them were invitations to attend a ball this very evening, to be held at the mansion of one of her uncle’s friends, Viscount Allenbury.
She’d quickly sent a letter to Rig at Robert Brooks’ London home informing him of her intended arrival, but she had not expected to arrive this soon. She had heard no more than several quick notes from him in the last month, which worried her. They weren’t fretfulbut contained little information other than he was hopeful.She didn’t want to attend a ball. She wanted to see Rig. His freedom would end in two short weeks.
Her uncle took her arm, saying, “Come, come, lass. You look splendid, a picture of perfection.”
“Even my freckles?”
He laughed. “Yes, even they are flawless.” He guided her to the door and their waiting coach. “Thank you for being willing to come with me, after such a long trip. I feel certain you will enjoy the evening.” Her uncle helped her into the coach, and they were off. Sitting across from her, he seemed a mite too jovial.
“Uncle, what are you aboot?”
“Me, lassie? Why would you ask?”
“I know you. You seldom attend balls and assemblies, and never demonstrate such, shall we say, anticipation.”
“Lord Allenbury is hosting this party. I haven’t seen Allenbury in a hound’s age.” Her uncle grinned, gesturing expansively in the confines of the coach’s cabin. “I look forward to getting acquainted again.”
Melissa gave him a one-eyed squint. “I see.”
“I hope you will join in the evening’s festivities. Mayhap accept an invitation or two to dance?”
“Perhaps. I must say, Uncle, you do dazzle in the scarlet, gold, and blue of your general’s uniform. Why, pray tell, would you wear it to a formal ball tonight?”
“No mystery. It’s my first opportunity to wear it. I want to be seen while it is still in pristine condition before returning to Spain.”
“Uncle, may I stay in London at your house when you leave? I wish to see Captain Sparhawk if at all possible.”
“I will think on it, but I don’t favor leaving you alone in town without company or a chaperone.”
Melissa didn’t say any more. Her uncle would be concerned about the social implications of her seeing Rig in his absence, particularly with prison in his future.
She sighed and watched the darkened city pass by, lit here and there by streetlamps, wondering where Rig was, how he fared, which she did countless times a day.
The coach rolled up to the gaily lit mansion, carriages fighting for position near the front door. Stepping down, Melissa gazed up at the three-story mansion, torchlight playfully dancing across the white stone walls and tall columns framing the porch. Melissia hesitated, feeling desperately underdressed for such opulence. Her uncle chuckled. “Come now, Melissa. No missishness now.”
Pursing her mouth at his assumption, she took his arm and joined the receiving line, which was long. They entered the house proper, and her uncle spoke to the waiting butler, who turned and announced, “Laird Major General Graham and niece, Miss Graham.”
She was introduced to Viscount Allenbury and family, nodding, and smiling, thanking them for the invitation. Of course, her uncle and the Viscount slapped each other on the back and laughed, belatedly breaking apart with the Viscount’s promise to search out Graham when he was done with the receiving line.
They entered the expansive ballroom where scores of people in elegant coats and dresses mingled. Mel knew none of them and had not been invited to such an elegant event since her Season. And like her Season, she stood apart watching the scene.
Uncharacteristically, her uncle rocked on his heels, hands linked behind him with apparent delight. She studied him, but could not decipher the reasons for it, so returned to admiring all the London elite clustered at the borders of the ballroom floor and refreshment tables.
Like many ballrooms, the far end of the hall consisted of a series of full-length glass French windows, now open to let in the cool breeze from the terraces. Her uncle asked if she wished for a glass of punch or champagne, which she declined. So they remained, Melissa supposed her uncle waited for the Viscount to be done with his duties as host.
The first dance set was called, and couples collected on the parquet dance floor under a sparkling chandelier. Her uncle turned to her and said, “Care to dance, Miss Graham?”
“With you?” Melissa smiled. “Certainly. It has been a long time since I’ve danced with you, uncle. I do remember you were an excellent partner.”
The set done, they walked off the dance floor. Melissa smiled up at her uncle. “I see you haven’t lost a step.” With an appreciative grin, her uncle bowed, but before he could continue, to her surprise, more than one gentleman who knew her uncle stepped up to be introduced, and then requested a dance. The first one was a Mr. Bradshaw, who led her out for the next set. The second set was with a Major Wilcome.
As much as she enjoyed dancing, Melissa begged off any further requests, citing the heat and a desire for refreshments. Two eager gentlemen went off to procure them for her and her uncle who still stood on the sidelines appearing content.
She turned to her uncle and whispered, “I cannot fathom why I am being asked to dance and attended to now. You know this never happened during my Season.”
He chuckled. “Ah, lass, can you not see how you’ve changed?”
“Apart from a stubborn tan, a white streak in my hair marking where my scalp is scarred, and a slight twinge in my shoulder when I lift it overhead during a country dance, no, I cannot.
“Melissa.” He shook his head, giving her a chiding glance. “Lass, you have a presence you did not possess during your Season.”
She frowned at him, ready to accuse him of handing her a hum, when from the receiving line, she was interrupted with “Baron Aston and Lord Major Robert Brooks.” She had hardly any time to recognize the names when someone spoke behind her.
“General Graham. Good evening. I see you received my letter?”
Melissa gasped, knowing that voice as she did her own heartbeat. There stood Rig, startlingly tall and handsome, almost a stranger—shaved, groomed, having gained back his weight, decked out in immaculate black evening attire and blue vest.
“Ah, Lord Aston. And Lord Brooks. Well met. I did indeed receive your letter.”
Colonel Graham cleared his throat, with a soft smile. Rig and she smiled, realizing they had been lost in each other’s eyes, seeing each other after so many months. Robert, with a Cheshire grin, excused himself to find a card game.
Rig smiled at Melissa, and turned to Graham. “And do my circumstances and request meet with your approval?”
“They do indeed, sir.” With the largest grin Melissa had ever seen from her uncle, he said, “How could I deny such a fervent appeal?” He leaned over to Melissa and quietly said, “Close your mouth, lass.”
The two servants carrying glasses of champagne were intercepted by Rig. He passed one to Melissa, and one to the General. He toasted with clinking glasses, “Salud. To us and good fortune.”
Stepping close to Melissa, he said to Graham, “Excuse us, sir, the lady and I need some air.” With that, Rig led her around the dance floor and out the French windows onto a wide slate terrace. Finding a corner bench apart from other guests enjoying the summer evening, Rig sat, pulling her down next to him.
“You, Miss Graham, are gorgeous. In my time they’d say you ‘clean up well’ or that you’re a fox, but that hardly does you justice. You are Stunningly beautiful.”
Melissa was finally recovering her senses and embarrassingly delighted by his words, hit his shoulder. “Don’t go gammoning me. How are you here? Are you still bound for prison? Why didn’t you write more?” She held her tongue, sure she would fall into chastising him in Braid Scots if she didn’t bury him in questions. Glancing at other guests farther down the terrace who furtively watched them, she waited attempting to find something innocuous to do with her nervous hands.
“Robert Brooks is nephew to Lord Allenbury’s wife. I was invited to this shindig. And no, I am not bound for prison. My debts have been paid in full. I didn’t write because, because I had to know if my bet would pay off.”
“What bet? I don’t understand.”
She opened her mouth to say more but he laid a finger on her lips, the unexpectedly warm sensation cutting off further thought.
Rig chuckled and told her about the Talavera wager placed at White’s. “The story of Robert and my bets and winnings made the rounds in the clubs and was reported in the Times. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.” He grinned at her open-mouthed surprise, but the grin faded when she frowned.
“I was so busy that I could hardly find the time to stop and write. Once Robert and I had won, there remained the complex dance I had to carry out to obtain the winnings, pay off my creditors, and clear it all with the Home Office. Then I had to pay for my writ to officially obtain my rank, resign my commission in the Ninety-Fifth, and then travel back to Aston Abby to move in, so to speak.”
Seeing that her censorious expression remained, he shrugged with an apologetic raise of his eyebrows. “I didn’t write because I wanted to have that all set in stone before I wrote to General Graham and saw you.” He chuckled. “However, your uncle heard about my good fortune and wrote me first.”
“Oh.” Melissa collected her thoughts and asked, “Who would guess that remembering a bit of history could be so lucrative?”
He pulled back a corner of his mouth. “Not me. Not until now. I do have big plans for 1815. If nothing else, by then we will want something more for our family.”
“Our what?”
He took her face in his hands and said, “I’ve gotten ahead of myself.” They both glanced briefly at the other guests on the terrace, a growing number who didn’t hide their interest. “I didn’t feel I could say this until now. Melissa Graham. I love you.” He kissed her briefly, his fingers threading her hair. “You are a magnificent woman, someone I would be extremely proud to call my wife, in awe that such a woman would accept me as I am.”
She frowned, both remembering his views on women and hoping he would kiss her again. He did kiss her, little gasps issuing from those down the terrace at their bold behavior. He smiled at both her frown and others’ shock.
Melissa’s face prickled seeing the attention they were receiving. She took his hands from her face, held them tight whispering, “You are causing a scene.”
“Am I?” He squeezed both her hands. “I can’t help it. You are not like other women. You are someone I trust, admire, and can depend on. I want you as my partner in this new life of mine.”
He kissed her again, this time pulling her close, hands on her shoulders, the meeting of their lips, warm and sweet, hinting at far more passionate things to come.
He broke the kiss. “Will you marry me?” He grinned. “As I understand it, with our outrageous public display just now, you and I must marry you to satisfy propriety. Colonel Graham will insist on it. I don’t want to irritate him.”
She gave him a narrow-eyed assessment, waving a hand at the audience they were still collecting. “So, Lord Aston, was all this tonight a ploy to ensure my consent regardless of any reservations I might have?” She pursed her lips at him in a less than serious manner. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen Aston Abby yet.”
“Well, if you put it that way, yes.” He kissed her again, pulling her even closer. “I did ask your uncle for your hand. I thought meeting you here would also help smooth the way.”
“Ah, that explains my uncle’s strange behavior tonight. You have thought of everything.”
“Of course, I did a mission study, got the lay of the land, obtained allies. I think we can have a wonderful life together, Mel.” Holding her close, he said, “All that is required is your consent. Will you marry me?”
“It is fortunate for you that as much as I dislike surprises and being managed, I do love you. Yes, leannen, I will marry you.”
Rig grinned and said to their onlookers now filling the terrace. “She said yes.” She tugged on his lapels to bring him close for a far more passionate kiss to a chorus of titters and applause.
She broke the kiss long enough to say, “I do love you so. But, my lord, if you ever again attempt to manage me with such a shameful public display, I assure you, the result will not be pretty.”
“I’d be a fool to try.” He grinned and whispered, “However, I already have all that I want, so no managing is necessary, except perhaps some seduction” and kissed her long and deeply to prove it.