Chapter 2
London
Before dawn the next morning, Trehallow’s horse master closed the stable doors as Prescott mounted, then set off for Leicester.
The earl had not wanted to lend a horse.
He had consented, however, once Prescott agreed to spend the night at the Trehallow townhouse and submit to the physician’s examination.
“Let me send a messenger,” the earl argued. “Stay here. Recover your health. You’ll not do Miss Feddleston any good if you kill yourself to get to her.”
Prescott had refused every argument. “I need to see her, Trev.”
“And you will.”
“You don’t understand. My love for her kept me alive when all seemed lost. I can’t count the occasions, when I tried to escape and was caught. Betts is the reason I never gave up. If you won’t help, I’ll find a mount on my own.”
The earl had yielded, but insisted that his friend would take warm clothing from the earl’s own wardrobe and a Trehallow groom would accompany him.
Prescott might have declined out of pride, but he was smart enough to know that both demands increased his chances of arriving in Leicester before the wedding.
Five days. In good weather and with good roads the journey to Leicester took five days—six if a man wasn’t in a hurry.
However, the snow had been falling for weeks, and he was in a great hurry.
How long would it take to get to Leicester?
A week? Two? More? He’d ridden in worse weather over worse terrain with cannon smoke and screams of the wounded in his ears.
He could do this. A snowstorm was nothing compared with the mud, blood and fog faced by battlefield messengers.
Trehallow had not been able to tell him much about Betts’ decision to marry Lord Tellus Leigh save that the announcement of their nuptials had been published in early November.
What had happened to the woman he loved, who, he believed, loved him?
She’d written to him while he was fighting.
Letters of dreams about how their lives would be.
The number of their children. The wedding they would have at the tiny church near her home.
The honeymoon she longed for in the wilds of Scotland.
The home she knew they would make at his small estate near the Yorkshire coast. The days she longed to spend with him well into old age.
He’d laughed, as she no doubt intended, when she told him of the argument between her young twin sisters about which of them should toss petals before the bride and which of them would move into her room. Fortunately, she’d been able to intervene before hair pulling escalated into wrestling.
She would be a wonderful mother. She’d had plenty of practice, raising her one brother and two sisters after their mother died.
Their father, Squire Feddleston made a reasonable income from two large farms he leased to crofters.
However, Betts too often was forced to strict economies.
The squire enjoyed games of chance entirely too much.
He favored London over provincial gambling hells.
Too often he left his children on their own to carry out his responsibilities in Wigston.
Prescott swayed in the saddle. Fog was creeping in.
“You need to stop and rest, Captain,” Jamie O’Bryan, the groom, said, coming up on Prescott’s right.
“There’s an inn a few miles further on. We’ll stop there to rest the horses and eat.
” He trotted ahead, hoping that O’Bryan wouldn’t hear the coughing that plagued him.
Every fit burned his lungs and caused a cold sweat to break out beneath the borrowed fur-lined cloak.
‘Twas naught to be done for the cough or the chills. He had to get to Betts.
The snow and fog faded and Betts’ smile filled Prescott’s vision.
While home on leave and awaiting orders, he’d attended a provincial assembly at the request of his good friend Lord Tellus Leigh.
Curse the man who was wedding Prescott’s beloved.
Someone, he could not recall whom, had introduced him to a brown-haired, green-eyed young woman.
He’d thought her pretty enough, in her elegant ensemble of ecru muslin sprigged with green ribbon that matched her eyes.
He’d bowed over her hand and asked. “May I have the honor of a dance, Miss Feddleston?”
“Yes, thank you Captain.” She’d smiled at him.
Charming, he’d thought.
“What do you think of Napoleon’s strategy at Austerlitz?” She’d asked as they performed the opening steps of the waltz.”
He’d been taken aback by a question not common to young ladies. Did she seriously want to know his thoughts, or was she simply hoping he would fill the conversational gap until she could dance with someone else?
“I believe Boney’s strategy at Austerlitz showed the advantage of having superior intelligence during battle.”
“Interesting. No doubt you are correct. Had the Allied army possessed better information, they would have seen Bonaparte’s withdrawal from the Pratzen Heights as the feint it was and perhaps not have been fooled into weakening the center of their line by sending more troops to Pratzen than was wise. ”
The urge to know how she’d learned of the strategies used became irresistible. “Are you a student of military strategies, Miss Feddleston?”
She’d tossed back her head and laughed. “Strategies of all sorts, Captain.”
“For example?” Intrigued he’d prompted her for more.
“Do you know Lady Beatrix Sandrow?”
“I’ve heard the name. I do not believe I have had the pleasure of her acquaintance.”
“Her father is a recently elevated life peer, and his ambitions for his daughter’s marriage to an ancient noble house are well known.”
“Does the lady share her father’s desires?”
“You tell me. She attends nearly every social event and appears completely cowed by her overbearing papa.”
“I’m not certain how I see this as an example of strategy?”
“I spoke with her once or twice and discovered she has a predilection for Greek and Latin philosophers.”
“Unusual for a tonish young lady, but not unheard of.”
“She finds entertainments such as this assembly to be boring.”
“Ah, I begin to understand. She has developed some stratagem for escaping the social events her papa insists she attend.”
“In a manner of speaking. She attends as her father insists. However, at the earliest opportunity—usually when Lord Sandrow is occupied in the card room—she escapes to her host’s library or the ladies’ retiring room, if the affair is held at a public venue.
She always brings a book with her, usually brought by her maid who meets her in the chosen retreat to give Lady Beatrix the book.
The maid also stands guard and warns her mistress if Lord Sandrow returns to the ballroom. ”
“Ingenious. She knows her opponent well enough to take advantage of the available terrain and deceive her opponent into believing that she is compliant with his wishes.”
“In other words, she strategizes to get what she wants.”
“Do you have stratagems that you employ, Miss Feddleston?”
She’d fluttered her eyelashes and smiled that enchanting smile. “All women strategize, Captain. However, revealing those strategies to a stranger would be unwise, don’t you think?”
“Any soldier would have to agree.”
They had spun into a turn as the music rose to a crescendo.
A wave of dizziness struck Prescott. Sleet pelted his face. Fortunately, he righted himself before he took a spill into a snowbank.
“Captain?” The groom cantered up to his side. “Are you well?”
Pay attention to the present, man. “Well enough, thank you for your concern.”
“Perhaps we should stop for a bit?”
The fellow could not possibly understand the urgency. “Stop if you wish. I’ll continue without you.”
The man fell back.
Watching the road ahead, which was disappearing rapidly beneath an icy coat, Prescott pressed his mount to a faster pace.
As they pounded down the king’s highway, the trees, the road faced and Bett’s face filled his vision.
Howling wind and beating hooves became the dulcet rhythms of her voice.
He shivered not with cold but with the warm delight of her company.
Once more the groom drew near. “We’ve arrived, sir.”
Prescott blinked, and finally saw the snow-screened shapes of a village on either side. Short moments later, he and the groom clattered into the courtyard of the Edgeware Cock & Bull.