Some Enchanted Evening (22 page)

To savor the well-hidden chagrin of the earl of Hepburn.

Oh, Hepburn said all that was proper. He welcomed Ogley into the grand foyer of MacKenzie Manor with every appearance of gratification.

But Ogley knew the truth. Hepburn hated him. Ogley had made sure of it during their years together on the Peninsula and in all the days after. Ogley had made sure that the snot-nosed lordling who had been given to him as a subordinate officer had grown into a bitter, disillusioned man. In fact, the only goal Ogley had failed to achieve was Hepburn's painful death.

But actually, having Hepburn live to host this celebratory ball was proving even more satisfying. Moreover, having him see Waldemar, Hepburn's own former aide, standing straight and still behind Ogley gave him a feeling of power unmatched by any act of war or brutal massacre. There was nothing Hepburn had that Ogley had not taken. Well, except his title, and Ogley expected to receive a barony soon enough. How sweet it was to know Hepburn hated his guts, yet was forced to pretend respect.

"Colonel Ogley, Mrs. Ogley, we're so privileged to host a ball in your honor." Lady Millicent, who looked somewhat like Ogley's own wife, hurried forward to greet them. "I read your book, Colonel Ogley, and I'm in awe of your exploits on the Peninsula. I hope that if you're not too tired from your journey, you'll join us in the drawing room this evening and tell us of your heroism."

The guests gathered around produced a spattering of applause.

"Yes!" Brenda clutched his arm. "Please, Oscar, you know how I love to hear you speak."

Ogley patted his wife's hand and smiled benignly at Lady Millicent. "Isn't Mrs. Ogley wonderful? She's heard the stories countless times on our victorious tour of England, yet still she urges me to tell them once more."

"Oh, Oscar." Brenda blushed with delight. "How could I not love to hear the tales you tell? To know you willingly rode into such danger, time after time — why, it's almost like a fairy tale."

Ogley stiffened, but Hepburn said nothing. He looked not even faintly sardonic. It was as if he had forgotten the truth, and that Ogley did not believe. The arrogant bastard never forgot anything, and that was the one reason Ogley had tried so hard to get him killed. That he hadn't succeeded spoke the world of Hepburn's luck — and skill.

But, really, what could Hepburn do
now
? If he tried to tell the truth, no one would believe him. He'd be perceived as a petty glory-seeker. His jealousy would add luster to Ogley's fame. Ogley smiled in self-congratulation. He had trapped Hepburn in a hell tailored specifically for his outdated sense of honor, and Ogley reveled in Hepburn's misery.

"Colonel Ogley, Princess Clarice asked to meet you." Hepburn stepped forward, a woman of uncommon beauty on his arm. "Your Highness, this is the colonel whose heroics you've admired in the pages of his book. Princess Clarice, Colonel Ogley and his wife, Lady Brenda."

"Please," Brenda said, "I prefer to be called simply Mrs. Ogley."

"I understand, Mrs. Ogley." Princess Clarice's oddly colored amber eyes were admiring as she gazed on Colonel Ogley. "What an honor to be the wife of such a hero!"

"So I believe." Brenda didn't have the sense to worry about the pretty princess or Ogley's reaction to her. Brenda believed only the best of him, including that he remained loyal to his wedding vows.

It was not his intention to enlighten her.

But he smiled seductively at the princess. "Of course I'll be speaking of my exploits this evening in the drawing room. To do so will be my greatest pleasure." He didn't know where Princess Clarice was from and he didn't care. She was a fine piece of woman flesh, and he would gladly share the source of his heroism with her.

She looked startled at his brash admiration, as if he had misunderstood her interest in him. Which he hadn't; he'd been an officer long enough to recognize the glow a female exuded when she wanted a man.

His gaze shifted to Hepburn, who frowned and watched them. Better yet if Hepburn had an interest in her. Taking Princess Clarice from Hepburn would be the final cannon blast in a battle that had begun as soon as Ogley had heard Hepburn would be placed in his regiment, and such a disappointment would blow Hepburn all the way to hell.

"Colonel Ogley, Mrs. Ogley, if you'll come this way." Lady Millicent interrupted before he could do more to secure his case with the princess.

Which, as long as Brenda stood there, was a good thing. But no doubt Princess Clarice would make herself available later.

As Lady Millicent led them up the stairs, Ogley waved to the crowd of nobles and servants gathered below. God, he loved being a hero. He gave a special wave to Princess Clarice and smiled as Hepburn's gaze narrowed in suspicion.

Then Ogley turned his attention to Lady Millicent, who said, "We've put you in the master's chambers, and anything you wish, anything at all, you have only to ask."

Taking his wife's hand, Ogley patted it softly. "You're so weak and tender. The trip has exhausted you. Let me order you a tray so you can lie down before the evening's festivities."

"Really, Oscar, I feel fine. To be with you on this victory tour doesn't weary me." Brenda touched his cheek. "It invigorates me."

He allowed a weighty frown to slip over his features. "Please indulge me. You know how I worry about you." He lowered his voice so Lady Millicent couldn't hear. "Especially since you could possibly be in a delicate condition . . ."

He almost felt guilty about the expression of pain on his wife's face. She had avowed her intention to give him the gift of a son, not realizing that he took precautions to ensure no children came from their union.

She was the daughter of a wealthy, influential baron. Her father had issued Ogley an annual allowance. Her father's money was the reason Ogley had been able to buy a prestigious command. And all of that because Brenda worshipped him. Ogley intended that nothing should take his place in her life. Not even his own child.

Bowing her head, Brenda murmured, "Yes, dear, of course I'll do as you wish."

As the footman opened the door to the master's chambers, Ogley asked, "Lady Millicent, would you make sure my wife has a tray in our room so that she can join us later in the evening?"

"Of course!" Lady Millicent turned to Brenda in a flurry of concern. "Have you the headache? Could I send up a tincture too?"

While the ladies chatted, Ogley gazed at the magnificence of the MacKenzie master suite. He recognized wealth when he saw it. The large sitting room could be described only as magnificent, with chairs grouped around the fireplace, a writing desk stocked with paper, pens, and ink, a carpet so old the colors were faded yet so posh it still looked superb, and drapes of royal purple and gold. The carved table was adorned with an embroidered velvet runner and gold salver for calling cards. There Waldemar, dressed in a servant's livery, unloaded Ogley's war mementos from the bag he carried with him everywhere.

The door opened into the bedchamber, and inside Brenda's maid stood beside the gilded bed, turning down the covers. The bed stood on a dais, as if the laird of the MacKenzies were some petty monarch worthy of worship. The royal purple and gold was echoed in the bedcurtains and the coverlet, and Ogley reflected bitterly that Hepburn must feel like a king when he slept there.

But Hepburn had given up the bedchamber to honor Ogley, and that made Ogley smile. Did Hepburn fear Ogley? Did he think to bribe him? Did little Lord Hepburn imagine that if he flattered Ogley that Ogley would forget Hepburn's insults and play fair?

There was nothing fair about that night in London fourteen years earlier when a young, drunk Lord Hepburn had challenged the newly commissioned Ogley to a swordfight — and won. And laughed.

Ogley hated being laughed at. He had been the third in a poor, noble family of six rough-and-tumble sons, and it seemed he had always been the one who fell out of the tree or flipped off the sled or hid under the table and got caught. He had been the scapegoat for all his brothers, and he had hated it, retaliating by sneaking around and getting them in trouble. They in turn hated him. When he turned twenty and his father bought him the commission, it was the best thing that ever happened to him. He loved the army. Loved the uniforms, loved the formality and the chance to command lesser men who had no choice but to obey. He didn't care if none of his fellow officers liked him. He was dashing and handsome, the ladies liked him, and he saw opportunity there.

Then Hepburn's victory had made Ogley the butt of every jest by every officer in the army. Worse, Hepburn compounded his transgression by appearing the next day — and apologizing. The worthless blackguard apologized for being intoxicated and unforgivably rude, and that apology underscored one thing — that Ogley had been beaten in swordplay by a seventeen-year-old so drunk, he could scarcely stagger.

It wasn't until Ogley had married Brenda and bought a new commission, a better commission, that the mockery had eased. Oh, some still whispered behind his back, but none of the lesser officers dared say anything, and when a superior officer had teased him . . . well, Ogley had learned how to get revenge on his brothers. Teaching a mere officer a lesson was nothing. A mere hiring of thugs to teach the officer better manners.

Of course, Ogley had been sent to the Peninsula in retaliation, but for a man of his talents, even that wasn't so bad. He was out from under Brenda's adoring, smothering gaze, and in the wreck left behind by the struggle between the French and English on Spanish and Portuguese soil, there were opportunities for profit.

Best of all, the elder earl of Hepburn had grown tired of his son's frivolous ways. To put an end to Hepburn's rowdiness, he'd bought Hepburn a commission. A commission that had sent Hepburn right into Ogley's regiment.

Even now Ogley chuckled in remembrance. How delightful it had been to give the lad the most recalcitrant of men from the dregs of the prisons to tame, then demand that he lead them into missions from which they would never return. Hepburn always led them out . . . some of them. Their numbers dwindled as they were killed, but Ogley volunteered his regiment for another mission, and another, taking care that no one in command should know it was Hepburn who succeeded while everyone else failed. In the isolation of the Peninsula, it was an easy thing for a man with intelligence and time to write up the exploits as his own and send the manuscript away to be published. By the time Ogley resigned his commission, he had returned to England as a hero.

His gaze lingered on Waldemar.

And no one dared tell the truth, certainly not Hepburn. Not as long as Ogley held Waldemar in his power. Ogley would have to be a fool to let Waldemar go — and Ogley prided himself on his cleverness.

Brenda slid her hand in his. "Isn't the master's suite marvelous?"

"It is indeed." Satisfaction spread like oil through his gut, and he smiled at Lady Millicent. "I thank you. Lady Millicent, for placing us here."

Lady Millicent fluttered like any spinster given a compliment. "It was my brother who insisted."

"I hate to think he's given up his room for us," Brenda protested.

"No, please, don't distress yourself." Just like Hepburn, Lady Millicent spoke with that faint Scottish accent that betrayed inferiority. "My brother doesn't sleep here. Since his return from the Peninsula, he has preferred to stay in a cottage on the estate."

"That makes me feel better." Brenda beamed.

Sometimes her kindheartedness gave Ogley a bellyache.

"Doesn't it you, Oscar?" she asked.

No. He wanted to displace Hepburn.

Putting his hand under her arm, Ogley held too firmly. As Brenda squirmed beside him, he said, "Lady Millicent, I beg your pardon, but my wife really does need to rest."

"Of course, I'll make sure I send up a tray." With a brisk curtsy Lady Millicent left the room.

"That was abrupt." Brenda tugged at his bruising fingers.

But decisively he led her into the bedchamber. He helped her onto the mattress. He kissed her forehead. To her maid he said, "Make sure she rests." Leaving the room, he shut the door behind him.

Waldemar was supervising the arrival of their trunks. "Put the bags there by the door, lad. Ah, lassie" — he pinched the maid on the cheek — "t' see a pretty lass such as yerself does me 'eart good."

The footman grinned and the maid giggled. Everyone liked Waldemar, with his sandy-blond hair and his handsome countenance. His good-humored blue eyes glinted from beneath blond eyelashes and brows, and freckles marched across his nose. He looked like the picture of honesty and sincerity — as long as one didn't notice his long, thief's fingers and swift, catlike walk.

Waldemar had been dragged out of the mud of prison and given a choice between fighting for Mother England — or death. He'd taken the voyage to the Peninsula, of course, but once there, he'd tried to escape. Tried to avoid his duty. Been insolent and cocky. Nothing Ogley had done — not the thrashings, not the isolation, not even the branding — had changed him.

Then Hepburn came along, dashing, high-spirited, noble Hepburn, and Waldemar had chosen to follow him . . . into hell.

At least Ogley had done his best to ensure Hepburn was in hell every minute of every day, and he'd been successful. He counted that as one of his proudest achievements.