Tender Torment (7 page)

“Damn your impudence, boy!” Angus roared. And John faltered under his father’s towering rage as he had always done. “What
mean you interfering in my plans for all of you? You do as I say as long as you reside under my roof! Or I’ll throw you out—penniless—to
go beg in the streets!” He swung about to include his daughters in his tirade. “And that goes for the two of you, too! Marisa
will marry the earl… and John, you’ll take that commission in the army when Straeford arranges it. Then it will be Meg’s turn.
She’ll have a season among the
beau monde
and find some other eligible lord to marry. I’ll hear no more about it! My decision is made! Make no mistakes about it!”

Angus stormed out of the room, refusing to look at his older daughter, who had not voiced her feelings in the matter. This
was what Jenny had always wanted for her children and Angus was going to see that his beloved wife’s wishes were carried out.

A lady swathed in a dark veil scurried down the carpeted corridor searching for number 278. She tapped lightly on the door
and waited breathlessly as she heard the lock turn and the door open revealing Lord Straeford’s valet, Billings. Despite that
gentleman’s training, he could not prevent a look of surprise before he recovered his usual façade of cool detachment.

“Is your master in?” the mysterious woman questioned in a low, wispy voice.

Billings hesitated, not sure of himself. A woman was unheard of in the Stephens Hotel—at least a respectable woman—but something
in the lady’s manner forbore his immediate rejection.

“Who shall I say is calling, madam?”

“Tell him it is… Evangeline Seton.”

“If you will kindly step inside and be seated, I shall make your presence known to his lordship.”

Mrs. Seton arranged herself stiffly on the small divan before the fireplace, not allowing herself to relax, but sitting forward
as if ready for flight on the moment. The room was silent and watchful except for the ticking of a
carriage clock on the mantel which revealed the hour to be three o’clock of a gloomy winter afternoon.

Lord Straeford strode into the room, his forceful footsteps announcing the presence of a man used to command and authority.

“My dear Mrs. Seton, how may I be of service to you?”

The dark-clad woman jumped back at the appearance of the man she had forced herself to seek out. Raising the veil of her bonnet,
she observed his dark, alert visage through faded blue eyes and understood immediately why this was the colonel her husband
had come to hate. The strength of his character was plainly revealed in the firm, chiseled planes of his face and the depths
of those somber green eyes. All that discipline acting in striking contrast to Horace’s self-indulgence!

“I know it is improper for me to be here, my lord, but I… if you could spare me a few minutes?” She let the question dangle
without completion.

“Certainly, madam. I am at your disposal.” There was no warmth in Straeford’s voice, but the rules of courtesy he stringently
observed.

“My dear sir, I hardly know where to begin.” She looked to his lordship to help her find her way.

“If I may assist you…” Straeford offered dubiously.

Evangeline Seton nodded, clasping her hands tightly in her lap.

“You came here because of your husband, did you not?”

Mrs. Seton nodded again, but waited for his lordship to continue.

“Naturally, you are concerned about the situation in India after reading all the reports in the press…”

“They give such dreadful accounts—forgive me, but it sounds as if such slaughter were done—”

“But most of the villainy is laid at my doorstep, dear lady, not at your husband’s.”

She looked at him directly, willing herself not to flinch. “Horace has written me some of the circumstances. I am aware that…
that not all is as represented in the journals.” Her voice was a whisper.

Lord Straeford shifted uneasily, wishing himself out of this devilish interview.

“Mrs. Seton, do not distress yourself over public opinion. The rabble is easily stirred by sensationalism and the press seeks
to satisfy its base appetites. You must choose to ignore it, if you are to have peace of mind.”

“Lord Straeford, were it for myself alone, or even my husband, I could put a brave face on it and persevere. But I—we have
a son at Sandhurst whose future could be shattered were the full… truth to be revealed.” She looked to the earl with eyes
imploring his forbearance.

His lordship did not reply, weighing the full import of her words. The lady was begging him to cover for her husband. It was
a brazen plea to make, and yet, surprisingly, he did not resent it. It only wearied him. This frightened little woman was
too pitiful for any reaction stronger than tedium. She was merely trying to protect her son.

The irony stabbed him—that she should come to him, who had long ago lost faith in the maternal instinct. And as for Seton,
the fool deserved whatever public obloquy resulted from this miserable investigation.

“Mrs. Seton, let me speak bluntly. I cannot deliberately falsify the facts.” She glanced up in alarm at his choice of words.
“However, I can assure you that I do not seek to harm your husband’s reputation. If it be possible, I’ll see the wretched
affair speedily settled with as little damage to General Seton’s record as possible. There is no good to be served in feeding
the public lust for scandal. General Seton was not always… as he is today. I remember a better man in better days.” Straeford
watched the lady’s face gradually soften and lose some of the strain and tension that fear had etched so unkindly there.

“God bless you, my lord. Whatever have been the differences between you and my husband, I can see that you are a good man.
I shall never forget your kindness in hearing me out.”

The earl raised his hand in embarrassed protest in an effort to stem her overflowing gratitude. “Please say no more.”

Mrs. Seton took her leave minutes later, pressing her
thanks and blessings on the earl, whose only emotion was relief that the touchy business had been speedily concluded.

A letter summoning Lord Straeford to appear at the War Office arrived by special messenger two days later. The earl tossed
it into the fire with a perfunctory curse. Was he never to have control of his affairs again? Between the Board of Inquiry,
Angus Loftus and Lady Maxwell, his life was a constant tug-of-war, never leaving him time for his own pursuits—which were
to restore Straeford Park and return to the front.

War! It was all he was suited for. In combat, life was reduced to its simplest terms—a brutal struggle for survival and victory.
He understood it well. There were none of the perplexing quandaries of social masquerades that life in society presented.
He preferred to feel the vigorous pulse of life surge through his veins when his mortality was pitted against the machines
of war. There was an exhilaration in testing his physical strength and endurance against supreme odds. And if he were to die—so
be it. Death held no fears for one who found little to savor in life.

Billings peered out of the window to the street below where a group of pickets was milling around the entrance to the hotel.
He wished he knew who had instigated that action against his lordship. Damn the fools! If only there were some quick way to
disperse them before the earl ventured out among them. Yet he knew no amount of coaxing would prevent his master from keeping
his appointment at the War Office—which meant a confrontation between him and that nasty crowd below.

“Will you see that my horse is brought around, Billings?” the earl asked as he shrugged into his red military jacket.

“Let me bring your mount to the back door, my lord,” Billings appealed to Straeford as he adjusted his sword hilt for him.

“Would you have me slink off like a coward?” Straeford demanded disdainfully.

“No, my lord, but it ain’t cowardly to protect your life against hooligans.”

There was a short burst of laughter from his lordship before replying, “Don’t worry about me, Billings. I assure you I have
no intention of risking my life. Now see to my horse, if you please.”

Billings knew he was defeated and excusing himself, went about the business of securing his lordship’s mount.

On reaching the lobby, Straeford nonchalantly surveyed the marching pickets in front of the hotel before going out into the
street. The mock courage of the rabble stirred his contempt. Only get them alone and see how the coward turns tail and runs!

“There he is!” yelled one of the demonstrators, and immediately they surged around the earl, shouting abuse and waving their
placards at him.

“Hang ‘im!” cried the spokesman of the mob above its roar. “Hang the butcher!”

The earl did not acknowledge the hostile faces surrounding him but moved through the muttering pickets with a forbidding hauteur
that forced them to step aside despite their mounting lust for violence. Reaching the stallion Billings held for him, Straeford
was about to mount when a stone struck his head.

“Dirty blackguards,” Billings shouted as his master staggered and blood trickled from a cut above his eye, “attacking the
Earl of the Realm!”

The crowd shifted indecisively at such a reminder and was held in check long enough for Straeford to search its faces and
find his attacker. A glint of recognition lighted his narrowed green eyes, and ignoring the rest of the pack who parted before
him, his lordship stalked his assailant.

Coming face to face with Johnny Bedloes, the young man Straeford had drummed out of the corps several years ago, he stopped
and glared into the hate-filled face. “I’m not surprised to find you here, Bedloes. You never did understand the responsibilities
of leadership,” Straeford taunted coolly.

Bedloes’s self-assurance faltered under the earl’s harsh stare and he shifted his gaze nervously from the man challenging
him to the crowd and back again. He knew he was losing ground as Straeford pressed a silent war of nerves on him.

“You’ll get your just deserts this time, Mr. High and Mighty. The people won’t stand for a butcher doing His Majesty’s business
in the world.”

The mob, encouraged by Bedloes’s bluster, pressed closer around both men. Straeford stood his ground, however, and continued
to challenge its leader. “Still trying to get others to do your dirty work for you, aren’t you, Bedloes?”

The herd grew suddenly still, waiting to hear Bedloes’s reply to the earl’s insult. There was a hair’s breadth between their
loyalty to Bedloes and their respect for Straeford’s obvious bravery, and the frightened rabble-rouser knew it. In desperation,
he drew a pistol from beneath his jacket and leveled it at Straeford, who grasped his arm the instant the weapon appeared
and jerked Bedloes’s arm into the air before the gun exploded over the heads of the mob. The blast sent a ripple of alarm
through the assembled crowd which bolted for cover like frightened hares. Wresting the pistol from Bedloes’s frenzied grasp,
Straeford threw his would-be attacker to the ground.

The earl had the situation well under control by the time Billings arrived on the spot with a constable and several Bow Street
runners. The scattered pickets watched the earl dust off his jacket and mount his horse to ride off without a backward glance.

A couple of men crossed over to Billings and commented, “Ain’t a nerve in his body, is there? That’s one mighty cool customer.”

“My master don’t know the meaning of fear,” Billings claimed proudly and haughtily walked away.

“Please be seated, Lord Straeford.” Lord Carstairs indicated a chair in front of the heavy mahogany table at which he sat.
General Belvoir was beside him. There were no others present.

“What we have to discuss with you today is of a very grave nature. It is a matter that must not pass beyond these doors.”
Carstairs studied the impassive face before him and then continued, “Perhaps we should begin with your reading this deposition
sent to us from the surgeon general’s office in Calcutta.”

Straeford took the document presented to him, beginning to wonder at the strained manner of Carstairs. As he read, his expression
turned grim and he recalled the worried face of the woman who had visited him in his rooms a few days ago. General Seton was
dead of a self-inflicted bullet wound to the head. A suicide!

“You can appreciate the difficulties this presents, my lord.” General Belvoir spoke for the first time. “And we have another
document for your perusal before we can pursue this matter further.”

Straeford allowed a look of surprise to cross his face. It was a letter from General Seton to Lord Castlereagh. In it, Seton
fully exonerated Straeford of any wrongdoing in the battle of Nangore. General Seton explained the shameful part he himself
had played in that ill-fated attack, and made it clear that had not Colonel Lord Straeford taken command and counter-attacked
the next morning, the whole expedition would have gone down in bloody defeat. General Seton did not spare himself but laid
the blame to his own disgraceful alcoholic excesses. Seton ended by recommending that the colonel be elevated to the rank
of general.

At last Straeford looked up from the pitiful letter and somberly regarded the two gentlemen across from him.

“I am at a loss for words, gentlemen. Naturally, I am gratified that General Seton has made clear the situation at Nangore,
but I deeply regret his final solution.”

“Of course. We understand perfectly the conflict of emotions you must be experiencing. However, we hope to receive some guidance
from you in the handling of this matter,” Lord Carstairs said.

“I don’t understand. How may
I
guide you?”

“There will have to be a public announcement of the general’s death immediately. It can be handled one of two ways… er… we
can present the full facts of the general’s demise… or… we can merely report that he died of heart failure and let the matter
fade as quietly as possible,” Carstairs explained.

“We feel the decision should be left in your hands since you have suffered most from this whole unfortunate business,” General
Belvoir added.