The Regency (45 page)

‘
I doubt it. It's going to be a long business — no quick and
easy victories in the Peninsula, you know,' Wiske said,
shaking his head. The Tenth Dragoons — so long nicknamed
"The China Tenth" because it had been looked after like
something fragile and precious — had seen action there in the
winter of 1808-9. The war had been going on so long, now,
that even the most fashionable of regiments was not safe from
getting its uniform dirty. 'There'll be enough fighting for all
of us before it's over.'

‘
You were at Corunna, sir, weren't you?' Marcus said
eagerly. 'I've always wanted to ask —'

‘Not now, Marcus,' Lucy interrupted, feeling he had been encouraged enough. 'What was it you came in for?'

‘
I beg your pardon, ma'am,' he said, shrinking. 'I came to
ask if Bobbie and I might go up to Hatchard's, and whether
there was anything we could do for you while we were out.'

‘
No, thank you — Miss Trotton is out at the moment, and
has my errands in hand. What do you want at Hatchard's?’

He and Bobbie exchanged a look. 'It's Mr Firth's birthday
next month, ma'am, and we wanted to buy a book for him,'
he said.

‘
And we thought we'd better do it before he comes back
from the country, because of wanting it to be a surprise,'
Bobbie added.

‘I see. Yes, well, run along then,' Lucy said.

‘
They seem very fond of their tutor,' John Anstey said
when the boys had gone.’To be spending all their pocket-
money on a book for him is a great thing.'

‘
If I know anything about it, it will be Bobbie's money, for
I never knew Marcus to have any,' Lucy said.

*

 
As the boys hurried along Curzon Street together, Bobbie,
who had been quiet since they left the house, suddenly said,
‘Do you really want to go to the war?’

Marcus glanced down at him in surprise. 'Of course I do. I
thought you knew that. Why, what's wrong?'

‘Nothing,' said Bobbie.

‘
Well, don't you?' Marcus countered. 'I mean, I know your
papa wasn't a military man like mine, but — just think of it,
Bobbie!'

‘
I do,' Bobbie said. 'All the time. When Mr Firth shews us
the maps, and we work out the routes Lord Wellington must
have taken.'

‘
And the names — Badajoz and Almeida and Cuidad
Rodrigo —'

‘
Yes, but it's all very well for you,' Bobbie complained.
‘You know I should never be allowed to go, because of the
title and everything, and having no brother.'

‘
I can't see that being an earl makes any difference,'
Marcus said. 'I mean, once you're of age, you can do as you like. No-one can stop you — and at least you'd have enough
money to choose.'

‘
But that's years and years away. The war will be over by
then.'

‘
Well, I'm no better off than you,' Marcus sighed. 'My
mother would never buy me my colours. To begin with, she'd
say we couldn't afford it; and then she wouldn't want me to
risk my life, because I'm your heir.’

Bobbie grinned. 'Maybe your mother would buy
me
a pair
of colours, in the hope that I'd get killed, and then you'd be
the Earl!’

Marcus stopped suddenly and looked down at his cousin.
‘You know
I
wouldn't want that, don't you, Bob? You know
I
don't want your title?'

‘
Of course I do, stupid!' Bobbie said. 'We're friends. I'd
give
you the title, if I could.'

‘
No you wouldn't,' Marcus said seriously. 'You were born
to it. Even if you don't realise it, you're an earl through and
through. You'd never give it up.’

Blue eyes looked thoughtfully into grey, and Bobbie
regarded his own life objectively for an instant. He felt
suddenly very lonely, burdened with responsibility, and
reached for warmth. 'We'll always be friends, won't we,
Marcus? Whatever happens?'

‘Of course,' Marcus said.

The moment was too solemn to be extended, and they both
felt the need to be brisk.

‘
Come on, I'll race you to the end of the street!' said
Marcus.

Piccadilly was crowded — the second most fashionable
lounge, after Bond Street — and it was hard work to make
progress against the tide of humanity. The air reeked of
horses, sweat, perfume, and cabbage-leaves; the road was
crammed with traffic, and the path from each shop to the kerb
was made hazardous by liveried footmen carrying parcels
and forcing a passage for their ladies to the waiting carriages.
Bobbie kept close to Marcus, and kept his hand over his
purse, keenly aware of the danger of pickpockets; but in fact
it was Marcus who was accosted, by a very heavily-painted
young woman with a hoarse voice who invited him to 'have a
bit of fun'. Marcus blushed with vexation, but Bobbie went
into fits of giggles, which at least had the effect of sending the
young woman off with an offended toss of the head.

As they reached Hatchard's, they almost bumped into two
men coming out. The elder of the two looked haughty and
flicked an imaginary affront from his sleeve, but the younger
stopped and smiled genially.

‘
Hullo! It's Bobbie Chelmsford! I say, George, stop a
minute — here's young Chelmsford, and Marcus Morland.’

George, Earl of Wyndham, turned back with a sigh. He
was a heavily-built, self-important young man of twenty-six,
heir to the Marquis of Penrith, and fully aware of the honour
he would do the title by inheriting it. But he had firm ideas
about Blood being Thicker than Water, and the importance of Family Ties. As his great-grandfather had been the third
Earl of Chelmsford, the present Earl and his heir presumptive
were both his cousins, and must be noticed.

His younger brother, Lord Harvey Sale, was tall, hand
some, and easy-going, and by his appearance was a devoted
disciple of Mr George 'Beau' Brummell. Bobbie could hardly
help staring a little, for Lord Harvey was wearing trousers,
only about the sixth pair Bobbie had ever seen. His blue
coat was exquisitely cut, his white waistcoat and shirt-frill
immaculate, his neckcloth a snowy miracle of intricacy, his
glossy black hair was delicately dishevelled a
la Titus.

Wyndham greeted the boys with perfunctory courtesy, but
Lord Harvey engaged them in easy conversation.

‘
Any news from your papa, Marcus? Are the French still
sitting about in front of Lisbon? They must be getting
damned cold and hungry by now. They could hardly fare
worse if they dined at Limmers!'

‘
It's about time Wellington drove them off,' Wyndham grumbled. 'This war's devilish expensive to keep up, and
there's nothing to shew for it.'

‘
I've heard nothing since before Christmas, sir,' Marcus
said circumspectly. He and Bobbie knew from their regular lessons with Mr Firth exactly what Wellington was doing —
how he had retreated across Portugal, burning everything
behind him, and lured the French army under Massena into
the siege of the impregnable Lisbon. Wellington's army was
spending the winter snug and safe, supplied from England by
sea, while Massena's troops were forced to live off the
scorched land, growing weaker and more discouraged every
day, and learning the bitter lesson that they could not take
Portugal by superiority of numbers.

But he would not attempt to explain that to Lord Wyndham,
who had a short way with halflings, and cared only that
the war had put up his taxes and ruined his West India
income.

Lord Harvey perfectly understood his reticence, and
changed the subject. 'How is Lady Aylesbury getting on with those blacks she bought from my cousin Knaresborough?' he
asked instead. 'I think it was clever of her to take them from
under Alvanley's nose. He'd had his eye on them ever since Knaresborough first brought them to Town.'

‘
She's bringing them on, sir. They're beginning to look
very good,' Marcus said. 'I believe Lord Carlyon will lose the
race.'

‘Very loyal of you, I'm sure,' Wyndham said, looking loftily
amused. 'But you haven't had the advantage of seeing
Carlyon's greys in action. They're the finest team in England.'

‘
Ah, but the blacks will have the advantage of being driven
by an expert,' Lord Harvey said with a wicked grin. 'Have
you taken that into account, George?'

‘
Enough said, I think,' Lord Wyndham remonstrated
sternly It was not his way to encourage the young entry by
admitting them to his opinions, particularly about contem
poraries.

‘
Carlyon deserves no quarter,' Lord Harvey said, refusing
to be snubbed. 'Not only does he have hands like stone, but he
beats his cattle unmercifully. My money will be on Lady
Aylesbury — and yours too, Morland, I'll warrant.'

‘
Oh yes, sir! That is, if I had any, it would be,' Marcus said,
and then added boldly, 'But I'll tell her what you've said, sir.
I'm sure she'll be obliged to you.’

Lord Harvey grinned, but Lord Wyndham looked disap
proving. This is what came of encouraging halflings to speak
up: impertinence and intolerable freedom.

‘
We must be going, Harvey, or we'll be late,' he said point
edly, 'and that would be ill-mannered indeed! Good day to
you, Chelmsford, Morland.
Do
come on,
Harvey!’

Lord Harvey tipped the boys a sidelong wink, and walked
off in his brother's wake.

*

The following day, while Docwra was dressing Lucy for
her morning visits, a note came by the hand of one of the
Chelmsford House servants.

‘
It's from Lady Chelmsford — she's back at last! What a
time her business has taken!'

‘
I hope it was successful, my lady,' Docwra said, tweaking
at the gathers on a sleeve.

‘
She doesn't say. She says she will call on me later today, but there's no need for that.' Lucy pulled herself impatiently
free, and ran a hand over her short, hay-coloured crop by way of arranging it. 'I shall go and see her at once. I only had duty
calls this morning anyway. The green jockey-cap, I think,
Docwra, and my beaver muff.’