What a Lady Most Desires (29 page)

 

Chapter 69

“S
ergeant Browning!” Delphine was surprised to see the soldier waiting for her outside Ainsley Place when she returned from shopping. He wore a high collar that covered most of his wounded neck, and carried a bundle under his arm. The footman who helped her alight from the coach stared at him balefully, and started toward him.

“It's all right— I know this man.” She wondered if he had bad news, if Stephen was ill. He looked grim as he held her eyes boldly. “Please come inside, Sergeant.”

He hesitated, glancing up at the formidable façade of Ainsley Place, but she took his arm.

“How are your lessons progressing? Reverend Brill seemed quite certain you were a brilliant Bible scholar, and possibly even a prophet,” she babbled as she led him up the steps and into the house, ignoring the curious looks of the staff.

She took him into the library, and asked the butler to bring tea.

Her heart was thumping in her breast. “Is there a reason why you came to see me? Is Lord Stephen well?” Would she get up and go to him if he was not? She knew she would. “Did he send you here?”

Browning shook his head. He pointed at her, then to his own chest, and made a scribbling motion with his right hand on his left palm.

“Paper and pencil.” Delphine crossed to the drawer to fetch them. She set them on the table, and he wrote slowly and carefully.

“ ‘He saveth me,' ” Delphine read aloud. She glanced at the Bible he'd brought with him. “Is this a—­pastoral—­visit?”

He looked frustrated and shook his head.
I was afraid
, he wrote.
It is good that a man should not be alone. I will make him a helpmeet.
He crossed out the word
man
and wrote
Alan
.

Delphine frowned and tried to make sense of his meaning. He took another sheet of paper.
A flaming sword. Blood crieth unto me from the ground. The earth is filled with violence.

“It sounds like war. Is this what you saw, at Waterloo?” Delphine asked, wondering why he was telling her. He nodded vigorously, his gaze intense.

My brother's keeper. The breath of life. God blessed Noah
. He crossed out
Noah
and wrote his own name in again.
Restoreth my brother. Blessed be
.
Thy mercy shewed unto me in saving my life.

“Your life?” Delphine asked. “Someone saved your life?”

Relief filled his eyes and he nodded. She looked at the words. “Someone saved your life during the battle . . .” She followed his words with her finger. “Your brother . . .”

He shook his head, and took out his sergeant's stripes, carefully wrapped in a handkerchief in his pocket.

“A brother in arms, perhaps?” Delphine guessed. He nodded. A shiver passed through her. He set the bundle on the table, opened it, revealing the battle-­scarred remains of Stephen's tunic. She looked up at him in surprise, realization dawning.

“Stephen. Stephen saved your life during the battle. You saw him.” Her limbs turned to water. She touched the blood-­stiffened collar of the tunic. “It means he was there, he didn't ride away. He was there.”

He gave her a lopsided smile and nodded. Delphine felt tears well, and saw tears in the sergeant's eyes too. He picked up the pencil again.
Keep the way of the Lord, to do justice and judgment
.

She nodded, understanding. “The court-­martial. You wish to attend, give evidence?”

“ ‘Yes,' ” she read the word, and smiled. “I will tell Temberlay.”

He pointed to the scrawled verses on the paper, and shrugged. Was it enough, would it help? She caught his hand and kissed it. “We'll make it enough, Sergeant Browning.”

 

Chapter 70

S
tephen stared up at the imposing façade of Horse Guards as Temberlay's coach pulled up before it. He'd been here many times before, but this time he was entering as an accused coward.

“I assume Rothdale—­Durling—­was invited to be here?” he asked through stiff lips. “What guarantee do we have that he'll come?” Stephen muttered, his fists clenching. If he got the chance, he'd put his fist through his face.

“Oh, he won't want to miss this. He planned your downfall rather well. He'll want to see you fully disgraced,” Nicholas said.

Stephen shut his eyes, remembered the months of blindness, fear. “His accusations nearly cost me everything, and still might—­my career, my reputation, my sight—­Delphine nearly married him. He would have ruined her life too.”

“But she didn't,” Nicholas said. “And she's doing her damndest to see that your reputation is restored.”

“Do I dare hope that she has forgiven me?”

“For lying to her, betraying her trust, using her?” Nicholas asked. “I think you'll have to ask her. She'll be here today.”

Stephen stopped walking. “Here? Why?”

“She insisted. Says she has evidence.”

“We have the flower, the vowel, what else could there be?” Stephen said. Did she want to see him shamed and disgraced? He was not sure he could bear that. He straightened his tunic, and marched up the steps. He had worn this coat for six years, through battles and skirmishes, victories and losses. If the judgment went against him, Fairlie would slice away the insignia, and leave him disgraced. Stephen remembered the tunic he'd worn at Waterloo, still in his footlocker. He hadn't looked at it again. There was no point.

He was escorted along the halls by a detachment of soldiers, their boot heels ringing on the marble floors, muskets at the ready since Stephen was a prisoner. The door of the courtroom opened as they approached, and Stephen felt his chest tighten.

A mahogany table stood at the head of the room, and Stephen recognized the file containing the evidence. If his salvation from the charge of cowardice lay in that file, he hadn't found it.

And as for the charges of theft, everything hinged on the vowel, and the book.

“Ready?” Nicholas asked, indicating a second, smaller table, where Stephen would sit to hear the evidence read out, and the sentence passed.

Stephen didn't reply. Couldn't. Delphine walked through the door at that moment. She met Stephen's eyes for a brief instant before Nicholas went forward to take her arm and escort her to a seat. Browning was with her, he noted—­her escort and bodyguard. Good—­the sergeant would not allow harm to come to her. Not that she was afraid—­she looked pretty and confident, composed, though she did not belong in in this masculine preserve. His heart contracted in his chest.

She turned as Durling came in, smartly turned out in his uniform as well, a smirk of triumph on his face. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Delphine. He gave her a charming grin, and moved toward her.

Stephen clenched his fist on his knee, and glared at the man, but Durling gave him only a cursory glance before turning his attention back to Delphine. She gave Durling a dazzling smile, charmed him with a single glance. She played the game well. Stephen's skin crawled as Peter bowed over her hand, and his lips lingered on her flesh. He saw her bite her lip, and knew she was nervous. Two spots of high color appeared in her cheeks, and Stephen recognized the expression in her eyes as the same uncertainty he'd seen at the ball, the look that had made him rescue her from Rothdale in the first place.

Stephen only knew he'd started toward the man when he felt Nicholas clamp his hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into his seat. “Not now,” he muttered.

D
elphine felt her heart melt when she saw Stephen in his tunic. It was how she'd pictured him, how she'd always known him before Waterloo, a hero in scarlet. It was how he'd looked the night of the ball, and on the day he'd arrived at the villa, shattered by the battle. She glanced nervously at Browning. Would his testimony, along with her own, be enough?

She avoided Stephen's gray eyes, knowing looking at him now would undo her, but felt longing fill her breast.

She gritted her teeth and forced a smile when Peter arrived and bowed over her hand, and repressed a shudder when he kissed the naked flesh of her wrist above the edge of her glove. She saw Stephen begin to rise, intent on coming to her rescue once again, watched Nicholas stop him.

Delphine raised her chin and forced a placid smile, kept still when Durling's knee touched her skirts as he sat. She was afraid he'd try to take her hand, so she clasped her palms together in her lap, squeezing them so tightly the leather of her gloves squeaked in protest.

The judges entered—­Colonel Lord Fairlie, the regimental surgeon, a major she did not know, and a gentleman in civilian clothes she recognized as Sir Donovan Lewis, Lord Castlereagh's secretary, and a friend of her father's. She sent him a radiant smile. Sir Donovan smiled back, though he looked surprised to see her here.

“Delphine?” Fairlie also regarded his sister-­in-­law in surprise. “What the dev—­what on earth—­are you doing here?”

“She is a witness in this matter, my lord,” Nicholas said. Delphine felt Peter shift beside her, turn to look at her, his smug smile gone. She didn't dare look at him.

Fairlie frowned, and her gloves squeaked again. He had the authority to send her out, of course, if he wished. “This is most unusual. Could you not have written down what you wish to say, or had someone deliver the testimony on your behalf?” he demanded. Eleanor, she knew, would never have been allowed to attend a court-­martial.

“There is much that could not be conveyed in a letter, or entrusted to another,” she said firmly, meeting her brother-­in-­law's eyes, holding his ferocious gaze.

He looked away first, and sighed. “Unless there is a strong objection by any of the other officers and gentlemen here, you may remain. I trust you will not faint?”

“I was in Brussels following the battle, nursed wounded men, saw blood and injuries and death, and I did not faint then,” she pointed out. Durling's surprise was palpable now.

“Yes, I suppose you were. Very well. Let us proceed,” Fairlie said. “Major Hastings, read out the charges.”

The major put on his spectacles and began.

Cowardice. Desertion. Theft. Dishonorable conduct.

Each word was like a blow. Delphine kept her gaze fixed on Stephen's scarlet back, mentally touching the bullet holes that marred his flesh under the garment. Did they still hurt? They hurt her. He was staring straight ahead, as if his blindness had returned. She regarded the grave faces of the men who sat in judgment, saw no hope in their eyes.

“Present the evidence, Major,” Fairlie said.

The major opened a file and took out a letter. “This statement was written out by a Major Kenneth Wilkins, a surgeon,” he began, “and signed as a true and honest account by Sergeant Tom Hallet.”

He read it aloud, the account damning, and Delphine held her breath.

Fairlie looked at the small crowd of witnesses. “Is Sergeant Hallet present?”

“He could not be located, despite an extensive search,” Nicholas said.

“He might have died,” the regimental surgeon said gruffly. “Even the most minor injuries can be fatal on the battlefield, or after.”

“Then is Dr. Wilkins here to confirm the veracity of this statement?” Fairlie demanded.

“Regimental records do not show a surgeon or even an officer by the name of Kenneth Wilkins,” Nicholas said. “Do you know him, Colonel?” he asked the regimental surgeon.

The man frowned. “No, but there were physicians and surgeons from all armies present. Perhaps he's Dutch, or Belgian.” He rubbed his chin. “Mind you, most of those gentlemen did not speak English, and they all had foreign names.”

“Then may we set this piece of evidence aside for a moment and move on?” Nicholas asked.

“I think we must, at least in the hope that something will come up to clarify all this,” Fairlie pointed out. “I will add that the letter was brought to my quarters, pushed under the door. No one saw who delivered it. Still, the contents are too damning—­” He glanced at Delphine. “Too
shocking
—­to ignore. Go on, Major Hastings. What other evidence of cowardice do you have to present?”

The major flushed slightly. “Well none directly, my lord. There are a number of letters from officers who were interviewed once the accusation against Major Lord Ives was known.”

“Gossip?” Fairlie asked.

“Recollections, my lord,” Hastings said. “None of these officers witnessed the events Sergeant Hallet's statement describes, but Major Ives is described as a taciturn man who kept to himself, and refused to join the other officers in their leisure pursuits in Brussels.”

“Did he do his duty?” Sir Donovan Lewis asked.

“There are no statements to say that he did not, and he is described as an exemplary officer by his men,” Hastings replied.

“Are any of those officers here today?” Fairlie asked.

“Lieutenant Greenfield has written a letter recanting his testimony, though he could not be present today,” Nicholas said.

“Is there anyone at all here to speak for you, Major?” Fairlie asked Stephen.

Delphine shot to her feet, and Browning rose to stand beside her. Durling gaped at her. Fairlie frowned impatiently. “Do sit down, Delphine. What could you know of these matters?” He turned to Browning. “Who are you, and what have you to add to these proceedings?”

“This is Sergeant Alan Browning of the Royal Dragoons,” Delphine began, but Fairlie held up a hand.

“Please allow him to speak for himself.”

She raised her chin. “I'm afraid that is impossible. Sergeant Browning was injured at Waterloo. A lance struck his cheek, and damaged his tongue. He has asked me to speak on his behalf,” Delphine said. She noted the confusion on Stephen's face, and ignored it.

The surgeon beckoned Browning forward, and examined his mouth, then nodded.

“How can he be of assistance here?” Fairlie demanded. “Unless it was Major Lord Ives's bayonet that did for him.”

“On the contrary,” Delphine said. “Major Ives saved the sergeant's life.”

She felt Peter stir beside her. “How can you know that if he cannot speak?” he murmured.

Stephen turned in his chair to look at her, and at Browning, a frown creasing his brow.

“Sergeant Browning arrived at the villa—­”

“Let the record show that Lady Delphine means the villa where I was billeted, Chateau des Pommes. My lady wife turned the house into a hospital after the battle,” Fairlie said. “Go on, Delphine.”

“Sergeant Browning arrived, and his wound was cauterized—­” Even the surgeon squirmed at that description, she noticed, though Browning remained calm. “Still, he got up the next day, insisted on assisting other patients, including Major Lord Ives.”

“What were the major's injuries?”

The surgeon sat forward. “From what I remember, he had three bullets in his back. His arm and two ribs were broken, and he was blind. We did not expect him to live, nor did we hold much hope for the recovery of his sight.” He peered at Stephen. “You look remarkably well, Major.”

Browning untied the bundle and took out Stephen's battle-­scarred tunic and held it up. Durling swallowed audibly. “Does this look like the uniform of an officer who spent the battle hiding in safety?” Delphine asked.

Donovan Lewis blanched, Fairlie frowned, and the surgeon beckoned to Browning to bring him the tunic. He turned it over gingerly, and nodded. “The holes in the tunic are consistent with the reported injuries.” He looked at Stephen in astonishment and shook his head. “A remarkable recovery indeed, Major. In my opinion, these marks, and the blood, suggest that this is not the tunic of a coward.”

“And do we know how the major saved Sergeant Browning's life?” Fairlie demanded.

Delphine held out the letter that Browning had carefully written, and the Bible. Nicholas carried it to Fairlie, who peered at it closely.

“Sergeant Browning could not read or write, and had no way of communicating once his voice was gone. His mother taught him the Bible by heart, and he counted the words as he recited them, chose the ones that would help him make his meaning plain. He copied them out, learned to read and to write so he could help repay the major's kindness,” Delphine said.

“What is your recollection of saving the sergeant's life, Major Lord Ives?” Fairlie asked.

Stephen stared at his manservant in surprise. “You were the one unhorsed in the middle of the charge,” he said. “You'd spoken to me before the call sounded, said the charge looked like a forlorn hope . . .”

Browning nodded.

“Your horse went down, and you were left standing in the middle of the charge, injured. You would have been run down, killed.”

Browning nodded again, his eyes bright.

“What did you do?” Fairlie asked Stephen.

“It was a simple thing. I reached out a hand to him, and he put his foot on my stirrup. I took him a few yards on, and set him down where he would be safe. Then I rode on.”

Durling shot to his feet. “How do we know that's true?” he demanded, his face red.

“Is it true, sergeant?” Fairlie said.

Browning put his hand over his heart.

“And he is holding a Bible,” Delphine added, giving Peter a sharp little smile. She saw panic pass through his eyes.

“What of the other charges?” Durling demanded. “Theft and dishonor—­as an officer of this regiment, I demand that he answer those accusations.”

Delphine shut her eyes. This would be the easy part, would it not? Stephen was still looking at Browning in astonishment.