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‘Justin, I am sure you are wrong.’
Randall rounded on his sister with a snarl. ‘She has fooled you, Sarah, just as she did me.’ He paused. Mary watched the muscle in his lean cheek working as he controlled his anger. When he spoke again his voice was quiet, composed. Hard as steel. ‘The duke has given orders that everyone is to prepare for war. Go back to Gussie, Sarah. Tell Blanchards he must take you both out of Brussels with all speed. And as for you...’ he turned back to Mary, cold fury in his eyes ‘...I would advise you not to be in Brussels when I return.’
Reeling from his attack, Mary could only watch as he walked away, his back ramrod straight, his head high. Sarah touched her arm.
‘What was that about, what has happened?’
‘He thinks—’ Mary put one hand to her mouth. She felt sick. ‘He thinks I stole his sword. The one he always takes into battle.’
‘The Latymor sword? But why?’
‘He called it his lucky charm.’
‘But Randall has never believed in that sort of thing.’
Mary shook her head, her eyes still fixed on the door through which Randall had now departed.
‘No, but he believes I have betrayed him.’ She could feel the tears welling up. ‘I must go home. I must find a cab.’
‘I shall take you.’
‘No, no, Randall does not want you to associate with me any longer.’
‘Oh, stuff!’ Lady Sarah snorted. She put her arm about Mary’s shoulder. ‘Do not worry, when Justin calms down he will see that you did not take his silly sword. Robbins has probably mislaid it. My maid is always losing things and they always turn up again later. My brother will be back to beg your pardon before you know it.’
Mary knew that would not happen. Randall did not back down. He did not apologise. He had told her so himself. Why should a proud aristocrat humble himself for her? She allowed herself to be guided out of the ballroom and remained silent as they collected their cloaks and made the short journey back to the Rue Haute. She was still smarting from Randall’s anger and the injustice of it, but her heart was squeezed by a greater worry, one that she could not share, especially with Lady Sarah. Randall had gone off to fight: what if he did not come back?
Chapter Ten
The groom was waiting with Pompey at the door and Randall threw himself into the saddle. It was a relief to be mounted on the big grey and riding through the night; it stopped him dwelling too much on Mary’s treachery. He gave himself a mental shake. Enough. His personal concerns must wait, there was much to do, lives could be lost if he did not concentrate on his duty now. Reveille was sounding as he rode out of Brussels and his progress was slowed by the chaotic bustle of soldiers marching, officers riding to and fro and any number of aides dashing out of the city, carrying fresh instructions from the duke. His frustration was only increased by a succession of conflicting orders and the fact that his troop arrived at Quatre Bras too late to take part in the action.
* * *
The following morning everyone’s dissatisfaction increased when they were given orders to retreat from Quatre Bras and make for Genappe. Flint and Bartlett’s divisions moved off under the leaden skies, but a bad-tempered fight broke out amongst Sheffield’s men, delaying their departure. Randall hesitated. He was loath to interfere, but Sheffield was the most inexperienced of his majors and might need his support. An aide raced up and addressed him hurriedly.
‘Sir Augustus sends his compliments, my lord. He asks that you attend him with all haste.’
Randall could not ignore a summons from his commanding officer. The men were back under control and beginning to move slowly on to the road. Wheeling Pompey, he set off after the aide. He would have to leave Sheffield to it.
* * *
An hour later he was galloping in pursuit of his troop, cutting across the fields, but when he rejoined the highway where it emerged from a small town there was no sign of Major Sheffield or his artillery. They were clearly still amongst the houses. Randall glanced anxiously at the heavy clouds. If it started to rain it would become almost impossible to make much more progress today, as the poor roads would churn up into a muddy quagmire.
Randall cursed under his breath. Where the devil was Sheffield? He turned Pompey and galloped into the town, racing through the streets until he arrived at a large square, where he was met by a scene of chaos. British cavalry and French chasseurs were milling around in a confusing mass, swords flashing and hoofs ringing on the stone paving, while Sheffield’s gun carriages were trapped in a narrow street leading off the far side of the square. Bennington Ffog was i
n the thick of the action and Randall’s eyes quickly searched amongst the cavalry for Gideon, but he could not see him.
He kicked Pompey onwards, galloping around the fray towards the artillery unit. There was no sign of Sheffield, but he recognised the cavalry officer at the entrance to the street, shouting out orders to the Rogues.
Randall let out a roar. ‘What in damnation is going on here?’
Gideon turned to him, his eyes shining with the light of battle.
‘Lord Uxbridge ordered the artillery to follow him through the streets, but the French were waiting. Sheffield is dead. We need to retreat. I’ve given the order to reverse by unlimbering. It’s damned tight here.’
Randall glanced around him. Each gun was pulled by a team of eight horses, difficult enough to turn in the open, but in the confines of the street it was well-nigh impossible.
‘You are right,’ he conceded. ‘It’s the only possible way. But where’s Uxbridge?’
