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‘‘Well, I am wearing it again now,’ snapped Randall, dropping one hand to the familiar, worn hilt at his side. His dress sword would be taken back to Brussels along with Gideon’s lifeless body. ‘Make sure the men are all aware of it.’
He dug his heels into Pompey’s flanks and the grey responded by breaking into a canter. Damn Flint for being right. But it made Gideon no less a hero. If he hadn’t been there to whip up the men, God knows what might have happened to the guns. He would have to keep a close eye on Rawlins until another commanding officer could be found. It wouldn’t be easy, the Rogues were well named, every man of them a villain, but they’d perform as well as any unit in Wellington’s army, under the right officer. Give them the wrong one and they were as dangerous as those plaguey rocketeers whose damned missiles could never be relied upon to go in the right direction.
* * *
The morning found the Rogues taking up their position on a ridge above the Nivelles road with a square of infantry behind them. Looking down at the corn growing on the slopes before them, Randall could see it was full of Frenchmen, but they were retreating in the face of the deadly fire of the riflemen advancing upon them. However, it was not long before Randall’s troop came under fire from the enemy guns on the far hill.
‘Go to it, Rogues,’ he roared. ‘Show them what you can do!’
Chapter Eleven
Mary lay in her bed, eyes closed. She had dreamed that she was dancing with Randall, that he was looking down at her, smiling, his eyes shining with love. The happiness faded as memory returned. If ever he had loved her it had been short-lived.
Two nights had passed since that dreadful evening at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball and she had heard nothing from Randall. She had returned to the Rue Haute, dry-eyed, too distraught for tears. Randall had accused her of taking his sword. That he should understand her so little, trust her so little, wounded her deeply. She refused to allow Lady Sarah to stay with her lest she incur even more of her brother’s wrath. Besides, Mary did not want company. No one could ease the pain within her.
The morning after the ball, streets that had been noisy and bustling with activity throughout the night were eerily quiet. No bugles sounded, the cobbles did not ring with the sound of horses or marching feet. Mary had spent the day trying to come to terms with what had happened. Randall had left Brussels and he did not wish to see her again. It was the worst of partings, no soft words or tender looks to remember, just his chilling anger.
‘I did nothing wrong.’
She uttered the words aloud more than once during the long Friday following the ball, while she roamed the schoolhouse, wandering aimlessly through the empty rooms. Jacques and Therese kept her informed of the rumours that were spreading like wildfire through the city. At first they said the French were repulsed; then that the British had been cut to pieces. Mary ignored them all and as soon as dinner was over she ordered Jacques to put up the shutters and she went to bed, but not to sleep. For a second night she lay awake for hours, at last falling into a fitful doze that was disturbed by dreams of Randall as she wanted to remember him, smiling at her, loving her. But with the dawn had come reality, and the pain was still there.
A knock at the bedroom door roused her. She sat up as her maid came into the room.
‘I have brought your chocolat chaud, m’amselle. You slept well?’
‘Yes.’
Mary lied. She could not tell her maid how she had lain awake in her bed, going over Randall’s words, trying to work out why he had thought her capable of betraying him.
‘Jacques went out early to see if there was any news.’ Therese put down her cup and bustled about the room, chattering all the time. ‘The thunder we ’eard yesterday, m’amselle, it was from a battle. At Quatre Bras.’
‘Oh.’ Mary felt nothing but a dull ache inside.
‘Many of the English they are leaving Brussels now, m’amselle. Perhaps you would like me to pack your trunks today?’
I would advise you not to be in Brussels when I return.
Randall’s last words to her cut as deep as when he had uttered them, but she would not run away.
‘I am not leaving Brussels, Therese.’ She sipped at her hot chocolate. Its soothing warmth put heart into her. ‘Do you and Jacques wish to go?’
‘Mais non, m’amselle. Brussels is our home.’
‘But if the French should come?’
Therese gave a shrug.
‘They have been here before. The French, the British, it makes no difference, we will endure.’
‘And so will I.’
‘Tiens, m’amselle, you would be safer in Antwerp.’
Mary wanted to cry out that she did not care what happened to her, but that would be foolish. When her sister’s lifeless body had been dragged from the Thames, Mary had railed against her, furious that Jane had given in, had deserted her. Perhaps now she understood a little more why Jane had ended her life, but she would not do so. She would not give in to the aching misery that pressed upon her heart. After all she was the injured party, not the earl. She raised her head and spoke in a firm voice to her maidservant.
‘I shall stay until we have reliable information on the situation.’
And news of Randall. He might not want to see her again, but she was still desperate to know he was safe. She dragged herself from her bed. She must throw off this lethargy. There was much to do.
