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  For Phyllis and Bill Bultmann

  “Words are easy, like the wind

  Faithful friends are hard to find…”

  —Richard Barnfield

  Love’s not Time’s fool,

  though rosy lips and cheeks

  Within his bending sickle’s compass come.

  —William Shakespeare

  Sonnet 116

  CHAPTER ONE

  England

  Early Spring, 1748

  “Was it, d’you suppose, absolutely essential that it be raining?” Lieutenant James Morris wiped a handkerchief across his cherubic face and blinked indignantly through the drizzle. “My first sight of home for two years, and be damned if I can see the cliffs!” He turned to the thin young officer who leaned on the rail beside him, his intent gaze on the distant loom that was England. “Whereas I suppose you can make out the castle with those eagle orbs of yours!”

  Swaying to the motion of the frigate as it ploughed through the blackish green waves, Captain Gideon Rossiter took off his three-cornered hat and shook water from the brim. Strands of his thick brown hair had escaped the riband that attempted to hold it in severe restraint, and wet curls had crept to cling about his gaunt features. “Of course,” he drawled, a twinkle replacing the rather sombre look in his grey eyes. “And I’m glad to see that fine white cat sitting on the walls. ’Tis likely a good omen.”

  “Cat, you say?” Morris jerked around and peered uneasily through the misted curtain of the rain. “Where?”

  “You’re looking the wrong way, you clod. More to the right. If you bring your eyes down from the flagpole, you can’t miss him.”

  “Flagpole? Devil take me if I can see the castle, much less—” Morris’ guileless features suddenly became suspicious. “Now blast your eyes, Ross! You’re bamming me again! I’ll go bail you can’t see the castle no more than I can!” Rossiter laughed at his mortification, and he added with a fine show of resentment, “Most amusing! I may not be able to see the castle, but I can see you, my Buck! A fine figure you cut, with pretty curls glued all about your brow! Not content with leaving our gentle Holland nurses wallowing in tears, you mean to captivate the crowd of beauties who wait to welcome you home from the wars, eh?”

  A faint flush warmed Rossiter’s cheeks. He thrust a hand through his wet hair, creating considerable havoc, then slammed his tricorne over it. “Birdwit! The nurses wept for every fellow who left their care. And there will be no beauties to welcome a battered old soldier!”

  The shadowy outlines of Dover’s chalk cliffs were materializing now. The ship’s officers began to bellow orders, and there was a sudden frenzy of activity as sailors scurried about, shouting to one another as they hauled on ropes or scrambled nimbly up the rigging to lighten the sails.

  The two army men were briefly silent, each straining his eyes for a clear glimpse of the beloved land.

  Rossiter thought, ‘Home!’ and emotion misted his eyes and brought a lump to his throat.

  Morris murmured, “Jove!” Then, fearing such eloquence had betrayed his feelings, he said argumentatively, “Battered old soldier, indeed! You’re a wisp of hair and a hunk of bone perhaps, but you look not a day over thirty, and—”

  “Merci bien! I was eight and twenty last month!”

  “—and did you but condescend to at least powder your hair—”

  “’Twould by now resemble glue, as does yours!”

  “—your so admired Naomi might possibly view you without measuring her length at your feet!”

  Rossiter stiffened and a steely light came into his eyes. “I think I have never spoken to you of Lady Lutonville.”

  Undaunted by that sudden glacial hauteur, Morris’ puckish grin dawned. “Oho, but you have, my Tulip! You forget that when I was dragged into our miserable hole of a hospital you’d just suffered that relapse. For four horrid days I was obliged to lie and listen to you raving about the Lady Naomi, and how you are contracted, and how much you yearn to wed and settle down with her, and how many chil—” He gave a whoop, and ducked the flying fist of his wrathful and very red-faced companion. The tall heavyset major who had come up behind them unheard in the general uproar gave a shout and leapt back to avoid receiving the blow.

  “Oh—egad!” gasped Rossiter, grabbing the rail as the ship gave a violent lurch. “My apologies, sir!”

  “So I should think!” Major Sturtevant clutched at him instinctively, then exclaimed in a great boom of a voice, “Damme, but I’m a clumsy ass! Sorry, old fellow. That shoulder still gives you pepper, does it?”

  Rossiter, who had lost all his colour, managed a rather twitching grin and declared that he was “very fit.”

  “My fault, sir,” admitted Morris. “I was quizzing Ross about his lady.”

  “Aha! And is the Lady Naomi to meet you at Dover?” roared the major, a glint coming into his pale and rather protuberant brown eyes.

  Stunned, Rossiter wondered if every patient in the overcrowded military hospital had been entertained by his delirium.

  “Heard she’s a proper Fair,” Sturtevant continued. “M’wife writ she has all London at her feet. Lady Lutonville has, I mean. Not m’wife. Which is as well, or she’d never put up with me!”

  They both laughed obediently, and, pleased by their appreciation of his wit, Sturtevant said, “Sink me, but you’re a lucky dog, Rossiter! I mean to demand an introduction when we dock. Is her hair really flaming red?”

  Rossiter said feebly that he rather doubted it. The other two men were staring at him, and he added with a wry smile, “I’ve not met the lady since she was sixteen, and barely out of the schoolroom.”

  “Arranged, was it?” Watching him narrowly, Sturtevant asked, “Shall you recognize her? I’d quite counted on bragging to m’wife that I’ve met the—ah, famous beauty.”

  His grasp on the rail very tight, Rossiter answered, “I really don’t expect her, sir. Don’t expect anyone, matter of fact.” They both looked shocked. He thought, ‘Blast!’ and went on, “I doubt they know I was hit.”

  Morris blinked and blurted out, “But—that was at Lauffeld, wasn’t it, Ross?”

  “Damn near a year ago,” said the major, patently appalled. “Haven’t you even writ?”

  “I—er, I seldom write letters, sir.”

  “Dashed under-statement! You ought to be ashamed, you heartless young cub! Don’t it concern you that Sir Mark is likely beside himself with worry?”

  “You are acquainted with my father, sir?”

  “No!” Sturtevant flushed at his own vehemence, and added hurriedly, “Well, ah—that is to say, he was—is a member of White’s, as is my own sire. And—er, one hears ah, this’n that, y’know. Now, you’re looking decidedly wrung out, m’dear fellow. Best get below. We’ll be entering the Tidal Basin very soon, and you’d do well to rest a bit before we dock.”

  Thanking him for his kindness, Rossiter saluted, and with an inward sigh of relief made his
escape. He walked swiftly, adjusting his stride to the pitch of the wet decks, breathing deep of the clean fresh scent of the sea. The wind sent his cloak billowing, and he drew it closer. The sails flapped, the waves crashed against the bow, the shouts of the sailors rang cheerily through the chilly air. Despite the rain, gulls were wheeling about the vessel now, uttering their piercing cries, their presence a sure sign that the great ship was nearing land.

  Rossiter could all but feel the stares that followed him, and knew they both very likely judged him a cold fish with not one whit of filial responsibility. He was glad to reach the companionway, and escape down the steps.

  The men he had left watched his retreat in a silence that continued for a minute or two after he was out of sight. Then, Sturtevant asked in a less jovial voice, “How long have you known him?”

  “Only in the hospital, sir. He’d been there about six months before I was admitted. He was quite the nurses’ darling. They’d none of them expected him to survive all those operations. The surgeons used to come and apologize because they’d found another sliver of steel or hunk of lead they must dig out.” Morris hesitated. “I used to wonder how he stood it, but I never once heard him whine.”

  Sturtevant smiled faintly. “Value him high, don’t you? You’d likely heard of him before you met, eh?”

  “I’d heard of his family, naturally,” said Morris, looking annoyed. “Lord, who hasn’t? Rossiter Bank, Rossiter Shipping and Trading, Rossiter Court, Promontory Point. But I’d no idea who he was when I finally met him, for I don’t move in those circles, you know. There was not a bit of height in his manner, though he can be damned frosty when he’s vexed. I took him for just another well-born young fellow. When I realized who he was—” He paused, then said defiantly, “My colonel told me he was a splendid officer.”

  “So he was. You should’ve seen him on the battlefield. Knew those damned great cannon like no man I ever met. Knew how to handle his men, too. I saw him put new spirit into ’em, Lord knows how many times!” Sturtevant pursed up his lips. “Did you—er, ever know him to receive a letter?”

  “Never, sir.”

  “Not even from his sister? I understand he is devoted to her.”

  “I believe he is. But I never knew him to get a letter from the lady.”

  Sturtevant took off his tricorne, then made a grab for his wig as the capricious wind tugged at it. Shaking rainwater from the oilcloth that protected the tricorne, he swore, then said, “Is it possible, Morris, that, er—that he don’t know?”

  Lieutenant Morris’ youthful face was troubled. He answered slowly, “I fear it is, sir. You may be sure none of us have breathed a word. But—I suppose he’ll soon find out.”

  “Good God!”

  “I’ve been wondering, sir.” Morris stared fixedly at the now visible might of Dover Castle. “Do you think … I mean, ’twould be kinder perhaps, to—ah, warn him?”

  “Oh, yes. Definitely kinder.”

  Their eyes met. Sturtevant squared his jaw. “How d’you mean to word it?”

  Blanching, Morris gasped, “Me? Now, God forbid!”

  “You are a coward, Lieutenant,” accused the major sternly.

  “You’ve the right of that, sir! A downright poltroon! Never will win any medals! M’father said so. M’brother said so. Everyone who—who knows me…” The panicked declaration from this young man who had faced massed enemy bayonets with not the blink of an eye, faded into an awkward silence.

  They looked at each other.

  Major Sturtevant sighed. “Alas, I am a coward too.”

  * * *

  “Oh, Maggie! Did you ever in your life see such an awe-inspiring sight?”

  A tall, powerfully built gentleman, moving softly down the nave of Canterbury Cathedral, overheard the quiet words and paused to smile admiringly at the young lady who had uttered them. She was, he thought, an awe-inspiring sight herself. Her figure was dainty, her complexion fair, the features delicate and lit by wide green eyes. Thick, powdered ringlets clustered charmingly beside her left ear and flirted with the shoulder of her light cloak. Altogether an adorable little creature, from the lacy ruffles that edged her pink cap, to the hem of her wide hooped skirts.

  “But ’tis so hugeous big, milady” murmured the neatly clad girl who accompanied this delicious vision. “And though I look and look at this map, I hasn’t found it yet.”

  The young beauty leaned to knit her brows over the map, and the gentleman moved nearer.

  “Your pardon, ma’am,” he said with a graceful bow. “I could not but overhear. An I may be of some small assistance, ’twould be my pleasure.”

  How swift the upward sweep of the firm little chin; how haughty the flash of the green eyes. The gentleman was enchanted. He was a good-looking man of early middle-age, with an exceptionally fine pair of dark eyes deep-set under bushy black brows. His smooth skin was bronzed by the sun, his wig was neat, his attire of the finest style and cut. Both voice and manners were cultured, and he had a very kind and winning smile. “I mean no disrespect,” he murmured. “But I am fairly well acquaint with the present plan of the cathedral. It has been rebuilt several times since the days of St. Augustine, you know. Might I direct you to some particular spot…?” His eyes glinted, and he said whimsically, “The shrine of St. Thomas à Becket, perchance?”

  The hauteur in the lady’s eyes gave way to a sparkle of amusement. “La, but we are sadly inept pilgrims,” she said in a rich, musical voice. “Yes, sir. Your assistance would be most appreciated.”

  “My lady!” exclaimed the abigail, eyeing the stranger askance.

  Despite the many visitors wandering about the enormous cathedral, voices were kept low, and a reverent hush prevailed. Two older ladies looked censoriously at the small group.

  The gentleman grinned, and acknowledged in a whisper, “Your woman is quite right, ma’am. May I present myself properly? My name is Bracksby. Rudolph Bracksby. My estate lies about two miles east of here, and I promise you my reputation is not too sadly tarnished. St. Thomas’ shrine is in the Trinity Chapel. This way.”

  He led them along the north aisle, pointing out the choir with its splendid screen, and the tombs of St. Alphege and St. Dunstan, and guiding them at last via the lovely curve of the arcades into the Trinity Chapel.

  As they approached the saint’s tomb, Lady Naomi halted, and with pretty politeness thanked Mr. Bracksby for his aid. It was very apparent that he desired to know the name of the lady he guided, but her demeanour, though pleasant, was not encouraging, and he was much too well bred to press her. He accepted his dismissal, therefore, bowed again, and took himself off.

  In the south aisle he was pleased to recognize a friend, and prevailed upon that clerical individual to accompany him back to the Trinity Chapel.

  “There,” he murmured, nodding his head toward the shrine. “The enchanting creature in pink. I know she is Lady Somebody, but for the life of me I cannot recollect her name.”

  “Then you’re a regular chawbacon, Rudi,” said his friend with a grin. “That little beauty is the Lady Naomi Lutonville. The reigning Toast. You surely must have heard of some of her escapades.” He winked. “Rather a minx, they say.”

  Mr. Rudolph Bracksby’s dark eyes grew troubled. “Oh, is she, by Jupiter!”

  “I’m amazed you are not acquainted. Did you but spend more time in England, Rudi, you might keep abreast of such vital matters. Well, I must be off. Looks as if we’re in for a storm, and I’d as lief get home before it starts.”

  That his decision was wise was soon apparent. The mist became drizzle, and the drizzle turned to rain. By half-past two o’clock my Lady Lutonville’s luxurious carriage was caught in a downpour, and having already suffered a damaged wheel, turned off the highway and proceeded gingerly along a lane that was soon little better than a mass of puddled ruts. The wheel was bumping ominously, and Maggie Osgood’s scared brown eyes became even more apprehensive when Roger Coachman opened the trap and shouted his opinion t
hat they’d do better to let him leave them under a tree while he rode in search of aid. “This wheel’s going to split any minute, marm,” he howled, raindrops coursing down his weathered and forbidding countenance. “And there ain’t any lodge gates as far as I can see.”

  “Yes, but you cannot see very far,” pointed out Naomi, ignoring Maggie’s wail. “And I do not propose to sit in this plaguey wet for an hour while you ride about looking for a smithy. If the wheel splits we shall have to stop, but ’til then, keep on, Roger. I’m sure this is the right lane and it cannot be very much farther.”

  “Was Promontory Point half a inch round the next raindrop I dunno what the earl would say about me taking you there, marm,” he grumbled.

  “Roger Coachman is right, milady,” put in Maggie tearfully. “An the coach turns over—”

  “Do not be such a goose,” scolded Naomi. “He will not allow the coach to turn over, will you, Roger? Hasten, now. I chance to know that Sir Mark is in London at Rossiter Court, but I am very sure his people will have something to warm us all.”

  The vision of a mug of hot rum, the better for some lemon and cloves, did much to lighten the coachman’s mood, and they were soon limping along once more. My lady gave a little crow of triumph when iron lodge gates loomed through the deluge. There was another delay while the guard shouted in vain for the gatekeeper, resorting at length to the yard of tin. The stentorian blast he awoke from that instrument brought a drowsy-looking man hurrying to open the gates and stare from the crest on the door panel to the beauteous face of the lady who leaned from the window to enquire if there was anyone up at the house.

  “Sometimes,” he said, stifling a yawn.

  Adjured by the coachman to keep a civil tongue in his head, the gatekeeper offered belligerently to darken his daylights for him.

  “You are insolent,” said Naomi, frowning at him. “Drive on at once, Roger.”

  The coachman, who had started to climb down from his perch, obeyed with reluctance, hissing some sizzling epithets at the gatekeeper, who responded in kind but with a wary eye on her ladyship’s now closed window.