The Bargain. Mary Jo Putney
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scanned the letter, reading aloud comments about officers that Jocelyn knew. “Here’s a bit of good news. Captain Dalton has been sent to the Duke of York Hospital here in London. He has a severe leg injury, but his life is no longer in danger.”
“Good news indeed.” Jocelyn smiled reminiscently. “Remember how Richard rescued me when I got lost trying to find Uncle Andrew’s winter quarters?”
“Remember!” Laura rolled her eyes in mock horror. “I could show you the exact gray hairs I acquired when you rode into Fuente Guinaldo with all those soldiers and not so much as an abigail to bear you company.”
“The maid I had then was such a hen-hearted creature,” Jocelyn said defensively. “How was I to know that she would flatly refuse to leave Lisbon?”
“The girl had a good deal better sense than you did,” her aunt said dryly. “It’s a miracle that you weren’t robbed and murdered by French troops, bandits, guerrillas, or heaven knows who else. You were mad to come bolting into a war zone like that.”
Privately Jocelyn agreed. That had been one of the occasions when her headstrong streak had erupted, despite her endless efforts to curb it. “I’d made inquiries, and it seemed as if the journey would not be unduly dangerous. I’ll admit I was a bit worried when my guide ran off and I had no idea where to find the regiment, but I was well armed, and you know that I’m an excellent shot. After Captain Dalton and his patrol found me, I was perfectly safe.”
“All I can say is that you have a highly capable guardian angel.” Lady Laura consulted the letter again. “Major Lancaster is at the York Hospital, too, but I don’t believe you met him. He was on detached duty with the Spanish army the winter you spent with us.” Her eyes became bleak. “He’s dying, I’m afraid.”
Jocelyn leaned across and briefly laid her hand on her aunt’s. The Waterloo casualty lists had been painful for her but far worse for her aunt, who had spent her life as an army wife and now saw her friends decimated.
Having met many officers through Lady Laura, Jocelyn sympathized deeply, because she’d liked the kind of men they were. Unlike the perfumed gallants of London, what they did mattered. Perhaps that was why she was attracted to the Duke of Candover, whose fine tailoring could not conceal his intelligence or air of purpose. He was considered an exemplary landlord, she knew, which spoke well of his character, and he was a force for principled reform in the House of Lords. Political views were another area where they were in tune.
Yes, Candover was the one. She liked him very well—but not too well.
If only she had more time for their relationship to grow and deepen. She’d observed the duke carefully and believed he would marry if he found the right woman. A woman of his rank, and a similar steady temperament.
But time had almost run out, and if she waited to bring him around, she would lose her patrimony. Moreover, if she was reduced to living on the modest stipend she would have left, she would lose most of her opportunities to meet Candover socially. She would no longer be a glamorous, much sought after heiress, but a woman of modest fortune past the first flush of youth. She shuddered at the thought. That was quite, quite unacceptable. Her rank in life was one thing she had always been sure of.
Damn her father! They had been so close—yet in the end, he’d betrayed her as surely as her mother. …
She cut off the thought with the skill of long practice. Better to think of what she could do to ensure that she would have both her inheritance and the husband she wanted. She had a month still, and a Kendal of Charlton never surrendered, even if she was of Charlton no more.
Returning to mundane matters, she said, “I think I’ll call on Captain Dalton at the hospital tomorrow morning. Will you join me?”
“I can’t tomorrow or the next day, but tell him I’ll be there the day after without fail.” Lady Laura rose and excused herself to write an answer to her husband’s letter.
Alone in the drawing room, Jocelyn’s mind returned to her dilemma. The obvious solution was to marry one of her suitors and have a fashionable marriage, each of them going their own way after an heir or two had been produced. Yet the idea revolted her. She didn’t want to be a brood mare to a man she barely knew, nor did she aspire to become one of Candover’s passing mistresses. She wanted to be his wife. She was resigned to the fact that few if any husbands were faithful, but at least if Candover strayed, he would be discreet about it. If she was really lucky, he might realize that his wife was all the woman he needed.
Despite her aunt’s revulsion at the thought, a swift widowhood would be preferable to a loveless marriage of convenience, for that would give her freedom and the time she needed to win Candover’s heart. But not Sir Harold Winterson. Lady Laura was right about that—it wouldn’t do to marry the old gentleman and find herself in the distasteful position of longing for his death so she could regain her freedom.
Jocelyn tilted her head to gaze at the gorgeously painted and gilded drawing room ceiling. As a child she often lay on the floor and made up stories about the paintings in the elaborate medallions. She loved this house almost as much as Charlton Abbey.
The unruly side of her nature surged forth again, and she swore an oath that one of her warrior ancestors would have approved. She might never win the duke’s love, and Charlton was forever lost, but Cromarty House was hers. No matter what it took, she would find a way to keep her home out of Elvira’s grasping little hands.
Chapter 2
The soft footfalls of her maid awakened Jocelyn from a restless slumber. She rolled over with a yawn and sat up so a tray of hot chocolate and bread rolls could be arranged over her lap. “Thank you, Marie.” Noticing a small frown on the girl’s face, she added, “Is all well belowstairs?”
Welcoming the opportunity to talk, Marie Renault said with an enchanting trace of French accent, “The footman, Hugh Morgan?”
Jocelyn nodded encouragingly. Morgan was a handsome young Welshman who had created quite a flutter among the maids when he started work a few months before. Marie appeared to be the girl who had secured his interest.
“His brother, Rhys, a dragoon who was wounded at Waterloo, has just arrived at the York Hospital here in London. Hugh is most anxious to visit him, but his next half day isn’t for almost a week.” The girl gave her mistress a hopeful glance.
Had Rhys Morgan come over on the same troop ship as Richard Dalton? So many wounded men. Repressing a sigh, Jocelyn sipped her rich, steaming chocolate. “How convenient. This morning I’m going to call on a friend at the York Hospital. Morgan can be my escort and see his brother while I am visiting my friend.”
“Oh, excellent, milady. He will be most happy.” Expression lighter, Marie crossed to the wardrobe room to prepare her mistress’s morning costume. Jocelyn broke open her warm bread roll, wryly wishing that all problems could be solved as easily as Hugh Morgan’s.
The Duke of York Military Hospital was dismal, a drab monolith dedicated to the treatment of seriously wounded soldiers. Jocelyn wondered with black humor if the objective was to be so depressing that patients would do their best to recover quickly.
Steeling herself, she marched up the wide steps, her footman close behind. Hugh Morgan was tall, with broad shoulders and a melodious Welsh voice. He was a pleasant addition to the household, but today concern for his brother shadowed his eyes.
The building was crowded with casualties, and it took time to find Rhys Morgan’s ward. Jocelyn experienced sights and smells that knotted her stomach, while Hugh’s country complexion acquired a greenish-white tinge.
Rhys Morgan lay in a corner cot of perhaps forty jammed into a room too small for its population. Some patients sat on their beds or talked in small groups, but most lay in stoic silence. The bare walls created an unrestful clamor, and a miasma of illness and death hung heavy in the air.
Hugh scanned the room. “Rhys, lad!” He instinctively started to push past Jocelyn, then glanced back