Duke of Honor, page 3
After a good hour of listening to his labored breathing, the duke opened his eyes. She saw relief in them when he recognized she had come.
“Hadley. You are here,” he rasped.
“I am, Your Grace. Do you need anything?”
He sighed and then coughed, wincing as it racked his body. “No. Just your company, my dear.”
They sat in companionable silence for some minutes and then he asked about the baby that she had gone to deliver the previous evening. She told him about the birth. How nervous Mrs. Soames had been, delivering a child for the first time. The duke had always been interested in the fine details no matter what the topic and she gave them to him, as always. Then she mentioned receiving a new letter from Sebastian.
“Read it to me,” he urged before another coughing fit came hit.
She let it pass and pressed some lukewarm tea upon him. He drank it but refused to eat anything from the tray sitting beside the bed.
Hadley read the latest letter and then set it aside. “Sebastian sounds worried,” she noted.
The duke nodded sagely. “He should be. Bonaparte is the wrong side of mad. And I am sure Marbury blames himself for what happened.”
Hadley knew the duke referred to Sebastian leaving Elba Island, where the French emperor had been exiled after his abdication. Lord Castlereagh, Britain’s Foreign Secretary, had assigned Colonel Neil Campbell as the British commissioner stationed on Elba. His purpose was to keep an eye on Bonaparte. Campbell had, at Wellington’s suggestion, added Sebastian to his small staff. Sebastian had written to his father of Campbell’s concerns regarding the emperor, worried Bonaparte would try and flee the island and make another run at seizing power. Campbell had sent Sebastian from the Mediterranean to London at the beginning of February to air his concerns about Bonaparte’s intentions.
By the time Sebastian reached England, though, Colonel Campbell had also left Elba for Livorno on HMS Partridge. He carried a detailed dispatch for Lord Castlereagh, with new information Sebastian didn’t possess. By the time Campbell returned to Elba after his brief sojourn, Bonaparte had vanished. Wellington, who had become plenipotentiary to the Congress of Vienna, returned immediately to military duty. Sebastian wrote to his father that he had rejoined his former commander, who was now in charge of the Anglo-Allied army set to go up against the French army once more.
“He shouldn’t blame himself,” Hadley defended. “Colonel Campbell sent Sebastian to London. It is not his fault the emperor escaped during Sebastian’s absence.”
“Campbell never should have left Elba,” the duke said. “My son wouldn’t have.”
It warmed her heart to hear His Grace finally use the words my son. The duke never called Sebastian by name and only upon rare occasions referenced him as Marbury. She knew she should also think of him as Marbury or the colonel.
But he always seemed like Sebastian to her.
She still could picture him on the midnight black horse he rode, his fair hair blowing in the breeze, his posture perfect. A handsome, determined man setting out to give his best for his country. Hadley believed she knew him better than probably anyone, thanks to the dozens of letters she had read of his over the years. If he was as worried as he sounded, then things were dire. She knew the inevitable battle—or battles—would occur, pitting the coalition against the resurgent French army.
Hadley prayed that Sebastian would survive this war and come home.
To her.
It was foolish, she knew. But somewhere along the way, she had fallen in love with the man behind those letters. She prayed for his safe return every night, bargaining with God to protect him. And when he finally did arrive at Hardwell Hall?
She would be a total stranger to him.
The duke let out a long sigh and she saw he had fallen asleep. She would sit by his side until Dixon returned in a few hours. Then she would write Colonel Sebastian Cooper and let him know about the serious condition of his father. Hadley knew he wouldn’t be able to leave. Even if he could, Sebastian was a man who would fight to the bitter end for God and country. His loyalty to Wellington alone would keep him by the duke’s side until the threat of Bonaparte had ended—or Sebastian lost his life.
When the valet returned, Hadley went straight to her study and wrote to the man she respected and harbored deep feelings for. She didn’t mince words, knowing his time was always short. She informed him of his father’s ill health and how Dr. Sloop anticipated the duke’s demise in the next few weeks. She also added a few lines of encouragement, hoping Sebastian would take them to heart.
She decided to sign her correspondence as H. Hampton. A letter wasn’t the place to explain who she was and why she was residing in the duke’s household, much less why she was the one writing to him of His Grace’s impending death.
Hadley found Radmore and asked that he post the letter to Colonel Cooper at once. The butler raised one eyebrow briefly, the only sign he was shocked that a missive was leaving Hardwell Hall, bound for the marquess after so many years of silence.
Wanting to feel closer to Sebastian, she went and changed into a gown and went out to the garden, where she cut a bouquet of flowers. She then drove a buggy to the village graveyard, where she went to the grave of the Duchess of Hardwick. She had taken to placing flowers on the duchess’ grave several times a year.
Kneeling, she set the flowers on the earth in front of the tombstone and said, “I know you loved Sebastian, Your Grace, and you watch over him from heaven. I pray that he will remain safe and that this awful war will finally come to an end. I desperately want to meet your boy someday soon. I think we could become great friends.”
Hadley rose. She had no friends beyond the duke. They had constantly traveled to his various estates during her first four years with him, helping her become familiar with Hardwick’s vast holdings. These last five years, once the gout slowed him considerably, had them remaining at Hardwell Hall, where she had worked to keep the household running smoothly and dealt with the tenants both here and at the other holdings of the duke. She had made some acquaintances in the village and attended the few assemblies held each year, getting to dance a bit, which was something she enjoyed immensely. She kept busy but realized at times she was lonely. She longed for a family and foolishly had envisioned Sebastian as her husband and the father of her children in daydreams too numerous to count.
Hadley desperately wanted Sebastian to come home. The young girl who had caught a brief glimpse of a dashing, handsome marquess had fallen in love with the war hero he had become. She wanted to be his friend—and so much more. She told herself it would be next to impossible for this to occur and yet hope trickled through her at the thought of building a life with a man she had grown to admire.
She would be practical, though. Bonaparte must be defeated permanently. Only then would Sebastian resign his commission and come home to assume his role as the new duke. When he did, there might be a possibility of him getting to know her as she knew him. Even then, he might have corresponded with some sweetheart he knew before the war. She must prepare herself for that in case he came home with plans to wed another.
If he didn’t, though, Hadley dreamed of the chance to make a life with Sebastian.
Chapter Two
Waterloo, Belgium—June 1815
“Colonel Cooper, please remain behind,” the Duke of Wellington ordered.
The commander then dismissed the group of gathered officers. Besides British military personnel, officers from Germany, Belgium, and the Netherlands left the large tent, where Sebastian had presented a detailed account of the fighting at Ligny a day earlier. His report included the fact that Bonaparte had defeated the Prussians, under Field Marshal Gebhard Leberecht von Blucher’s command.
After the last man left, Wellington sat and motioned for Sebastian to do the same. Though the duke existed on a diet of cold meat and bread, he was known for his taste in fine wines and now poured two glasses of a deep red for himself and Sebastian.
Accepting the glass, Sebastian waited until the slim, elegant Wellington, dressed in the perfectly cut civilian clothes he preferred to wear, took the first sip. Only then did Sebastian imbibe some himself. The wine, smooth and rich, slid down his parched throat.
“You have fine taste in wine, Your Grace,” he said.
“Enough of wines,” Wellington said dismissively. “What do you think of our chances? Speak frankly, Marbury. It is but the two of us present.”
Sebastian had already gathered his thoughts, knowing his commander would ask for a truthful reply. His report to the officers an hour ago had informed the alliance’s top officers of the particulars of the fighting at Ligny, spouting all the known facts he had gathered, including casualties and troop movements once the battle ended. Wellington would want much more. He would press Sebastian for his honest opinion. The duke was always interested in the smallest of details and had depended upon a handful of men whom he trusted, including Sebastian, to provide those over the last several years.
“I would say I possess guarded enthusiasm regarding victory, Your Grace,” he began. “Our intelligence has shared that Bonaparte’s new army practices the strategy of preemptive strikes, attempting to defeat our allied forces one by one before we can launch a united attack against him. The emperor believes the British and Prussian armies are the most capable—and therefore, the deadliest roadblock in his path to conquering Europe. That is why he attacked von Blucher’s forces first and is on the move to strike ours next.”
“But you said the French did not totally destroy the Prussian army,” the duke said eagerly. “So, what do you think of our chances if von Blucher’s remaining troops rush to join us? Our scouts know that the French madman is on the move and will surely engage us tomorrow, weather permitting.”
“I agree that tomorrow is critical for the Seventh Coalition. All that stands between Bonaparte and success as it currently stands is His Majesty’s army.”
“If we only had time to mobilize all coalition forces, we would number close to eight hundred and fifty thousand men,” Wellington pointed out. “From all reports, Bonaparte has only two hundred and fifty thousand soldiers at his disposal.” He took a long pull on his wine.
“True, but for the Seventh to amass would take another two weeks. That is why Bonaparte is attacking now, before we can accomplish that and outnumber him. The British and Prussians are the greatest threats that stand in his way and he has already dealt a severe blow to von Blucher’s troops.”
The duke sighed. “I have no more than sixty-eight thousand men under my command now. Intelligence reports say Bonaparte will have between seventy and one hundred thousand when he faces us. In all likelihood, that will be tomorrow. If this blasted rain will ever come to an end.”
Sebastian knew from experience how horrible fighting in the rain could be. “Von Blucher himself promised me he would lead his remaining troops in our direction. If we can hold our position until they arrive, I believe our combined numbers will allow us to defeat the French tomorrow and finally end this nightmare.”
Wellington nodded curtly. “I hope so, Marbury. I hope so.” He remained lost in thought a moment and then said, “Thank you for being my eyes and ears at Ligny and taking my dispatches to von Blucher. I know what that has cost you in the past.”
He stilled. Memories of pain and darkness and despair shot through him. He clamped down and shoved them into a far corner.
“I am happy to serve in whatever capacity you need, Your Grace.”
“Your Grace,” Wellington echoed. “Just a year ago, I was made a duke for my actions that led to Bonaparte’s abdication. I thought this was all behind us. Little did I realize what a cesspool the politics of Europe are, Marbury. Trying to make headway with diplomats is worse than being a private, slogging through the mud and blood, attacking the enemy. Who knew we would be forced to return to the battlefield and have to defeat the Little General again?”
Sebastian remained silent, realizing Wellington’s musings were his way of trying to cope with the turmoil that had occurred after Bonaparte fled Elba Island and marched triumphantly back into Paris. Sebastian had longed to return to England after that last battle but had accepted the position of Colonel Campbell’s second-in-command after Wellington recommended him for the position. Sebastian had thought he would have no need to return to Elba once he discussed Campbell’s concerns with Lord Castlereagh. It had been his intention to sell his commission and return to his estates at that point.
Yet here he was, ready to once more go into battle. His gut told him tomorrow would make or break the future of the Continent. He only hoped the British army could hold on until the Prussians could arrive. Without them, victory would be impossible. Even with victory, what would be done with Bonaparte would be the question that remained. Previously awarding him his own island and allowing him to retain his title of emperor had been extremely foolish. Bonaparte had invaded and claimed Elba from Tuscany over a dozen years ago. The Italians weren’t happy that the Mediterranean island wasn’t returned to them after the war and that Bonaparte had free reign over the place. More trouble had surfaced when the new Bourbon king reneged on paying Bonaparte the agreed upon annual sum of two million francs. The situation had become a powder keg, which had exploded, leading to tomorrow’s fight.
“You truly believe the Prussians will get here in time?” Wellington asked, doubt in his eyes.
“If we maintain our position, then I believe we will claim victory, Your Grace.”
Wellington nodded. “You are dismissed, Marbury.”
He stood and saluted the commander, whom he had the greatest admiration for. Wellington was a canny strategist and had kept Bonaparte guessing and off-balance for many years, preventing Europe from falling into the emperor’s hands. The duke had also sent in troops to find and rescue Sebastian when he had been captured behind enemy lines. He owed his very life to Wellington.
Returning to his tent, he was stopped by a soldier. “Letters for you, Colonel Cooper.”
Sebastian accepted them. “Thank you.”
It still amazed him how his friends could get correspondence through to him in a time of war. When he wrote to them, he never revealed his position. He supposed a duke—actually, four dukes—had the power and seized the right opportunities, allowing their correspondence to be placed in dispatches that came from London.
Over the long years, his friends’ letters had been his lifeline to England and the life he had once known there. George, Weston, and Jon had left university and taken their place as dukes, managing vast fortunes and estates and partaking of the Season in London each year. They wrote of mundane things but he relished each word of every letter they sent. Andrew had finally left the military, thanks to the death of his father and older brother, and he, too, had assumed the title of duke. Andrew had wed a widow and he and Phoebe now had a son.
Two of the others had also wed within the last year. George had married Samantha, the tomboy sister of Weston. Sebastian had always liked Samantha and knew she would be a good influence on George. Weston, who had gone even wilder than George once his wedding had been called off, had recently wed a widow who had a young daughter his friend seemed crazy about. Sebastian liked reading about how normal their lives seemed, so different from the years he had spent at war.
He took the letters to his tent and began with the first one, from Andrew. In it, he wrote of how becoming a father had changed him and what a wonderful mother Phoebe was to their infant son. Andrew extended an invitation for Sebastian to come to Windowmere once the war finally ended, saying he and Phoebe would give a house party for all their friends to attend and have time to spend with Sebastian, catching up with what had happened over the years since they had last been in one another’s company. They would ride and boat. Fish and hunt. Play parlor games and have picnics. It sounded so idyllic and hard to comprehend that life had gone on for most of the ton while he had spent his entire twenties on the Continent on the battlefields.
Folding the letter, he set it aside and glanced at the next one, recognizing Jon’s handwriting. His friend hadn’t written to him in several months and he wondered if Jon’s sister, Lady Elizabeth, had finally made a match. Sebastian had liked the outspoken little girl, whom he hadn’t seen in a dozen years. Jon wrote last year of Elizabeth’s come-out Season and how she had taken the ton by storm. In the end, Lady Elizabeth had not chosen a husband. Jon said his sister wanted to find love.
Sebastian doubted it existed. Not after seeing the ravages of war. Not having grown up in a household where his overbearing father railed against his gentle mother. Yet he knew three of his friends had found love. It didn’t surprise him that Andrew had. Andrew was loyal and honorable and it seemed only natural he would attract a wonderful woman and they would share a deep, abiding affection for one another.
George and Weston, though, surprised him. They had become two of Polite Society’s best known rakes after being abandoned by their betrotheds. From their correspondence over the years, neither of the so-called Bad Dukes believed in love and had worked their way through the beauties of the ton, discarding them left and right. Yet each had found good women, both young widows, and George and Weston no longer were scoundrels—they were the good men he had always known, blanketed by love and returning it in kind to their wives.
He wondered if Fortune would ever smile on him in such a way as to find a happily ever after once the hell of war ceased.
Breaking the seal, he began reading. A smile came to his face.
Jon . . . had found a wife. Jon, his cynical friend, loved and was loved.
A woman named Arabella had tamed the arrogant beast. Sebastian laughed aloud at some of Jon’s descriptions of their odd courtship and delighted in hearing of the school Arabella planned to establish for bright, young, impoverished lads.
