The Accidental Groom (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 2), page 12
“My lord.” She came alert and curtseyed. “Actually, I would speak with you, if I may.”
“Of course.” The handsome marquess crossed the room and sat in the leather high back chair behind his desk. “I am glad we have a moment alone, because I would have a word with you, as well, while my wife tends our son.”
“Oh?” Patience perched in one of the matching Hepplewhite chairs and gave him her full attention. “Have I done something wrong?”
“Not at all.” He averted his gaze and smiled. “Rather, I have a request of a delicate nature.”
“Whatever I have, it is at your disposal, sir.” She clasped her hands in her lap and stretched upright. “What can I do for you?”
“I would ask you not to share with Lady Rockingham your presence in the Howard’s garden, last night.” He blushed. “She is unaware we had witnesses to our amorous dalliance, and I would keep it that way. I do so adore her feisty spirit, and I would not see it stifled by embarrassment.”
“My lord, I would never mention it, given I should not have permitted Lord Beaulieu to lead me astray, because we are not married, whereas you and Lady Rockingham had every right to be there. I promise, on my utmost discretion you can rely.” She leaned forward. “The reason I am here is Lord Beaulieu.”
“Indeed?” He arched a brow. “Now it is my turn to ask how I can be of assistance?”
“I am not sure where to begin.” For a few minutes, she reflected on her initial concerns. She opened her mouth and then closed it. She pointed a finger and faltered. “I am at a loss.”
“I believe the beginning is usually best.” Kind and reassuring, Lord Rockingham rested his elbow atop the blotter. “Take your time and just talk to me, because I am your friend.”
“Your Lordship, I know that, but it is another friendship that occupies my thoughts to the detriment of all else. I would like to know about Lord Beaulieu,” she blurted. Then she checked her tone. “That is, what happened to him at Quatre Bras? I read the official account in The Times, but I am well aware the papers do not always tell the whole story. Lord Beaulieu intimates there is more to the battle than I know, and I am convinced his assertion is the cause of unfounded trepidation on his part. What does he believe he did wrong?”
“Well, that is an answer for Beaulieu.” Lord Rockingham studied at her and then frowned. “Although I gather he has not been very forthcoming.”
“Downright stubborn is more like it.” She shifted her weight and clenched her fingers. “He refuses to discuss his military experience with me. However, at the Howard’s, someone thrust a letter, addressed to Lord Beaulieu, into my grasp, as His Lordship ushered me through the crush. I did not see the sender, and His Lordship has been most secretive.”
“Not again.” Rockingham rolled his eyes.
“There have been other missives?” she asked, as a chill traipsed her spine.
“Aye.” Rockingham rubbed his chin. “What did it say, or did you read it?”
“I did.” She nodded. “After much cajoling and, dare I admit it, an ultimatum of sorts, Beaulieu relented. It bore but a single sentence.”
“I know the truth of Quatre Bras,” he replied without hesitation.
“Yes.” Stunned by Lord Rockingham’s statement, she realized someone threatened Rawden, and last night was not the first time. “While Lord Beaulieu assures me it is nothing, I don’t believe him. He is afraid, Lord Rockingham. He is consumed with guilt and shame for some unknown reason, and he will not confide in me. Can you enlighten me? Can you tell me who wishes ill on a man lauded a hero by the whole of England? Please, I beg you. I only want to help Lord Beaulieu.”
“It is neither my place nor my story to tell.” Lord Rockingham pounded his fist atop the desk and stood. “But I like you, Miss Wallace. I believe you will be the making of my friend, if you have the determination and fortitude, and that is why I support your cause. Still, I must know from you that you are committed to seeing him through to the end.”
“Lord Rockingham, I will do whatever it takes to aid Lord Beaulieu, just as Lady Rockingham sustained you. Woe the person who menaces him.” When he drew a leatherbound tome from a cabinet, she inclined her head. “I know that book. It belongs to Lady Rockingham.”
“I should have known she shared it with you.” He eased to the matching Hepplewhite chair beside her and flipped open the large volume. “This is Dr. Larrey’s treatise on what he terms nostalgia, and it contains a wealth of information you will find useful if you are to succeed with Beaulieu.”
“He suffers from the malady, too?” she inquired, as she perused a page with notes scribbled in the margins. “He endures the same symptoms?”
“I suspect we all struggle with our own demons after the war, some more than others.” Lord Rockingham gave the book into her hands. “But I doubt any two soldiers share the same afflictions, as a result of their service. At least, that is the case according to Dr. Larrey. You might benefit from a meeting with Dr. Handley, because he is well-versed in Larrey’s methodology.”
“What of Beaulieu? Should I ask him to join me?” She wondered how well that request would be received, but she suspected she knew the answer. “Did Lady Rockingham invite you to her first appointment?”
“Uh—no.” Lord Rockingham tugged at his cravat. “Arabella ambushed me, for lack of a better description, and I did not appreciate it—at first. However, I soon learned how useful Dr. Handley’s suggestions, based on Larrey’s recommendations for treatment, could improve my life and my ability to cope with the lingering effects of war.”
“Then how should I broach the subject with Lord Beaulieu?” Patience located a section on guilt in relation to shame, which Beaulieu possessed in spades. “From my position, this seems daunting.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Lord Rockingham chuckled. “But you are a smart woman, much like my bride, and I expect you will figure it out.”
“Indeed, she is.” Arabella strolled into the study. “And what will she figure out?”
“We were discussing Larrey, and I encouraged Miss Wallace to speak with Dr. Handley, concerning Beaulieu.” Lord Rockingham slapped his thigh, and Lady Rockingham responded immediately. She stepped about his legs and sat in his lap. “I believe Beaulieu could only thrive with Dr. Handley’s guidance, using Larrey’s concepts.”
“I couldn’t agree more, but I would offer a word of caution.” Arabella draped an arm about her husband’s shoulders. “You can expect considerable resistance when you introduce the topic. Not because Beaulieu is familiar with Larrey but because military men have extremely hard heads, present company included.”
“Now, I resent that, darling. Really, I do.” Lord Rockingham pouted and Arabella nipped his nose. “In all seriousness, I would rather Miss Wallace be upfront and honest with Beaulieu about her motives, when it comes to Larrey. I do not think he will be so forgiving, otherwise.”
“You are right.” To Patience, Arabella said, “I hid the book from Anthony, and it was the wrong decision. He found it by accident, and he was none too pleased with me.”
“That is because a measure of trust is necessary to accept assistance when confronting the ugliness of the past. Your deceit, however well intended, felt suspiciously like a betrayal. I could take duplicity from anyone but my bride.” Lord Rockingham nuzzled Arabella, and she patted his cheek. “It was not easy for me. Indeed, it was downright hell, and I wager it will be more so for Beaulieu.”
“Why?” Curious, Patience turned to a chapter on self-reproach. “Would he not want to get better?”
“It is not a matter of improving himself, and I speak from experience.” Lord Rockingham compressed his lips. “While I know it is difficult to comprehend, the reality is Beaulieu does not believe he has a problem. He does not view his battle scars as an affliction in need of treatment or healing, and the first step must be his decision.”
“You are correct in that I do not understand.” Patience shook her head. “If Lord Beaulieu does not confront and address the wounds of the past, he will forever bleed.”
“Which is why Beaulieu will need you to lead him down a curative path.” Arabella cupped her husband’s chin and held his stare. Unspoken words of unshakeable devotion passed between them, and Patience envied their steadfast bond. “And I can promise you a devil of a fight. He will resist your efforts. He may even turn away from you, yet you must persist in your goal.”
“Eventually, he will discern the uncomfortable truth, and he will welcome your assistance.” Lord Rockingham rubbed his nose to Arabella’s. “And he will thank you for your intercession on his behalf.”
The study grew unusually warm, and Patience closed the book and stood.
“Well, it appears I have quite a bit of reading to do, and I should not dawdle given I have no time to lose.” She curtseyed. “My Lord and Lady Rockingham, I bid you a pleasant afternoon.”
“Would you be so good as to secure the door behind you?” Lord Rockingham asked, as he gazed like a hungry predator at Arabella. “And tell Merriweather we are not to be disturbed.”
“Aye, Lord Rockingham.” She did as he bade, and a feminine shriek echoed as she paused in the hall. Patience could not help but laugh as she strolled into the foyer, where she found the butler. “Merriweather, Lord and Lady Rockingham wish to be left alone.”
“Understood.” The manservant bowed. “Thank you, Miss Wallace.”
Looming at the base of the grand staircase, she hugged the heavy tome to her chest and tapped her foot. Then she turned and set course in a different direction.
“Merriweather, may I trouble you for a spot of tea, in the back parlor?” She considered her next step in her quest to assist Lord Beaulieu. As Arabella championed Lord Rockingham, Patience resolved to support the man she decided, at some point, would be her husband. “Also, have you any stationary I might use?”
“There are writing materials in the escritoire by the window.” Merriweather smiled. “And I shall see to it a fresh pot of tea and a plate of shortbread is delivered, at once, Miss Wallace.”
“Thank you, Merriweather.” She dipped her chin and strolled down the correct corridor, because she finally learned to navigate the massive residence.
In the cozy sitting room, she admired the décor of pale blue with soft gold accents, Arabella’s signature colors. Indeed, much of the house boasted a woman’s touch, and Patience pondered the fact that she might be expected to provide the same influence in Beaulieu’s home.
The prospect seemed daunting from every angle she approached it.
It dawned on her then that she needed to enlist her childhood friend’s assistance in learning the myriad duties expected of a chatelaine. Although Patience had been born and bred for the position of society wife, all the relevant training ended when her mother died. From memory, she recalled little of the obligations required of a noblewoman. Her studies necessitated additional coursework to prepare her for a future she had thought beyond her.
Returning her attention to the book, she trailed her fingers across the cover, which bore the title, Soldier’s Nostalgia and Other Battlefield Maladies by Dominique Jean Larrey. Although she recalled numerous conversations with Arabella, regarding the material, their discussions revolved around Lord Rockingham’s symptoms.
Beaulieu manifested his own trauma, along with an unidentified malefactor.
According to Larrey, nostalgia presented in three stages. First, the afflicted displayed heightened excitement and imagination. That description stopped her in her tracks. How was she supposed to distinguish whether or not the indications were due to an ailment or to Beaulieu’s larger than life character, because she suspected he exhibited such traits prior to his military service?
The obvious answer far exceeded her basic knowledge of the man. Indeed, she needed the advice and direction of an expert.
A knock at the door intruded on her thoughts.
“Come,” she called.
Merriweather set wide the oak panel, and Emily carried in a tray laden with a pot of tea and tempting treats, which she placed on the table.
“Will there be anything else, Miss Wallace?” the provincial lady’s maid, always ready to lend a hand, inquired. “Shall I pour you a cup?”
“No, thank you, Emily.” Patience moved the book from her lap and scooted forward. “I will serve myself.”
Once again alone with her musings, she reflected on her goals. If she could not accurately assess Lord Beaulieu, how could support him? The answer was she could not. Indeed, she could do more harm than good. Her only solution was to seek guidance.
Patience glanced at the escritoire and jumped to her feet. She pulled back the matching chair and sat. After surveying the contents of a couple of drawers, she located blank parchment. From an inkwell, she drew a quill and wrote a salutation to the recipient.
Dear Dr. Handley…
*
It was another night, another ball, and another display of the bloated opulence that characterized the ton. Ambivalent after the flanking maneuver expertly executed by his unknown assailant at the Howard’s ball, which situated Patience at the center of a dispute he could neither anticipate nor avoid, Beaulieu opted to journey to the Ellsworth’s in his own rig. Still, he missed her presence and vowed to lure her into the garden, which he knew so well, and engage in an assignation designed to calm his frayed nerves.
She could do that for him.
Would do that for him.
At the main entrance to the grand residence on Park Lane, he lingered and waited for the Rockingham coach to appear. When it pulled to the curb, he peered down and brushed off his dark green coat. As always, he wanted to look his best for his lady.
One by one, Lord and Lady Rockingham descended the elegant equipage. At last, Patience emerged into the faint glow of the coach lamps, and Rawden stood stock-still at attention. The world around her faded into the background, as she stole center stage. Bedecked in eau de nil silk, which highlighted her glorious guinea gold locks, she rivaled Botticelli’s singular subject in The Birth of Venus.
Then she spied him and smiled.
All he could do was stare.
Until Rockingham snapped his fingers in Rawden’s face.
“I beg your pardon.” Rawden scowled. “Have you naught better do to with yourself? Surely your wife has some need you can fulfill instead of pestering me.”
“Perhaps, but I know that look, much like a flushed fox.” Rockingham smirked. “Have spent many painful hours on the other side of that expression, and I would say you are in for a wild night.”
“One can hope.” Rawden pushed aside his friend to offer Patience his escort, before some ne’er-do-well beat him to the prize. “Good evening, Miss Wallace. May I have the honor of accompanying you into the ballroom?”
“Lord Beaulieu.” She curtseyed, and what he would give to peel her out of that gown. “The honor is mine.”
“Shall we join our friends?” When she nodded with enthusiasm, he chuckled. “I wager this will be an unforgettable fête, my dear.”
“Oh, I hope so.” She squeezed his arm as they strolled into the foyer. “I sat for more than an hour while Lady Rockingham’s coiffeur styled my hair.”
“He merely put a frame on a masterpiece, loveliest and cherished Patience.” It dawned on him then, just how to win her hand. He had to lure her with irresistible temptations. He had to charm her. He had to entice and cajole. She was, after all, a woman. “Shall we wander to the back of the ballroom, where the Triumph of Prudence hangs?”
“Yes, please.” They approached the front end of the receiving line, and while Lord Ellsworth greeted Patience, Lady Ellsworth turned aside, effectively cutting her guest. Too well-mannered to protest the slight, Patience pretended not to notice. “I am told the tapestry is one of the finest in existence.”
“Indeed.” He ushered her into the grand hall, nodding acknowledgements and seething as various members of society disregarded his lady. Could none of them see her worth? Did no one value her seraphic contentment, so pure in her delight? “It is said to have been part of the Triumph of the Seven Virtues, woven in the early fifteenth century.”
“Do you know any more of its history?” She sidled closer and turned to meet his stare, and he wondered how anyone could ignore her. “I have heard it is somewhat a mystery.”
“Indeed.” How he adored her keen mind, so inquisitive. He would put her curious nature to good use, in an altogether different realm, once they were married. She presented endless delectable possibilities, and he would gladly spend a lifetime exercising her imagination. “Given it bears no weaver’s mark, its origin is unknown, but some believe it comes from Brussels.”
“How fascinating.” She halted, and her mouth fell agape. “Oh, my lord, it is stunning.”
“It is a wall hanging,” he whispered in her ear. “You are stunning.”
“Lord Beaulieu, I must protest.” Patience pressed a hand to her oh-so-tempting bosom, but her accompanying giggle belied any offense taken. “Tell me truly, do women usually succumb to your bold proclamations? Are they so easily swayed?”
“Always.” Now he guffawed. “But never more so than when I returned to England, after the war.”
“Because you are a hero.” When he sobered, she squeezed his fingers. “Please, do not worry. Regardless of your unknown tormentor, I support you.”
“Miss Wallace, you make too much of nothing.” He winked, hoping his customary bravado diverted her interest in his unidentified nemesis. “And no matter what you or anyone else claim, I will never consider myself a soldier worthy of such high praise. I did my duty and naught more.”
“Well said, my lord.” To his relief, she returned her focus to the artwork. “I presume that is Prudence, situated at center. But who holds the shield?”
“That is Zeus.” He pointed for emphasis. “And the figure to the left is Titan Prometheus.”
“Never have I seen such masterful craftsmanship.” The first musical strains signaled the dance commenced, and she glanced over her shoulder. “Thank you for the lesson, Lord Beaulieu. I quite enjoyed it.”
