Owen grinned and Bertrand chuckled. “That would do it,” he said.
The Duchess of Netherby really was Winifred’s aunt—in thecomplicated way that characterized their family. She was Mama’s half sister, though they had been unaware of each other’s existence until they were both adults. Aunt Anna had also grown up at the orphanage in Bath and then remained there to teach until she was called away to London one bleak day—bleak for Winifred, that was—to be informed of her real identity as Lady Anastasia Westcott, only legitimate child of the late Earl of Riverdale and inheritor of all he had possessed except his title and principal seat. Though that last asset had been no treasure at the time, the late earl having allowed it to sink into shabby disrepair. The woman Winifred had always known simply as Miss Anna Snow had not greeted the startling announcement gladly. She had wanted to give up everything and return to her familiar life in Bath. But the Duke of Netherby had had other ideas. He had promptly married her and thus persuaded her to change her mind. He had probably given her one of his looks to persuade her. Winifred did not know how else he had done it. Meanwhile, Mama and her brother and sister as well as Grandmama had been abruptly disinherited of what they had always considered their own. Mama had ended up reacting with what Winifred thought of as her great defiance and taking Aunt Anna’s place as teacher at the orphanage.
Now Papa had come to London to paint Lady Jewell’s portrait and had been invited to stay at Archer House on Hanover Square with his old friend Anna, now also his sister-in-law, and the Duke of Netherby. Mama and Papa could rarely travel anywhere together. There were too many children and pets to be organized and too many events booked at the arts center that was their house. On this occasion Winifred had been persuaded to accompany Papa. Not that much persuasion had been needed. She liked to spend time alone with him, talking about his art, watching how he worked.And she loved her aunt Anna, once her beloved teacher, and her five cousins. She even loved her uncle Avery, formidable as he was and intimidating as he could be. For all his air of ennui, he could not hide fromherthe fact that he adored Aunt Anna and all his children too. She would forgive him any number of eccentricities just for those facts.
“You will be going to the ball?” she asked Owen.
“Absolutely,” he said. “I hope your dance card is not quite full yet.”
“What a silly idea,” she said, and was aware of the two men grinning at each other over her head. She had no illusions about her attractions, though. She was not pretty, she did not have any alluring curves, she had no feminine wiles, nor did she want any, and she had no birth or fortune to entice even the most desperate of suitors. She could only hope to eventually attract someone who looked for depth of character, someone who was searching more for a companion and helpmeet than an adornment for his home. Someone like Owen himself, perhaps, though it was altogether possible he would be beguiled one of these days by a pretty face.
She would not be brokenhearted if it never happened for her. If she did not find anyone, well…Then she would remain at home, where she was always happy and always useful. There were worse things to be than a spinster in a happy home.
“Indulge my silliness,” Owen said. “The duchess is bound to have arranged for some highly respectable partner to lead you into the first set. Reserve the second for me.”
“You are too kind,” she said.
“You will be kinder if you say yes,” he told her. “Imagine the humiliation of having Bertrand witness your rejecting me.”
“I would never let you forget it,” Bertrand said.
“Well, of course I will reserve it for you,” Winifred said. “If I am not upstairs in my room hiding under the bed, that is. And thank you. But is it possible something is happening here?”
There was a noticeable swell in the volume of animated chatter from the packed stands, and all heads were turned in one direction, feathers waving and fluttering from hundreds of bonnets.
“Barely three minutes late,” Bertrand said, consulting a pocket watch. “Impressive. It makes one proud to be British.”
Large doors across the parade ground from them had opened. There were shouts of command from inside, and lines of foot soldiers, led by an officer on horseback, began a procession out onto the parade ground, all moving as one, their booted feet pounding the pavement like the single beat of a bass drum, their scarlet uniforms bright in the sunshine, their tall black beaver hats low on their heads and hiding most of their faces, it seemed, except noses and mouths and chins. How did theysee? Their boots and their weapons gleamed in the sunshine. Arms and legs moved in perfect rhythm.
Winifred, clinging to the arms of her companions, was quite sure she had never seen anything more breathtaking in her life.
The soldiers marched past them to the lively music of their regimental band, turned at the end of the parade ground in a complicated maneuver, never losing a beat or the perfect unison that made them one unit rather than a collection of individual men, and marched back and into place. There they came to a stamping halt at the shouted command of the officer on horseback and stood perfectly still and at attention.
But that was not the end of it. More came, first infantry and then cavalry, until the parade ground was filled and there seemed to be no room for more. But there were more to come.
“Ah, here he is,” Owen said, his voice bursting with pride. Andanother troop entered the grounds, led by an officer on horseback, like all his men.
The officer, Winifred concluded, must be Colonel the Honorable Nicholas Ware, Owen’s brother. She watched his approach with interest, but it was impossible to detect any familial resemblance, if there was any. There was not enough of his face visible. His horse was enormous, its black coat sleek and gleaming. The man matched it. He looked massive to Winifred, with powerful thighs and a broad chest, his beaver low over his brow, the sunshine twinkling off the gold of his epaulets and the buttons on his coat and cuffs. He held a colorful pennant aloft in one hand.
He looked more than a bit menacing, she thought, his jaw set, his mouth in a thin, uncompromising line. And for the first time it occurred to Winifred that all these men, who were putting on such a magnificent display, were actually killers, that killing was what they were trained to do and what all of them had probably done multiple times. Colonel Ware had fought in Spain and Portugal during the wars against Napoleon Bonaparte, and at Waterloo.
She shivered, and Bertrand looked down at her and smiled.
“Formidable, are they not?” he said.
He—the colonel, that was—rode past them without turning his head or nodding acknowledgment of his brother’s presence, without any indication that he saw him, in fact. It was not surprising, of course. One could hardly expect these men to wave their hats to their relatives in the stands. The very thought brought a smile to Winifred’s face.
“A handsome devil, isn’t he?” Owen said.
“I will take your word for it,” she said. “I could see hardly anything of his face.” Not his eyes, not his hair. “But he looks very impressive.”
“Indeed,” he said.
“He certainly has an impressive set of lungs,” Bertrand said as the colonel bellowed out orders to his men. The company turned and made its way back along the parade ground to take up the remaining space at the center. He commanded them to halt, and halt they did, the horses as still as the men.
How did the men train them todothat? In her experience horses invariably tossed their manes and their tails and wiggled their hind quarters even when called to a halt.
The regimental bands fell silent. The regimental flags, also apparently known as the colors, held aloft by the officers who led the men, fluttered gaily in the breeze, the only movement on the parade ground. The cheering and chatter among the spectators in the grandstands had died away, replaced by an almost expectant hush.
