‘Don’t be too sure. He is a slippery little villain and no fool, and trust me, war will come again.’
‘No, you are the fool.’ His father’s bark was like the crack of a gun firing. Rawden remembered his temper all too well. ‘Napoleon is a small man past his prime and without the friends he once had. I doubt France will ever suffer him again, and if she does and it comes to war, you would do well to stop mewling like a little girl and finish him. That is what the army expects, is it not?’ As he raged, spittle flew from his father’s mouth into Rawden’s face.
‘Not that you would know, Father, spending your whole life squatting over your land like a greedy toad, gobbling up everything within your reach and sucking your tenants dry.’
His father sneered. ‘I make no apologies for being a landowner, nor will I bow to those snivelling liberals in parliament. My tenants can break their backs on my farms or go and cough themselves to death in the mills and factories. I care not which. I am fifth generation Voss, and we are leaders of men. And mark me, Rawden, I will do whatever it takes to uphold that proud lineage until my dying breath, which includes cutting off any rotten limb on our family tree before it infects everything. Now, you have said your piece, much good it did you, so get out of my sight.’
‘It will be my pleasure to do so, Father,’ spat Rawden. ‘I hope never to see you again.’
‘If Napoleon invades, and you go to battle, perhaps he will remove that thorn in my side that is you, Rawden. And I will look to William to uphold this family’s honour and pride,’ said the earl.
‘There is no honour on that field. Cannon fire falls where it will. It is a bloody and terrible business to go to war and sheer luck who lives and dies. You must persuade my brother to relinquish his commission and cease this folly. If Will is your heir, he must prevail to ensure the family name.’
‘Indeed, he is my heir, not you, so I will decide what to do with him.’
‘Yet I am your firstborn son,’ said Rawden quietly, reining in his temper as best he could. Had he not always known it would be like this? But he wanted his father to say it, one last time so that he could be done with him.
The earl narrowed his eyes and looked him over. ‘I see no son of mine. You suit an army life. It is a good outlet for your sadistic tendencies. I would have you stay here and learn the ways of a gentleman, how to run my estates and oversee my affairs, but you do not have it in you. Your character is wholly deficient.’
‘I inherited that character from you, Father.’
‘Did you now? I think you favour another.’
‘Go on, say it aloud,’ bellowed Rawden. ‘Shame my mother to my face and see where it gets you.’
‘A savage like you will do well to be far away from me,’ growled his father, but he took a step back. Rawden was over six feet of lean muscle, and the time when his father could physically intimidate him was long past.
‘You miserable wretch,’ spat Rawden. ‘You malign a dead woman for the sake of your pride. You tell lies out of spite, and you have blighted my whole life with those lies. I wish to God I had any father but you, for you are as far from a gentleman as it is possible to be.’
‘And do you think you are one? You are an ingrate and a savage.’
Rawden sucked in a deep breath. ‘This rift between us will not be mended and is equally desirable to both of us. I have been cast aside and sent into exile from this family. Is that not enough? Must you sacrifice my brother to your ambition and pride? If Will falls on some foreign field before he has even had a chance to live, it is on your conscience, not mine. I have said my piece. I am leaving you to rot.’
As he rushed away, his father’s voice stopped him. ‘I do not have that much power over William.’
‘I disagree,’ snarled Rawden.
‘He goes his own way these days. You have undoubtedly worked upon him since he insisted on leaving for London. He has been infected with your debauch and defiance.’
‘No, he has been freed from your bitterness, and he is happier for it.’
‘It is you who have doomed him, Rawden. Has he not always been measured against you – the dashing Rawden Voss, hero of the Life Guards? You cast a long shadow.’
‘No, you cast the longest shadow, Father, not me.’
‘Believe what you like, but in many ways, Will is a stranger to you, Rawden. If only you could see how you wound him. It is the bad blood that courses through your veins, tainting his decency, his pure heart. You claim to love him, but you will ever be a burden to William.’
Rawden could take no more. He stalked out of Marshgrave, his father’s bitter words ringing in his head. He had long known that his father wished him dead before he wanted him as his heir. He had not expected much, but this? Rawden stopped, his breath coming in angry gasps, his face burning with rage, fit to do murder. He stared up at the slate sky, the wind biting into the marrow of his bones. Slowly, he unclenched his fists and stilled the pounding of his heart. His father had always been the bully, able to reduce him to quivering mush when he was a boy, with his slights and indifference. But now, he was a grown man, and he did not need anyone’s approval. He could be done with this miserable dance, once and for all.
He shouted for his horse to be brought and mounted the beast. It fought him, and Rawden yanked its bridle about in a fury and kicked it hard. As he galloped over the causeway, his anger calmed, and he felt freer than he had in years. He had not got what he wanted, which was his father’s aid in stopping Will from going to war. But he had earned something more precious – his freedom. He headed back to the mainland and London, resolving to never see his father again.
Chapter Eleven
Waterloo - June 1815
Rawden rushed through the injured men, some still standing, some sitting, and others lying, white-faced and gasping, who were unlikely to ever rise again. He tried not to step on them. Cannon fire pounded the house, knocking him off his feet and shaking the house to the rafters, setting his ears to ringing. Plaster from the ceiling drifting down, like snow, under the onslaught, crusting his face where it stuck to the steady trickle of blood from a head wound. His collar was wet with it and chafed his neck. Rawden glanced down at his red tunic and saw the blood drying to brown in the heat. His head swam, causing bile to rise in his throat.
A strong hand took hold and hauled him to his feet.
