Chapter One
London, 1807
Lord Jonathan Bowen, heir to an earldom, was bored.Beyond bored.He was feeling a fit of dejection, a sinking of his spirits.In a few words, he was in a dreadful state of melancholy.And none of his usual methods to cheer himself were working.Here he was at a splendid ball with friends, a glass of champagne in his hand, a bevy of the usual young ladies floating about and ...
’Zounds!Who was that creature?
His pulse quickened, the candles flickered a little more brightly, the music seemed livelier.And then his excitement deflated like the pig’s bladder toy he’d blown up for his nephew who’d played too roughly with it.Because on second glance, he recognized the female in question, someone with whom he already had intimate knowledge.
She was no debutante, but a young widow of the endless war with France.And he’d comforted her last winter as best he could, bringing a happy sparkle to her eyes while settled between her pale thighs.He wasn’t interested in another encounter.Was he?
Maybe.There was nothing wrong with her, apart from the way she’d made an unlikely noise of ...pleasure?Something between a snort and a cough.Not once, which he could forgive and forget, but continuously.All the while he’d wished he had two tufts of felt to ram into his ears so he could enjoy rutting and spending in peace.
Maybe her late husband had given in to the sweet relief of death on the battlefield in order not to return to his noisy wife.
On the other hand, by the end of the evening, Jonathan might be despondent enough to give a repeat performance, making her eyes roll in her pretty head while dancing Molly Pratly’s jig in her sweet heat.After all, even a noisy wench deserved his excellent skills once a year.
His friend, Lord Samuel Finchley, a viscount with as much time on his hands as Jonathan but fewer aspirations, came to stand beside him, and Jonathan promptly forgot all about the snorting widow.Finch’s brother, a captain, served with the 95th Rifles, an honorable calling for a younger son.
“The King’s German Legion just arrived, practically marching in formation,” Finch said, obviously amused, but Jonathan tensed.He’d been meeting with KGL officers of late on official business.Not that he would be joining their company as such.He wouldn’t be in a bright uniform, wearing a black shako on his head.
However, he might very well be in their particular territory of interest in the not-too-distant future.As a special favor to Colonel Ashworth, a friend of his father, Jonathan had agreed to perform a rather risky service while putting to use another of his excellent skills, mapmaking.And he was doing it for an extremely good cause — to alleviate his own unceasing ennui.
A stupidly dangerous way for a nobleman to find some jolliment.He hoped he lived to regret it.
Handing a surprised Finch his empty champagne glass, Jonathan crossed his arms and surveyed Lord Spencer’s ballroom, which gleamed like a jewelry box opened to candlelight.Chandeliers dripped with crystal, their warm glow multiplied by gilt-framed mirrors that lined the walls.
Music spilled from the musicians’ gallery, a country dance in three-quarter time.All propriety and precise footwork.The scent of beeswax and hothouse roses hung heavy in the air, cut through occasionally by the sharper notes of pomade and the coveted French perfume.
His position at one side of the room allowed him to watch the dancers turn through their figures.He should have felt at ease.This was his world, after all — the world of his father, the Earl of Castleton, and even of his younger brother, the barrister.
Tonight’s assembly honored the King’s German Legion and their families, many of whom now lived in Britain, having fled northern Europe.When the Electorate of Hanover had been ruthlessly absorbed into the Confederation of the Rhine, thanks to the machinations of Bonaparte, the soldiers in its standing army were decidedly unwelcome on the Continent.After all, they were the enemy of France.However, King George found a use for this trained fighting force and folded them under his own banner.They fought alongside the British Army.
Tonight, they brightened the ballroom with their red jackets and blue jackets, depending on their regiment, some with yellow lace, some silver, and all with bright white buttons.Jonathan thought they looked as impressive as any English grenadier or foot guard.
The cream of London society had turned out tonight to applaud their sacrifice and observe their exotic manners, as they had done all Season, whenever any troops were in town.German vowels mingled with English consonants.Officers wearing their KGL uniforms, in which their hosts requested they should appear for the sheer splendor, represented the Heavy Dragoon and Light Hussar regiments, as well as the line, horse, and foot soldiers.These men and their wives, sometimes their parents, too, moved amongst nobility in evening dress.
“Bowen, you look as though you’re cataloging the furniture,” Finch muttered, setting down the glass and snagging two more from a passing footman.He held one out to Jonathan, who accepted it with a slight smile.
“Merely appreciating the irony of the Louis XVI style furniture which Lord Spencer paid a lot of money for twenty years ago.I’d wager the Earl is wishing he’d bought solid English crafted oak instead.”
Shaking his head, he slid his hand along the back of a powder-blue, silk-covered chair against the wall beside him, lined up beside five others.“This place looks like Versailles, or my mother’s drawing room.I half expect Bonaparte to show up.”
“Trust you to be examining a chair leg at a ball.”Finch gave a low laugh, then took a sip of champagne.“You ought to be dancing, or at least admiring potential partners.There are finer legs, and you might be fortunate enough to examine one of them.If you make an effort, Bowen.”
“I haven’t seen anyone yet worthy of admiration,” Jonathan said.Would he bother with an assignation?He wasn’t sure yet.Perhaps by the evening’s end, he would be in a carriage with some willing wagtail.“But you know I can dance adequately when required.”
“Adequately.”Finch snorted.“No wonder you’re still unwed.Ladies prefer enthusiasm to adequacy.”
“Then they’re fortunate I don’t inflict my adequacy upon them in the ballroom, and reserve my enthusiasm for the bedroom.”There were few people he could speak as frankly to as Finch.It was a blessing.
“Besides, you’re standing here with me and not dancing,” Jonathan pointed out.“Is it because we have only the same females with the same artfully rouged cheeks and stained lips to choose from?”
Finch shrugged.“I do find your discourse more entertaining than the prattle of most ladies.”
Jonathan sipped the champagne.It was excellent.Probably smuggled, despite Bonaparte's ruthless Continental System that kept Britain on its toes, always on the cusp of being blockaded right out of such delights as Bordeaux, Cognac, silk, fine lace, porcelain, and so many other necessities.
“I can’t get olive oil,” his mother’s cook had railed loudly enough for Jonathan and his parents to hear when he’d dined with them last week.His father had shrugged, but his mother, in true countess fashion, added, “It’s inconvenient beyond measure.I can’t find a new mirror or fashionable armoire for the guest room.”
