“Army life is harsh, Mr. Randolph,” Spencer said. “Unmerciful hours, drilling in all weather, not to mention French soldiers shooting at you.”
“Not afraid of the Frenchies,” Thomas proclaimed. “Tell him, Janie. I want to be off. I’ll volunteer if Uncle won’t buy me a commission.”
“He does speak of it day and night,” Lady Jane said. She walked along briskly but not hurriedly, as though the cold did not trouble her at all. “Do not paint too romantic a picture of army life, please, Captain, or you might find him in your baggage when you go.”
“Perhaps Major Barnett should speak to him as a friend of the family,” Spencer said, trying to make his tone diffident.
Jane laughed, a sound like music. “It is Major Barnett’s fault Thomas wants to be a soldier in the first place. John writes letters full of his bravado. Also of the fine meals he has with his commanding officers, and the balls he attends, which are full of elegant ladies.”
Spencer hid his irritation. Lady Jane held a beauty that had struck him to the bone from the moment he’d beheld her—her dark hair and azure eyes more suited to a faery creature floating in the mists of a loch than a young miss dwelling on a country farm in the middle of England.
If Spencer had been fortunate enough to have such a lady waiting for him, he’d write letters describing how he pined for her, not ones about meals with his colonel and wife. As far as Spencer knew, Barnett did not have a mistress, but he did enjoy dancing and chattering with the officers’ wives and daughters. Man was an ingrate.
Barnett had mentioned the daughter of his father’s closest neighbor on occasion, but not often. Never rejoiced in receiving her letters, never treasured them or read bits out. Nor hinted, with a blush, that he couldn’t possibly read them out loud.
He’d only spoken the name Lady Jane Randolph that Spencer could remember a few weeks ago, when he’d announced he’d be returning to England for New Year’s. He’d obtained leave and had for Spencer as well.
Spencer had been ready to go. Melancholia commanded him much of late, as he saw his future stretching before him, bleak and grim. If he did not end up dead on a battlefield with French bullets inside him, he would continue life as a junior officer without many prospects. Bonaparte was tough to wedge from the Peninsula—he’d already taken over most of the Italian states and much of the Continent, and had his relatives ruling corners of his empire for him. Only England and Portugal held out, and there was nothing to say Portugal would not fall.
Even if Napoleon was defeated, there was noise of coming war in America. Spencer would either continue the slog in the heat and rain of Portugal or be shipped off to the heat and rain of the New World.
Even if Spencer sold his commission in a few years, as he planned, what then? He itched to see the world—not in an army tent or charging his horse across a battlefield, but properly, on the Grand Tour he’d missed because of war. But Bonaparte was everywhere.
More likely, Spencer would go home and learn to run the estate he’d eventually inherit. He didn’t like to think of that day either, because it would mean his beloved father had died.
John Barnett, rising quickly through the ranks, courtesy of familial influence, had this beautiful woman to return to whenever he chose, one with a large and friendly family in the soft Berkshire countryside.
And the idiot rarely spoke of her, preferring to flirt with the colorless daughters of his colonels and generals.
If Bonaparte’s soldiers didn’t shoot Barnett, Spencer might.
The village was a mile from the house down a straight road, easy to navigate on a fine night, but Spencer shivered.
“Are you well, Captain Ingram?” Lady Jane asked in concern. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have come out. You must be tired from your travels. Holidays are not pleasant when one has a cold.”
“I am quite well,” Spencer answered, trying to sound cheerful. “I was reflecting how peaceful it all is. Safe.” No sharpshooters waiting to take out stragglers, no pockets of French soldiers to capture and torture one. Only starlight, a quiet if icy breeze, a thin blanket of white snow, a lovely woman walking beside him, and warm firelight to beckon them on.
“Yes, it is. Safe.” Lady Jane sounded discontented.
“Janie longs for adventure,” Thomas confided. “Like me.”
“I, on the other hand, believe this a perfect night,” Spencer said, his spirits rising. “Companionship, conversation. Beauty.”
Thomas snorted with laughter, but Spencer saw Jane’s polite smile fade.
At that moment, village children ran to envelope them and drag them to the bonfire.
The footmen eagerly joined friends and family around the blazes. A stoneware jug made its rounds to men and women alike, and voices rose in song.
Jane released Spence’s arm, the cold of her absence disheartening. She beamed in true gladness as village women greeted her and pulled her into their circle.
Spencer watched Lady Jane come alive, the primness she’d exhibited in her family home dropping away. Her face blossomed in the firelight, a midnight curl dropped to her shoulder, and her eyes sparkled like starlight—his faery creature in a fur-lined redingote and bonnet.
Barnett has a lot to answer for, he thought in disgust. She deserves so much more.
But who was Spencer to interfere with his friend’s intentions? Perhaps Barnett loved her dearly and was too bashful to say so.
The devil he was. When Barnett had greeted Jane tonight, he’d betrayed no joy of at last being with her, no need for her presence. He was as obtuse as a brick. Barnett had Jane safely in his sights, and took for granted she’d always be there.
Man needed to be taught a lesson. Spencer decided then and there to be the teacher.
Jane had forgotten how much she enjoyed the bonfires at New Year’s. The villagers had always had a New Year’s celebration, and when Grandfather came to live with Jane’s family after Grandmother’s death, he’d taught them all about Hogmanay. None of the villagers were Scots, and in fact, had ancestors who’d fought Bonnie Prince Charlie, but the lads and lasses of Shefford St. Mary were always keen for a knees-up.
Jane had come to the bonfires every year as a child with her brother and cousins, and tonight, she was welcomed by the village women with smiles, curtseys, and even embraces.
The villagers linked hands to form a ring around one of the fires. Jane found her hand enclosed in Captain Ingram’s large, warm one, his grip firm under his glove. Thomas clasped her other hand and nearly dragged Jane off her feet as they began to circle the fire at a rapid pace.
She glanced at Captain Ingram, to find his gray eyes fixed on her, his smile broad and genuine. His reserve evaporated as the circle continued, faster and faster. He’d claimed to be an indifferent dancer, but in wild abandon, he excelled.
Jane found she did too. Before long, she was laughing out loud, kicking up her feet as giddily as Grandfather had, as the villagers snaked back and forth. This was true country dancing, not the orchestrated, rather stiff parading in the ballroom.
The church clocks in this village and the next struck two, the notes shimmering in the cold. Village men seized their sweethearts, their wives, swung them around, and kissed them.
Strong hands landed on Jane’s waist. Captain Ingram pulled her in a tight circle, out of the firelight. A warm red glow brushed his face as he dragged Jane impossibly close. Then he kissed her.