“The honor is mine. It isn’t every day I get to meet a hero like yourself, Lieutenant.”
Evan flushed. People had been bandying that word about since he’d arrived here at St. Bart’s, and he didn’t think he’d ever be comfortable with it. Especially since he couldn’t remember what he’d done to earn the accolade.
“It was nothing.” He waved the compliment away, aware that everyone in the ward was listening.
“Saving the Prince Regent’s godson from certain death is more than ‘nothing.’ If the story reported in the papers is anywhere near accurate, you will go down in the annals of British history as one of the bravest men in His Majesty’s army.”
Evan couldn’t deny the account in the paper, since he could remember nothing of that day, but the way he’d been portrayed made him out to be so noble and self-sacrificing. According to the article, he’d rushed onto the battlefield, cut a horse away from its dead teammate, and leapt aboard the horse to drag an artillery wagon behind British lines, rescuing one Percival Seaton, the Prince Regent’s godson, who had been hunkered down in the wagon, in the process.
His hands fisted on the sheets, and the familiar prickle of sweat broke out on his skin. Images of battle seared through his head—the concussive explosions of cannon, the whistle of musket balls, the clash and rattle of sabers, the screams of men and horses. In flashes he saw himself skidding down a slope, rifle in hand, racing over open terrain. The horse, rearing, plunging, white showing around his eyes. A few slashes of his sword cut the dead horse’s harness loose, and Evan swung aboard the remaining animal, still hitched to the wagon, and kicked him in the ribs, praying his comrades would give him enough cover fire for him to reach safety. Was his memory returning, or was he merely reconstructing what he had read in the paper?
The doctor laid his hand on Evan’s shoulder, and he realized he was panting and swallowing hard. He forced himself to take a slow breath through his nose and exhale through his mouth, repeating this several times, smothering his panic lest the doctor become aware.
“My dear man, I’ve come with an invitation.” The Home Secretary held out his hand, and one of his attendants placed the rolled paper in it. Slowly, he opened the page. “The Prince Regent wishes to convey his gratitude in a ceremony at court one week hence. He requests your presence at that time.” The viscount let the paper roll up again. “I trust you will be fit and able to attend?”
The doctor nodded. “He will be there. He’s making a splendid recovery.”
Which was news to Evan, since the doctor had been elusive about the subject every time Evan asked.
“Very good. I am looking forward to the occasion, and I know His Highness is as well.” Putting his hands on his knees, the Home Secretary levered himself up. With a nod, he laid the paper on Evan’s bedside table. “Good day.”
Evan sagged against his pillows, and the doctor dropped into the chair the viscount had used, his eyes on the departing figures.
A meeting with the Prince Regent. Old Prinny, the butt of many a joke in the Ninety-Fifth Rifles, scorned as a hedonist, dilettante, and philanderer. Evan’s regiment mates would never let him hear the end of it.
Still, he’d lived through worse. It would be a few minutes of his life, a bow, a few words, and then Evan could focus on getting fit once more and back to his men and his mission of stopping Napoleon from taking over Europe. All while hiding his lack of memory and the attacks of sheer panic that struck far too often.
He couldn’t let anything distract him from getting back to his regiment.
CHAPTER 2
DIANA COULD HARDLY breathe against the pressure of the stomacher laced against her middle. Or was her breathlessness because, in a few moments, she would be presented to the Queen? Every deportment lesson her schoolmistresses had drilled into her tumbled over in her mind, and she couldn’t concentrate on anything for long. Her hands trembled as she smoothed the silver-shot white satin draped over her panniers.
It was a costume that had been in fashion in her grandmother’s time, but the elderly Queen Charlotte’s requirements for court dress were firm. One wore the style she deemed proper, or one did not appear in her presence.
Four other debutantes waited in the anteroom, each grappling with her own state of nervous panic, if they were anything like her. Diana turned her head carefully so as not to dislodge the ostrich feathers in her hair. Round eyes, tense lips, and fluttering hands met her gaze.
Gowns in pastels and whites, proper colors for a debutante, and no jewelry. Elaborate hairstyles and many, many ostrich feathers. They must look like some exotic strange birds indeed.
Mentally, Diana rehearsed her curtsy, wishing she could work some moisture into her mouth.
A liveried footman opened the ornate doors into the drawing room at St. James’s Palace and stood back. Father had hired someone, a Lady Cathcart, to sponsor Diana. Before a few moments ago, Diana had never met the woman, but all debutantes must have a female sponsor—one who had herself been presented at court before. The sponsor was supposed to be able to vouch for the girl’s character and chaperone her through various social events.
Lady Cathcart had looked Diana over, peering through her lorgnette, sniffed, and said, “I suppose you’ll do.”
Which made them quits, because that was how Diana felt about Lady Cathcart.
One of the footmen beckoned to them.
“Come.” Lady Cathcart raised her hem and headed for the doorway, turning sideways slightly to fit her wide skirts through the opening. Diana followed in her wake, her heart pounding so loudly, she could barely hear her own shallow breaths.
Gawping probably wouldn’t endear her to the Queen, so Diana forced herself to keep her eyes forward, fixed on the stair-rod-straight back of her sponsor. Members of the peerage lined the perimeter of the room, and Diana kept her chin parallel to the floor, taking careful steps on the thick carpet that led to the small dais where the Queen waited.
Don’t speak until spoken to. Curtsy without falling on your face. Keep your voice steady. Never turn your back on the Queen. Oh, my mercy, is that the Prince Regent with her?
She almost stopped. The Prince Regent at a presentation of debutantes? Was that normal? Her schoolmistresses hadn’t mentioned his possible presence. What was the proper protocol? Did she acknowledge him first? Or the Queen?
“Lady Diana, daughter of the Duke of Seaton, presented by Lady Cathcart.” Her name echoed in the silent room as the Lord Chamberlain announced her. Lady Cathcart curtsied and stepped to the side, and Diana faced her Queen.
Queen Charlotte, resplendent in ice blue, her white wig piled high and her throat draped with jewels, looked down at Diana. The Prince Regent fussed with his lace cuff, his considerable girth encased in a brocaded silk waistcoat and his calves bulging in white stockings. Diamonds winked from the buckles of his red-heeled shoes. He sighed, looking out over the room with disinterest.
With knees made of water, she dropped into a low curtsy, bowing her head, but not so far as to tip her headdress onto her nose. Because she didn’t know who had precedence, she directed the gesture somewhere between the royal pair.
“You look lovely, my dear. Please step forward.” The Queen had a pleasant voice, husky and precise with the thickened vowels of her Germanic heritage.