Page 50 of Miss Dauntless
“Half the younger sons and titled wastrels in London served in Spain, and for the most part, they rode around in fancy uniforms and harassed the real soldiers into taking all the risks.”
Sparky had served, though he didn’t say much about his war years. He rose and went to the window, and of all the daft notions, he raised the sash a scant inch.
“Tremont was a puzzle,” Sparky said. “The men thought him one of yer wastrel dandies at first, or a fool. He was an earl eventhen, barely shaving, no sons of his own, and yet, he bought his colors.”
“Then he’s a patriot, and we know what Dr. Johnson said about that lot.” Harry had no use for sentimental drivel aimed at a flag or a particular patch of ground. A man should look after himself first and his mates thereafter. To blazes with Fat George and his art collection.
“If Tremont’s a patriot, then the same can be said of me. Boney had been rebuilding his Navy since Trafalgar, and I didn’t fancy learning to speak Frog.”
“Then you are a fool, Sparky, me lad. Take it from Harry Merriman.” Harry would love to know French—Matilda’s command of the language had been impressive—but his upbringing had favored Greek and Latin rather than useful subjects.
Matilda had tried to teach him some vocabulary in the first few months of their marriage, to no avail and much hilarity. She’d grown quieter after that. Not as fanciful. And once the boy had come along…
“What else do you know about Tremont?” Harry asked.
“I never served under him, but we had some transfers from his regiment, and I was occasionally swapped around between the artillery and the quartermasters. Tremont’s commanding officer was a devil. Liked to watch as a man was flogged within an inch of life. A fellow did what he could to get free of such a monster.”
Something in Sparky’s tone caught Harry’s ear. “If you say he was a monster, he must have been a bad lot indeed.”
“He were the son of a lord, but even the other officers eventually got wise to him. Dunacre couldn’t touch Tremont because Tremont were a peer, but Dunacre could make his young lordship’s life ’ell.”
“Tremont’s life isn’t hell now. His cloak alone would keep me in fine lodgings for the rest of the winter.” And he had Matilda trundling along beside him, probably hoping to become his countess, poor thing.
Tilly was fated to harbor doomed ambitions. The dear woman thought life was about fairy tales and moonbeams. Men like Tremont could look much higher than a vinegarish widow when they sought a mother for their heirs.
“Tremont’s life were ’ell in Spain,” Sparky said. “The stories made the rounds. Dunacre would demand the use of Tremont’s horse and then ride the beast to death. Every officer set store by his cattle, and Tremont were no different.”
“Nasty,” Harry said, “and proof that my decision to stay the hell out of the war was the sensible choice.”
“Dunacre was like ye, ’Arry,” Sparky said mildly. “He had a talent for knowing how to get to people. Yer missus, for example, did not care a fig for her own good name, but to preserve her baby from scandal, she’d throw in with the likes of ye. Dunacre was like that. If he couldn’t catch Tremont up in insubordination or dereliction of duty, he’d go after Tremont’s men.”
The fire had caught properly and finally begun to throw out some heat. Harry’s feet were warm for the first time that day, but his belly plagued him. Chophouse fare washed down with blue ruin sat ill with a man of refined tastes.
“Why are you haranguing me with this ancient history?” Harry said. “Shouldn’t you be off composing poetry to your Mary?”
“Ye will underestimate Tremont,” Sparky said, “and I don’t want to be around to see that happen. Everybody underestimated him, but he was nobody’s fool. Amos Tucker tried to desert—half of us did—but stupider’n that, he tried to steal Tremont’s horse in hopes of getting to the coast.”
“Was he planning to ride it to death in the grand tradition?”
“He was planning to get to the seaside, sell the horse for passage home, and join the family that ’ad up and decided to emigrate without him.”
“Did anybody actually fight the French in this war, or was the whole business a lot of drama and public school foolishness?” Harry was honest enough to admit some guilt regarding the war. Not because he should have laid his life on the line for Fat George’s art collection, but because he’d refused to dally in war profiteering. Fortunes had been made thanks to Boney’s ambitions, but the notion of swindling soldiers out of decent rations or warm blankets had turned Harry liverish.
A smart man knew which rigs to run and which rigs to runfrom.
“Ye are contemplating foolishness,” Sparky said. “Ye think ’Aarry Whoever is smarter than everybody else. You’re so smart, ye had to fashion yer own death in Oxford, ye had to leave Bristol hotfoot, and ye’ve been run out of Dublin. Manchester won’t have ye, and the other port towns will arrest ye on sight.”
“Costs of doing business.” Harry tried for a cheerful tone and failed. Ireland had been lucrative for a time, and the port towns were a real loss. Strangers were part of the landscape in any busy port, and opportunities for the enterprising abounded.
“Costs of committing crimes, ’Arry. I will finish me parable where Tremont is concerned and leave ye to contemplate yer sins. Tucker took off with the earl’s horse. Hanging felony even in peacetime. Dunacre’s spies got wind of this, and Tremont was called to account for his man. If Tremont had said the horse was merely being taken out of camp for some decent grazing, Dunacre would have had Tucker dead to rights—no groom grazes a horse in saddle and bridle. Worse, Dunacre would have court-martialed Tremont for lying to his superior officer.”
“The army sounds worse than the church when it comes to rules, regulations, and stupid games.”
“Pay attention, ’Arry,” Sparky said tiredly. “If Tremont had offered the predictable explanation—that Tucker were taking the horse to graze—then Dunacre woulda won. Tremont instead said he’d been trying to saddle his own mount, and the beast had got away from him. In that version, Tucker was risking his neck outside camp to save the horse. Dunacre’s hands were tied, and that story found wings.”
The swindler in Harry grudgingly admired Tremont’s quick thinking. “And this Tucker person probably turned around and deserted the next day anyway. Who’s the fool then, Sparky?”
“Tremont’s men didn’t desert in the numbers they ought, given Dunacre’s mischief. They looked after Tremont, and he looked after them. His lordship took to riding mules after Dunacre killed his horse. Tremont looked the fool to some of his fellow officers; the men knew different. Dunacre’s vanity kept him from trying to kill the mules, and his ’orsemanship wasn’t up to riding a Spanish mule into the ground anyway. Old Scratch hisself couldn’t outlast a Spanish mule.”
