Page 65 of A Lady Igniting Wicked Passions
But the plan he had returned to London to execute was even more foolhardy. He had equipped himself with sword, rifle and pistols and resolved to challenge the Eel to come and take his money.
He did not know if such a thing as a pitched battle had ever taken place in London since the days of the Civil War perhaps. But he had decided he would fight and kill the blackguard who threatened his wife. And, in all likelihood, die himself in the process.
He had prepared with a heavy heart, penning a note to the Eel informing him that his money would not be forthcoming. The same note told him where Aaron would be. He had already warned his uncle of his plan. Blakehill had arrived to support him and been denied entry to the house.
Until he had battered down a locked rear door and knocked down the servants who tried to stop him. Presenting himself before Aaron with a rifle in each hand and a sword on his hip, he had glared his defiance and invited Aaron to try and remove him.
This was three days after Arabella had left for Hove and safety. Aaron did not try to send his uncle away and the two men had settled themselves to enjoy a last drink together before the challenge would be issued to Bill Rivers, the following day. Aaron planned to spend that day preparing as best he could, expecting Rivers and his men to assault the house the following evening.
But the challenge was never issued. For in the evening post, a letter arrived from Arabella. It was contained within a thick envelope, alongside a bill of sale, and a letter bearing a royal crest. That letter had been penned by the Private Secretary to the Prince Regent and referred to a painting. Aaron frowned in confusion, looking from the bill of sale which seemed to confer ownership of a painting to Arabella, then back to the Regent’s letter.
Then the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, and he shot to his feet, devouring the words of explanation in Arabella’s letter, before roaring his delight to the roof. With shaking hands, he handed the papers to Blakehill, and poured himself a hefty measure of brandy and swallowed it with barely a wince.
“Tell me what those papers mean to you, for I fear that I am dreaming,” Aaron had said, gesturing with his empty glass.
“You are not dreaming, old boy. The Regent wants to buy a painting which is now in the possession of your wife. The bloody blasted Regent!” Blakehill exclaimed. “He does not name a price but…God’s Teeth! He invites you…well your wife anyway…to name it.”
“We will pay off that blackguard Bill Rivers and be free of him,” Aaron declared.
They celebrated that night, after penning a reply to Arabella and another to the Palace, informing the Regent of the price for his new painting. When morning finally dawned, the sun rose on two men with aching heads and a great deal of empty bottles.
Aaron plunged his head into the wash water left out for him the previous day, holding it under until he felt some semblance of normality penetrating the brandy-induced fog. He changed his clothes, leaving his hair wet and descended through the house in search of Blakehill.
He found him in a drawing room, asleep on a chaise, with a blanket thoughtfully draped over him by one of the servants. Aaron shoved his uncle’s boots off the chaise and sat down, thumping the other man in the ribs to stir him.
“What’s that? Who’s there? Oh Lord, I swear someone was firing cannonades in here earlier.”
“Probably a maid carefully opening the door and tiptoeing in to provide you with a blanket.”
“Really? Heavy footed maids you have here.”
Aaron laughed, then winced at the pain it induced.
“So, what’s the plan of campaign today?” Blakehill asked, leaning forward to sit with his head in his hands.
“Wait. For the Regent. We still have five days left on Rivers’ ultimatum. But I fully expect those members of my staff that are in his employ to have reported everything that has occurred by now.”
“You think Rivers knows we have his money. Or will have anyway?” Blakehill asked.
Aaron let his head fall back against the chaise and nodded wearily. There was something else at the back of his mind. Something left undone which was gnawing at his consciousness. Arabella and her aunt had saved the day. In more ways than one.
Saved him from the consequences of his own impulsive action, not that he regretted making their affair public at all. Saved him from a life of misery, married to a woman he could never love and who would never love him. His thoughts ranged to the attempted blackmail that his marriage to Arabella had effectively nullified. His head lifted and his eyes opened wide.
“We do have something else to do, Blakehill. A wrong to put right. For the sake of our former brothers in arms all over this country.”
“What are you talking about?” Blakehill complained. “We have just executed one miraculous victory against all odds. Are you saying there is another enemy coming up over the horizon?”
“There is. A bloody great column of the Imperial Guard, shoutingvive la Francefor all their worth and battering away on those drums of theirs. But we’re going to blast them all to hell.”
“The trouble with you talking in riddles, old boy, is that I can’t understand a bloody word you’re saying.”
Aaron was on his feet though, striding for the bureau in a corner of the room.
“What are you doing, you madman?” Blakehill demanded.
“Penning another letter to the Regent, requesting an audience. I am acting on behalf of the owner of his painting, after all. I am the agent, if you will, facilitating the sale of my wife’s property. So, he should see me. How quickly can you get your old uniform, Blakehill? More importantly, does it still fit?”
As he spoke, he was scribbling on a piece of paper, then tugging on the nearest bellpull to summon a servant.
