Highest Stakes (16 page)

  "You think alone to fight us, eh?" The Frenchmen laughed. "You are now prisoner of le duc de Grammont, just as your foolish king soon will be."

  Outnumbered and without aid of a firearm, Devington had little hope of freeing Ranzau, but with a diversion, perhaps the captain might yet free himself.

  Taking a great breath of courage, Devington raised his own saber, and with a savage war cry, he leaped out from his cover directly into the group of infantry, dispersing the startled men in all directions.

  Swiftly, he grasped the reins of Ranzau's horse and tossed them to the captain, who threw himself clumsily over the saddle. Desperately clutching his horse's neck, they bolted away amidst a firestorm of French musketry.

I t was far later than usual when Charlotte snuck back into the
house following her morning ride. She had taken Tortoise for his daily gallop, visited with Amoret who had just returned from Lord Godolphin's stud farm, and had looked on as Jeffries began putting the obstreperous young Rascallion through his paces.

  Though Rascallion was old enough to be well under saddle, Jeffries had determined that his prior owner had completely soured him for riding of any kind and that the only way to manage him was to go back to the beginning in his training. As Charlotte watched, Jeffries calmly snapped the whip in the air, which set the horse into a frenzied fit of wheeling and plunging.

  "A rebellious one, 'e is. In particular, 'e don't care much for a whip," Jeffries remarked. "Been properly soured wi' mismanagement, I'd say, but he be not completely unmanageable if'n he be placed in the proper hands. If'n his energy can be rightly directed, he'll be nigh to lightning on the turf. Easy now, me lad." Jeffries lowered the whip to the ground. Having sufficiently demonstrated his displeasure, the young horse then raised his tail and trotted off in a circle, as if it had all been his idea from the start.

  "When will he be ready to ride?" Charlotte asked.

  "Sir Garfield wants him to run come spring, but I has me doubts. Now if young Devington were here…"

  Charlotte averted her face at the mention of Robert's name. It had been nearly a month since his last letter. Word had spread that the army had finally encountered the French, but nothing was yet confirmed. No news is good news, she kept telling herself to no great comfort.

  Turning back to Jeffries, she offered, "I could try him."

  "Nay, miss. Though you be as good as any of the lads, this one needs a strong hand to master."

  "But if Uncle wants him to run in spring, who is to jockey?"

  "The Bart has a mind to put the master Charles up."

  "Charles! You doubt that I can handle the horse, yet you propose Charles to ride him!"

  "I didn't say that I had a mind to put Charles up; 'tis your uncle what so desperately wants his son on a winner."

  "And get poor Charles killed! Jeffries, you must let me ride. Perhaps I can gentle him enough for my cousin to handle."

  "I'll think on it, miss, but 'tis well nigh breakfast time up at the house. You'd best move yerself along."

  "Is it really so late?" Charlotte frowned at the position of the sun and trotted off anxiously to change her clothes for breakfast, but to her utter dismay, she encountered Beatrix on the staircase.

  "Charlotte! Just look at you!" she exclaimed in horror at the mudstained boots and patched-up boy's clothes. "Just wait until Mother sees you!" Her cousin made no attempt to hide her glee. Charlotte made to brush by, but Beatrix blocked her way. "Mother!" Beatrix cried over her shoulder. "Mother! Come quickly!"

  "What is this shrieking, Trixie! Ladies do not shriek," she scolded from the top of the stairs. Then she shrieked, "Good God! Is that Charlotte? Go and change yourself at once! Letty shall burn those clothes, or I'll give her the boot! Imagine any niece of mine looking like a filthy beggar child."

  "And the smell, Mother," Beatrix added. "Did you bathe in the dung, Cousin?" Her words were honey-coated venom.

  "Now go to your room, and do not let me see you until you have bathed and transformed yourself into a respectable young woman. And I shall talk to your uncle about your riding. You have been given
by far
too much license to the stables. You must begin to comport yourself as a lady, Charlotte. What kind of gentleman would have such a hoydenish creature as you present?" Her aunt continued the harangue without giving Charlotte time to answer. "Now go! Go, child, and make yourself presentable! Go!" She gestured in a shooing fashion, and then with the air of a martyr, Lady Felicia descended to the breakfast room.

  Charlotte ran to her room and the comfort of Letty's maternal embrace.

It was nearly an hour later that Charlotte made her appearance in the breakfast room. Her uncle had finished eating and now sat engulfed behind the pages of his
London Daily Gazette.

  Red-eyed, Charlotte took her place across from Beatrix, who smiled smugly at the evidence of Charlotte's misery. Refusing to gratify Beatrix further, Charlotte directed her gaze down at her teacup.

  With a flip of the page, Sir Garfield interrupted the silence. "Well, b'God, 'tis finally begun at last!"

  "What has begun, Sir Garfield?" Lady Felicia asked.

  "The war has begun."

  "But I thought we were already at war?" Charles replied.

  "We have played at war for two confounded years, but now the French have made it official. There appears to have been a bloodbath at a German village just northeast of Ash… Ash… Bah! Someplace in Franconia."

  "Aschaffenberg, Uncle?" Charlotte volunteered, hoping her intuition was wrong.

  "Indeed. That is the place."

  "Wh-what has occurred?" she asked barely above a whisper.

  "Appears the French, who outnumbered our men by some twenty thousand, crossed the river to the north and south, cutting off supply lines and with the intent of capturing our king. Upon word of this, His Majesty commanded a march for Hanua to meet up with Hessian reinforcements, but as they gained this village of Dettingen, they met with a French ambuscade."

  Charlotte blanched, unable to speak.

  Charles prompted, "What happened?"

  "It says here that our brave king himself charged to the fore where his English Horse bore the brunt of the cannonade. He is recorded as brandishing his sword and crying, 'Now my brave boys! Now for the honor of England! Advance boldly, fire, and the French will soon run!'

  "The Foot rallied. The Horse on the left flank charged with the trumpeter playing 'Britons Strike Home.' They became virtually surrounded by the Frenchies and should have been cut to pieces but for the arrival of the Austrian artillery."

  Her face now spectral, Charlotte gasped.

  "How did it end, Father?" Charles pressed excitedly.

  "The French were repulsed across the river, forced to swim like ducks!"

  "So we won!" Charles exclaimed, nearly jumping from his seat.

  "Suffice to say, we had a lower body count, my boy," Sir Garfield responded then proceeded to read the statistics of dead and wounded.

  With a cry, Charlotte pushed from the table, dropping her teacup, which shattered on the floor, and fled the room.

  "What's amiss with the girl?" Sir Garfield asked vaguely.

  "She's no doubt overwrought for news of Robert," Charles remarked sympathetically. "You remember he joined the Horse Guard, Father."

  "Left me high and dry for the Horse Guard, eh? Serves him right if he's blown to bits. Now where's my copy of
Cheny's
Racing Calendar
?"

Ten days later, another letter came to Charlotte, again via Jeffries. She received it with trembling hands and stared blindly at the handwriting. Was it truly Robert's hand? Was he alive?

  She was afraid to break the seal for fear of what news it might contain. With her heart hammering erratically, she sought solace and privacy in a corner of Amoret's stall, where she collapsed on a pile of clean straw. Sensing Charlotte's disquiet, Amoret turned her attention from her hay and ambled over, nosing the letter.

  "It's from Robert," Charlotte said and stroked the mare's muzzle. Amoret's warm, grass-scented breath gently fanned her cheek. "But what if he wrote it before the battle? What if these are his last words to me? But there's only one way to know, isn't there?"

  Amoret snorted agreement and nudged Charlotte's hand. Offering up a prayer, Charlotte thumbed open the wax seal.

  
I write you from our cantonment in Bergen, where we await our
orders following our routing of the French at the village of Dettingen. I
further pray my news will reach you prior to the official account of our
historic battle, as I would not worry your heart to save my very soul.

  
The enemy, in far superior numbers to ours, was encamped in close
proximity, only a few miles downriver. By a sheer fluke (a story I
will recount to you later) I discovered their preparations for a preemp
tive strike. Returning to our camp with the utmost dispatch, I made
my report, and His Majesty commanded an immediate withdrawal to
Flanders, where Hessian reinforcements and supplies awaited us.

  
We struck camp stealthily before light and began our march without
drumbeat, but upon approaching the village of Dettingen, we were met
with an ambuscade of French cannons, which we were unprepared to
counter. Our own artillery was several miles to the rear, from whence
His Majesty had most anticipated the attack.

  
We were drawn out between the wood and the river and utterly
vulnerable. The Horse was completely ensnared on either flank. The
French artillery was stationed across the river on our left, and their
Horse and light infantry were hidden in the wooded hills upon our
right. Both commenced a vast outpour of fire upon us. We were caught
in the very thick of it.

  
Our horses screamed. Men panicked. Sheer mayhem arose amongst
our green recruits. Major Bainbridge, riding the magnificent gray stal
lion of whom I previously wrote, was carried into the direct line of fire.
The horse was wounded and the major struck down. Captain Drake
assumed command but struggled in vain to gain a fraction of control and
some manner of order from the chaos.

  
His Majesty rushed to the fore upon report of cannon, entering val
iantly and unreservedly into the midst of the fray, but his steed, like as
many others, responded frantically to the fire, unseating His Majesty
and charging off to the wood. Captain Drake sprang into action to
shield the King into the protection of a nearby oak grove. Taking stock
of our predicament, the King ordered our artillery to advance from the
rear and commanded our infantry to a counterfire.