The Three Colonels (5 page)

“Yes,” said Caroline sweetly as she sprung her trap. “We have received the kindest letter from both the Duke and her ladyship, wishing us joy and a safe journey.”

The fact that Caroline had received an unsolicited letter from the Iron Duke and his cousin, who was acting as his hostess, nearly sent Mrs. Norris reeling. Jealousy and anger overcame what self-control Annabella still possessed. She could only lash out.

“Tell me, Caroline—how
did
you attach yourself to such a man?” she snarled.

The women gasped at the insinuation implied by such a question. She had gone too far—she should have retrenched—but Annabella cared not. In her pain, she wanted to hurt Caroline as much as she could, even at the risk of her own reputation.

But on Caroline's part, there was no injury. Annabella had responded just as she knew she would, and she could only regard her former friend with pity and regret. Caroline wondered how she could have been so foolish, so blind. How could she have desired the good opinion of creatures like Annabella over people of character—when she could have cultivated friendships with people like the Bennet women? With an air of sadness rather than triumph, Caroline delivered her
coup
de
grace
.

“You may well ask, but I have no firm answer—in fact, I do not know. Sir John is certainly above me in accomplishments and
improvements
,” she stressed the word, “and I am honored that he would choose me to be his wife and helpmate. I hope I shall make a good one for him. I know I shall labor to make myself worthy of his regard. He has pledged his belief in my abilities, and I have pledged my belief in his honor. He trusts in my mind, and I trust in his heart. I have every expectation of happiness. Few couples, I think, enter into marriage with such a good understanding of each other's character, but I am fortunate to have some examples among my acquaintance—such as you, Jane, and you, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth smiled at Caroline's use of her Christian name. It was the ultimate peace offering. “Thank you, dear Caroline,” she offered in return.

Caroline smiled and nodded to her former rival. Returning to Annabella, she said, “But it is comforting to know that in
his
eyes I hold inducements to devotion other than intelligence, accomplishments, and dowry.” Her hand drifted to her cameo. “But come, ladies, we are taking Jane from her duties. Shall we not return to the gentlemen? It is surely time for the dancing to commence.” With that, Caroline took Jane's arm and turned to walk towards the ballroom.

Standing in front of her was Sir John, regarding her with a slight smile. He approached them and said, “Allow me,” taking Caroline on one arm and Jane on the other.

As the party moved towards the ballroom, he leaned over and whispered in Caroline's ear, “Well done.”

Walking behind them, Marianne whispered to Elizabeth, “I am glad I am not
her
enemy.”

Three colonels of cavalry waited in an anteroom of St. —— Church in London. One wore the red uniform coat of the Life Guards. The others were in the blue of the Light Dragoons, one with the red sash of the Bath. The man in the red coat, eldest of the three, was engaged in troubled mumbling.

“Brandon,” cried one of the blue coats, “what are you about, man? You carry on as if
you
were getting married!”

“I beg your pardon, Fitzwilliam,” said Colonel Brandon. “Pay me no mind—I am in a foul mood today.”

“We cannot have that, can we?” replied Colonel the Hon. Richard Fitzwilliam of the ——rd Lt. Dragoons. “You will put poor Buford off, and Miss Bingley will have your head!”

Buford observed the exchange with amusement. “What troubles you, Brandon?” he asked.

“I am reflecting over a report from my steward, McIntosh. It seems one of my tenants has accused another's son of dishonoring his daughter. Mr. McIntosh refuses to do anything without my leave, but I cannot make a decision without seeing to the facts of the case myself. It will be at least a week before Mrs. Brandon and I return to Delaford, and I fear by then someone may grow inpatient and take matters into his own hands.”

“Indeed, you need to speak to my cousin Darcy,” advised Fitzwilliam. “He has had to deal with like situations before, thanks to a certain scoundrel whom I shall not name who has caused him great consternation in the past. Darcy has experience in settling such matters, I regret to say.”

The two men continued to discuss the problem, but Buford did not attend. Today was his wedding day, and mapping out campaigns or dealing with warring tenants was none of his concern.

Sir John Buford's long campaign ended today—his campaign to find a wife.

***

Colonel Sir John Buford, a newly made Companion in the The Most Honorable Order of the Bath, stood against a wall in Almack's, trying to look as inconspicuous as a fine-looking man could wearing the red sash of knighthood—and failing. As a trained soldier in the service of his Britannic Majesty, he recognized a battlefield when he saw one. The first rule for surviving such a war zone was knowledge of the placement of the troops opposite, and that was best done behind concealment. As rocks and trees were in poor supply in the assembly rooms, the best Buford could hope for was to blend into the wallpaper.

It was the beginning of the Season, and all the mothers on the hunt were dragging their daughters about from event to event, trying to attach their little darlings to a worthy gentleman before all the desirable ones were snatched up. Buford had to rank among the most sought-after—a hero with a title and two thousand a year whose wealth and status were certainly acceptable for a second son. Like geese scavenging a wheat field, the colorful birds of prey glided across the room, feathered headdresses bobbing in unison, searching for the most suitable match for their offspring.

It was not that Buford disliked women—far from it. Indeed, he had the reputation of being quite the ladies' man, and it was whispered that he had dallied with some of the most illustrious young wives of the fashionable set. No, his reluctance stemmed from his character. He was a hunter and, therefore, was ill at ease being the hunted.

It was ironic. The reason Buford was at Almack's at all was that, after considering his time of life—he would not be nine-and-twenty much longer—and all the entreaties from his mother and sister, he decided the time had come to begin
thinking
about taking a wife. Coupled with the death of his honored father and the horrors he had witnessed in Spain, the colonel had come to accept the inevitability of the idea.

This was ironic for two reasons: First, the aggressive matrons of the
ton
would not have paused for an instant in their labors had they known Buford's mind. Second, those labors were just the sort of activity that would assure that their daughters would never be brought home to Wales.

“Buford!” cried his companion. “If you truly wish to be known as a respectable gentleman, there are other ways to go about it than imitating Fitzwilliam Darcy!” Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam gave his comrade-in-arms a lopsided grin.

Buford's eyes never left the crowd. “I beg your pardon, but I am certainly not as stiff as Darcy.”

Fitzwilliam laughed. “Oh, Buford, you make a fireplace poker look flexible!”

Buford could not contain his smile at the jibe. He could always count on Fitzwilliam to lighten his mood or protect his flank—as had been proved many times in Spain and France. Through war, women, and song, they had become brothers of a sort.

Buford was closer to fellow soldiers like Fitzwilliam and Brandon than he was to Philip, his true brother—not that the two were estranged—not in the least. They had been very pleasant companions in his youth, and they would still do anything for one another, but now the brothers had little in common—save family. Philip could no longer understand him. No man
could
who had never taken up arms. Thomas, his younger brother, might have, had he not died a midshipman at Trafalgar.

“When such beauty is before you, how can you resist it?” his friend continued.

“Well enough. Are you not affected?”

“I?” Fitzwilliam asked with a laugh. “
I
am not on campaign!”

Yes, on campaign was a good way of putting it. Since he came to realize that he had been wasting his life, Buford sought out ways to set things right. His first step was to cut off all association with the more licentious members of the fashionable set. The next was to rebuild his reputation. His last task was to find a worthy occupation now that his fighting days were behind him.

His father had been generous in his will, but Buford could not tolerate being idle. Looking about for a calling, he closely observed his commanding officer. Field Marshall Sir Arthur Wellesley, now the Duke of Wellington, and his brother, Marquess Richard Wellesley, while of noble birth, were of Irish stock and limited in their expectations. They used their military and political talents to make themselves two of the most powerful men in the kingdom. Theirs was as good a model to follow as any other, but before he could find his destiny in Parliament or government, he needed a wife.

“'Tis rather crowded for the first night at Almack's, Fitz,” remarked Buford. “What is the occasion?”

“Do you not know? The hounds of society are here for the debuts of Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy.”

“So I am to finally meet the famous Hertfordshire sisters? Excellent. I am sure that Bingley's bride is just as pleasant and unassuming as he, but I am looking forward to meeting the woman who brought down Darcy. Your cousin is an excellent fellow, Fitz,” Buford assured his companion. “I like him very well, but he can be taciturn and withdrawn to an embarrassing extreme! Are you sure you are related?”

“Absolutely! You have met the Viscount.” The mention of Fitzwilliam's pompous older brother caused Buford to give a snort of laughter. “Ah, I see the Bingleys are already here.”

Charles Bingley had just entered with an extraordinarily beautiful woman on his arm. Buford admired Jane Bingley's grace and soft manners.
Just
the
sort
of
woman
to
whom
Bingley
would
attach
himself. I am happy for him.
But, in the back of his mind, unbidden, came the thought:
Better
him
than
me. I need more.
His gaze took in the Hursts and two other women.

With the eye of a connoisseur, Buford sized up the younger one quickly.
Young, yet serious. Does not know how pretty she could become, even with spectacles. Family resemblance—could she be one of Mrs. Bingley's sisters? I heard there was a virtual tribe of them.

The other lady held his attention longer.
Is
that
Caroline
Bingley? My, she cleans up well. Red suits her very well. She always did look to best advantage in strong colors. Extra effort in her dress tonight. Is she still not reconciled to Darcy's marriage? How foolish of her! What a waste!

“Mrs. Bingley is certainly the beauty,” he observed to Fitzwilliam.

“Aye, she is. Had she fortune, I might have given Bingley some competition.”

Not
bloody
likely, not the way she is gazing at her husband
, considered Buford.
A
love
match! Well, the
ton
should
forgive
them
that. No one expected much from Charles Bingley.

“But still,” Fitzwilliam continued, “there is something about the sister—”

“Not that mouse next to her?” Buford cried.

“No, no, I mean Elizabeth Darcy. Wait until you meet her. She has
bottom
, that one.”

She
had
better
, he thought. Aloud he said, “I am sure she is much like her sister, quiet and unassuming. I hope she is ready for what the
ton
has in store for her—Fitzwilliam, what is so funny?”

Richard Fitzwilliam could not answer him. In fact, he could barely stand for laughing. “Qui-quiet and unassuming?” Another spurt of laughter. “Oh, you have certainly taken the measure of that one quickly, Johnny Boy!”

“I am pleased you find me so amusing, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Buford observed dryly. “Perhaps a glass of punch will restore your senses.”

Reduced to what sounded suspiciously like giggling, Fitzwilliam waved at his friend and staggered off to the refreshments table. Absentmindedly, Buford had begun to observe Miss Bingley again when he was accosted by a person out of his past.

“Colonel Buford! Or should I now say Sir John? What shall I say, sir?” said a female voice.

Good-bye would do nicely, Victoria
, he thought. “That is up to you. Good evening, Lady Uppercross.”

“So formal! And the two of us such old acquaintances!” Lady Uppercross purred. “I say, you are looking fit. War certainly agrees with you.”

Scenes of carnage from his last battle in Spain appeared unbidden in Buford's mind, and it took all of his control not to scream at the baggage. Instead, in a tolerable voice he replied, “There are those who would disagree with you, madam. It is a pleasure to come home and see that few things have changed.” He bowed.

“How lovely! You were always the most charming liar, Sir John. But time is no lady's friend.”

“Not so. You are as you have always been,” he said with false sincerity.
If
you
force
me
to
compliment
you, at least I shall do it my way. Your time is done. You may rely upon it.

Lady Uppercross allowed the comment to pass. “You have been missed… by everyone in Town. Say that you are not to return so soon to Wales!”

Buford knew what her words meant. He hesitated, forming an answer that would serve to dismiss his former lover without causing a scene, when the room grew suddenly silent. Turning, he heard small gasps and whispered comments. Then his eyes took in the entrance, and he almost swore.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was walking in with three of the loveliest women he had ever seen. He thought he recognized Miss Georgiana Darcy amongst them, but it did not signify. No one could take their eyes off the glorious creature on Darcy's arm. It was not that she was classically beautiful like her sister; she was not. There was something else—a power, an intelligence, a confidence, a complete assurance of the affection she held for and received from her husband that everyone, love her or hate her, had to admire in Mrs. Darcy.

Fitz
is
right. She is regal yet real. Oh, Darcy, I hate you! How can you be so fortunate?

“Oh, my!”

Buford turned. He had forgotten Lady Uppercross.

“Miss Bingley will be furious,” she laughed.

Seeing his opening, Buford bowed. “Lady Uppercross, a good evening to you.” He then crossed to the Darcy party.

He spent a few minutes making the acquaintance of Mrs. Darcy who, upon closer inspection, was quite beautiful. Miss Kitty Bennet was judged a bit unpolished but would do for a parson's wife—some very fortunate parson. Buford was struck by the improvement to Miss Georgiana, for never had she seemed to be at such ease. He knew his reputation was not yet fully repaired, so Buford saved Darcy the concern of watching him dance with his relations by only wishing them a good evening and excusing himself.

Buford spent the next half hour strolling about, greeting a few friends here and there, but mainly observing all in the rooms. Almack's was awash in color, but the gaiety was lost on him. He only beheld the sameness in character of most of the ladies there—either mercenary or uninhibited—sometimes both.

What
a
waste
to
come
here!
he thought.
I
only
see
what
I
do
not
want
or
cannot
have
. Thinking that a spot of punch might revive his spirits, he moved to the refreshments table.

Before he could reach his goal, he was presented with the sight of Miss Bingley in conversation with two other ladies.

I
say, her dress is the same color as my sash. How singular! It is certainly striking against her pale skin.

It was only then that he became aware that Miss Bingley was not only pale but also distressed. Her arms were moving in a distracted manner.