Page 13 of A Christmas Love Redeemed

28 JUNE 1815

‘Are you certain he’s here?’ Isabel—Lady Somerton—asked, her voice muffled by the lavender-scented kerchief she had pressed to her nose and mouth.

The pathetic piece of muslin did little to conceal the stench of unwashed bodies, blood, corrupted wounds, and worse that pervaded the makeshift hospital.

The price Wellington had paid for the victory lay crowded on filthy straw mattresses on the makeshift hospital floor of an old warehouse in Battersea.

The wounded of Waterloo had been crowded together, so many of them that only a curtain separated the officers from the other ranks.

Most still wore the tattered remnants of the uniform they had worn in battle over ten days ago, and it looked to Isabel as if the rough bandages over their wounds had not been changed in days.

A young boy, hardly older than Peter Thompson, the stable boy at Brantstone, screamed for his mother.

Her heart stopped at the heartrending sound, and she turned and knelt beside him, smoothing the hair back from his burning forehead.

The child had probably been a drummer boy, caught in the horror of the battle.

He clutched her hand, looking at her with unseeing eyes, and she murmured to him, the sort of platitudes she imagined a mother would use with an ailing child. His breathing steadied and then stilled; the hand clutching hers fell away.

Her companion, Bragge, the Somerton man of business, touched her shoulder.

‘Come away, my lady.’

She stared down at the child on the cot.

‘But ...’

‘He’s dead, my lady.’

Bile rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down. She could not show weakness, not now. She needed all her strength.

She rose slowly to her feet and cast the dead boy one last look, her lips moving in silent prayer for his soul and the mother who would grieve for her son.

Beyond the curtain, the conditions for the officers were little better. At least they had cots, not straw-filled bags, but those who had survived the rapid evacuation to England were in a poor state.

‘The orderly over there said he’s in that corner, m’lady.’ Bragge’s voice carried no conviction, and he looked as green and sickly as she felt.

He held the lantern higher to illuminate the man they had sought for so many months.

He lay on his left side with his back to them. A torn and stained scarlet jacket with yellow facings and a captain’s epaulets had been thrown across his shoulders, and a ragged blanket covered his torso and legs. All Isabel could see of the man was dark, matted hair.

Isabel held back for a moment, wondering what she would say.

She had rehearsed a pretty little speech in the coach, but now, as she looked down at the man, known to the world as Captain Sebastian Alder, the words deserted her.

How would he take the news? It could not be every day that the humble son of a country parson found himself elevated to the peerage.

Would he rejoice or rail against his mother, who had kept the secret of his parentage from him?

Doubt seized her. What manner of man would he turn out to be? Surely a parson’s son would have some education, but would he be capable of running the Somerton estates? For the first time since hearing the news that they had found the heir to the Somerton estates, a niggling doubt caught her.

‘M’ lady?’

Bragge’s voice broke through her musing, and she took a deep breath. Steeling her nerves, she reached out a gloved hand, touching the man on the shoulder.

‘Captain Alder?’

Her uncertainty caught in the rising tone.

When he did not stir, she looked up at Bragge, her heart sinking.

‘Are we too late?’ she ventured.

‘Try again, my lady.’

She bent down and closed her fingers on his shoulder, shaking him.

With a speed that took her completely by surprise, a hand grasped her wrist as the man rolled onto his back, hot, angry, feverish eyes seeking out the person who had disturbed him.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.

Isabel gasped, taking a step back, but he did not release her wrist.

‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you ... or hurt you,’ she added, seeing pain in the tightened lips and sunken eyes.

Slow comprehension softened the unshaven face, and he released her wrist. His eyes closed, and he let out a softly aspirated breath.

‘My apologies to you, lady. I didn’t mean to scare you. Just a soldier’s instincts,’ he said.

Rubbing her wrist, she looked down at the man and caught her breath. There could be no denying this man was a Somerton. He had his cousin’s finely chiselled cheekbones and well-shaped mouth, but his jaw had a strength to it that Anthony had lacked.

‘Are you ...’ she began, quelling the uncertain quaver in her voice. ‘Are you Captain Sebastian Alder, son of the late Marjory Alder of Little Benning in Cheshire?’

His eyes opened again, but all the fight had gone from him. Beneath the stubble on his chin, his face looked grey, the eyes feverish and sunken in his skull.

‘My mother has been eighteen years in the grave. Why do you want to know about her?’ His gaze flicked to Bragge, and he frowned as if he were trying to bring them both into focus. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am the dowager Viscountess Somerton, and this is my late husband’s man of business, Bragge. We have been looking for you for over six months now.’

He frowned. ‘Looking for me? What do you mean? What is your business with me?’ His voice rasped with the effort of speech.

‘We’ve come to take you home,’ Isabel said.

His mouth quirked into a humourless smile. ‘That is a nice sentiment, Lady Somerton, but I doubt I would survive such a trip. It’s nigh on two hundred miles to Cheshire.’

‘Oh, not to Cheshire. We are taking you to your new home: Somerton House in Hanover Square.’

The man ran a hand across his eyes. ‘This is a jest or some strange fever dream that I’m going to wake from. Lady Somerton, or whoever you are, I do not live in Hanover Square. I told you, my home is in Cheshire.’

‘It’s no jest, Captain Alder. You are now the Viscount Somerton of Brantstone, first cousin to my late husband and, as such, the heir to his estates.’

To her surprise, Alder covered his face with his hands and laughed.

Ignoring him, she continued, ‘The doctors said you would be all right to be moved such a short distance, and I have arranged the best doctor to see to you.’ She glanced at Bragge. ‘Please go and fetch the coachmen.’

Bragge inclined his head and turned away, leaving Isabel alone with the new Lord Somerton.

Alder removed his hands from his face and watched her with puzzlement in his eyes—brown eyes, she noted, a soft, warm brown, not the cold grey of Anthony’s.

She looked around the ward and shuddered. ‘This is a terrible place,’ she said, more to herself than to him. ‘I’m surprised anyone survives it.’

‘They don’t.’

The man on the pallet tried to sit up, falling back with a groan.

‘’Ere! Who are you then?’

A strident cockney voice caused Isabel to turn on her heel. She was confronted by a soldier of Alder’s regiment, judging by the yellow facings of his jacket. He carried a bowl of water and some cloths, and he looked at Isabel as if she were some ill-intentioned assassin.

Isabel straightened.

‘I’m Lady Somerton. Who are you?’

‘I’m Bennet, Corporal Obadiah Bennet, and you ain’t got no business with my captain. He ain’t strong enough for visitors.’

Alder’s hand clutched at his corporal’s sleeve. ‘Lady Somerton is just leaving, Bennet,’ he croaked.

Isabel glanced down at the sick man. He had to come with her. Without him, she would be lost. It was not his choice. He had obligations and responsibilities to assume. Didn’t he understand that?

‘Why do you want to take him away? I can take perfectly good care of him ‘ere,’ Bennet said.

Isabel looked around the stinking ward. The dead boy still lay unregarded on his mattress, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.

‘No! I can’t leave without you.’ She heard the rising hysteria in her voice as she looked down at Sebastian Alder. ‘You will die here. At Somerton House we can look after you properly. I can get the best doctors ... A nurse ...’

‘And why would a grand lady like you want to do that?’ Bennet sounded derisive.

‘Because,’ she lowered her voice, aware that their little contretemps was attracting attention, ‘your captain is the new Lord Somerton and he should be taken home where he can be looked after properly.’

‘What?’ Corporal Bennet stared at her and then down at his officer. ‘Is this lady stark, staring mad? I’ve known you since you was sixteen years old and you may be many things, but you ain’t no lord.’

Alder waved a hand. ‘I think you need to explain yourself, Lady Somerton, and then leave me in peace.’

‘It’s true, Captain Alder. Your father was James Kingsley, my late husband’s uncle.’

Bennet scoffed. ‘His father was the Reverend Alder of Little Benning in Cheshire and a right decent gentleman too.’

Isabel glared at the little man, tempted to rebuke him for his insolence.

‘The Reverend Alder was his stepfather.’ She looked down at the wounded man.

His eyes were open but unfocussed, and she wondered if he could even hear what she was saying.

‘According to my information, your mother married him when you were two years old. How many times must I repeat it? You are Lord Somerton’s heir. ’

Alder frowned as if trying to reconcile what she was saying.

He raised a hand and ran it across his eyes.

‘It sounds an incredible tale, but, Lady Somerton, I don’t have the strength to argue with you.

If it means that you are intent on removing me to somewhere more pleasant than this charnel house, I can do no more than be much obliged. ’

She crouched down beside him, instinctively straightening the blanket and the ruined jacket. ‘I know this is a shock. I promise you the full story when you are stronger. For now, we must get you away from this place.’

Sebastian Alder laid a grimy hand on her arm. ‘Do whatever you want with me, Lady Somerton. I am yours to command.’

‘What about me?’ Bennet protested.

‘Bennet comes too.’ Alder’s fingers closed on her sleeve, his voice now so weak she had to bend to hear him. ‘He’s been my batman for fifteen years now. I’m not leaving him.’

‘Of course.’ Isabel glanced at the little corporal. ‘Bennet comes too.’

She smiled at the new Lord Somerton and put her hand over his, gently laying it back on his chest. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep or unconscious.

Rising to her feet, she beckoned Bragge and the coachmen who had pushed past the curtains, one carrying a stretcher. She prayed they were not too late. Even the most innocuous of wounds could kill if not treated properly and she needed the new Lord Somerton to live.