Lady Whistledown Strikes Back Page 8

  But all he said was, “I don’t know.”

  And all she could do was stare at him. And wonder why. And wonder when. And wonder…and wonder…And…

  “Tillie?”

  She shook her head.

  “Tillie, I—”

  “No, don’t.”

  “Don’t…what?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was forlorn, and hurt, and it cut through Peter like a knife.

  He could tell she didn’t understand what he was asking. And the truth was, he wasn’t completely certain, either. He’d never intended this to be anything but a stroll in the park; it was simply to be another in this series of engagements that made up his futile courtship of Tillie Howard. Marriage had been the last thing on his mind.

  But then something had happened; he didn’t know what. He’d been looking at her, and she’d smiled, or maybe she hadn’t smiled, or maybe she’d just moved her lips in some bewitching manner, and then it was as if he’d been shot by Cupid, and somehow he was asking her, the words bursting forth from some daring, impractical corner of his soul. And he couldn’t stop himself, even though he knew it was wrong.

  But maybe it didn’t have to be impossible. Maybe not quite. There was one way he could make it all happen. If he could just make her understand….

  “I need some time to establish myself,” he tried to explain. “I have very little right now, almost nothing, really, but once I sell my commission, I’ll have a small sum to invest.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “I need you to wait a few years. Give me some time to make my fortunes more secure before we marry.”

  “Why would I do that?” she asked.

  His heart slammed in his chest. “Because you care for me.”

  She didn’t speak; he didn’t breathe.

  “Don’t you?” he whispered.

  “Of course I do. I just told you as much.” Her head shook slightly, as if she were trying to jog her thoughts, force them to coalesce into something she could comprehend. “Why would I wait? Why can’t we just marry now?”

  For a moment Peter could do nothing but stare. She didn’t know. How could she not know? All this time he’d been in a state of agony, and she’d never even given it a thought. “I can’t provide for you,” he said. “You must know that.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said with a relieved smile. “There’s my dowry, and—”

  “I’m not going to live off your dowry,” he bit off.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have some pride,” he said stiffly.

  “But you came to London to marry for money,” she protested. “You told me as much.”

  His jaw clamped into a resolute line. “I won’t marry you for money.”

  “But you wouldn’t be marrying me for money,” she said softly. “Would you?”

  “Of course not. Tillie, you know how much I care for you—”

  Her voice grew sharper. “Then don’t ask me to wait.”

  “You deserve more than what I can offer.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” she hissed, and he realized she was angry. Not annoyed, not irritated, but well and truly furious.

  But she was also naïve. Naïve as only someone who had never faced hardship could be. She knew nothing but the complete admiration of the ton. She was fêted and adored, admired and loved, and she could not even conceive of a world in which people whispered behind her back or looked down their noses at her.

  And it certainly had never occurred to her that her parents might deny her anything she wanted.

  But they would deny her this, and more specifically, they would deny her him. Peter was quite certain of that. There was no way they would allow her to marry him, not with his fortunes the way they currently stood.

  “Well,” she finally said, the silence between them having stretched far too long, “if you won’t accept my dowry, then so be it. I don’t need much.”

  “Oh, you don’t?” he asked. He hadn’t meant to laugh at her, but the words came out vaguely mocking.

  “No,” she shot back, “I don’t. I’d rather be poor and happy than rich and miserable.”

  “Tillie, you’ve never been anything but rich and happy, so I doubt you understand how being poor could—”

  “Don’t patronize me,” she warned. “You can deny me and you can reject me, but don’t you dare patronize me.”

  “I will not ask you to live on my income,” he said, each syllable clipped. “I rather doubt my promise to Harry included forcing you into poverty.”

  She gasped. “Is that what this is about. Harry?”

  “What the devil are you—”

  “Is that what this has all been about? Some silly deathbed promise to my brother?”

  “Tillie, don’t—”

  “No, now you allow me to finish.” Her eyes were flashing, and her shoulders were shaking, and she would have looked magnificent if his heart weren’t breaking.

  “Don’t you ever tell me you care for me,” Tillie said. “If you did, if you even began to understand the emotion, then you would care more for my feelings than for Harry’s. He’s dead, Peter. Dead.”

  “I know that better than anyone,” he said in a low voice.

  “I don’t think you even know who I am,” she said, her entire body trembling with emotion. “I’m just Harry’s sister. Harry’s silly little sister, who you vowed to look after.”

  “Tillie—”

  “No,” she said forcefully. “Don’t say my name. Don’t even speak to me until you know who I am.”

  He opened his mouth, but his lips fell silent. For a moment, they did nothing but stare at each other in a strange, noiseless horror. They didn’t move, perhaps hoping that this all was a mistake, that if they just remained there one moment longer, it would all just melt away, and they’d be left as they’d been before.

  But it didn’t, of course, and while Peter just stood there, speechless and impotent, Tillie turned on her heel and left, her gait a painful combination of walk and run.

  A few minutes later, Tillie’s groom appeared with Peter’s horse, wordlessly handing him the reins.

  And as Peter took them, he couldn’t help but feel a certain finality in the action, as if he were being told, Take these and go. Go.

  It was, he realized with surprise, quite the worst moment of his life.

  Chapter 6

  Poor Mr. Thompson! Poor, poor Mr. Thompson. It all takes on new meaning, doesn’t it?

  LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 17 JUNE 1816

  He shouldn’t have come.

  Peter was quite positive that he did not wish to watch a reenactment of the Battle of Waterloo; the first had been hellish enough, thank you very much. And while he didn’t think that Prinny’s version—currently raging to his left—was particularly frightening or accurate, it made him rather sick to realize that the scene of so much death and destruction was being turned into entertainment for the good people of London.

  Entertainment? Peter shook his head with disgust as he watched Londoners of all walks of life laughing and making merry as they strolled through Vauxhall Gardens. Most weren’t even paying attention to the mock battle. Didn’t they understand that men had died at Waterloo? Good men. Young men.

  Fifteen thousand men. And that didn’t even count the enemy.

  But despite all of his misgivings, here he was. Peter had paid his two shillings and made his way into the gardens—not to watch this mockery of a battle or remark upon the spectacular gaslighting or even to marvel over the fireworks, which, he was told, were to be the finest ever staged in Britain.

  No, he’d come to see Tillie. He was originally to have escorted her, but he rather doubted she’d canceled her plans just because they were no longer speaking to one another. She’d told him that she needed to see the reenactment, if only to finally make her farewells to her brother.

  Tillie would be here. Peter was sure of it.

  What he was
less sure of, however, was whether he’d be able to locate her. Thousands of people had already arrived at the Gardens, and hundreds more were still pouring in. The paths were jammed with revelers, and it occurred to Peter that if there was one thing about this night that was an accurate representation of battle, it was the odor. It was missing the tang of blood and death, but it certainly had that rather distinctive stench of too many people packed too closely together.

  Most of whom, Peter thought as he veered down a lane to avoid a pack of ruffians bounding toward him, hadn’t bathed in months.

  And who said one had to leave the delights of the army behind upon retirement?

  He didn’t know what he’d say to Tillie, assuming he was able to find her. He didn’t know if he’d say anything. He just wanted to see her, as pathetic as that sounded. She’d rebuffed all of his overtures since their falling out in Hyde Park the week before. He’d called upon her twice, but both times he’d been informed that she was not “at home.” His notes had been returned, although not unopened. And finally, she’d sent a letter of her own, simply saying that unless he was prepared to ask her a very specific question, he needn’t contact her again.

  Trust Tillie not to mince words.

  Peter had heard a rumor that most of the ton were planning to congregate at the north side of the meadow, where Prinny had set up a viewing area for the battle. He had to skirt the perimeter of the field, and he kept his distance from the soldiers, not trusting that they were all possessed of enough diligence to make sure their guns lacked real bullets.

  Peter pushed through the crowds, cursing under his breath as he made his way to the north meadow. He was a man who liked to walk quickly, with a long-legged stride, and the crush at Vauxhall was his version of hell on earth. Someone stepped on his toe, another jabbed him in the shoulder, and as for the third—Peter smacked away a hand he was quite certain was attempting to pick his pocket.

  Finally, after nearly half an hour of battling his way through the swarms, Peter broke out into a clearing; Prinny’s men had obviously evacuated all but the most noble of guests, giving the prince an unobstructed view of the battle. Which, Peter noted thankfully, appeared to be reaching its finale.

  He scanned the crowds, looking for a familiar glimpse of red hair. Nothing. Could she possibly have decided not to attend?

  A cannon boomed near his ear. He flinched.

  Where the hell was Tillie?

  One final explosion, and then…Good God, was that Handel?

  Peter looked to his left with disgust. Sure enough, a hundred-person orchestra had picked up their instruments and begun to play.

  Where was Tillie?

  The noise began to grate. The audience was roaring, the soldiers were laughing, and the music—why the hell was there music?

  And then, in the midst of it all, he saw her, and he could have sworn that it all went silent.

  He saw her, and there was nothing else.

  Tillie wished she hadn’t come. She hadn’t expected to enjoy the reenactment, but she’d thought she might…oh, she didn’t know…perhaps learn something. Feel some sense of bond with Harry.

  It wasn’t every sister who got the chance to see a reenactment of the scene of her brother’s death.

  But instead she just wished she’d brought cotton for her ears. The battle was loud, and what’s more, she’d found herself standing next to Robert Dunlop, who had obviously found it his duty to offer a running commentary of the scene.

  And all she could think was, It should have been Peter.

  It should have been Peter standing next to her, Peter explaining what the battle maneuvers meant, Peter warning her to cover her ears when it grew too loud.

  If she’d been with Peter, she might have discreetly held his hand, then squeezed it when the battle grew too intense. With Peter she would have felt comfortable asking him to tell her at what moment Harry had fallen.

  But instead she had Robbie. Robbie, who thought this all a grand adventure, who’d actually leaned down and yelled, “Great, good fun? Eh?” Robbie, who, now that the battle was over, was chattering on about waistcoats and horses, and probably something else as well.

  It was too hard to listen. The music was loud, and frankly, Robbie was always a bit hard to follow.

  And then, just as the music reached a quiet moment, he leaned down and said, “Harry would have liked this.”

  Would he? Tillie didn’t know, and somehow that bothered her. Harry would have been a different person if he’d come home from the war, and it pained her that she would never know the man he’d become in his last days.

  But Robbie meant well, and he had a good heart, so Tillie just smiled and nodded.

  “Shame about his death,” Robbie said.

  “Yes,” Tillie replied, because really, what else was there to say?

  “What a senseless way to go.”

  At that, she turned and looked at him. It seemed an odd statement for Robbie, who wasn’t one for fine points or subtleties. “All war is senseless,” Tillie said slowly. “Don’t you think?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose,” Robbie said, “although someone had to go out there and get rid of Boney. I don’t think an if-you-please would have done the trick.”

  It was, Tillie realized, quite the most complex sentence she’d ever heard from Robbie, and she was wondering if there might be a little more to him, when she suddenly…knew.

  It wasn’t that she’d heard something, and it wasn’t that she’d seen something. Rather, she just knew that he was there, and sure enough, when she tilted her face to the right, she saw him.

  Peter. Right next to her. It seemed stunning that she hadn’t sensed his presence earlier.

  “Mr. Thompson,” she said coolly. Or at least she tried for frost. She rather doubted she succeeded; she was just so relieved to see him.

  She was still furious with him, of course, and she wasn’t at all certain that she wanted to speak to him, but the night felt so strange, and the battle had been discomforting, and Peter’s solemn face was like a lifeline to sanity.

  “We were just talking about Harry,” Robbie said jovially.

  Peter nodded.

  “It’s too bad he missed the battle,” Robbie continued. “I mean, all that time in the army, and then you miss the battle?” He shook his head. “Bit of a shame, don’t you think?”

  Tillie stared at him in confusion. “What do you mean, he missed the battle?” She turned to Peter just in time to see him shaking his head frantically at Robbie, who was responding with a loud, “Eh? Eh?”

  “What do you mean,” Tillie repeated, loudly this time, “he missed the battle?”

  “Tillie,” Peter said, “you must understand—”

  “They told me he died at Waterloo.” She looked from man to man, searching their faces. “They came to my house. They told me he died at Waterloo.”

  Her voice was growing shrill, panicked. And Peter didn’t know what to do. He could have killed Robbie; did the man have no sense? “Tillie,” he said, saying her name again, stalling for time.

  “How did he die?” she persisted. “I want you to tell me right now.”

  He looked at her; she was starting to shake.

  “Tell me how he died.”

  “Tillie, I—”

  “Tell—”

  BOOM!

  They all three jumped as an explosion of fireworks took off not twenty yards from their spot.

  “Ripping good show!” Robbie yelled, his face to the sky.

  Peter glanced up at the fireworks; it was impossible not to look. Pink, blue, green—starbursts in the heavens, crackling, splintering, raining showers of sparks down on the gardens.

  “Peter,” Tillie said, tugging at his sleeve, “tell me. Tell me now.”

  Peter opened his mouth to speak, knowing he should be giving her his full attention but somehow unable to keep his eyes off the fireworks. He glanced at her, then back up at the sky, then back at—

  “Peter!” she nearly
yelled.

  “It was a cart,” Robbie said suddenly, looking down at her during a lull in the pyrotechnics. “Fell on him.”

  “He was crushed by a cart?”

  “A wagon, actually,” Robbie said, correcting himself. “He was—”

  BOOM!

  “Whoa!” Robbie yelled. “Look at that one!”

  “Peter,” Tillie begged.

  “It was stupid,” Peter said, finally forcing his eyes off the sky. “It was stupid and horrible and unforgivable. It should have been broken up for firewood weeks earlier.”

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  And he told her. Not everything, not every last detail; this wasn’t the time or the place. But he sketched it out, enough so that she understood the truth. Harry was a hero, but he hadn’t died a hero’s death; at least not in the way England viewed its heroes.

  It shouldn’t have mattered, of course, but he could tell from her face that it did.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her voice low and shaking. “You lied to me. How could you lie?”

  “Tillie, I—”

  “You lied to me. You told me he died in battle.”

  “I never—”

  “You let me believe it,” she cried out. “How could you?”

  “Tillie,” he said desperately. “I—”

  BOOM!

  They both looked up; they couldn’t help it.

  “I don’t know why they lied to you,” Peter said once the explosion had trickled down into spiraling green sparks. “I didn’t know that you didn’t know the truth until Lady Neeley’s dinner party. And I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t—”

  “Don’t,” she said haltingly. “Don’t try to explain.”

  She had just asked him to explain. “Tillie—”

  “Tomorrow,” she choked out. “Talk to me tomorrow. Right now I…right now…”

  BOOM!

  And then, as pink sparks rained from above, she took off, skirts in her hands, running blindly through the one clear spot in the crowd, right past Prinny, right past the orchestra.

  Right out of his life.

  “You idiot!” Peter hissed at Robbie.