Jack Windrush Collection

Chapter 7

Gripping the commission in hands that seemed to have turned to claws, Jack squared his shoulders and stalked from the room. He ignored the stares of the servants and the scornful face of his stepbrother as he gathered such of his possessions as were readily accessible, swept a handful of gold and silver coins into his pocketbook and swept through the entrance hall with its portraits and pillars, its memories and solid grandeur.

Wychwood Manor had been the home of his ancestors for centuries, but now it was lost to him. He was as much a stranger here as any inhabitant of China or Hindustan or the South Sea Islands. The tears began to prickle at the back of his eyes, but he forced them away, for he had no desire to allow his mother or William the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he was hurt.

It was hard to step through the front door beneath the worn Windrush coat of arms, hard to walk down the sweeping entrance stairway for the last time, hard to put on a swagger when all he wanted to do was huddle into his despair. At the end of the driveway he turned for a last long look at the scythe-shorn lawns, the turrets and towers that told of his history, but William stood in the doorway, master of Wychwood Manor, sneering at him over an uncrossable bridge of birth and blood. The sun had eased through the clouds, reflecting on two score windows and highlighting the ancient stonework of his one-time home.

His father"s amorous adventures had closed that door, and he was no longer welcome. It would be no good to run screaming back, to beg forgiveness for a sin he had never committed, to plead and cry and grovel, for his stepmother was as bound by convention as she was by law. As a bastard, he was not the legitimate heir, and that was unalterable.

And then it was the sad walk out of the estate and on to the high road that led toward Hereford, with the Malvern Hills greenly familiar behind him and the countryside unfolding for mile after fertile mile. His landscape no longer – he had no place with the one-time tenants of his father"s small estate, he would no longer fish the Cradley Brook, no longer sit on the green heights and dream of glory, no longer gallop his horse across the hills or shoot pheasants or wildfowl in the pleasant woods. His past was gone, and his future written in the piece of simply-sealed paper he gripped far too tightly.

After half an hour, the commission was burning a hole in his hand; he had to discover which regiment he was destined to join; he had to know where his future lay. If the famous Royals did not want him, perhaps he was destined for the Buffs or the Rifles; maybe the 24th Foot, a regiment known for hard fighting. They would suit. He must find out, but not here. If he stopped near the Malverns then sure as death somebody would recognise him and ask what he was about; he couldn"t face the shame. He would wait until he reached Hereford, many miles away.

The inn was on Church Street, a few scores yards from Hereford Cathedral. Its creaking signboard proclaimed it to be The Gwynne Arms and the black and white exterior was as inviting as the pleasant sounds of men and women talking together. Jack hesitated for only a second; his mother would not approve of him entering such a place. By God, that is as good a reason as any to go in. He pushed open the door. The noise enveloped him like a loving arm, and he eased into a seat in a dusty corner and examined the seal of his commission. It was a simple red blob of wax without even an official crest when he had expected something much grander. Evidently, an ensign counted for less than he had thought, or perhaps some petty clerk could not be concerned to finish his work properly. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the parchment.

By God, that is as good a reason as any to go in.At sixteen inches by ten, it was also much smaller than he had expected, and when he read the contents, he felt once more the sick slide of despair. Skipping over the heading that stated that "the Commander in Chief of the Army reposed special trust and confidence in his loyalty," he came to the "do by these presents constitute and appoint you Jack Baird Windrush to take rank and post as Ensign in the 113th Regiment of Foot."

The 113th Foot.

Jack stared at the fateful number and swore quietly to himself. "I"m going into the 113th Foot Oh good God in heaven; the Baby Butchers, the lowest of the low."

The 113th Foot was the regiment that nobody wanted to join. There had been other regiments that bore the same number; the 113th Highlanders who had lasted for two years before being disbanded in 1764, and a later infantry regiment that had been raised and disbanded in 1794. Both these regiments had been excellent, honourable units with no stigma attached; this latest incarnation was not. If his stepmother had wanted her revenge on his illegitimacy to be both hurtful and shameful, she had succeeded. Jack knew little about the 113th , but their nickname of the “Baby Butchers”, was enough to make his heart sink. Leaning back against the plaster wall of the inn, he once again fought the tears that threatened to unman him.

Gaining the seven hundred and fifty guineas a year had been a tiny victory in a day of catastrophic defeat. From being a landowner and officer in one of the finest regiments in the British Army and an income of ten thousand a year, he had descended to an unwanted bastard with a commission in the most inferior of all formations and barely enough money to scrape along as a junior officer, let alone a gentleman. His mother had barred him from his home and the only way of life he knew, and with such a meagre allowance, he would never be able to purchase his way into a decent regiment.

113th Foot!

113th Foot!He heard the song through his gloom, the words familiar from his youth.

"Squire Percy well mounted, away he did ride

"Squire Percy well mounted, away he did rideJames careless with hounds coupled close by his side

James careless with hounds coupled close by his sideThen off to St Margaret"s park did repair

Then off to St Margaret"s park did repairFor Reynard long time had been harbouring there."

For Reynard long time had been harbouring there.""And what"s the matter with you?"

"I beg your pardon?" Jack looked up. The speaker had been female, with a broad Herefordshire accent; it was the voice of a countrywoman. Jack shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I asked what the matter was." She was dark-headed and perhaps seventeen, with an attractive plumpness that would probably turn to fat within a few years, but which suited her very well at present.

Jack first inclination was to ignore such a personal question from a girl so obviously below him socially, but her smile was friendly, and he needed to talk to somebody. "I have just lost my family, my status and my life," he told her. He edged further away when she perched herself on the wooden bench at his side. Her scent of grease and soap and cooking was not unpleasant.

Her sympathy was obvious. "Was it the fever that killed them?" He flinched as she placed a warm hand on his arm. Her blue eyes prepared to fill with tears on his behalf.

About to explain what had happened, Jack shook his head. He was duty-bound not to speak of his misadventures. "I"d prefer not to talk about it."

She patted his arm and snuggled even closer. "I understand; losing your family is too painful." Her eyes were soft with sympathy. "And you sound like a gentleman, too."

Jack said nothing to that; at that moment, he was unsure exactly what he was. The edge of the bench foiled his attempts to pull away.

"Not talking? Poor little man." She was smiling again, rubbing her hand along his arm in a very familiar manner. "They call me Ruth." Her smile was broader than ever.

"And I am Jack."

Her kiss took him by surprise; he recoiled and put a hand to his cheek.

"What was that for?"

"Because you needed it," Ruth told him seriously. "If somebody needs something, and it"s in our power to give it, we should do so. That"s in the Bible." She tried to kiss him again, but he moved aside.

Used to the reserved girls of his class, or shrinking and respectful servants, Jack was unsure how to react. He recoiled slightly until the innkeeper asked if he wanted anything.

"Two tankards of ale, please," he said, paid with the loose change in his waistcoat pocket and watched Ruth hold the tankard with all the aplomb of a man.

"So you have no family left." Ruth smiled over the rim of the pot.

"None left now," Jack agreed. He held up the commission. "And "And I"m in the 113th, not the Royals."

Ruth frowned. "You"re going to be a soldier?"

"An ensign in the 113th." Jack looked for sympathy but found none.

"You"re going to be an officer?" Ruth recoiled slightly as her eyes widened. "So you"ve no responsibilities for anybody, and you"re going to be an officer? What are you complaining about?" She pulled further away, her smile fading. "Once you get promoted to a general, you"ll have all the money in the world."

"It"s not as easy as that."

"Life is never easy," Ruth told him. Her frown made her look older than her years. "How is it not easy?"

"You have to buy your way up," Jack began to explain the system.

In common with every officer and potential officer, Jack knew exactly how the system worked. A British Army officer would purchase his commission as an ensign in the infantry or cornet in the cavalry, and then systematically buy his way rank-by-rank until he was in command of a regiment. It was a system that produced men such as Wellington, but one which favoured the wealthy, whether inefficient or not, while even the best of the poor were condemned to fill the most junior ranks unless by some freak of foolhardy bravery they caught the eye of an influential superior.

Jack realised that Ruth was listening intently to him.

"I have not got enough money. I might manage to purchase one step, from ensign to lieutenant in a fourth-rate regiment, but no more. I have to be known."

"So the toffs have it all their own way then." Ruth"s tone betrayed her opinion of the upper classes. "Ordinary officers can"t get on at all then."

"Only if they are fortunate and are seen being stupidly brave."

Those words led Jack to his next logical step. Courage was every bit as important as money to an officer, but here again the wealthy, the aristocracy, held all the advantages. They were brought up to danger in the hunt and hardship at public school; it was part of life. While a private soldier, a sergeant or an unknown officer may spend a lifetime of hardship and courageous acts, he was doomed to be unreported and unknown while every action of an aristocratic officer was gloried over and exalted. The son of General Windrush would be known; Jack"s illigitimacy condemned him to anonymity.

Jack heard his words trail away. He was saying far too much to this unknown girl.

It"s all the fault of my blasted stepmother!

It"s all the fault of my blasted stepmother!In some ways, Jack could not blame his stepmother for her attitude. She had, after all, kept her dislike of him nearly hidden for eighteen years when every time she saw him must have been a reminder of her husband"s infidelity, but still, he felt sick, discarded and bewildered. He closed his eyes against the shameful tears.

Ruth"s voice had a hard edge. "Look around you, Jack, and tell me what you see."

He did so. The room was full of weavers and small farmers, a shepherd or two, a group of hirsute Welsh drovers with silver belt buckles and a huddle of women and children. All the people in the inn huddled together in small groups, some eating, some drinking, but all wearing work-worn clothing and with faces bearing traces of hardship and hunger.

"And how many have a chance, even the smallest of chances, of doing what you do? None," she answered her own question. "They are born into poverty, live a few reckless years of youth and then grow old toward pauperism."

Jack nodded, unsure what point she was trying to make. These people were different from him; they were from the labouring classes while he was a gentleman; he could not compare his life to theirs. But Ruth obviously could and suddenly, frighteningly, so could he. The realisation was appalling in its simplicity. As a bastard, he was no longer a gentleman. As a maid servant"s son, only a combination of fortunate circumstances had allowed him a decent education and granted him a commission. These people, these dirty, uncouth, loud, poverty-ridden people, were closer to him in blood than his stepmother.

"Dear God." He leaned back in his seat, staring at her.

"Dear God? I don"t know about that, Jack, but I do know life"s given you a better chance than any of these people will ever have."

"Dear God," Jack repeated. He took a deep breath and looked around the inn. The hurt and shock were raw, tearing away everything he had so recently taken for granted. Maybe this was where he belonged, living with these basic, unlettered people, a man with no future and no prospect of anything save infirmity, poverty and death. Maybe he was more like his mother, the unknown, unnamed and unconsidered maidservant, used only for sensual pleasure, than his father, the honoured, feted and distinguished general.

Ruth was still watching him, her eyes curious in her broad, friendly face. "I think that commission thing gives you a chance of escape," she told him.

"By God, you"re right." The commission into the lowly 113th, which had seemed an insult only a few moments before, was now a golden key to a future far brighter than anything the denizens of this inn could ever know. He held it again, seeing not a descent into the abyss of a poor-quality regiment, but the first small step back to respectability, honour and a position to which he had always felt entitled. The thick paper seemed suddenly fragile as if it might crumble or blow away, taking his newly precious future with it.

He had to move. He had to find his new regiment and start his career; he had to clamber onto the slippery ladder of success and reach for the heights. With no money, he could not purchase promotion, but he could earn it and step into the shoes of officers killed in action. "Here"s to a b****y war." He drained his tankard and rose, contemplated touching Ruth"s arm but pulled away. "I must return to my lodgings. Tomorrow I catch my coach to London."

Ruth lifted her ale. "God speed, Jack." She winked at him over the rim of the glass.

Only when Jack tried to pay for his ale did he realise that Ruth had picked his waistcoat pocket. He shook his head; she had taken her opportunity when she could and had taught him a lesson far more valuable than the few coins she had removed. Luckily, he had the sense not to keep all his money in one place when entering a public inn; he was young but not that green, and besides, her advice had proven more valuable than a pocketful of coins.

Jack had been aware of the noise outside for some minutes, but now he looked up as it escalated. "What the devil is happening out there?"

Ruth had disappeared, but the other denizens of the pub looked equally interested as the racket increased. One woman hurried to the door and peered into the street outside. She withdrew her head hurriedly. "It"s a riot! The redcoats are attacking the blues!"

As the woman spoke, something heavy crashed against the window, cracking one of the small panes of glass. The woman at the door screamed; men rose from their seats to stare outside.

"What the devil?" Jack said again. He stalked forward, joined the woman at the door and ducked when a bottle smashed against the wall a yard away from his face. A sliver of glass nicked his forehead. He blinked away the thin trickle of blood and looked around. There was enough light left to see the group of men who clustered outside a row of half-timbered houses across the road. The men were gesticulating at three uniformed police who stood side by side, gripping long staffs.

"Get moving you bluebottle bastards," one shouted, "we don"t need your kind here!"

As Jack watched, the police began a slow walk across the road, each tapping his staff in the palm of his left hand.

"Get back to where you belong," one of the police advised. "Or you"ll spend the night in the lock-up."

The words acted as a catalyst. The men unfastened their belts and began to chant "down with the blues!" One wrapped the belt around his fist, so the brass buckle acted as a vicious weapon, the others swung the belts around their heads, with the buckle blurring and lethal. As they came into the wavering light of the street lamp, Jack realised that they were all wearing military scarlet. He fingered his commission and wondered if he should try to use his new rank to calm the situation.

Would they listen to me?

Would they listen to me?Would they listen to a Johnny-raw ensign? My presence would likely make things worse.

Would they listen to a Johnny-raw ensign? My presence would likely make things worse.There were a few seconds of frantic activity as the police defended themselves. Jack saw the staffs rise and fall, heard the ugly c***k of wood on heads and the whirr and snap of the belts, and then the soldiers surged around the thin blue line, boots thumping into police ribs, faces and legs.

"Down with the blues!" A soldier with a pock-marked face continued to chant.

"Stop that!" The voice was of a young woman. She hurried over from the other side of the street. "You brutes! Stop that at once, I say!"

Jack shifted uneasily from foot to foot. It was one thing to stand aside from a straightforward contest between the police and the army and another to allow a woman to take charge.

The woman stepped fearlessly toward the grunting mass of redcoats. "You have done enough to these poor fellows." She poked at the nearest soldier, a man of about thirty with a cropped head and a face seamed with scars. "Leave them alone."

When the crop-headed soldier looked up, his eyes were wild. He swore and pushed the woman away.

A gaunt-faced private grabbed her. "You"re a saucy little w***e, aren"t you?" He put a hand over her mouth, swore and pulled clear. "The b***h bit me!"

"She"s got a dash of temper then." Crop-head gave a high-pitched laugh. "Give her this way, and I"ll cure the poxy little flirt!"

The other soldiers stopped their relentless kicking of the prone policemen and looked up. "She"s a looker," a sandy-haired soldier said in a hard London voice. "What are you doing here, Mary-Jane?" He stepped on a prone policeman as he approached the woman. "Want a real man, do you?"

The woman didn"t back away. "There are ten of you attacking three policemen," she said, "that is an ill game." She looked from one soldier to the other, perhaps hoping for support or sympathy, but finding neither. Her voice rose. "I think you should all return to your barracks."

"Oh, that"s what you think is it?" The gaunt soldier pressed his face against hers as his companions gathered around, encouraging him with animal sounds and gestures.

"Go on, Pete, you show her."

Pete put a hand on the woman"s shoulder and pushed her back; she staggered, and her bonnet fell off. Large boots trampled it underfoot.

"Take your hands off me!" Her voice was high now as her confidence drained away.

"I"ll put my hands wherever I b****y well choose." Pete grabbed her shoulder and pulled her close. "Come on, boys, let"s have a little fun here."

Jack had been watching, hoping that the situation would resolve itself without the need for him to become involved, but now he left the shelter of the pub doorway and strode across the street. As he got closer to her, he realised that the woman was younger than he had first supposed. She was perhaps twenty, while her accent and bearing suggested she came from a refined background.

"Enough of that!" He tried to inject authority into his voice. "Leave that woman be."

Pete put one arm around the woman"s throat and the other around her waist. "What has it to do with you?" His eyes were flat, poisonous. "Who the hell are you?"

Jack tried to stare the man down. "I am Ensign Jack Windrush," he said grandly, "and I order you to leave that woman alone and return to barracks."

"A b****y boy soldier," the crop-headed redcoat said, "a babe fresh from the cradle. Piddle off home to your mama, Ensign Jack Windrush, and don"t interfere with men"s work."

"It"s no work for a man to bully a defenceless woman." As soon as Jack said the words, he knew he sounded like a school prefect rather than an officer who held the Queen"s Commission.

Pete laughed and planted a rough kiss on the woman"s lips, which brought a cheer from his companions. The woman tried to push him away, her eyes now desperate as she looked at Jack.

One of the police groaned and tried to sit up. "Leave that woman," he called.

"You shut your mouth, bluebottle bastard!" As the sandy-haired soldier began to kick the policeman into insensibility, Jack ran forward. He knew he wouldn"t have any chance against ten hard bitten redcoats, but he might manage to unsettle one.

"Quick!" Jack barged straight into Pete, unbalancing him by surprise more than force, and pulled the woman clear. "Run!"

"I will not!" The woman said. "Who are you to give me orders, sir? I am -"

Jack stepped between her and the crop-headed man. "This is no time to argue!"

The woman hesitated and gestured to the policemen on the ground. "We can"t leave them…"

Jack pushed her in front of him. "We have to," he said. There was nowhere to hide except the pub, and the soldiers would undoubtedly follow. Already Pete was beginning to recover, swearing foul vengeance as his companions urged him on.

"Get the bastard, Pete, rip his innards out!"

"Knock his head off, Pete and take the b****y woman!"

As they spread out and sidled toward them, Jack shouted, "Run!" and pushed the woman in front of him. Unsure which direction was safest, he headed for what he hoped was the centre of town. There might be more people there, and numbers could mean help and safety. The woman hesitated. "Run, damn it!" Jack repeated. He dodged a drunken punch and struck back, feeling the satisfaction of his knuckles crunching on bone. The sandy-haired soldier reeled backwards, cursing, and the woman moved at last. Hitching her long skirts above her ankles, she scuttled up the road.

"After her!" Pete roared, pushed Jack aside and followed, with his companions in his wake.

Hampered by her long skirt and with only a few yards of a start, the woman hardly crossed the street before George caught her. He grabbed at her sleeve and yanked her backwards. "Come here, my pretty."

Rather than scream, the woman whirled around within Pete"s grasp and kicked him solidly on the shins. A few steps behind, Jack barged the soldier to the ground and pushed the woman in front of him. "Keep running!" he ordered, but he knew they couldn"t get far. There were too many soldiers, baying like hunting dogs blood-thirsty for the kill.

A bottle whistled past them, turning end over end until it smashed against a wall and sprayed vicious shards of glass onto the paved street. Another followed, bounced from a doorway, landed on the ground and rolled harmlessly away.

"Head them off!" That was Pete"s voice. "Don"t let them get out of the street.!"

The gaunt-faced man giggled hysterically. "Look, reinforcements!"

Jack swore as another body of soldiers appeared at the end of the road.

"What"s to do, boys?" one of the newcomers yelled.

"Get these bastards," Pete replied, and the newcomers spread out across the street, grinning.

"We"re trapped!" the woman shrieked.

Jack hustled her into the recessed door of one of the black-and-white timber-framed houses. "Get in there," he ordered and turned to face the soldiers. There were eighteen now, either drunk or nearly so and they formed a semi-circle around the doorway, blocking any hope of escape.

"Now we"ve got you, you bastard." Three missing teeth defaced Pete"s grin.

"You monsters!" the woman shouted, "fight fair!"

Jack took a single step forward, so he was clear of the woman and adopted the classical prize-fighting stance his school had taught him. "I"ll fight any or all of you," he said, "but leave the woman alone."

The soldiers jeered, with Pete making obscene gestures that left no doubt as to his intentions toward the woman.

"Oh, you cowards!" the woman said. She pushed level with Jack and tossed her head back; blonde curls bounced around her face. Twenty of you against one man and a woman! No!"she said as Jack tried to hold her back, "I will not keep out of the way. "We will fight them together!"

"You"re a spunky little piece, I grant you," Jack told her, "but it would have been better if you had held your tongue!"

Her smile took him by surprise. He could feel her trembling, but whether out of fear or anger, he didn"t know. "Some things just have to be said."

"What a bold ensign," sandy hair said, his east-end London accent slurred with alcohol.

"He"s game right enough," crop-head added, "a right little fighting c**k we have here."

They remained where they were, encouraging each other with loud boasts and high-pitched laughter at their crude jokes.

"Come on, then, if you dare!" Jack challenged. He could feel the woman close beside him and lowered his voice. "Could you back off, please? I"ll need space here."

"You can"t fight them all!" she replied.

Pete led the group with an unsophisticated head-down rush that Jack parried easily. He landed a single punch that missed Pete"s jaw but landed squarely on his cheekbone. As Pete staggered, Jack swung at crop-head; his target dodged and the blow bounced from the forehead of a squat, evil-eyed man of about thirty and then the soldiers were on him. Jack grunted as a kick landed high on his thigh and then staggered as a punch landed on his shoulder. He heard the woman"s defiant shout alter to a scream.

"Leave the woman alone!" he yelled.

Jack kicked at one soldier who lunged for his groin, elbowed another that grabbed his coat and swore as something hard crashed into his leg. He did not see the arm that wrapped around his throat and pulled him backwards.

"Get in here, Jack, for God"s sake!"

Jack couldn"t resist as somebody dragged him inside the building and banged shut the door shut behind him. He looked around; the woman was already inside, and Ruth was shaking her head at him.

"You do need looking after, don"t you?" she said. "Somebody has to take you in hand."

"Thank you," Jack panted. Only then did he become aware of the various aches and pains in his body. He struggled to control his ragged breathing. "You came at the right time."

They were in a stone-flagged corridor, illuminated by the flickering light of a single candle that didn"t penetrate far into the gloom. There were darker shadows behind the low beams.

Ruth nodded and jerked her thumb at the woman. "Who is your trouble-making friend?" She shook her head and addressed the woman directly. "That was a foolish thing to do, interfering in a fight between the peelers and the redcoats."

"I am Lucinda Harcourt," the woman sounded very calm, "daughter of—"

"You can be the daughter of the Devil for all I care," Ruth said as she drew a massive bolt across the door. "But we"d better get you somewhere safe. The sojer-boys have you in their mind now, and they won"t rest until they get you or until they are locked up and sober."

"We"re safe now," Lucinda said.

Again, Ruth jerked a thumb in the direction of the soldiers in the street outside. "Not with that lot." She stepped back as something heavy hammered on the outside of the door. "See what I mean? They"ll kick the door right in to get you. If they had half the sense of a dog, they"d use the window, but… "She shrugged, "whoever said that sojers had sense? If they had, they wouldn"t join the army."

"And just who are you?" Lucinda straightened her skirt and bounced her curls back. "I"ve lost my hat! Oh," she looked at Jack as if expecting him to run out and fetch it for her. "Did you hear me? I"ve lost my hat!"

"I"m the woman who saved you from getting raped." Ruth was very blunt. "Now follow me and don"t do anything foolish, if that is possible." She flinched as there was another massive crash against the door. "We"d better hurry; that door won"t last forever."

Lifting the candle, she headed along the corridor with her skirt swishing around her bare feet. "Come on, Jack; you, Lucinda, you can come or go as you choose. I don"t care which but if you stay the sojer boys will have their sport with you."

Hitching her skirt, Lucinda followed as Ruth led them through a succession of dark rooms and to another door. "This will take you to a lane that leads to Broad Street," she said. "Now you"re on your own."

"How can I thank you?" Jack asked, but Ruth shook her head.

"Just get out." She opened the door wide and pushed him between the shoulder blades. "Go now."

Broad Street was nearly empty, with only a handful of people walking and a stance for hackney-cabs on the opposite side of the road.

"I think I"d best take you home," Jack said.

"I think I will decide where I go," Lucinda told him.

"Come on." Jack ignored her protests, took hold of her arm and led her to the cab stance. "Where do you live?"

"That is hardly your concern." Lucinda shook herself free.

"Miss Harcourt isn"t it?" The middle-aged cab driver leaned across. "If you care to step inside, sir, I will take you both to the young lady"s house."

"You know her?" Jack asked.

"Everybody in Hereford knows Miss Harcourt," the driver said. "In you come, Miss Harcourt and I"ll see you safely home. You too sir, if you care to."

No! Women will blight my career; I should walk wide of this one.

No! Women will blight my career; I should walk wide of this one.But Jack knew he couldn"t do that. He was a gentleman by instinct and training. As such, it was his duty to protect women; even women such as this vocal hedgehog who everybody except he knew. "In you go, Miss Harcourt." He gave her an ungentle push inside the cab and followed her in. He raised his voice. "Take us to Miss Harcourt"s house, please driver."

"You"ve no right to do this," Lucinda protested, "I will tell my father."

"You can tell the Queen and the Archbishop of Canterbury if you wish,." Jack was tired of the company of Lucinda Harcourt. "It matters not a dot to me."

That was true, he told himself. In a short time, he would be with his regiment and out of range of the spleen of any Hereford civilian. Jack leaned back against the leather cushion; he would soon be an ensign of British infantry, and then he would climb the ranks and regain his former prestige and position, somehow. All he needed was a few b****y wars and the chance to prove himself against a foreign foe. He stared out of the window as they growled through the dark streets of Hereford.

There always seemed to be some enemy on the fringes of the British Empire. He wished he had grown up a decade earlier when he could have tested his mettle against the Afghans, the Kaffirs or the Sikhs. Now the Sikhs were defeated, and the Afghans were l*****g their wounds behind the Khyber Pass. There was still the Kaffirs to fight, but there was little glory in chasing n***d savages across Africa. Jack grunted involuntarily; he needed a more worthy foe than that to earn his spurs and start the climb back to respectability. He closed his eyes, wondering if he would ever lead his men to face the French; another Peninsula campaign would be b****y and glorious, with General Jack Windrush—

"Here we are sir, Miss Harcourt," the driver"s voice interrupted his imaginings. "The Harcourt residence."

"I"ll take you to the front door," Jack said.

I may as well do the thing properly.

I may as well do the thing properly."I am sure I know the way." Lucinda"s glare could have curdled milk.

"All the same," Jack said cheerfully, "a job half done is not done at all." He slid out of the cab, asked the driver to wait for him and walked at Lucinda"s side.

The Harcourt"s house was neo-classical, with Doric columns displaying the master"s wealth and power. Jack waited while Lucinda skipped up the flight of stairs that led to the front door. Before she was halfway, the door opened, and a large man with an impressive set of white whiskers appeared.

"Who the devil are you, sir," he said to Jack, "and what do you mean by bringing my daughter home at this time of night?"

"I am Jack Windrush, sir," Jack said, "and I am endeavouring to bring your daughter home in safety."

"I"ll be damned if you are," Harcourt said. "Jack Windrush, eh? I"ll remember that name, mark my words. Now be off, or I"ll set the dogs on you!" He grabbed Lucinda by the shoulder and hustled her inside the house. The door slammed shut.

For a moment, Jack stood still. Major Welland had warned him to keep clear of women, and by God, he was right. He had met two today – one had picked his pocket, and the other was a flighty, prickly piece of pure trouble. Both were reminders that his career lay in a world of military glory and not in domestic disharmony.

"Where to, sir?" The cab driver asked.

"City Arms Hotel," Jack said. "I have a coach to catch at five tomorrow morning."