The Theft of a Dukedom

The right of Lyndsey Norton to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted by her in
accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
1988.

All the characters in this publication are fictitious and
any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely
coincidental.

‘It would be an unfortunate place to die!’
Captain Richard Dunsmore shouted over the deafening
guns. He was twenty eight years old and the third son of
an Earl. But his exalted bloodlines wouldn’t stop him
from dying this night. He scraped his hand through his
thick, wavy dark brown hair and looked over at his
compatriot with his blue eyes flashing in the flickering
light.

‘I don’t know whether I can even move.’ Captain
Charles Stafford said through gritted teeth, the red hot
shot from the grapeshot burning in his thigh and back.
He’d already had to discard his flaming tunic. Richard’s
was extinguished when he rolled over on his back.
Charles was a very old twenty four, his wavy, mid brown
hair streaked with lighter highlights from the hot
Spanish sun. He turned his face towards Richard, his
hazel eyes reflecting the pain that both men were in.

Richard lay on his back and looked back at the
flames reflecting off the clouds that had blanketed the
sky all day. ‘If I didn’t die at Cuidad Rodrigo, when that
French Cuirassier’s sword tried to split my gizzard! Why
do I think that I’m going to die looking at the red sky at
Badajoz?’

‘Are you joking?’ Richard spat. ‘I can’t even sit
up!’
They lay calmly in the dark listening to the battle
rage around them. They heard the growl of ten
thousand men, as they steeled themselves to fill the
breach, even through the bellow of the cannon and they
heard the mines explode as the French tried to keep
them out of the breach in the fortress at Badajoz.
‘I’ve sold my commission.’ Charles said softly, in
a lull. ‘I’m going home after this. My father has insisted.’
‘When did you hear from the Duke?’
‘A month ago. He has insisted I come home, now
that Robin has been accused of murder and skipped the
country.’
‘Was it a duel?’ Richard asked loudly as the guns
fired again.
‘Yes and the opponent died. Robin was seen
leaving the site by a Bow Street Runner of all people.
Father said he left with alacrity!’
Richard couldn’t suppress the guffaw, as he
thought about how quickly he would vanish if seen
leaving a duel, but it snagged in his throat and became a
groan. ‘Do you want some company on your trip home?’
he panted.
‘I think that would be most pleasant.’ Charles
said evenly, watching his friend with concern.
‘I’ll see if I can oblige.’
I really think this time I
won’t make it.
Richard thought before he slipped into
unconsciousness.

Why does it always happen to me?
Lady Amelia
Stafford, Countess of Stainmore, known affectionately
by the sobriquet Kitty, thought bleakly as she stood with
the growing wine stain on the front of her favourite
ivory silk gown.
Why couldn’t it have been champagne,
rather than claret?

‘My Lady! Forgive my clumsiness!’ a masculine
voice said beside her and she turned her cold, bleak
face towards the voice.

‘No. I’m afraid I can’t.’ She said rather curtly,
taking the bloated buffoon reaching for his handkerchief
by surprise. ‘I think in future, Sir, you should not talk
with your hands or better still only pick a glass up to sip
the contents.’

His companions spluttered with laughter. She
gave each one of them a cold glance.
‘Lady Amelia!?’ another male voice called. ‘What
happened to your gown?’
That’s all I need!
Kitty thought.
Damn! It’s good
to swear. No wonder men do it so often.
She patiently
waited as her most ardent suitor of the season rushed
to her assistance, pulling his large cotton handkerchief
out of his sleeve.
‘Gosh! That’s going to stain something awful!’
Lord Derek Ponsonby said in his overbearing way. ‘You
should go to the retiring room and wash it out.’ He said
helpfully and tried to smile at her gamely, as if the large
purple stain on the front of her gown didn’t exist. Her
eyes opened wide in horror as he clasped her upper arm
and made to march her away.
This is too much!
She
gritted her teeth, stomped her foot onto the beautiful
Persian rug under her feet and refused to budge.
‘Take your hand off of my arm, Sir!’ she spoke
forcefully. ‘Who do you think you are?’
At that moment Thomas Stafford, the Duke of
Durham arrived to rescue his young daughter yet again
from a disaster not of her making. He had seen the
entire incident from his prominent position. He was an
imposing height and towered over his progeny. Forty
nine, wealthy beyond belief and a powerful politician,
he was not the kind of man to trifle with.
‘Kitty? What happened?’ he asked softly as he
approached, his face composed, even though he felt like
shrivelling the men around her.
‘Daddy?’ She blurted, and he could tell she was
almost in tears. All the males around her knew who he
was and shuffled their feet. The bloated buffoon
apologised for the damage to her gown, promising to
replace it at his earliest convenience. Ponsonby dropped
his hand from her arm as he tried to explain he was
going to escort her to the ladies retiring room, but
Thomas did not miss the white pressure marks on her
arm left by his fingers. Kitty, like all the girls this season,
had her gloves pushed down to her elbows. He softly
put his hand on the finger marks and stroked her arm.
‘Come along, my dear. I don’t think this is your night.’
Filled with conflicting emotions, Kitty allowed
herself to be led away, safe as her father gently placed
his arm around her shoulders.
‘What happened?’ he asked softly.
‘That fat man was talking with his hands!’ she
said tearfully as she looked down at the huge stain. ‘And
the one holding his wine hit my shoulder as I was
passing and all the wine ended up down the front of my
dress!’ she finished on a sob.
‘And I know that is your favourite gown.’ He said
compassionately. ‘I’ll get your aunt to order another
one exactly like it.’
‘I could probably salvage it if I went home now.’
Kitty said hopefully as she looked up into her father’s
calm face. Thomas lazily pulled his watch from his
waistcoat and glanced at the time. She watched his
mind make the necessary calculations of time and
travel. She sighed in resignation even before he shook
his head. ‘I know. The Duchess of Wentworth is going to
be here later and is expecting an offer of marriage.’
‘I know you don’t approve....’ he started,
defensively.
‘It’s not that, Daddy. She’s really very nice and
I’m not the one marrying her, you are. But I would so
much like to look like a lady, instead of a walking
disaster!’ She tried ineffectually to brush the wine stain
from her gown. ‘Every time I come to a ball, somebody
spills something on me!’ She said indignantly. ‘Last time
it was a plate of devilled eggs over my décolletage!’ She
placed her hand over her exposed chest.
Thomas couldn’t help laughing at the pained
expression on her face. ‘Be thankful it wasn’t roast beef
and gravy!’
‘It would have burned my skin!’ She said,
affecting innocence.
‘And you would not have enjoyed that one little
bit, Kitty.’ Charles Stafford said as he appeared at her
father’s side. Charles had been back from Spain for less
than a week and Kitty had been shocked at the changes
war had wrought on him. He was a younger version of
her father on the surface, but there was a disquiet in his
expression most of the time. Standing next to their sole
parent, Kitty was struck just how alike they looked. The
long straight Stafford nose, the wavy mid brown hair,
although Charles’s hair was streaked with gold from the
hot Spanish sun and her father had grey flecks around
his ears. Their eyes were different, Charles had
inherited his mother’s hazel eyes, while Thomas’s were
a piercing emerald green, but their faces had the same
structure, from the prominent brow to the square
determined jaw. Even the dimple on their chins was the
same. They were very handsome men and Kitty wasn’t
in the least surprised that the Duchess of Wentworth
would accept her father’s marriage proposal. ‘Who did
that to your favourite frock?’ Charles asked indignantly.
‘Would you like me to get you a chair?’ she
asked Charles as he adjusted his balance on his walking
stick.
‘Maybe in a little while, Kitty.’ He sighed and
looked enquiringly at his father.
‘A clumsy oaf called Wittering.’ The Duke said
cautiously. ‘He has already offered to pay for a
replacement gown and I intend he should make good on
the offer.’
‘Good! I wouldn’t want to turn him into a
colander.’ Charles said jovially, but Thomas didn’t miss
the hard light in his son’s eyes.
Thomas had been shocked at Charles’s condition
when he arrived home from Spain. Not just the physical
debilitation of his injuries from Badajoz, but also the
hard expression in his eyes. The carefree boy that left
England to join Wellington’s army before Talavera was
gone, replaced by a hard, almost callous young man.
He
needs a good woman!
Thomas thought.

‘You’re hardly in a fit state to turn anyone into
Swiss cheese. Even me!’ Kitty said frankly and Thomas
closed his eyes and waited, hoping his son wouldn’t
speak harshly to her.

‘I might put that to the test tomorrow.’ Charles
said, lifting an eyebrow at his youngest sibling. ‘I still
have the wooden swords that Rob and I used.’

‘Oh! Goody!’ Kitty said with a huge smile
plastered across her face.
‘We will be receiving another guest tomorrow.’
Charles said to his father. ‘Richard will be arriving.’ His
father nodded and promptly lost interest as Victoria
Bertrand, the Duchess of Wentworth, entered the
ballroom, looking radiant in a silk gown in dark claret.
She immediately acknowledged his presence with a
courteous nod and she changed direction, heading
straight for the Duke. Again he gasped at the beauty of
this woman. Her golden hair was stylishly arranged in a
chignon on the back of her head and delicate ringlets
brushed the elegant column of her neck like gossamer.
Her gown revealed a goodly portion of her upper
breasts and Thomas had an almost overwhelming desire
to bury his face in her impressive cleavage.
‘If you’d like, I’ll escort Kitty home.’ Charles
offered calmly, not mistaking the hungry look in his
father’s eyes.
Thomas cleared his throat and squirmed. ‘That
would be most generous of you, Charles.’ He said
distantly.
‘I might as well. She looks terrible in that soiled
dress and I can’t dance anyway.’
‘Thomas.’ Lady Bertrand said in what could only
be described as a sultry voice, as she extended her
hand. The light in her blue eyes glittering.
‘Victoria. Can I say how lovely you look tonight?’
he offered gallantly as he kissed her fingers. He
managed to keep his erection from Kitty’s view, as his
body reacted to the fine woman in front of him. He
looked down into her eyes and almost moaned at the
promise they held.
‘Oh! Poor Lady Amelia. Whoever ruined your
gown? I hope you make the blackguard pay for a new
one!’ Victoria gushed over Kitty, but didn’t make the
mistake of trying to hug her.
Kitty squirmed, as usual, hating to be singled out
as she bobbed a curtsey. Victoria extended her hand to
Charles and he graciously bowed over it.
Thomas whisked Victoria onto the dance floor
and Charles stood beside Kitty’s chair. ‘Let me know
when you’re ready.’ He murmured and Kitty nodded.
Lady Emily Blunt appeared suddenly beside
Charles. ‘My Lord. I’d heard you’d returned from Spain.
Was it an enjoyable experience?’ she asked
provocatively, making Kitty frown. Lady Emily, the
daughter of the Earl of Alderney, was last seasons
incomparable, with her cerulean blue eyes, shining
blond hair and the face of a Madonna. Her ample
breasts were showcased in the bodice of a turquoise silk
gown with enough lace around the neckline to keep it
from being scandalous. Not quite reaching Charles’s
armpit, she was the epitome of a titled lady, graceful
and petit.
‘No, I can’t say it was enjoyable Lady Emily.’
Charles said looking down at her cleavage, before he
jerked his eyes up and looked into her cold blue eyes.
She looked at the cane he was resting on. ‘You’ll
not be dancing this season, then?’ There was a distinct
barb in the comment that made Charles frown.
‘No.’ He said quite coldly. He didn’t like the look
in her eyes at all.
‘Hello Emily.’ Kitty said evenly.
Lady Emily turned her head, looked down at
Kitty’s gown and laughed spitefully. ‘I see you’ve had
another little accident, Amelia.’ And turned her face
back to Charles in dismissal.
‘I’m just going to take her home.’ Charles said
carefully.
‘Well, I’ll probably see you at the Henderson’s?’
she asked provocatively, resting her fan on his arm as he
held his hand out to Kitty.
‘Anything’s possible.’ Charles said softly. ‘Come
along Kitty.’ Emily watched them move away with a
baleful expression.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Charles asked his little
sister.
‘You are a Marquis.’ Kitty explained softly. ‘You
will now have to endure the attention that previously
was focused at Robin.’
They said goodnight to their father and Charles
rested his hand on her shoulder as he limped to the exit.
He wasn’t quite as tall as his father, but he still towered
over Kitty.
Kitty was appalled at the pressure Charles
exerted on her shoulder as they walked slowly to the
door. She looked up into his fine features and could see
the film of sweat on his brow, even though the ballroom
wasn’t excessively hot yet.
‘You should have told me earlier you were in so
much pain.’ She whispered.
‘It’s nothing, Kitty. I’ve just been on my feet too
long.’ He signalled a footman for the coach. When it
arrived, she had to help him climb the steps and was
grateful to the footman for his assistance.
‘I don’t think I would have been able to get you
in here on my own.’ She said, as she manoeuvred his
body around and he collapsed onto the seat. She
perched next to him as the footman closed the door,
taking out his big handkerchief and swabbing the
rivulets of sweat pouring off his face. ‘We really should
have left an hour ago, then maybe my dress wouldn’t
have been ruined and you wouldn’t be in this state.’
‘Kitty, stop fussing. I’ll be fine once I’m home.’
Charles sat back and looked at his younger
sibling. Beautiful beyond belief, but she couldn’t see it,
she always looked awkward around strangers and she
had strict rules about closeness. Only he and his father
were allowed to touch her in a familiar way. He knew it
was caused by his brother. He and Robin had teased her
mercilessly as children, but now she’d grown up. He had
to remember that she was twenty years old and
because of her reticence, she was only just having a
season. When he left for the Peninsular, she’d been a
girl, now she was a woman.
He had admired her during the evening as she
danced with the attendant beau’s vying for her hand in
marriage. Her dowry was substantial, so the interest
was plentiful and varied, from the Earl of Strathairn to
Viscount Dalton. Like his father, he hadn’t liked the way
Derek Ponsonby had grabbed her arm either, but he
wasn’t quick enough to intervene.
He looked at her now; her brow creased with
concern, and wondered which man would actually be
lucky enough to gain her trust and her hand.
‘Did Ponsonby hurt you?’ he asked softly.
‘Not physically. But I was terribly affronted by
the casual way in which he grabbed my arm. Like I was
his property. It was most disconcerting.’
‘Would you like me to run him through for you?’
he asked cheekily and she sniggered.
‘I think he would run away if you threatened to
call him out.’ She whispered, as if Ponsonby was in the
next seat. ‘Anyway, who is this Richard?’
‘Lord Richard Dunsmore. His father is the Earl of
Rutland.’
‘Will he inherit the title?’
Charles shook his head. ‘No. He has two older
brothers.’
‘Where did you meet him?’ she asked without
thinking.
‘On the ship out to Portugal.’ He said and smiled,
as near as he ever got to smiling, just a gentle curve of
his lips. Kitty was at a loss how to retrieve the brother
who left for Portugal. A part of her believed that he died
on a battlefield somewhere and the young man before
her was a remnant.
The coach jerked to a standstill and Kitty
stepped down as the footman opened the door.
Between them, they helped Charles out of the carriage
and she helped him up the wide stone steps that
fronted the ornate entrance to the ducal residence in
Grosvenor Square. The first room was the formal
drawing room and Kitty turned him in the door and
helped him to sit down. She quickly poured him a large
brandy and handed it to him.
‘Why won’t you tell me how you hurt your leg?’
she asked so innocently that he almost sobbed. She had
absolutely no idea what war was really like and he
didn’t really have any intention of explaining it to her.
‘It was just some stray shot at Badajoz.’ He said
distantly, as if the subject was unimportant.
How could he sit there and explain that he’d
been hit with red hot grapeshot, which had not only set
fire to his tunic, but had almost cost him his leg.
The shot was the size of a cricket ball and it
caught the back of his left thigh with a glancing blow as
the burning canvas casing hit him squarely in the centre
of the back, igniting his tunic. He’d turned around to
check on the progress of his company at the same time
that the French guns in the San Jose fort opened up
with a mixture of grapeshot and canister. He felt the
thud of the blow as his left leg buckled and pitched him
onto his face. He heard somebody tell him his back was
on fire and struggled to his knees to try and open his
jacket. Suddenly Richard was there. He could see the
horror on his face in the firelight as he pushed the
burning material over his shoulders. Charles fell
forward, as he lost control with the pain of his injuries
and Richard was bent over him, trying to pull the
burning cloth away. That singular act of charity saved
his life as the guns of San Jose loosed off twenty rounds
of canister, flaying both companies to death.
Of course, canister shot was comprised of a thin
tin canister crammed with pistol balls and sundry other
inflammable objects, and as it exploded from the mouth
of the guns it formed overlapping fields of fire and was
devastating for infantry.
Charles heard Richard gasp as he was hit and
turned his head to look up at his friend. ‘Damn!’ Richard
said and smiled. ‘It would appear I’ve been hit.’ He said
calmly as he toppled like a felled tree, trying to fling the
burning tunic away from him. As he bounced onto the
glacis, Charles could see flames licking at his back.
‘Turn over! Your back’s alight!’ he tried to shout
and in the end Richard must have felt the heat for he
rolled onto his back and rubbed it in the mud. Then they
lay on the glacis for the rest of the night, listening to the
moans of the men dying around them and the sounds of
battle.
‘I’ve listened to the men talk about Badajoz.’
Kitty said firmly, breaking his train of thought.
‘Apparently it was hell on earth and there were so many
dead they filled the ditches to the top. The cannon fire
must have been deafening.’ She said softly making
Charles look at her sharply.
‘It was a costly siege.’ He said coldly and finished
his brandy. He set the glass down with a distinct click
and started to push himself to his feet.
‘Why won’t you talk to me about it?’ she asked
plaintively. ‘We used to tell each other everything.’
He slumped back onto the settee, as she brought
the decanter over and refilled his glass.
‘When I left England, I was filled with boyish
dreams of fame and glory.’ He said harshly, hoping a
small admission would appease her curiosity. ‘It didn’t
take long for me to lose my innocence of war. It is not a
pleasant experience, actually. The conditions are harsh,
the discipline brutal and the battles horrific.’ He looked
her candidly in the eyes. ‘There is nothing as terrifying
as trying to shove your sword in a French soldier, before
he can stick his in you!’
He was going to leave it there, but he continued
to stare at her and once the flood gate had opened,
there was no stopping the words and he didn’t see her
anymore, only a battlefield. ‘The French march into
battle in a column, twenty or thirty men abreast.
Sometimes a hundred.’ He sighed. ‘And the only thing
between Napoleon and victory is our thin red line. The
only way to stop the column is to smash it with volley
fire and Wellington’s Army is becoming very adept at it.’
She watched the horror in his face as he talked. ‘You
don’t see a battle, you hear it. The smoke is so thick
from the volley fire that you can’t see a damned thing.
All you can hear is the French drums hammering, the
French soldiers chanting and the gunfire.’ He stopped
suddenly as a sob escaped his throat. ‘It’s all you can
hear after the cannons stop, the drums and “Vive
L’Empereur” until our volleys start. Eventually the volley
fire will bring their column to a halt and then they run
away. After that a truce is called and the injured are
removed from the field. The water boys arrive and
every man gets a drink, if we’re lucky there is enough
time for the soldiers to clean the gunpowder residue
from their muskets, although I’ve seen enough soldiers
pee down the barrel to dislodge the caked on powder
during the battle.’ He sighed and she watched in
amazement as a tear crept out of the corner of his left
eye. ‘And then it begins all over again. Being an officer
makes you a prime target. We don’t have muskets to
fire, all we can do is stand, keep the line steady and wait
for the order to move forward, but that only comes
after the columns have been smashed with no hope of
them regrouping.’
‘What about the dead?’ she asked quietly.
‘They will be buried after the battle. Sometimes
they are piled into pyres and burnt, because the ground
is too stony or to hard to dig. And the dead keep piling
up, even a week after a battle there are still dying men
to deal with.’ He sobbed again and she watched the
tears start to fall. ‘Oh! God! Kitty! It was horrific!’ he
gasped and she lurched across the room, dropped next
to him on the settee and pulled his head onto her
shoulder. In his distress he grabbed her and held on
tight, as if he was drowning as the horror engulfed him.
Kitty was glad that he had told her and she was
touched that he would cry with her, because she knew
he wouldn’t cry with her father. She sat and rocked him,
like a mother with a child as he cried and sobbed in
shock still nearly two months later. ‘It must have been
terrible.’ She murmured and rested her cheek on his
head. She pulled his handkerchief out of his sleeve again
and held it to his face. Instinctively he grabbed it and
wiped his eyes.
‘It was.’ He got out between sobs. ‘The blood
and gore, especially from the cannon fire. There is
nothing more horrific than seeing a body ripped apart
by canistershot. The little drummer boys lose their feet
if they’re not careful, because of the rolling cannonballs.
The only time the guns stop is when the column is
coming.’ He gasped again. ‘It’s an
onslaught!
That’s the
only way to describe it. The French just keep on
coming.’ He sat up and got control of his tears. ‘But at
Cuidad Rodrigo and Badajoz, the French were bottled
up inside the forts. We had no other choice but to lay
siege to them and then storm the breach.’ He sighed
again. ‘Wellington threw thousands at the walls. I don’t
know if I was lucky or not, but I was injured in the first
few volleys of grapeshot and spent the night lying on
the glacis trying to keep Richard alive.’ He had been
twisting the linen in his hands and suddenly he lifted it
and wiped his face again, sniffing. ‘How brave of me!’ he
spat viciously. ‘Crying on my little sister’s shoulder!’