engaged in Brussels, having lost her own English maid, Bessie, to be married to a soldier, laced her in firmly into her stays and rolled her flowing blonde hair so that it hung in two curled locks about her bare shoulders. All the while Henrietta pored over her plan to divert Jack away from the front line, away even from his beloved army and back to court. Somehow she knew that she would manage it. What use was he here in Flanders? What sort of life could they enjoy? Steel was a hero already, respected in London circles and praised by the Queen. But to cultivate that influence she knew that they must be back in London. True, he did not have much money. But there were ways of changing that, ways in which a man might rise in status and fortune in the City, given the right connections and the respect due to his character. Jack Steel was a national hero and she knew that he would only remain so as long as his name was spoken. The people and those in positions of power – in the mercantile and propertied classes – had all too short and fickle memories. At the moment his star was riding high, and every moment spent here in the Netherlands was an opportunity lost to Henrietta. She must do it. Not least because she was determined to prove her father wrong. Hadn’t he mocked their marriage and derided her for marrying a soldier with few prospects? But hadn’t that been one of the major attractions of marrying Jack? Yes, he was devilishly handsome, and for the moment a hero, but Steel also represented everything that her father had always warned about. He was the epitome of the man she had been told to avoid: penniless, reckless and out for glory. In short, Steel was the perfect opportunity to prove to her father that he had been wrong. And she was determined that he should not be allowed to win.
Making their way through the back streets of the town, Steel’s horse stumbled and he looked down to see the cause. She had tripped over an outstretched leg and whinneyed in distress as the owner, who had been lying in the gutter, attempted with difficulty to rise to his feet. He wore a military red coat and an infantryman’s black cocked hat, and from the state of his clothes and the smell of alcohol, sweat and vomit, Steel guessed that he had been lying there most of the night. The man was half standing now, staggering and mouthing oaths at Steel, who looked about him for a sergeant who might arrest the drunk. He quickly gave up and settled on giving him a firm shove which sent the man flying back into the gutter.
Leaving the soldier to groan and nurse his wounds, Steel rode on. The streets of Menin were crammed with soldiery, both drunk and sober, horse and foot in uniforms of all the Allied nations in a blaze of colours, although principally the trinity of British red, Prussian blue and Danish grey. For the past four weeks since the battle Marlborough had made his headquarters here, in a key position from where he was able to threaten the key citadels of Ypres, Lille and Tournai. Prince Eugene had gone east to Ath to join his own army, to which had been attached a force of twenty-five battalions and the same of squadrons of horse. In all fifty thousand men – a reasonable army by any reckoning. It was clear to anyone that something was afoot, but equally it was anyone’s guess as yet as to what it might be. Steel wondered whether he might not be about to find out.
He had not been surprised to have been summoned to the commander’s quarters. He had become used to doing the Captain General’s business. He wondered, though, what nature of errand the Duke might now have found for him. It was a short ride from Menin to Werwicq, and save for the incident with the drunk it had been uneventful.
Steel pulled up his horse outside the town hall, which Marlborough had commandeered. Tying the reins to the wooden post provided for that purpose, he saluted the two sentries of the Foot Guards, his own old regiment, posted at the door, and
Making their way through the back streets of the town, Steel’s horse stumbled and he looked down to see the cause. She had tripped over an outstretched leg and whinneyed in distress as the owner, who had been lying in the gutter, attempted with difficulty to rise to his feet. He wore a military red coat and an infantryman’s black cocked hat, and from the state of his clothes and the smell of alcohol, sweat and vomit, Steel guessed that he had been lying there most of the night. The man was half standing now, staggering and mouthing oaths at Steel, who looked about him for a sergeant who might arrest the drunk. He quickly gave up and settled on giving him a firm shove which sent the man flying back into the gutter.
Leaving the soldier to groan and nurse his wounds, Steel rode on. The streets of Menin were crammed with soldiery, both drunk and sober, horse and foot in uniforms of all the Allied nations in a blaze of colours, although principally the trinity of British red, Prussian blue and Danish grey. For the past four weeks since the battle Marlborough had made his headquarters here, in a key position from where he was able to threaten the key citadels of Ypres, Lille and Tournai. Prince Eugene had gone east to Ath to join his own army, to which had been attached a force of twenty-five battalions and the same of squadrons of horse. In all fifty thousand men – a reasonable army by any reckoning. It was clear to anyone that something was afoot, but equally it was anyone’s guess as yet as to what it might be. Steel wondered whether he might not be about to find out.
He had not been surprised to have been summoned to the commander’s quarters. He had become used to doing the Captain General’s business. He wondered, though, what nature of errand the Duke might now have found for him. It was a short ride from Menin to Werwicq, and save for the incident with the drunk it had been uneventful.
Steel pulled up his horse outside the town hall, which Marlborough had commandeered. Tying the reins to the wooden post provided for that purpose, he saluted the two sentries of the Foot Guards, his own old regiment, posted at the door, and
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