Anne Barbour by Kateand the Soldier

the strident sounds of protest behind him went largely unnoticed by David. He felt remote, somehow, as though all the chaos had nothing to do with him. David Merritt, the Earl of Falworth? The words simply had no meaning.
    Yet, they carried an undeniable ring of exultation. Westerly was his! He need not leave, but could stay to cherish it forever. He would work, he vowed, and use every ounce of wit at his disposal to transform the lovely old estate to its former glory. And at his side....  No. He had received a gift from Heaven, and that must be enough.
    The rest of the day passed in a state of suppressed pandemonium. It did not take long for the momentous news to circulate among the servants’ quarters and thence to the stables and gardens and the tenants’ cottages. Soon the entire estate was humming with surmise as to the course the lives of “the grand people in the House” would take. Speculation ranged from the immediate departure of Lady Falworth to the Dower House to the dim future ahead for Mr. Lawrence, who in one afternoon had gone from Viscount Standing, to Lord Falworth, and then, ignominiously, to a mere Honorable.
    David remained closeted for several hours with Mr. Smollett, and the two were served dinner on a tray in the library. Regina dined in her chambers, as did Aunt Fred. Lawrence had stormed out of the house some time earlier, and had not as yet returned home. Crawford, sensing that the atmosphere at Westerly might not be conducive to good digestion, rode out to “take his mutton” with a neighboring friend. Cilia, in a rare display of filial duty, dined with her mother.
    When Kate, prepared to eat alone, entered the gold saloon, she was startled to find Lucius Pelham awaiting her. She blinked at him in consternation. Having almost forgotten the existence of the young man in the turmoil of the day’s events, she had told Cook to prepare a simple meal for her of meat and fruit.
    “Why, Mr. Pelham!” she said, feeling extremely foolish.
    “Ah, Miss Millbank,” he replied with his usual calm courtesy. “It appears we dine a deux this evening. I am not sure this is quite proper, but if you can bear my company for an hour or two, I shall be honored to dine with you.”
    “Mr. Pelham, I’m so sorry. You have been treated abominably—first left to cool your heels in the hall earlier today, and now—well, I’m afraid you’ll find you’ve been condemned to a horribly inadequate meal. It’s just that—”
    “Everything is quite at sixes and sevens,” finished Lucius, his eyes twinkling. “Perfectly understandable. And no meal, I am sure, could be considered inadequate when taken in your company.” He sketched a graceful bow, and Kate smiled with relief.
    “I suppose,” she said hesitantly, “you’ve heard about David?”
    “That my erstwhile comrade in arms is now the Earl of Falworth? Yes, he took a moment before he began his conference with the attorney to tell me his news. What an astonishing turn of events!”
    Kate nodded abstractedly. “It has taken us all by surprise. Tell me, Mr. Pelham,” she said, suddenly glad to have this opportunity to talk to David’s friend alone, “how did he receive his injury? He won’t talk about it to me, and he doesn’t seem to think he will ever really recover from it. Do you think that’s true?”
    Lucius was silent for a long moment.
    “The Battle of Toulouse lasted only one day,” he began finally, “but it was a day that seemed to go on for an eternity. David had volunteered for the Forlorn Hope, of course, but...”
    “The what?” asked Kate in puzzlement.
    “Before every battle,” explained Lucius, “a contingent of volunteers is sent ahead of the main body of troops to get things started. Their purpose is mainly to draw the enemy’s fire, thus revealing their positions. As a rather painful example of our famed dry, British wit, this force is called the Forlorn Hope, wherein very few men survive duty. There are, however,