Discouraging the Duke by Alexa Aston

Chapter Five

Portugal—May 1810

Captain Miles Notley drew close to his destination just as dawn broke. Though his belly growled, he knew Wellesley would want him to report immediately. For the lieutenant-general in command of the Peninsular War troops, everything was secondary to the war. Miles understood this because, like Wellesley, he was confident, motivated, and responsible. Even a bit stubborn at times. His loyalty to his friends, his men, and his country would never be called into question. The army was his life.

As he rode, he reflected on the few hours he had spent with Wyatt, who served as a scout and sometime spy for Wellesley. Wyatt had inserted himself into a group of men with French sympathies and was building a case against them. Miles couldn’t help but admire his friend’s ability to court danger with no fear. Wyatt took risks no other man would but he achieved the necessary results, which was all Wellesley was interested in. Miles now carried a dispatch from Wyatt to the commander. He only hoped that Wyatt would stay alive in these trying times.

He reached the edge of camp and though dressed in civilian clothes, a soldier greeted him by name.

“Good morning, Captain Notley,” the private said. “Lieutenant-General Wellesley said to direct you to his tent when you arrived.”

Miles dismounted and handed his reins to the soldiers. “Thank you.”

As he made his way through the camp as it began to stir, Hart fell into step with him.

“Did you see Wyatt? How is he?”

“I did. He’s fit.”

“And the men he’s spying upon?” Hart asked worriedly.

He shrugged. “You know Wyatt.”

“That’s the problem. I do. He can be reckless at times.”

“I agree,” Miles said. “But we are not to smother him. If he needs help, he will ask for it.”

Left unsaid was how both Miles and Hart were so independent that they would never seek help from others.

“Wyatt has developed his own network of spies. If he finds himself in trouble, they will get him out,” Miles continued.

“Are you on your way to the viscount?” Hart asked.

“I am. I was informed he is eager to see me.” His belly rumbled noisily.

Hart laughed. “Tell you what. You go have your meeting with Wellesley and I will be waiting outside his tent with your breakfast. I cannot promise it will be tasty. Only that there will be plenty of it.”

By now, they had reached the commander’s tent and Miles said, “Thank you. It’s been over two days since I’ve eaten.”

“Good luck,” Hart said with a wink.

Miles approached the tent. No soldier stood on sentry duty. Instead, Beckerman, a German who was partly a soldier and sometimes a servant to Wellesley, greeted him.

“Captain Notley. Let me announce you.”

Beckerman disappeared and reappeared moments later. “You may go inside.” He held the tent flap open.

Miles stepped through and found Wellesley standing beside a large table that held a map of the area from Torres Vedras to Lisbon. As usual, Wellesley wore civilian clothes, immaculate in their cut and flattering to his trim figure. Why he chose to eschew wearing a uniform when he commanded the entire British army in Portugal was one of the great mysteries of the war. He raised his gaze from the map he studied and focused on Miles, his brilliant, blue eyes almost seeing through Miles as he saluted the commander.

“You look parched, Captain Notley,” he said, motioning for his valet, who immediately filled a glass with wine and brought it to Miles.

Wellesley was known for his limited diet but the man did enjoy his wine. Being in a region that specialized in wines made their availability a benefit to being stationed in Portugal.

He took a long pull of the rich, red liquid and then lowered the glass, setting it on a nearby table. The British lieutenant-general was notoriously impatient and Miles didn’t want to test him. Withdrawing a thick letter from the pouch he wore, he handed over the dispatch.

“From Captain Stanton,” he said.

Anticipation filled Wellesley’s face but he took the letter and set it on his desk.

“I will read this once you have made your report, Captain. Tell me, how are my lines?”

Miles had been sent to observe construction on the Lines of Torres Vedras, a secret project commissioned by Wellesley. Even the British government had not been made aware of the vast construction, conducted by Sir Richard Fletcher, an esteemed army engineer. Work on a set of four lines running from the town of Torres Vedras to Lisbon had begun the previous autumn.

“They are six months into the project and Sir Richard believes it can be completed in another six—or less.”

Wellesley nodded, his expression pleased. “Tell me what you observed, Notley.”

Miles had been sent not only to speak directly with Fletcher but explore the countryside and see to the actual construction. Though it seemed as if Wellesley had complete faith in Fletcher, the lieutenant-general was a careful man. He wanted the full picture and not what others would want him to hear.

Briefly, Miles described the defenses, a series of interlocking fortifications, knowing he served as Wellesley’s eyes for this project. From redoubts to escarpments to dams, the Portuguese laboring under Fletcher’s direction had done a remarkable job, incorporating features of the landscape into the actual fortifications.

Once more, he withdrew something from the leather pouch and handed over a sheaf of papers. The lieutenant-general spread these out on a table and studied them.

“Describe everything.”

Miles went page by page, detailing the sketches he had made of various portions of the four different lines. While not a gifted artist like Finch, the drawings were decent and visually supplemented his report.

“And the roads?”

He knew the lieutenant-general spoke of the roads being constructed during the same time.

“Our troops will be able to move rapidly on them, Lieutenant-General.”

“And any leaks?”

Part of Miles’ mission had been to talk to citizens in the surrounding countryside. He, like his friend Hart, had an affinity for languages. The boys had learned both French and Spanish, along with Latin and Greek, at Turner Academy. Portuguese, another romance language, had been easy for Miles to pick up. Though he didn’t have the accent of a native, he could easily be understood.

“I believe the integrity of the project is intact,” he stated. “The French and Spanish haven’t a clue as to what is truly being built. It will serve the British army well. From those I spoke with, I also feel no news of the lines will reach home.”

Wellesley nodded in agreement. “You seem a bit like me, Captain. You are most efficient and do a job thoroughly.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Miles glowed at the compliment.

“Keep doing the same throughout your life,” the older man advised. “If others cannot do something right, tell them to get out of your way and see it done correctly yourself.”

“I will remember to do so,” he promised.

“I have enjoyed seeing you grow as a leader, Captain Notley. I wish you the best.”

The words struck him as odd. Almost as if Wellesley might never see him again. He wondered if he was being transferred to another command and wanted to ask but the words stuck in his throat.

“Good day, Captain.”

The dismissive tone told Miles the briefing had ended. He saluted the lieutenant-general and exited the tent, where he found not only Hart but also Donovan waiting for him. Hart handed over a tin plate and the three men moved away from the tent.

“How was Wyatt?” Donovan asked. “Hart said you saw him.”

“I did. For part of an afternoon.” Miles lifted a biscuit, filled with meat, and downed it in two bites.

“Is he in danger?” Donovan persisted.

“Yes,” Miles mumbled, chewing and then swallowing.

Donovan handed him a tankard filled with ale and he drank some of it before gobbling down a second biscuit filled with meat and eggs, washing it down with the rest of the ale.

Miles described the work Wyatt was doing and what he hoped to accomplish.

“I hate that he’s out there on his own,” Hart said. “While we three see each other when we can at camp.”

“Wyatt is the daring one of all of us,” he pointed out, “while you, Donovan, can be a bit reckless. It’s Hart and I who are more in control. More driven. Wyatt is doing the work he wants to do. It suits him. I know we are all worried about him but the same could be said of us when we go into battle.”

“You’re right,” Hart said. “I am simply used to having us all together.” He sighed. “I miss Finch.”

Finch, the fifth man of their tightknit group, had surprised them all after their graduation from Cambridge and had become a vicar, accepting the living near their mentor, Lord Marksby. Both Lord and Lady Marksby wrote each of them once a month, as did various tutors from Turner Academy.

“I received a letter from Finch yesterday,” Donovan shared. “A new young miss has been flirting outrageously with him. And he sold another painting.”

“At least he is out of harm’s way,” Miles said quietly.

Of all the Turner Terrors, Finch was the only one who had never revealed why he had been sent to the academy. Miles sensed that an inferno of rage boiled within Finch—and that one day it would erupt. God help anyone around him when it did.

Hart claimed the tin plate from him and he thanked his friend for the breakfast.

“I’m off,” Hart said. “I have a bayonet practice to supervise.”

“I have things to do, as well,” Donovan said, a sly smile on his face.

“It must mean you are going into town to see one of your lovers,” he said.

“Why, Miles, I am going to purchase provisions,” Donovan said, his face now one of innocence. “And if I happen to visit with a lady friend while these supplies are being collected and loaded onto the wagons? Then I am using my allotted time wisely.”

Of the five of them, Donovan was the womanizer. He had been very close to his mother, who had died in an accident when Donovan was ten. Sometimes, Miles wondered if Donovan deliberately chose not to get close to any woman because he had lost the one he loved the most. Of course, being in the military did not mix well with marriage. Though some officers were husbands and even brought their wives to war with them, none of the Terrors would most likely ever wed, being career officers.

“I will see you both later,” he said. “I need to get back into uniform.”

He returned to the tent he shared with Wyatt. Because of his friend’s frequent sojourns, he had gotten used to the privacy. Miles shed the clothes he had worn during his mission in order to blend in with the local population and washed as best he could with water from a bucket a young private brought him. He took the time to shave and comb his hair, knowing he now needed to report to Colonel Monroe. He needed to let his superior officer know of his return and see what duties would next be assigned to him.

Arriving at Monroe’s tent, he gained admission. The colonel sat at a desk, quill in hand.

Miles saluted and Monroe asked him to take a seat.

“Did you meet with success, Captain Notley?”

“Yes, Colonel. I have come from making my report to Lieutenant-General Wellesley.”

A look of disdain crossed Monroe’s face. He was one of the few that did not sing Wellesley’s praises. Miles figured it was a case of jealousy. Men such as Wellesley came along once in a generation. Monroe couldn’t hold a candle to the viscount.

The colonel sighed and searched a stack on his desk, withdrawing a letter. He passed it to Miles.

“This came for you. I received one, as well. Are you familiar with a Mr. Fillmore?”

He thought a moment. “I don’t believe so. The name is not familiar to me.”

Read it,” Monroe commanded.

Though Miles preferred to read his correspondence in private, he broke the seal. It seemed odd that his name wasn’t written on the outside. Glancing at the letter, he saw his name did not appear in the salutation but the letter was signed by the Mr. Fillmore that had been mentioned. Miles returned to the top and began reading.

This correspondence is to inform you of the death of your father, the Duke of Winslow. His Grace lived a long and productive life and will be sorely missed by all who knew him.

Unfortunately, his heir only held the title for a week, losing his life in a tragic riding accident at Wildwood. Since the new Duke of Winslow had not yet married and sired a son, the dukedom now falls to you.

I have discovered who your commanding officer is, a Colonel Monroe, and written to him of these unique circumstances. He is aware that as Duke of Winslow, you have obligations at home and will no longer have the pleasure of serving in His Majesty’s army. I have made arrangements to see that your commission is sold. Please leave your post immediately and return to London. My office address is listed below. I will bring you up to date on matters of the estate and then you will return to Wildwood at once to take up your duties.

Respectfully,

Mr. L. Fillmore

Miles folded the letter, a kaleidoscope of emotions racing through him. It had been more than a dozen years since Winslow had banished him from Wildwood. Miles had chosen never to look back, knowing he couldn’t change the past. Couldn’t bring Tony back to life. He had no need to recall Ralph’s role in killing Tony and laying the blame at Miles’ feet. He had never been close with his father and put all thoughts of Winslow from his mind, as he had his mother, who had favored Tony and had little to do with her middle child.

Yet now, all these years later, he was being summoned home. To a place he had missed but refused to think about because it hurt too much.

He was the Duke of Winslow.

Regret rippled through him, knowing he was being made to give up his military career. He lived for his men and would miss them terribly. It also pained him knowing he would no longer see his fellow Terrors. Though Wyatt came and went like the wind, Miles tried to visit with Hart and Donovan whenever possible. Now, they would all stay and continue to fight in this unending war against Bonaparte without him.

He understood duty, though. His responsibilities now lay with all his many tenants. The Duke of Winslow’s country seat was at Wildwood, where more than one hundred families farmed, not to mention the other estates and their workers. Miles now had a new group of people to protect. Not his soldiers in red coats but the men and women who toiled upon his lands.

His gaze met that of Colonel Monroe’s. “Mr. Fillmore informed you that I am now a duke?”

“Yes,” the colonel confirmed. “I took the liberty of sharing this news with Lieutenant-General Wellesley.”

No wonder Wellesley had behaved as he had. It had, indeed, been a farewell between the two men.

Monroe reached for some papers and gave them to Miles. “These are to be presented to the War Office in London. Mr. Fillmore will help you in selling your commission. He stated that he had been your father’s solicitor for many years.”

The colonel rose and Miles followed suit.

“You have been an excellent officer, Captain Notley. Loyal and steadfast. You will be hard to replace.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” Miles saluted the officer.

Monroe told him to pack and directed him to where he could seek transport back to England.

As Miles left the commander’s tent, he went to find Donovan and Hart. He would leave a letter for Wyatt, informing his friend of the circumstances leading to his departure.

For the first time in many years, Miles felt adrift.