Gypsy Jewel Page 3

  Damien Cross spoke with exasperation over the dramatic sobs which trailed him down the curving mahogany staircase to the front door. Pausing on the landing behind her son as he gathered up his overcoat, Marcelle de Villette, a countess of Normandy in her own right and also the widow of an English earl, wiped at her streaming dark eyes and cast another plea after him.

  “Damien! You cannot rush off like a madman to your certain death like this. How can you leave me here alone while you go running off to heathen lands again?”

  Gathering his patience, the Earl of Devonshire turned to face the tear-streaked, beautiful face of his French mother. Long used to Marcelle’s tragic scenes, Damien said dryly, “The moment I am gone, Maman, you will doubtlessly decide to retire to Versailles to take the spring air, and be comforted by your many admirers.”

  Not consoled in the slightest, Marcelle sniffled and dabbed at her delicate features with a lace-edged handkerchief. She knew her headstrong son had gotten his brooding good looks from her. His thick, blue-black hair and stubborn air were perfectly reflected in her own. But above Damien’s firm, square-cut jaw, his father’s ice-blue eyes stared her down from beneath the dark pair of brows, and Marcelle was unhappily reminded of Edward Cross’s famous stern looks.

  “Bah,” she sniffed at last, in perfect imitation of her English dowager friends, “I can see you have no sympathy for your poor Maman, none at all. Well, perhaps I will go to France then, and try to distract myself from the thought of your certain demise.”

  “Don’t forget your mourning gowns, then,” Damien reminded her briskly as he shrugged an overcoat onto his muscular frame. Like Edward, he was a tall man, but it was his coloring that instantly drew the eye. The unusual contrast of light eyes and dark hair had made the young Earl of Devonshire the “light o’ love” of some young ladies at court.

  But court was far from Damien’s mind now. Faced with a war looming on the Russian front, while Czar Nicholas prepared to invade Turkey, he felt doubly obligated by virtue of his mixed heritage to enter the fray for both France and Britain. Thus he had volunteered to step from drawing room to battlefield, though the prospect obviously did not sit well with Marcelle. She had wailed and wept for days after he had received his orders.

  “You are gentry,” his mother said now in a final gamble. “The last of the male Cross descendants. Surely it must be considered by the queen.”

  “It was,” Damien reminded her with some annoyance. “But Her Majesty felt I might serve as a useful liaison between our two nations, and she also recalled my previous campaign in Algeria under Louis-Philippe.”

  “More barbarity.” Marcelle shuddered and covered her eyes. “I thought you lost then, too.”

  “Maman,” Damien changed his tactics swiftly, “you know I must go. Accept the fact. It is not the first time I have left, nor likely to be the last. Once you would have cheerfully waved me off, or thrown a fête. What is so different now?”

  Reluctantly, Marcelle realized he was right. But Damien was thirty-one now, and Edward was no longer there to console her. She was beginning to feel her own age, no matter how youthful she still appeared. Her dark eyes brimmed with tears as she reached out to her son with open arms.

  “You are my only child,” she whispered, and she saw his blue eyes soften slightly. For all his curt ways, Damien was not as hardened as he appeared.

  With an inner sigh, Damien lingered one last moment to kiss his mother goodbye. He believed Marcelle truly grieved to see him go, but he also knew the moment he was gone, she would be caught up in the intrigues of the French court, and be honestly surprised when he turned upon her doorstep at Chateau de Villette.

  Marcelle tended to be flighty and forgetful, though he loved her dearly. His only regret was that if he were to die overseas, it would likely be months or a year before she heard of it, and she would need every moment of that time to secure herself a husband and assure another heir for her French estates.

  After the emotional parting with his mother, Damien strode briskly outside and down the long row of small steps from the stately manor house. Pausing before he got into the waiting coach, he let his gaze sweep over the grand estate overlooking the sea.

  Here on the Devon coast, the jagged cliffs appeared to be all that kept Mistgrove Manor from being swept away by the angry gray waves. The channel was torrid and treacherous, and often covered with dense fog, but the humid air that had given Mistgrove its name never seemed more exhilarating than when Damien rode his hunter at a fast gallop through the ancient oaks bordering his lands. He always felt a rush of pride to gaze upon the legacy that Edward Cross had left him, and a deep contentment too, whether walking through the apple orchards or just watching the fat Devon cattle greedily grazing for miles in every direction.

  His mother was welcome to France and to their fine chateau there. He found it pleasant to visit on occasion, but Mistgrove was home. Damien burned it into his memory before he left, in case this time proved to be the last he set foot on this rich, dark earth.

  IT FELT GOOD TO be out again beneath the open sky and stars. Damien breathed deeply of the tangy salt air during the long days and nights aboard a ship christened Adelaide.

  Bound for the Mediterranean via the Strait of Gibraltar, he had secured permission from the queen to stop in Cherbourg and tend to business matters, for he also had his estate near Rouen to attend. By way of telegraph, he sent brisk instructions to the staff at Chateau de Villette. Even in his absence, Damien was a meticulous man.

  Reassured the estate would be kept running smoothly by his steward, Guy Fontblaine, he then resumed the arduous journey by railway toward the heart of the Crimean front.

  During the following weeks, Damien met with men traveling under similar orders, gentry and commoners alike, many of whom were old friends and were delighted to serve with him on the latest campaign.

  Stories of Damien’s former success in Algeria were quickly recalled and spread to eager ears. Many remembered him as a favorite of King Louis-Philippe’s before the Republic, and his honors earned as an officer in the French Foreign Legion were much envied. A tale of how Damien singlehandedly convinced the Arab king Abdel Kader to give up his long battle after years of bloodshed was retold with great embellishment. Though only thirty-one, he had the experience of a well-seasoned traveler, and his sun-bronzed skin and black hair blended in well with the natives during his years in Algeria.

  As Lord Cross smiled and laughed among the other men, it was hard to imagine he had ever seen bloody battle or strife. Such a handsome face seemed better suited to an indolent court life, or upon a portrait hanging in a hall. But the dubious few who glanced upon Damien’s hands, expecting soft white skin, saw instead calluses and faint scars that lent truth to all the fantastic tales.

  By early autumn, soldiers and officers alike found themselves on another ship threading the Grecian isles and at last arriving at the Bulgarian port of Varna. The city that would be the main base of operations for the combined allies was a popular vacation spot, though it served a grimmer purpose now.

  Now only the Black Sea, an ancient and strategic body of water, remained between them and the enemy. One hundred fifty allied naval ships, warships, and transports lurked just offshore Varna and awaited further commands from the admirals.

  As they dropped anchor, Damien went to the rail of the Constant Star, gazing with hawk-sharp eyes along the rugged coastline, mentally mapping familiar routes of old.

  When he was summoned for consultation with Admiral Brady in his quarters, Damien was not surprised. He expected he would be briefed about the men he was to command in the coming battle. He had shed his fine waistcoats and trousers long ago, and appeared in the admiral’s cabin wearing only canvas trews and a plain white shirt like the rest of the men. He saw that his simple attire took the commander off guard.

  “Lord Cross,” Admiral Brady acknowledged gruffly, sizing Damien up and perhaps startled to discover a sturdy-looking fellow instead of the mincing nob
leman he had expected. Here was no court dandy.

  Clearly uncomfortable with formalities, Admiral Brady overlooked further polite conversation and invited Damien to a whiskey.

  With equal directness that pleased the Irishman, Damien took his measure of drink and sat down, obviously prepared for a serious discussion as he rolled up his shirt sleeves and glanced over the map Brady had laid out on the desk.

  “I’ve heard you’ve had experience here before,” Brady began without preamble. “I need advice going in.”

  “Surely you have your orders already from Her Majesty’s naval advisers,” Damien said.

  “Aye.” Brady’s Irish accent was still strong after years of living on English soil, and the shorter man scratched at his close-cropped, coppery beard as he stalked the confines of the cabin. “But it’s not that simple, Cross — ah, my lord.”

  Like many Celts, Brady had an aversion for titles, and he coughed irritably and rushed on. “As you know, we’re land-locked here, and it makes navigating much more dangerous than the open sea. Most of us in Her Majesty’s command are more comfortable without such land constraints, but the Russkies know this body of water like that of their wives’.” He slapped the small blue circle marking the Black Sea on his map, and waited for Damien’s remarks.

  “Unfortunately, I can tell you little more than your own men. Many have been here more often than me. I’m certainly no sailor to be advising you on strategy where your ship is concerned. My earlier campaigns were all done on land.”

  “I’m not asking you to navigate the ship,” Brady clarified, “but I’ve heard you’ve a ken of the folk here, and a grasp of their ways.”

  “I spent three years in Sevastopol, before the present war. I understand the language and, to some extent, the mindset of the people.” Damien did not feel it necessary to add that he had also been to the Russian court in those days. He had managed an amiable discourse with Czar Nicholas, whom he still admired as he prepared to take up arms against that same ruler now.

  “I admit to familiarity with Turkey and her sultan, too. You see, according to Czar Nicholas, it was Abdul Medjid’s obstinance that led to this conflict, and the eventual intervention of both France and England. Several years ago, I served as an ambassador to the Ottomans. I was stationed in Constantinople, so I have a passable grasp of Turkish.”

  “Then surely you see why that makes you invaluable now. This war may well hinge on men like yourself who understand the heathen mentality.”

  Damien gave the admiral such a look with his keen blue eyes that Brady soon realized the error of his words.

  “Heathens, Admiral? I assume you refer to a lack of Christian beliefs and not the fighting capabilities of the Turkish army. For the Ottoman Empire may indeed be a sick old man as Czar Nicholas claims, but I can assure you it still kicking hard.”

  Admiral Brady took the rebuke with good grace. “I ask only for your advice on taking in my own ship, my lord. The others may blunder where they will, but I always turn to an experienced man.”

  “Fairly said.” Damien set down his whiskey and motioned Brady over the map. “I will show you what I feel would be a prudent course, but it’s not without risks. I’ve been called reckless by some, but as you see, I’ve outlived them to defend my actions.” He grinned at the memory, and for a moment Brady thought he looked a decade younger, with a slight dimpling in his left cheek.

  “That’s good enough for me.” Brady returned a wry smile as he prepared to listen to the young earl. “For I’ve been dubbed a crazy man myself, my lord, and I don’t dare disappoint my critics now.”

  AFTER SPENDING SEVERAL HOURS closeted in the admiral’s cabin pouring over maps, Damien was relieved to escape to the open deck again to get his bearings.

  Since nightfall, the shipboard activity had gradually lulled, broken only by the rhythmic slapping of the waves against the great vessel and the occasional off-tune whistling of a sailor swabbing the deck. Looking out across the water, Damien saw the winking lights of the Bulgarian coastline where Varna lay.

  Somewhere in the dark, the remainder of the combined forces of Her Majesty Queen Victoria and Napoleon III also lay in wait for the orders that dawn would bring. Earlier that day, Damien had spotted the smaller Sardinian fleet and six heavily gunned Turkish warships riding low in the water to the east. Under the recent treaty, the allies had agreed to wait for Sultan Abdul’s word before attacking the Russian front in unison.

  It turned out to be weeks before anyone saw further action. Damien measured the span of days with a variety of diversions, such as playing cards with the other men and bettering his seafaring skills. He was unused to sitting still, and frustrated by the lack of exercise. But this was a pleasant contrast to the busy intrigues of the European courts, and not having to fend off any fluttering females made it a decidedly relaxing change.

  Finally, after a series of cloudy, rainy days and freakish storms that hailed the onset of winter, the Constant Star received her orders. She and several other ships were ordered to pace the land armies now headed toward Sevastopol. The bad weather had delayed the invasion and forced the foot soldiers and cavalry to land in less hospitable terrain almost thirty miles from their goal.

  Following Damien’s advice, Admiral Brady took a quicker, more dangerous route and easily outdistanced the other ships still getting underway. Theirs was the first battleship to escort the landward troops, and they arrived in the waters outside Sevastopol just as the combined armies under Lord Raglan and Marshal Saint-Arnaud struck at the gates.

  With the planning of one of their brilliant engineers, Colonel Todleben, the Russians had set up their base in an ancient fortress, capable of withstanding the greatest of attacks. As Admiral Brady shouted commands to bring the warship about, Damien gazed out with frank admiration at the stronghold that awaited them.

  Czar Nicholas was nothing if not industrious. He had combined the naturally defensible position of Sevastopol with the walls of an ancient Greek city near the sea, and so constructed a virtually impregnable barrier from which to strike out at the Turks.

  Obviously the czar had expected the sea to be his friend here, but in his ambition he had failed to take into account the traditional fighting skills of the Turks upon water. Off starboard, Damien watched while a heavily laden Russian ship struggled to come about in time to deflect a twofold attack from a pair of lighter, fleeter Turkish vessels.

  As Damien had expected, the larger ship could not right herself in time to evade the stream of shot that erupted into her bowels. While he watched with his hands clenched on the rail, the Russian brig listed and sank, men screaming and diving from her decks. Those that surfaced were quickly cut down by Turkish marksmen firing a hail of bullets into the churning seawater.

  Such was the insanity of war, a fact Damien had long grown used to but still bitterly resented. He himself had no permanent ties to either France or England, but most of the men had wives and families for which this campaign would bring nothing but grief and hardship.

  “Lord Cross!” One of the sailors shouted for Damien’s attention, hands cupped to his mouth from the crow’s nest. “Brady is looking for you.”

  Nodding his understanding, Damien hastened through the bustle above deck to Admiral Brady’s side, where the Irishman was squinting through a spyglass at the massive sea walls surrounding Sevastopol.

  “Where should we point our cannon? It all looks a lost cause to me.”

  Damien scanned the seemingly impenetrable walls, now swarming with men firing haphazardly out at the Constant Star, though she was still out of range.

  “Come round to the left; I recall there’s old damage from previous wars that has yet to be repaired.”

  Admiral Brady did as advised and soon they could make out faint chinks in the stone where a hasty patch had been made.

  “Bless ye, my lord,” Brady cried, “we’ll take her yet.” The admiral hollered orders at his men again, and black smoke belched from the ship’s belly. Dam
ien soberly watched several distant soldiers on the walls of Sevastopol hurtle to their deaths.

  In his excitement, Brady’s voice took on a stronger, more pronounced accent. “We’ll hit again in the same spot and rub them right sore. See if that bloody czar doesn’t wet his trews to be staring down our cannon now.”

  Damien made no comment, but privately he thought that if Czar Nicholas bothered to be on the front with his men, which was unlikely, he would surely not gamble his life peering out over the walls at one ship among many.

  “They’ll curse us now,” Brady shouted, his ruddy face taking on a sheen of pure devilish glee as the guns roared again. But during the fighting they had drifted closer in, and were near enough to the city now that the Russians were finally able to hurl back fire of their own.

  Just to Damien’s left a soldier took a ball in his chest and fell screaming to the deck. As he ducked and crawled to the man, he heard more shot whistling overhead, and the curses and cries of other men randomly struck.

  “Renault, can you hear me?” Damien shouted over the fracas as he looked down into the agonized face of a fellow French officer who had served with him in Algeria.

  “Must you shout at a dying man? Sweet Jesu, I had enough of that in Constantine.” Though he weakly joked, blood bubbled from Jacques Renault’s lips, and Damien ground his own teeth in mute despair.

  “I’ll find the ship’s surgeon. You must hold on, man!”

  But in the next few minutes as Damien’s eyes desperately sought the bloodied decks for any sign of the physician Lindley, he also knew with gut-wrenching certainty that it was too late for his friend. In his growing delirium, Jacques lapsed into French and muttered longingly of Paris and her pleasures. Damien could only murmur in commiseration with the dying man until at last Renault was silent and still.

  Damien bowed his head to the deck and mourned for a friend who had joined him eagerly in this latest campaign. Like all the others aboard ship, he was to stare Lord Death in the face many more times that day, but it never got any easier, and he only grew more hardened as the Black Sea quickly turned to red.