A journalist once asked then president John F. Kennedy, who had captained a PT boat during World War II, just how he had come to be a war hero. His answer was given with a wink and a grin: “It was involuntary. They sank my boat.”
That quote has always stayed with me: It was involuntary.
Nobody gets up in the morning and says, “Today I shall become a hero.” Heroism, rather, is thrust upon them.
That’s pretty much what happened to Cooper McGinley Townsend at the battle of Quatre Bras. Coop had gotten up that morning wanting only to be able to return to his tent in one piece that night. But between the hours of dawn and dusk, without warning, and although he was far from the sea, the fates figuratively sank his boat.
Honors commenced to rain down on our hero, including the presentation of a rather lovely estate, a fat purse and the title of baron to go along with it. Coop, a modest man by nature, was grateful, said thank you very much, and figured that was the end of that.
Except it wasn’t. Some “close friend and confidant of the hero” published Volume One of a chapbook so stuffed with nonsense and purported feats of Coop’s derring-do (most especially with the ladies), that only a fool would give countenance to a word of it. Except that London did believe it, swallowed the nonsense whole and turned Coop’s life into a chapbook of its own.
Fame was one thing. Notoriety was a complete other kettle of fish. Coop found himself besieged by giggling young misses and their ambitious parents, all while the words Volume One warned of further ridiculousness to come.
What to do, what to do?
Let’s find out, shall we?
Happy reading,
Kasey Michaels
To Sally Hawkes, a true friend.
COOPER TOWNSEND STOOD facing the tall dressing table, looking at his expression in the attached mirror, watching as he saw his usually clear green eyes going dark. He had to control himself, get past his anger, or else he wouldn’t be able to think clearly.
He’d also run out of neck clothes, as this was the third he’d managed to mangle since his friend Darby showed up in his dressing room waving a copy of Volume Two of what was becoming known as The Chronicles of a Hero.
As if the first one hadn’t been enough: The Daring and Amorous Exploits of His Lordship Cooper McGinley Townsend, Compleat with Firsthand Accounts of His Extraordinary Missions Against the Frogs in England’s Glorious Victory Over the Devil Bonaparte: Volume One.
Indeed, Volume One had been sufficient to send him off within a fortnight to the supposed safety of his newly acquired estate, where he’d hoped sanity might rule the day (even considering that his mother was in residence).
He’d returned to London only at the behest of his friend Gabriel Sinclair, and that was for only a week, at which point the delivery of a copy of the soon-to-be published Volume Two had sent him to his estate once more. But this time it was only to pack up the majority of his new wardrobe, fail to talk his mother out of returning with him and head back to the Little Season, where he would find himself a wife. He didn’t want a wife—who did? Except Gabriel, and contrary to all that was rational, his friend seemed deliriously happy contemplating the loss of his freedom.
A hasty betrothal might not solve all his problems, but it would be a start. The matchmaking mamas were getting much too clever, and at least this way his wife would be of his own choosing, and not the result of waking up one morning with a giggling debutante tucked up beside him in his bed, her mother ready to burst in—with witnesses—to cry, “You cad! We post the banns yet today!”
Which would seem silly and self-serving to consider...except for the fact that one ambitious damsel had already made it all the way into the bedchamber in his hotel suite before Ames could scoop her up and deposit her back in the lobby, where her infuriated mama grabbed her by the ear and harangued her incompetence, presumably all the way back to her coach.
Yes, he would take himself off the market. Only then would he be able to concentrate on the rest of it.
“Did you read this? I only saw it this morning, so maybe you haven’t yet had the pleasure,” Darby Travers, also Viscount Nailbourne when he chose to impress, asked, tearing himself away from the printed page in order to wave the chapbook at him.
“Yes, I’ve read it. The perpetrator—I won’t call him author—was kind enough to send me an early copy when I was in town last week. For God’s sake, Darby, put it down.”
“Not quite yet. It’s obvious you’re going to wrest the fair maiden from a fate worse than death, hero that you are. Just let me read the ending.”
“All right, since it’s unfortunately important. Go on. Damn, Darby—I didn’t say for you to read it aloud.”
But the viscount continued in his pleasant baritone, now heavily laden with amused emphasis.
“The most Beauteous and Grateful young lady, her name always to be a mystery, her Cornflower Blue Eyes awash in Diamond-Bright tears, turned to our Modest and Abashed Hero and, quite to his Astonished Surprise, flung her soft round body straight at his chest, so that he was Without Recourse save to Hold Her Close as He could feel the Frantic Beating of her Virgin Heart, the rapid rise and fall of her Perfect Bosoms, as she extolled his Virtues, his immense Bravery and indeed, Overcome by her Emotions, she cried out in Near Ecstasy as she grasped his strong shoulders, claiming the world could safely rest on their Broad Expanse, just as her fate had so lately done, and Never Fear for her honor, that which she then so Earnestly Offered Him.”
“It’s even worse than I remember,” Cooper grumbled. “And did the man never hear about the glories of a period? You almost ran out of breath there, Darby, unless you were being ‘overcome by your emotions.’”
“A little of both, I believe. You lucky dog, you.” Darby struggled to turn the last page of the cheaply made chapbook, and frowned.
“Coming soon, Volume Three: The Further Adventures and Exploits of Baron Cooper McGinley Townsend, Hero, Wherein All Is Revealed as to His Character and Private Nature, Whether Be He Devil or Saint.”
He looked up at his friend. “That’s it? There’s nothing more? My God, Coop, and with all the ripping retorts that have come rushing into my head reluctantly pushed to one side, this isn’t good. Anyone with a drop of imagination would think you took advantage of her virtue, and Lord knows what the ton lacks in intelligence it more than makes up for in lurid imagination.”
“I’m aware of that, yes, thank you.” Coop stripped off the abused neck cloth and tossed it to Sergeant Major Ames, who had been his aide-de-camp during the final defeat of Bonaparte at Waterloo, and who could now lay claim to being the most burly, most foulmouthed and most sartorially bankrupt valet in all of England.
“Man needs his digits hacked off, that’s what he needs,” Ames said, tossing a new neck cloth Coop’s way. “And then stuffed up his arse.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, Ames,” Darby drawled as he stepped forward and snatched the fresh linen out of midair. “He’s usually bearably adequate, but clearly he’s overset at the moment. Here, Coop, let me do it for you, or else we’ll be spending the remainder of our lives here in your dressing room.”
Two tall, handsome but