Those Who Dare - [Raiding Forces 01] Read online

  Major Randal could not think of one single thing he wanted to do less than go shopping in downtown London during the Battle of Britain. This day was going straight downhill. He heard himself say, as if in a trance, “Fun,” and he managed not to sound bitter, even though in his mind’s eye he kept picturing Terry tearing off in the Jag with the racy-looking blonde.

  As it turned out, the shopping was not all that bad.

  To his surprise, once they were alone together in the back of the limousine, he became extremely relaxed, almost to the point of becoming lethargic. Spending time with Lady Jane was having a strangely calming effect on him. Beautiful women had seldom made him feel that way

  The first stop was Pembroke’s Military Tailors. Major Randal had never heard of the place; there was no reason for him to have. Welsh & Jefferies was the official King’s Royal Rifle Corps regimental tailor, and besides, Pembroke’s did not advertise. Admittance was “by appointment”; it said so right on the door. Pembroke’s, he was to learn, produced the finest-quality military clothing made in England—and that meant, without question, the world.

  When Captain Lady Seaborn swept through the doors of Pembroke’s it was as if the queen herself had arrived. The staff flew into a frenzy as they all scurried to form a receiving line to greet her. She knew them all by name, and introduced each of them to a slightly bemused Major Randal. He did not fail to note that the staff seemed genuinely pleased to see her.

  “Mr. Chatterley,” she said grandly, “Major Randal needs the works.”

  “Whoa!” Major Randal exclaimed. “What’s going on?”

  “Would you give us a moment?” Captain Lady Seaborn asked politely. The staff vanished as if she had waved a magic wand.

  She turned to him with a serious look on her face. “John, it is essential for you to make a good first impression on the people we are going to be meeting with. The cut of a man’s uniform is vitally important. We British are funny about trivial things like the stitching on our military buttonholes, the exact shade of our Sam Browne belt, or the number of pleats on the back of a pair of an officer’s leather gloves. While it may seem quite silly to you, that is how things are done here.”

  “Jane, can I afford this?”

  She smiled. “My treat.”

  “You know I can’t let you do that.”

  “John, you should know by now that money is not an issue with me. If your reluctance is about the cost, please try to understand that when you have the kind of wealth I was born into, money does not have quite the same meaning it does to others. I only spend for the best of reasons. In this case, we can reasonably say it is for the national defense.

  “Besides, I’ve been so looking forward to surprising you today. Please be a good sport and don’t let anything get in the way of me indulging myself.”

  “I’ve no idea what to say.”

  “I would like to show you around town and buy you anything I feel like without having to feel guilty. Please allow me this one day. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to do anything like this. We shall have great fun, I promise.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to be a bad sport...” Major Randal gave her an uneasy look. “But what will people think?”

  “They are going to see you have a rather nice Pembroke’s-cut uniform. And being British, they will take you seriously right from the start.”

  “Okay ... only you have to let me pay you back.”

  “Deal.” Lady Jane’s eyes sparkled as she held out her hand to shake on it. “I want you to be creative—surprise me. I think I should like to be surprised by you, John.”

  Captain Lady Seaborn made him feel more than a little crazy. He wondered if she had any idea of the powerful effect she had on him ... She had to!

  Not sure exactly what he was getting himself into, Major Randal shook her hand and said, “Did I ever tell you that you remind me a lot of my old high school English teacher?” He hoped he conveyed the image of a dowdy, matronly, wrinkled old schoolmarm with bad hair.

  “She was able to get you to do things you did not think you wanted to do, no doubt,” Lady Jane responded, without missing a beat.

  “Let’s do it, Mr. Chatterley,” Major Randal announced. The staff reappeared from out of nowhere, and the tailor was all over him with tape, pins, and chalk.

  “Mr. Chatterley, we are going to need you to whip up something quick for the major to wear to Randy’s promotion party tonight,” Lady Jane said. “Certainly you have something already started for some duke or field marshal that you can alter to the major’s specifications?”

  “Of course, Lady Seaborn, I am sure we can manage something,” Mr. Chatterley assured her. He saw no need to mention that he had been working on a complete set of uniforms for Major Randal ever since Captain Lady Seaborn had had one of his spares delivered for just that purpose the day the major had gone off to No. 1 Parachute Training School. Unknown to Major Randal, this fitting had been set up almost a month ago, and even that was some kind of an all-time speed record for Pembroke’s. Allowances were made during time of war, after all.

  “I trust young Sub-lieutenant Seaborn found everything to his satisfaction?” Mr. Chatterley commented as he slipped a beautiful military blouse onto his new client. To Major Randal’s surprise, it fit almost perfectly.

  “We had to do some last-minute emergency sewing.”

  Alarmed, Mr. Chatterley looked up from his measuring to see if she was joking. Lady Jane Seaborn was well known for her sense of humor, though to Mr. Chatterley’s knowledge, it had not been much in evidence since her late husband had been lost at sea.

  “Major Randal nominated Randy to skip a grade, and he went straight to full lieutenant. He and his mother will be in to see you later today to have you sort it all out before his party tonight.”

  “Very good, Lady Seaborn.”

  Apparently, thought Major Randal, “by appointment” does not apply in all cases—such as the Seaborn family.

  “Oh my,” Mr. Chatterley said after a moment, “that should make Master Randy the youngest officer in his grade in the Royal Navy. I should imagine Admiral Ransom and Commander Seaborn are simply beside themselves.”

  “Neither of them have found out about it yet. Should you happen to see either Randy’s grandfather or his father before tonight, mum’s the word.”

  “You can count on my discretion, Lady Seaborn.”

  “There was never any question . . . Here are the insignia and wings that need to go on the major’s uniforms, with written instructions and a diagram indicating where they are to be placed. He will also require a Military Cross ribbon.”

  “Hmmm!” Mr. Chatterley mumbled around the mouthful of pins clenched in his teeth. “You must be that pinprick raiding gentleman we have heard so much about... captured a German general some time back, as I recall.

  “King’s Royal Rifles—now that is a most appropriate regiment for you, sir. Raised in America during the French and Indian War—the officers trained under the legendary Ranger Major Robert Rogers. Sometimes called the ‘Royal Americans,’ later designated the 60th Rifles, then the King’s Royal Rifle Corps. Mounted infantry for a time, I believe . . . Known as a thinking officer’s regiment. The eyes and ears of the army, they say.

  “Did you know, Major, my clients tell me it is more difficult to obtain a commission in the King’s Royal Rifle Corps than in the Guards or Cavalry? And that includes the Life Guards and the Blues.”

  Careful to keep still because he was afraid of getting tagged by a pin, Major Randal moved only his lips. “Well, they took me. Must be scraping the bottom of the barrel these days.”

  “I doubt that, sir. It is tradition for Americans to serve in the King’s Royal Rifle Corps. Let’s see, now, for a foreigner to join the British Army, he must first enlist in a territorial regiment . . . The King’s Royal Rifles have, I believe, six territorial regiments: the London Rifles, the Queen’s Victoria Rifles, the Queen’s Westminster Rifles, and the—”

&
nbsp; “I was with the Rangers.”

  “You would be, sir. By any chance, do you happen to know that other American 60th Rifles officer who brought the last men out of Calais?”

  “That would be me, Mr. Chatterley.”

  “You, sir? I was not aware there were any Rangers with the Green Jacket Brigade at Calais. I was under the impression the QVR were there.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Most unfortunate what happened to the Green Jackets, sir. What a pity. I hope things were not as terrible as they have been made to sound, sir.”

  “Calais had its moments.”

  “I suspect it did, sir. Your exploit was quite commendable: bringing your men home at the end of the day after all was lost. Several of my clients remarked to me about it at the time. Quite a feat of derring-do, they said. About what you could expect of an American, not to know when he was licked . . . Only bright spot in a dark tragedy, I’m afraid, sir. What a pleasure it is to have you as a client of Pembroke’s, Major Randal.”

  “Doesn’t really count when you’re saving yourself, Mr. Chatterley.”

  “You are being modest, sir. To the best of my knowledge, you are my very first Commando. From reading the newspapers, I would have expected you needed to have a violent criminal record, to be a cold-blooded killer, or to be a psychopath to qualify. You clearly do not fit that mold at all, Major. You are not from Chicago, either.”

  “I could go psycho at any time, Mr. Chatterley.”

  “Are you quite sure you are not going to want his autograph?” drawled Captain Lady Seaborn, sounding amused.

  “I might, at that, Lady Seaborn. You have no idea how much bad news I have suffered through from my clients. We have had to replace quite a pile of army uniforms that were left behind somewhere in a big hurry by their owners, and more than a few for navy officers who lost theirs when their ships were sunk underneath them. Enormously refreshing to have someone in for a change who just wants a new one, someone who has spit in the eye of the Hun and gotten away with it—like a breath of fresh air, actually.”

  “Yes, I imagine you have heard your share of unhappy sea stories,” Captain Lady Seaborn said.

  “The war has been simply dreadful thus far, as you of all people well know, Lady Seaborn. The staff at Pembroke’s do not like to think about anything unfortunate happening to the uniforms we create, or to our dear friends who wear them. Our clients are like our own family. That said, I am afraid we have some serious dry rot at the top of our military family tree. We need more officers like the major here: the kind who do not know when they are whipped, and keep fighting on.”

  Mr. Chatterley straightened up and took the remaining pins out of his mouth. “I can have this uniform delivered to the Bradford Hotel by six o’clock this afternoon. Will that be satisfactory, Lady Seaborn?”

  “Quite.” She rewarded him with one of her best smiles. “Which viscount are you going to hijack it from?”

  “Lady Seaborn, you know we would never do anything like that. Besides, if we ever did, Pembroke’s would surely never admit to it.”

  “Mr. Chatterley, do you happen to know Captain Stone?” Major Randal inquired.

  “We have a Lieutenant Terry Stone of the 2nd Life Guards who is a preferred client, sir.”

  “Make sure you call him ‘Zorro’ the next time he comes in.”

  ~ * ~

  17

  PARTY

  THE BRADFORD HOTEL, POPULAR WITH CERTAIN MEMBERS OF THE wealthy and power elite, had been the London Headquarters of the Seaborn family for generations because of its convenience to Whitehall and the Admiralty. At least three government agencies that did not officially exist were within walking distance of the hotel.

  Members of the families of three exiled heads of state, on the run from Nazi-occupied countries, were currently in residence. On any given night when the House of Lords was in session, a quorum of the lords could be found at the main bar off to one side of the lobby.

  When the limousine pulled up to the hotel, a swarm of porters stormed the car. The front along the driveway was heavily sandbagged to protect the hotel from bomb blasts. Sentries in steel helmets, their bayonets fixed, manned posts at both ends of the drive. The combination of servants, sentries, and sandbag positions gave the handsome old building a surreal, battle-ready charm.

  Inside, the opulent lobby glittered like a polished diamond. The effect was like stepping back in time to another century.

  Without even the pretense of checking in, they were immediately whisked to a private elevator and zoomed up to the top floor. Captain Lady Jane Seaborn and her entourage peeled off and disappeared into a corner door.

  One of the assistant managers escorted Major John Randal to his quarters, a three-room suite. Just inside the entry, standing at rigid attention, was a distinguished older gentleman in a tuxedo.

  “Major Randal, allow me introduce you to Chauncy, your butler. He has served the Seaborn family for many years, as had his father before him.”

  “Nice to meet you, Chauncy.”

  “Sir!”

  “You will find that your bags have already been unpacked in the bedroom,” continued the assistant manager. “The room to the left is a fully equipped office. If you need it, the hotel has a secretary-stenographer on call twenty-four hours a day. We can also supply a courier service or cater to any special requirements along those lines that may arise during your stay with us.

  “Is there anything else you can think of that you might need, Major?”

  “How about a key to the room and a low-interest loan to pay for it?”

  “Major, there is no key to the door. Chauncy or one of his assistants will be here to open it for you at all times. As for paying, you are a guest of Lady Seaborn.

  “I see.”

  “Lady Seaborn instructed me to inform you that in the future, when you stay in London, sir, these rooms are to be your permanent residence.”

  “My quarters?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Those are Lady Seaborn’s instructions, Major.”

  The phone in the living room rang. Chauncy, the quintessential manservant, answered it on the first ring, “Major Randal’s quarters.”

  The butler turned and held his hand over the receiver. “Lady Seaborn for you, sir.”

  Major Randal took the phone. “Hello?”

  “John, are you finding your suite to your liking?”

  “It’s just swell. I’m getting ready to send Chauncy out to round up a dozen Nubian dancing girls. Do you need him to pick up anything for you while he’s out?”

  The butler had retreated to the far reaches of the room to allow the major privacy, but he developed a stricken look on his face when he heard what his new boss said.

  “Just kidding, Chauncy,” Major Randal called to him without bothering to put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Yes, Jane, I’d say things were pretty much to my liking.”

  Lady Jane gave a low chuckle. “You’re going to embarrass Chauncy. And be careful what you ask for; you might get it. Your wish is his command, and he is extraordinarily capable.”

  “I promise to be careful.”

  Lady Jane laughed again. “Twelve is a fairly ambitious number of Nubians. Remember, you promised to escort me to Randy’s promotion party tonight.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I am going to have a long, hot bubble bath and then dinner in my room with one of my girlfriends.”

  “You’re taking a bubble bath with your girlfriend?”

  “No, John—simply dinner.” Lady Jane giggled. “Your things should start arriving within the hour. Take your time; the party does not start until eight o’clock ... twenty-hundred hours for you Green Jackets, I believe.”

  “Can do. I love it when you talk military talk.”

  “Thanks again for today, John. You’re a terrific sport. I really enjoyed myself for the first time in quite a long time.”

  As soon as
he hung up the phone, he asked, “Chauncy, what do we have to drink around here?”

  Major Randal pulled out a pack of Player’s Navy Cuts and lit one with his old, battered Zippo. He sat down on the lush, overstuffed couch and propped his highly polished boots up on the coffee table. Without thinking about it, he rubbed the faded engraving on the backside of the Zippo lighter with his thumb. “Our Strength Is in Loyalty”: It was the regimental motto of the 26th Cavalry. The days in the jungle seemed a long time ago.

  “Get bombed often?” he asked Chauncy.