Royal Renegade

by Alicia Rasley

  Buntin finally threw politeness out the window and interrupted. "Perhaps he will be glad enough to keep the school going in your absence. He certainly could do it if he chose. No one interferes with his decisions on the household matters in this wing."

  "I hardly think he would even enter this room, much less run the school," Tatiana said resentfully. She knew that if she left, the school, into which she had poured all her restless energy for two years, would be closed and the children abandoned again.

  "Of course," she said thoughtfully, tapping her finger on her chin, "I could insist that Nevski keep the school open."

  Buntin looked anxious, for a militant light had appeared in the girl's green eyes. "You mustn't make them angry."

  "Why not? They are making me angry, disarranging my life so dictatorially. But I have the advantage now for the first time. They should expect me to negotiate to make my prospects more comfortable." A triumphant smile curved Tatiana's mouth. "In exchange for my consent, I will exact some small payment. Oh, do not worry, Buntin. I shall only ask for sensible concessions. Like the crown jewels of Saraya Kalin. They're mine by right anyway. And money of my own, so I shan't be dependent on a prince's largesse any longer. And a new wardrobe. I can hardly meet the British royal family dressed like a ragamuffin, can I? And a schoolmistress and funds for the school. Oh, I'm sure I can get whatever I ask for. I f the alliance truly rests on me, the tsar should be happy to meet such meager conditions, don't you think?"

  Ignoring the moan that was her only reply, Tatiana took Buntin's hand and squeezed it. "And you must come with me. I'd be lost by myself at the British court."

  Buntin's faded eyes brightened just a little. "You? No, you will never be at a loss. But of course I will accompany you. I've grown to hate these eternal winters, and I long so for my homeland."

  Tatiana was chagrined, for with a princess's presumption, she had never considered that her companion might want to be somewhere other than right by her side. Eager to discard the self-centeredness of a decade, she demanded, "You've only stayed here because of me, haven't you? You would have returned to England years ago, if you hadn't felt responsible for me."

  Buntin smiled with gentle amusement. "I was waiting for you to grow up, and it has taken an unconscionably long time. But finally, you are twenty, ready to be married, and to a royal duke, no less, just as you deserve!"

  Tatiana's sulky mouth turned down as she considered this. Then, with typical disdain, she dismissed all her fears. "I don't have to think of that yet." As Buntin opened her mouth, Tatiana shook her head, setting her too-long curls dancing. "Oh, don't listen to my nonsense! Tell me again about how shocking married ladies are in England, how they walk about town with only one attendant, how they choose their own friends."

  Relieved by Tatiana's proper interest in marriage, Buntin replied, "Oh, they're shameless, they are. Here a man would send his wife to a convent if she behaved so wantonly, taking admirers left and right and talking about issues of the day. You'd love it, riding in the park virtually unchaperoned, and speaking your mind—of course, you do that here unsparingly."

  "But there I shouldn't be punished for it." Tatiana sat back thoughtfully, tucking her skirt under her heels. "Oh, I think I might like this homeland of yours, Buntin. England . . . the very name sounds like freedom to me."

  She jumped to her feet and pulled at Buntin's hand. "Come help me. I need to put on my best gown. I'll insist on speaking to the tsar himself—to give him my conditions for consent."

  Chapter Two

  August 1811 London

  Before he opened his eyes, the Viscount Devlyn oriented himself in the universe. He was in his Cavendish Square townhouse, not Portugal; in his own bedroom, not a dusty tent along the River Caia. He was playing civilian again, at least for a few months, and the war's tedium and terror were far away.

  It was the second of August in 1811, and he was alone. He had been home almost a week now, and thought he'd never get used to it again.

  Precisely three weeks before, he had been on the Peninsula, with gunfire still echoing in the hills above the Caia. It was rising noon when Devlyn galloped up to the farmhouse commandeered as General Wellington's headquarters. He dismounted slowly, bone-tired from three days riding to and from the various cavalry regiments ranged above the river. He could see Wellington through the dusty window—everything was dusty that Portuguese summer—counting off his staff aides as they straggled in across the flagstone courtyard, safe again from their various skirmishes. The general's ramrod stance was the only sign of his anxiety, but then, Devlyn mused, the general was ever one for perfect military bearing.

  That morning Wellington could count off the whole of his little family, for "family" was how Wellington liked to style his staff, and the bickering and rivalry and jealousies among them made that appropriate enough. In fact, Berendts and Destain were whispering insults to each other even as they followed Devlyn into the fussy parlor where the lady of the house used to receive the parish priest.

  Only when the staff was all assembled and silent did Wellington turn from the window. With the privilege of rank, the three generals gave their reports first and were dismissed back to their divisions with a wave of Wellington's hand. When only the junior staff remained, Major Ellingham received the nod and, eyes on his muddy boots, reported the infantry's excessive casualties, caused more by dysentery than French aggression. Jordy Tregier contrived to be elegant even with a scratched face and a torn uniform—the result of an encounter either with a bramble bush or a Portuguese belle. But he too looked abashed as he described a misinterpreted order that had a squadron of grenadiers blowing up the wrong aqueduct.

  Wellington rubbed the bridge of his hooked nose and turned with a baleful look to Devlyn. "Oh, no, it's back to digging trenches for you," whispered the irrepressible Destain. But Devlyn ignored him, and Wellington only flicked an amused glance at them both.

  "He's right, Major. If you've only unhappy news for me, I'd suggest you put it in writing and post it to me, for I'm in the mood for killing the messenger."

  But Devlyn's news was good, or good enough, at any rate—the French cavaliers were exhausted, their horses dying on their feet, and the retreating units hadn't the strength to hold off a British march toward the Spanish fort of Cuidad Rodrigo. Wellington nodded regally, received the reports of his other staff officers, and sat for a moment at his spindly maple desk before taking up his quill to write. "We have outstared them again. Dare I call it a victory?"

  The other young aides—for Wellington himself was young for a general, and liked to surround himself with youth—all called out affirmation. Only Devlyn remained silent, propped against the stone mantel, his eyes half-closed. "Are you still with us, Major? You seem less than enthusiastic about our latest victory," Wellington observed in his cool voice.

  But Devlyn, opening his eyes for just the moment, replied with matching calm, "If you are looking for enthusiasm, General, you must find yourself another major. It is a victory if you say it is a victory—and if Bonaparte agrees."

  "I can always reply upon you, Devlyn, to keep the war in perspective for me," Wellington said sardonically. He regarded his aide steadily, and Devlyn, with a sigh, pushed away from the mantel until he was nearly at attention. No regulation, however, required him to smile at the general's little jokes, barbed with the faint antagonism that always existed between Wellington and his unenthusiastic major.

  Now that he had that major back in line, Wellington returned to his letter. "Well, I haven't Bonaparte here to advise me, so I will take it upon myself to declare a victory. We have had so few this summer." The general's quill scratched at the dispatch, then, with a flourish, he signed his name. "Now who would like to take this home for me?"

  Routine dispatches from the front were carried by the captains of the supply ships that left Portugal nearly every other day. But this was an especially important message, of the French retreat after four tedious weeks, of the plans for the march nort
h, of the immediate need for reinforcements and resupply. Along with the responsibility for briefing the War Office would come several weeks of rest and respite for the fortunate messenger. And none of them had taken leave for a year or more. So at Wellington's jaunty question, four young officers looked at each other, all of them about to cry out like children, "Me, me!" But the fifth officer, Devlyn, only closed his eyes again, wishing Wellington would dismiss him so he could go to his tent and take off his boots for the first time in three days. He tried to move his toes, but they were mortared into place.

  "Devlyn."

  He dragged his eyes open. "My lord?"

  Wellington's eyes were icy, but they usually were, even when his majors managed to stay awake in his presence. His voice, though, was deceptively sweet. "Would you like to go home and brief our superiors at Whitehall? You do seem to require a rest."

  Devlyn glimpsed the chagrin of Major Ellingham, who had a year-old son in Wiltshire he'd never met. "Nothing that a night's sleep won't cure. Send one of the others." This sounded vaguely insubordinate, and Devlyn was usually punctiliously polite with his commanding officer. So he added, trying for once to infuse a little enthusiasm into his words, "I wouldn't want to miss the next battle."

  Nothing hardened Wellington so much as opposition, especially from Devlyn. Brusquely he tossed the packet to his major. "There will be other battles for you. The most important skirmish now is with our own leaders. I must have fresh troops and fresh horses. By spring we'll want to be well into Spain, but we shan't be if they don't loosen the purse strings." He glanced almost apologetically at the major. "You'd only get angry, Ellingham, and set their backs up. Devlyn never loses his temper. He's so patient he'd debate Socrates to a standstill. And Lord Liverpool is no Socrates." To Devlyn he added ironically, "You may as well take leave for the autumn while you're there. I promise you, I won't drive the French out until you return with the new year."

  "As you wish." Devlyn cared naught either way. Wellington was right: If they'd learned nothing else in two years here on the Peninsula, the British had discovered that there would always be another battle. So the major packed his kit in a minute or two, gathered up the maps and messages, promised to let a dozen families know their loved ones had survived another engagement, and headed for the coast. It was the next morning, on board ship, that he finally, carefully, peeled off his boots.

  Once in London, the viscount had spent several days in the great government complex of Whitehall, briefing Horse Guards, the War Office, the Cabinet, and even the Prince Regent on the progress of Wellington's waiting game. Patiently he explained why the army would strike quickly and then fall back to fortify itself for the autumn, waiting for starvation and cold to drive the French north. Without heat he argued Wellington's conviction that the Spanish guerrillas needed immediate and consistent support for their insurgency, and that the British needed more cavalry, more guns, more supplies, more funds. If occasionally he considered throttling some naysayer who had never seen the inside of an army bivouac, he quelled his anger and kept his voice low and his arguments rational.

  Now that he was finally released from the halls of government and officially on leave, Devlyn looked ahead to the long, lazy English August and realized he had utterly nothing to do.

  He'd made the rounds of the clubs all week, never having to pay for a drink, for everywhere his acquaintances hailed him as a conquering hero. But they seemed even more frivolous than usual, with their talk of high stakes and cockfights and light-skirts. So here he was, home less than a week, and already bored.

  That morning he woke alone. No need to search for a pretty name to match a pretty body next to him. No need to converse with some woman whose conversation was truly the least of her charms. He preferred it this way, to be alone in the early morning, to collect himself before he started the day.

  Of long habit, he did not tarry in bed. He left his elaborate 16th Light Dragoons uniform in the wardrobe and dressed in riding clothes and top boots without the aid of a valet. After the privations of war, he could not accustom himself to the luxury of being shaved and dressed by a servant. He had only to smooth the counterpane on the bed, for instinct kept him still even in sleep. He left behind him a soldier's room, so sparsely furnished and precisely arranged the maid would have nothing to do but dust.

  He was free of responsibilities until noon, when he was lunching with the Marquess of Wellesley, the foreign secretary. Unused to such leisure, the viscount stood uncertainly in the half-furnished breakfast room. He had met with his man of business yesterday, and the manager of his south coast estate the day before, and all was in order. They were both former soldiers, as efficient as he, and left him little to do during his infrequent sojourns in England.

  What did soldiers usually do on leave? Visit their estates, he supposed, and he'd get to that, although his presence clearly wasn't needed. Visit their families, but he hadn't any, so that was out. Visit their wives and get them with child again, but he hadn't any of those either.

  Too restless this morning for breakfast, he went for a hard ride on a young stallion out to the heath north of Hampstead. He finally pulled up on a bluff overlooking the green expanse, exhilarated with the fine horse beneath him. Ciardi had spirit, too much really, but perhaps after some training the horse could be shipped to Portugal. But then Ciardi would only get shot out from under him in the next campaign. It was too dire a fate for such an animal, so the major determined to leave him home to ride again whenever they finally drove the French off the Peninsula.

  Even here on the edge of the urban uproar, Hampstead Heath seemed vast and empty after the crowded quarters of the army camp on the riverbank in Portugal. A hundred times in the past three years Devlyn had gazed out over the dusty Iberian landscape, longing for the misty green beauty of his native land. Yet here he was home now, and he felt no peace, only a silence that echoed with emptiness. He had been fighting forever, it seemed, in Denmark and Spain and Portugal, and could hardly remember what he was fighting for. Was this his home? He'd been gone so long he barely recognized it. It was lovely, it was peaceful, and it was not his.

  But eventually the solitude soothed him and he lingered, listening to the breeze whisper in the very proper, very English trees. Even in an alien land, it was good to be home.

  But he lingered too long, and was a few minutes late joining Wellesley at White's Club. The exquisitely dressed foreign secretary greeted Devlyn with a raised eyebrow, taking in his casual apparel and wind-tousled dark hair. "Not like you to be late, Devlyn. A new light-skirt keeping you?"

  "A new stallion." Devlyn settled himself in a leather chair and poured a glass of port from Wellesley's bottle. He glanced around the private dining room, instinctively noting the position of the windows and exits. The room was of handsome proportions, with low couches lining two walls and red velvet drapes concealing the high windows. The linen tablecloth gleamed a costly white and the tableware was ostenstatiously and expensively plain. It was a pleasant room, private and quiet, the better to make a man feel at home. But Devlyn didn't feel at home; in fact he hardly recognized this place, though he had been a member since he was twenty.

  Wellesley he recognized, if only because he was General Wellington's elder brother. The resemblance was unsettling. Wellesley was more elegant, of course, with his town pallor and his long graceful hands ever gesturing in the way of politicians everywhere. But the hook nose beloved by caricaturists was the same, and the heavy eyebrows and appraisingly cool eyes. And the foreign secretary was reputed to be just as talented, just as clever, just as cool as the general. Unfortunately, he was careless in public and private life as Wellington would never be, and was destined, Devlyn thought, to fail spectacularly someday.

  Devlyn assessed the dissolute lines around the foreign secretary's mouth and remembered when Wellesley had come to survey the troops years earlier, before their retreat into Portugal. He had brought his mistress, a vulgar woman the general scorned as “the Moll," and fl
aunted her in front of the haughty Spanish nobility and the randy British soldiers. Even mad old King George had heard about that. Wellington had too much pride to apologize for his elder brother, of course. But for the first time in his life, Devlyn had almost been glad that he had no surviving siblings to shame him like that.

  Devlyn repressed a mad impulse to remind Wellesley of that first meeting, to report that Moll had become legend among the cavalry, her voluptuous charms toasted in song and story around many a campfire. Perhaps Wellesley could now be forgiven his indiscretion, for he had been a good friend to the army these last three years, serving his brother's interests with characteristic guile and skill. Still Devlyn could not feign respect for a man so inconsiderate of his own and his brother's dignity. “You said you had an assignment for me."

  "Don't get above yourself, young man," Wellesley said with amused rancor, choosing to misinterpret the major's insolent tone. “And my brother tells me you are his most patient officer. Let's lunch first, then I will relieve your curiosity."

  Devlyn's eyes narrowed, but that was the only sign he allowed of his distrust. He disliked any man having the advantage of him even for a moment, for he did not like to act without a full understanding of his options. So he had to force himself to relax during lunch. Wellesley urged him to eat heartily. "You can't have been dining in splendor in that army encampment." But Devlyn thought of his dragoons chewing on saltback and radishes in their bivouacs, and allowed himself only one slice of rare roast beef. And that tasted like sawdust.

  Finally, the porter removed their plates and Wellesley poured himself another glass of port. "More for you?" At Devlyn's refusal, the foreign secretary's hand sketched a mocking salute. "Ah, yes, the cool Viscount Devlyn always keeps his head. Have you never been drunk? Out of control? I thought not." With a touch of spite, Wellesley drank off his glass and poured another. "Uncomfortable for us mere mortals, but I suppose that is why you have proved so valuable to my brother. Just seeing you there, so stalwart and so calm, makes me think of dear Arthur. Do you and he rub along well together, as you are so alike?"