***
At home he found an invitation to a dinner at White's Club, a reunion of Wellington's junior staff, finally allowed the leaves overdue now for a year or so. They'd be back in Portugal soon enough, under the general's eagle eye, so this would be their last chance to slander him and their other superiors without cost.
Devlyn was the last to arrive in White's spacious corner parlor, where the walls were hung with hunting prints and the chairs were covered with leather worn smooth by generations of lounging bodies. He paused in the doorway, a little disoriented to find so much of his Portugal world transported here to this most civilized of London venues. Six of his fellow staff-officers sprawled about the room, drinking as they waited for supper to be brought in. Their host Ellingham, who looked to have indulged rather freely in his wife's cooking, was tugging at his waistband to make room for his ale. Destain lounged on the couch, his booted feet propped on the table, a bottle of brandy at his elbow. Young Jamie Winterby was already castaway; he had a man's enthusiasm for liquor but only a boy's tolerance. Ned Franklin wandered about the edges of the room, pale and distracted, for he had almost died from dysentery before being sent home in October. And Berendts and Tregier, ordinarily fierce rivals for Wellington's notice, were armin-arm by the fire, humming their regimental marching song.
Berendts broke off in mid-note. "It's Admiral Devlyn! Where's your new uniform? We heard you went over to the enemy—the Royal Navy, that is."
Devlyn accepted an overflowing glass of port from Ellingham and drank off a bit of it before it spilled on his glove. "Never the navy. I only sailed with smugglers—a better class of men."
"And the pay is better, too," Tregier put in. "They draw their salary in cognac, don't they?"
Captain Destain, the son, grandson, and great-grandson of admirals, raised his head from the cushion. "You owe me some of that cognac, Devlyn, for all I've suffered for your sins this past fortnight. My father decided it was my fault the army routed the navy in your secret little campaign."
"Your fault?"
"Well, you're in my regiment, ain't you? That's enough of a reason for my father. He ranted for two hours about the perfidy of the cavalry, and Wellesley's choice of a soldier being favoritism of his brother's service over the rightful rulers of the waves. Using a privateering vessel—didn't you realize how deep that would cut the admiral?"
Destain had himself been the source of dispute between the two royal armed services since he woke up after a wild night to find himself a dragoon. Admiral Destain naturally regarded this bit of adolescent rebellion as rank mutiny, and apparently blamed the entire Horse Guards hierarchy for fomenting it. Devlyn had never imagined that he would add more fuel to this family conflagration.
"Don't blame me. Wellesley specified the navy wasn't to be involved, so I had to contrive with what materials were at hand. As to why I was chosen, I don't know. I think I had the misfortune of coming into a bit of fraternal cross fire. Wellesley meant to send some message to the general, no doubt." shoved an armchair in Devlyn's direction. "Relax, lad. You've been fretting yourself, I can tell. You've got shadows under your eyes like a penitent." He waited until Devlyn had dropped into the chair before adding, "He's just like most firstborns, Wellesley is, jealous as a cat of his little brother. Though how he can sit in Whitehall consorting with his Molls and Delilahs and envy Wellington's lot, I can't countenance. He did succeed in kindling the general something wonderful, however. You should have heard the bellows! He assumed you'd spend your leave arguing his case to the cabinet and the Horse Guards and Parliment. Instead he hears you're off to Turkey with a bunch of smugglers on some havey-cavey assignment from the foreign office. He wasn't, shall we say, pleased."
"He'll be unhappier still to hear what a habitue of Carlton House you've become." Destain reached out his hand for the brandy bottle, then, failing to reach it, gestured to the roaming porter to do the refilling. "A right crony of Prinny's, we hear. Ready to transfer to his regiment. Ready to parade in Hyde Park while all your old friends get their heads shot off in Spain."
Devlyn heard the harsh note in the captain's usually lazy voice, the implied accusation of disloyalty, and understood now why the other officers were watching him so carefully. That's what he got for mixing with the royals. He kept his tone light to dispel their suspicions. "Hardly. I attended one dinner party. And Prinny'll never get any regimental transfers, if he plans to give the 10th Hussars yellow boots, not that they deserve any better, that worthless crew."
Slandering the despised London-based hussars was enough to effect Devlyn's reinstatement in the warrior tribe, and Destain accepted him back in his usual insulting fashion. "A fine reason to turn down a regiment, Devlyn, for the color of the boots."
"And yours was a better reason, Destain?" Tregier shot back. "Because Admiral Papa hates the cavalry most of all?" Tregier, everyone knew, had joined the Coldstream Guards solely because the scarlet and gold uniform set off his blond curls so well. "Come, now, we'd none of us have bought commissions if some girl hadn't whispered how splendid we'd look in red or blue or rifler's green."
Tregier knew his comrades well. On the Peninsula they wore the plain blue-gray uniform of staff aides, but here at home, where the ladies were, they'd all resumed the dress uniforms of their regiments. So their gathering was as colorful as a bevy of Cyprians: Ellingham's red and royal blue grenadier's jacket straining against his bulk, young Jamie's red and black lancer's tunic stained with the brandy he had spilled, and Tregier's spectacular Guards' scarlet still an impeccable frame for his curls. Destain and Devlyn were relatively discreet in the dark blue regalia of the Queen's Own Cavalry. Still, Devlyn at least would admit that years ago, the elegant, expensive 16th Light Dragoons had been his choice primarily because, as a royal regiment, it flaunted scarlet facings against the blue cavalry jacket.
Such considerations would seem trivial when they returned to Portugal, and their handsome uniforms ended up torn and faded and bloodstained. And that return was on all their minds. "Be warned, Devlyn," Berendts commented acidly. "Wellington did not approve of your holiday activities. In fact, he was worried that you'd join Liverpool's staff. He takes a paternal interest in advancing our careers, you know, but not to the extent of letting us advance out of his sight."
Franklin, mussing up his thinning fair hair with an almost skeletal hand, broke in conciliatorily, "No, Devlyn, I think he just missed you. In fact, he was thinking of ordering you back before the new year, but the silver-tongued Destain there talked him out of it."
"Well, it was a near thing," Destain observed with a yawn. "As soon as you left, of course, you became the greatest staff officer he had ever had. Oh, the family just wasn't the same without your cool head and sage advice. How could he get along without you?"
"Without me? And I had the distinct impression he was glad to see my heels as I left. He practically cast me out, you'll recall."
Tregier grinned faintly. "Aye, you were the prodigal son this last year, weren't you? I'll never forget you hacking away at that underbrush, building bivouacs like the veriest private. It was only in your absence that the old man discovered how indispensable you were. No one could make a map like Devlyn, no one could discipline a squadron like Devlyn. Gad, what malarkey! We took to throwing darts at the door to your quarters, not having a picture of you handy. Destain took the honors, got you right in the keyhole. From over his shoulder." Destain, regimental darts champion for three years running, shrugged modestly. Tregier's cynical mouth twisted as he added, "Wellington was so heartsick for you, the Beau was, that he recommended you for promotion—and over my head! For I'm senior to you by a year at least, ain't I? That's why I asked for leave. I thought he'd probably make me a brigadier if I stayed away long enough."
Devlyn laughed, leaning forward to accept another glass from the prick-eared porter. "It's gratifying, I must say, to be so appreciated, even if I must be gone in order to inspire it. But I fear I'll no sooner set foot back in the camp then the g
eneral will be glaring at me and telling me to show—"
"A little enthusiasm," the others chorused, for that indeed was Wellington's favorite adjurement to the major.
More relaxed now with the wine and good feelings, Devlyn turned to important matters. "So tell me about Picton's great escape from El Badon. Damn, I wish I had been there to see it. Forty charges turned back, the dispatches said."
"Oh, it was a wonder," Destain agreed. "We thought his Rangers were lost, for they were entirely isolated on an open plain. But Picton called them all together and they swept right through the masses of French. I've never seen such courage, or such execution. Like—like a dancing troupe, they were, all in precise rhythm."
"And that same day, have you heard, Wellington was almost taken prisoner?" Berendts put in. "He nearly rode into an encampment of French chasseurs, thinking they were your dragoons. Of course, now that the 16th wear those foolish blue battle caps, just like the ones the French adopted, who can tell you from the enemy? You might take that up with your bosom bow, Prinny, that as long as he's redesigning cavalry uniforms, he should start from the top. A yellow cap to match the yellow boots, what do you think?"
Devlyn ignored that suggestion, only marveling, "Imagine what Marshall Marmont would have done to find Wellington dropping into his lap!"
"Oh, the old man would have talked himself out of it," Ellingham said bracingly. "He would have made it out that the regiment had surrendered to him. A master of turning defeat into victory, is our respected leader."
As they sat down to supper at the great mahogany table, their merriment grew. Cheerfully slandering the senior staff, the War Office denizens, and the royal family, the young officers laughed and joked as if they were old friends. Of course, we are, Devlyn thought, we have served together for years now. But they were never so comfortable with each other under Wellington's cool gaze. Far from the war in this comfortable retreat, they could give rein to the youthful high spirits they usually restrained. For, Devlyn thought with some surprise, they were all young, Ellingham at two-and-thirty the most senior. It was only years of battles and sieges and retreats that made them feel like a band of Methuselahs.
Ellingham, perusing the group as the evening faded, fastened on the same thought. "How different we all are here. Look at Jamie, our pattern card of propriety, who's always consulting the regulations for how to go about life." In fact, they could not look at Jamie, for an hour before he had slipped under the table and no one had thought to pull him out. "And I, the consummate family man, leaving my wife and children at home to consort with the likes of you. And Devlyn, why, I've never seen you so relaxed. I wish Wellington might see you, for you are even approaching enthusiasm! That cruise did you some good, I think, after all. Perhaps it was all that contact with the criminal element that made you loosen up. Or the cognac you smuggled out of France, perhaps?"
"Yes, do tell us about your cruise, Michael," Tregier prompted, refilling the major's glass with an unsteady hand. "I hear you were bringing the princess in for a royal wedding."
The brandy he had drunk had dulled his senses a bit, but Devlyn came alert at Tregier's casual supposition. "Where did you hear that?"
"Only stands to reason. The tsar ain't going to stay loyal to Bonaparte long, not with the emperor eying Russia so covetously. And there has to be some reason Her Highness was snuck out of there in such a secretive way. Come, Michael, you're not the only strategist on the staff, you know. The rest of us can read a map, too."
Berendts regarded Tregier sardonically. "Don't get so toplofty, Jordy. You might have worked it out, but so has half of London. Just look at the betting book here at White's. Alvanley is taking bets on who's going to win the princess's hand. Neddy, lad, send the porter for the book. Devlyn's so out of touch he hasn't even put down his wager."
Appalled, amused, outraged, Devlyn scanned the betting book that was soon laid before him on the table. There the members of White's Club, having nothing fulfilling to do with their time and money, had recorded their preferences for the royal princess's future husband.
Berendts, peering over the major's shoulder, punched a finger at his own bet. "I've got a fiver down on Clarence. He's next in line, after Princess Charlotte and the Duke of York, and he's an easygoing sort."
"But he's already married," Ellingham protested, as the only married man in the group the natural protector of the institution.
"Morganatically. Doesn't count, for it wasn't official. Princes in the succession can't marry without Parliament's consent. These royals do things differently than we commoners," Berendts said sagely, brushing Devlyn's hand aside and turning the page. "Now some are touting Cumberland, but he's an unlikely bridegroom, don't you think?"
"Yes," Devlyn replied with conviction. "What woman would have him?"
"She would," Tregier put in, oblivious to the major's sudden scowl. "Doesn't have any choice, does she? If she's to make a royal marriage, she can hardly cavil at which royal she gets, can she? So I'm betting on Cumberland. He's disgraced the family—and it takes a lot to disgrace that family, I assure you—and must be punished."
"Punished?" Berendts echoed. He had the unfortunate habit of falling headlong for ineligible women, though none yet had been too highborn for him—the opposite, in fact. "You must not have seen the princess, if you think she's punishment. Taking little thing, she is. 'Course, I've always been partial to redheads. And—"
"Above your touch, old man," Franklin broke in. "You've no royal blood, after all. Oh, don't tell me about your ancestress, the by-blow of Charles II, for that hardly constitutes royalty. There aren't that many friendly royal princesses about to hand 'em out to the likes of us. I placed my bet on Cumberland, too, for he's well-matched for one of those Russian barbarians. Imagine what a child of his and some savage princess might be like."
Chilled by the thought, though not for the same reason as Franklin, Devlyn clenched his fists on the book. "Give over, Devlyn, you're wrinkling the pages," Destain said from across the table. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms out behind him till his joints cracked. "You're right, Franklin, there's bad blood there, and that's just why Cumberland won't be pushed forth. If I were Prinny, I'd have that brother gelded, I would. They've enough trouble with this lot of princes."
The near-treasonous words echoed in the quiet room and set off reverberations in Devlyn's mind. Automatically, he smoothed out the pages he had mussed, staring unseeingly at the names written there. Finally, looking up with a grin, he remarked. "You know, Destain, I thank you for that. And someday I'll tell you why."
"Does that mean she's to marry Clarence? Damn, she's told you something, hasn't she?" Ellingham demanded. "Come on, tell us. Honor of the regiment and all that."
"You're in the grenadiers," Devlyn replied with a laugh. "Different regiments altogether. But as we're all on the general's staff, I'll be honest. The princess hasn't told me anything about her wedding plans. We hardly travel in the same circles, after all. But were I betting—and I'm not, in fact, I'm scandalized such a wager is in force—I'd steer clear of the dreary duke, or any other duke, for that matter."
"Devlyn doesn't know anything," Tregier grumbled. He pulled his chair farther away to show his disapproval of the major's tactics. "Bluffing, as always. Have you ever played piquet with him? Straightest face I've ever seen. But I'm up to his rig. He's just trying to reduce the odds on that popinjay d'Annaud. Then, just before the regent announces the royal wedding, he'll bet the farm on Cumberland. You wait and see."
"Would I do that to you?" Devlyn said. "But what's this talk of d'Annaud? And who is this fellow Fallenwood? Looks like he bet on himself!"
"D'Annaud is cousin to the Pretender," Ellingham explained. "Cousin to the little princess, too, he says. He's been bruiting it about that a union of the French and Russian royal families will aid in reestablishing the Bourbon throne. And Fallenwood, you must know him. He's the highest ranking duke short of royalty, although he ranks himself somewhat higher t
han God. He bets on himself because no one else imagines he's got a chance. Did you hear the little princess told him that in Russia the title of duke isn't a minor one, as it is here in England'? I heard he almost swallowed his coronet."
"I'll have to repeat that to my own Respected Ducal Parent someday," Tregier murmured. Devlyn glanced quickly at his friend, for he suspected Jordy had joined the Guards only after being struck off by his father, the Duke of Carleen. Once, on a previous leave, Devlyn had collected some misdirected mail from Horse Guards to take back to the Peninsula. A letter from Tregier to his parents was there, with "Refused" written in hard black ink across the face. He'd pitched it overboard, thinking that being orphaned was not the worst fate in the world. He didn't knew what heinous crime could precipitate such a complete break. Considering Jordy's history, however, he assumed it to involve a woman. Jordy never spoke of it; in fact, this was the first time he had ever spoken of his family.
But Tregier had turned his attention back to the betting book, disregarding his previous scruples to pull his chair closer to Devlyn. "Come, Michael, lay down a bet," he demanded, placing an imperious hand on the back of Devlyn's neck and tensing it experimentally. "It's not that I don't trust you, lad, for I do, with my very life. But I've got a year's pay down on Cumberland, and trust evaporates at that temperature."
Lighthearted again, Devlyn twisted away from Tregier's threatening grip and held up his hand for a quill. "Understand I have no particular knowledge of the princess's plans. But if you insist—" He scrawled a few words on the page and then a figure that made Berendts blanch.
Tregier wrenched the book away and whistled. "Cor, he laid down a monkey, And, come, Devlyn, you can't do that. The Field?' What does that mean?"
"In a horse race, if you like none of the leaders, you bet the field, don't you? Well, I'm playing the field. It's generally accounted to be a safe bet when the course is as muddied as this one."
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