Franklin, whose wisdom was respected now that he had survived a brush with death, leaned back in his chair and sighed sepulchrally. "Put me down for twenty on that field, Berendts. My lad Michael only gambles on a sure thing. And then let's make our toasts, and one of you will have to take me home. For I'm feverish again and need to rest for our march to Ciudad."
His faint words rallied the troops. The betting book was returned to the porter, and fresh glasses were filled and raised to king and country and five different regiments.
"To our fallen comrades," Berendts, usually so unsentimental, offered in a choked voice. They were silent for a moment, each remembering boyhood friends, and comrades-at-arms who had fallen at Vimeira and Talavera and Bussaco.
Then Devlyn, with some reluctance but great sincerity, declared, "To the old Beau, long may he bedevil us and Bonaparte, too."
They all drank deep, and Franklin staggered to his feet, paler than death but determined. "On to Ciudad Rodrigo," he cried, and may God watch o'er us all!"
And clumsily they touched glasses, and then cuffed each other's shoulders, and Ellingham dragged Jamie out from under the table and tossed him over one brawny shoulder. And Devlyn wondered, looking at his friends, how many of them would be alive to toast lost comrades after the march into Spain, and how many would have fallen along the way.
It was only eleven when the party broke up and Devlyn emerged into St. James Street. So much for the promises of the army recruitment officers for fast living with boon companions. His own companions were straggling home with most of the evening remaining.
But Devlyn was too keyed up to adjourn to his bed. The cold air sobered him up quickly, and a glance in a reflective shop window told him he looked none the worse for wear. So he crossed Piccadilly and entered Berkeley Square, where the Oakleys were hosting yet another rout in honor of the Russian princess. He had tossed out his invitation last week, when he was still resolved to let Tatiana make the next move.
Chapter Nineteen
Even so, he was welcomed by his hostess, the doting aunt of an artillery officer, who accepted his excuse of an earlier staff dinner and introduced him to her marriageable daughter. Even as he danced with Lady Juliet, who seemed utterly fascinated with his gold buttons, never actually looking up to his face, Devlyn searched for Tatiana.
Then he saw her, on the little rise across from the orchestra where flowers were banked to conceal the entrance to the kitchens. Her dress was a cascade of silver lace, her curls a burst of color rivaling the roses behind her. She was pensive, listening with tilted head to a group of adoring boys who must have been down from school for the holidays. Her small hand toyed with yet another necklace, this one consisting of fifty or sixty sapphires of graduated sizes in a classical setting of white gold. No wonder the lost kingdom of Saraya Kalin went into bankruptcy, he mused, for the nation's treasury must have gone entirely to Italian jewelers.
Her admirers scattered as Devlyn approached, even her promised dance partner too intimidated by the uniform to do more than sputter "I say—" as the major took Tatiana's hand.
"My dance, I think," Devlyn said as the orchestra struck up, and she let him lead her out, though her mouth turned down and she refused to speak.
The cotillion was the sort of dance that allowed for flirtations both bold and secretive. But neither the princess or Devlyn took advantage of this opportunity. Flirtation—he'd never seen much point to it with any woman, and with Tatiana, it was entirely too late to start such nonsense. And she was so silent tonight. He remembered the lively girl he had traveled with, her green eyes brimming with laughter, that elusive dimple balancing so provocatively on the edge of her smile. He hadn't seen that dimple for so long. Soon, he thought fiercely, wishing he could take her into his arms properly and kiss away all that new sadness. Soon it will be time for us. But he had to speak to the Prince Regent first, before he could elevate Tatiana's fragile hopes.
Softly she sighed, her eyes on the gold braid of his jacket. "Thank you for helping Betsy so promptly."
"I am yours to command," he replied ironically, wishing she would look up at him.
"When do you leave for Portugal?" Her voice was plausibly casual, but her hand tightened into a fist within his.
"Saturday week. It ordinarily is a twelve-day trip to Lisbon, so I'll be there before the first of the year."
"You'll spend Christmas on a troop ship? That seems lonely."
Devlyn glanced quizzically down at the topknot of curls on her bent head. She was an orphan, too. Surely she knew holidays were always lonely. This one, perhaps, would be the loneliest yet. "The whole staff will be on it, along with a few casks of rum. We'll make merry enough." Neither of them mentioned what she was expected to be doing at Christmastide. But she wouldn't be doing it, not if Devlyn could help it.
"When will you be back?"
Her hesitant question, oddly enough, called up in his mind the map of the Iberian Peninsula Wellington had tacked to his office wall. The fortress cities Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, and Burgos were circled in red, along with other cities between Portugal and the Pyrenees. They had hundreds of miles and thousands of lives to go. "I don't know when next I shall get leave. Six months, a year." Suddenly that seemed an eternity. But they would contrive. They would have each other, even if they weren't together.
Tatiana finally looked up at him, and in her eyes he saw glittering a desperation that frightened him. "Michael," she whispered. 'When you come back—" Then, all in a rush she said, "Lady Sherbourne said all the married ladies here have a special friend—a cher ami."
A chill settled over him as he heard that pretty mouth speaking such a vulgar term. For a moment he couldn't reply. Her meaning was clear enough; her motive baffled him. Did she want him only as a lover? Or was she telling him they'd have to settle for that? Either way, he was flooded with rage. "Are you speaking hypothetically, or are you measuring me for that position? For I'll tell you right now, Your Highness, I won't play that role with you."
He saw the hot flush of shame on her cheeks and was instantly sorry. But Tatiana was never cowed; she only jutted out her chin and hissed, "I wonder if Lord Harburton is so convinced of your principles on this matter."
He missed a step as she wrenched her hand out of his. But she had finally learned some discretion; she smiled brilliantly up at him for the benefit of their audience. Quietly he said, "Did you ever think that, having sampled that experience once, I might not want to do it again, especially with you?"
His intended meaning was so far from insult that he didn't understand, at first, why she was so angry. "That's not what I meant and you know it," he exclaimed with some exasperation. "I meant—"
Now her great green eyes were veiled, her full mouth trembling a bit. "I know. You told me before, you couldn't bear to see me. I understand. I'm sorry. I shan't plague you again."
"No," he whispered, undone by the terrible sorrow in her eyes. "We must talk alone, Tatiana, tonight."
But she only shook her head blindly. He could hear the click of sapphire against sapphire over the hollow of her throat. "I can't. You must leave me alone. You must—Do you remember that night in France, when we walked through the rain to that farmhouse?" Her hand stole into his as the movement of the dance brought them into touch again. "I dreamt last night that we were walking along that road again, you and I, only it was already dawn, and the sun was rising over the water. For a moment I thought that it was really a miracle. But then you told me this must be a dream because the sun does not rise in the west, and then I realized there were no such things as miracles."
Her voice trailed off as the music ended, and her hand slipped out of his, and she was gone into the crowd before he had time to answer. He started after her, to tell her that he would make the sun rise in the west or the north or the south, if that would make her happy. But there was no sign of her in the great glittering ballroom.
Wellesley, coming up behind him, broke into his troubled thoughts.
"So the princess had a dance free for you? Only appropriate, since you were responsible for her safe conveyance to our shores."
It was a moment before Devlyn could turn to him, for he had to erase the frank dislike from his features. Wellesley was only doing his job, after all; he wasn't responsible for Tatiana's sadness. But Devlyn was, or responsible at least for ending it.
"Did Her Highness tell you her happy news?" Wellesley looked pleased out of all reckoning, beaming as if the princess were his protegee. "I wasn't sure the girl would go through with it. Unfortunately, she had to meet Cumberland, there was no way out of it, though I made certain it was only the once. It would have been a disaster, as you can imagine, if she had cried off. She looked to be the romantic sort. You know how these girls are today, prating on about love. And there wasn't much chance she was going to fall in love with Cumberland. But we didn't bring her to England for love, did we?"
Devlyn didn't answer, his eyes scanning the crowd for a flash of silver dress or red-gold hair. Wellesley never noticed his distraction. "And she looked reluctant these last days, as if we were taking her to the gallows instead of the altar rail. So I was anticipating some argument, and I got it." His dissolute mouth tightened almost like a nun's at the memory.
Devlyn stared out at the sea of dancers, wondering where she'd gotten to, wondering if he'd have done better to abduct her and damn the consequences. "But you convinced her."
"Well, Boney did. He's making his plans this very minute, we've learned. Moscow by midsummer, he's bound. That scared her. She might not love Cumberland, but she loves her country, and she knew what she had to do." He shook his head with grudging admiration. "I If she weren't a princess, I'd have her read for the law. Even after I sent her those intelligence reports, she still held out this evening. She wanted a contract—not the one between Prinny and Alexander, but a private one. She wanted a fund set up from the royal family's assets to go to good works, and she was to be in charge. I don't know why that maggot got in her brain. Doesn't she know the princes don't do any good works? Anyway, her list of demands was as long as my arm, but she gave over eventually for only nine-tenths of them. I came away with the shirt on my back, at least. She's a determined little minx, I'll give her that."
This evening. She hadn't trusted him after all. She hadn't even waited a day. He supposed he shouldn't have been so cryptic with her, though she should have known that he would never let her— But she still loved him, that was clear. She'd just made it more complicated. Devlyn felt the deadening shock descend on him, as it had so often in battle. It was a relief, actually, for now he was utterly without fear, and could act with the total rationality he was known for. "So when will the deed be done?"
"Before she takes it into her head that she wants all power to be transferred to the House of Commons or some other wild scheme. The official papers will be signed and the announcement made Friday. The wedding'll be held at Christmas."
Abstracted, Devlyn managed a farewell and left the foreign secretary to congratulate himself. He found Prinny in the overheated card room, sitting near the fire and complaining to his retinue of the cold. He greeted Devlyn with an enthusiastic wave of his plump hand. "Imagine how well my uniform would look on the major there. He would be quite a sight in battle, I'm certain—dazzle those damn Frenchies good. But he insists on remaining in the 16th."
“If I might have a word with you, sir—"
With a nod of his head, Prinny sent his aides and a dozen cardplayers away. "The major has some important war news to share with me. Find somewhere else to take your games."
As the players filed out, some glancing back enviously at Devlyn, he admitted, "It's not war news, although it does have international implications, and I'd rather not discuss it here. May I call at Carlton House in the morning?"
"Afternoon," the regent temporized with a yawn. "After lunch, perhaps. Shall I summon Wellesley and Liverpool also?"
"It would best be kept between us, for it's highly confidential in nature. But I would advise you not to announce your brother's prospective nuptials just yet."
The prince's watery eyes gleamed, for he did love a mystery, and this sounded very mysterious. "You can give me a hint, can't you? Is Christmas a bad time for the wedding? These Russians are ludicrously superstitious, I know—"
"Tomorrow," Deylyn promised, and left the prince in the empty room muttering happily to himself about the suspense of it all.
Devlyn spent the morning begging Horse Guards for another cavalry regiment, though privately he didn't relish training the so-called Hyde Park Hussars, whose only major battles so far had been with debutantes' fathers. He got a grudging "possibly" to that issue and a rather more optimistic "we'll try" to the question of the recruitment of more engineers. You can't squeeze blood from a turnip, he imagined repeating to Wellington in a fortnight or so. Would he be able to pass on that bit of folk wisdom, and to hear the general's no doubt blistering response? Only the Prince Regent could ensure that pleasant exchange took place.
He managed to sit through a lunch in the officers' mess, and even managed not to compare the sumptuous repast in the high-domed hall to the meals on the Peninsula. At half past two, he presented himself at Carlton House and was rewarded with prompt admittance to the prince's private chambers.
Clad in royal purple satin, Prinny sprawled on a chaise in his silk-hung sitting room, helping himself to bonbons held by a footman in full livery. The regent dismissed the servant immediately. "I've been waiting for you to come and solve the mystery for me, Major," he said gaily, waving Devlyn to a rosewood wingchair.
"I'm afraid the solution isn't a happy one, Your Highness." Devlyn sighed, as if overburdened with the weight of the news. He wished Tatiana were here to see his performance; she would never again think of him as honest and upstanding and undramatic. "It's about the Princess Tatiana. How much do you know of her family history?"
"Only that she's a Romanov, a real one, she says, not like that upstart Alexander. Descended from Peter the Great's line."
"No one ever told you about her father, I gather."
"Her father? What of him? Cousin of the Tsar. Son of some minor king. Dead for years. He was of royal blood, that's all that counts." The prince extended the red-flocked candy box, but looked relieved when Devlyn demurred.
"Is it all that counts?" Devlyn recalled Lord Liverpool at his most ponderous, and shook his head in a similarly gloomy manner. "The Prince Nicholas, you see, came to his demise a bit early, for he was sent into exile by his beloved cousin Alexander. Died there in Siberia."
"Exile?" Prinny echoed. "A prince? I thought he was a favorite of the tsar. They don't even let me send my enemies into exile, much less my relations. Though I can name a few I'd like to send somewhere cold and cruel," he finished darkly.
"Prince Nicholas was a favorite. In fact, he admired Alexander so much that he—well, he hastened Alexander's ascension to the throne." When the prince looked confused at the delicate euphemism, Devlyn added, "He participated in the regicide of the previous tsar."
Prinny's jaw dropped open and remained so for a moment or two. "Regicide?" he finally repeated. "I—I don't care much for that, I don't. Why, it's a crime against the state—against God, it is!"
Diplomatically, Devlyn neglected to point out that Britain's own ambassador had probably been party to the plot of a decade earlier. "And the family relationship—for of course Prince Nicholas and several of the other plotters were cousins to Tsar Paul also—makes it especially damning. Think of it. Tsar Paul was nurturing a viper, so close to the throne, and never knew it—until that last moment, perhaps."
Prinny's mind worked slowly at best, but the gears were finally turning. "I recall there was something havey-cavey about Alexander's ascension. Those Russians, you know. Bloodthirsty lot. Ivan the Terrible and all the others," he observed in an unconscious reprise of Tatiana's words. "But I didn't know about this Nicholas. The princess's father, you say? Wellesley didn't tell me anything about
it."
"I imagine Wellesley is as blissfully ignorant as can be, for Alexander's hardly going to bruit about. He's the religious sort, you see. Probably thinks he's going to hell for it."
"As he should!" Prinny exclaimed heatedly, fanning himself with his chocolate-stained hand. "Regicide—well, it don't bear thinking of!"
"But, sir, you must think of it, painful as it is. For now Alexander's guilt is your threat. He's sent the princess here so she won't be around to remind him of his sin. But now she's around you." He let the words hang there in the air, as the blood drained out of the regent's face.
"But she's such a nice gel! She likes me, I know it! She'd never—Cumberland wouldn't—"
"It's the combination I worry about," Devlyn put in helpfully. "And, well, the admiration she expresses for her father. Not for his deed, mind you. But last night, I asked her if she found life in the English court more exciting than in the Russian one. She was a bit offended by my implication, I think, and wanted to impress me with the drama of the Winter Palace. So she reported her father's role in this shameful affair," he improvised, rather skillfully he thought, considering that he was in the lamentable habit of telling the truth. "She did not precisely boast. But she did seem to think her father was great guns—forgive me, Your Highness, that was a singularly inapt metaphor."
Prinny took a deep breath, holding his hand to his heart as if even the breathing pained him. And Cumberland—" Of course, he did not go on, but his hand rose to his neck, and he stroked through his glistening neckcloth as if to assure himself his throat was intact. When his hand finally dropped to his lap, it left chocolate streaks behind.
"At least the princess and the royal duke seem compatible," Devlyn said innocently. "Remember how well they got along at your dinner party; thick as thieves, they were." After a moment, he added, "Another inapt metaphor. I am sorry, Your Highness."
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