‘Jack!’ Eleanor clapped her hands together in delight. ‘Jack, that is most—most— I must say, I am quite flabbergasted.’ She turned to Charlie. ‘Did you hear that, my love? Robert will be delighted.’
‘I am sure he will be, but—are you sure about this, Jack? I mean, you’ve been rather keen to avoid the subject, and...’
‘And now I see that it was wrong of me,’ Jack said smoothly. ‘Robert ought to understand both sides of the story. To read some of the accounts in the press, you’d think that we— Wellington had an easy triumph. In fact the victory meant all the more for our—his having such a worthy adversary in Napoleon.’
‘Well then, provided that Wellington still triumphs,’ Charlie said with a rumble of laugher. ‘Indeed, Jack, that is most— You won’t mind if I sit in? I’d be fascinated to hear your thoughts for myself.’
‘Not at all.’
‘I must go and tell Robert at once,’ Eleanor said. ‘Will two o’clock suit you? He will be—Charles, my love, come with me. We should both be there when he hears the exciting news. You will excuse us.’
Jack finished his egg. Celeste poured herself another cup of coffee. ‘Mission accomplished?’ she asked with a quirk of her eyebrow.
He laughed at her choosing his own words. ‘I think so.’
‘And these toy soldiers, would they happen to be another test?’
Jack pushed his chair back. ‘Sometimes the trouble with a beautiful, clever and talented woman is that she is rather too perceptive. I must go, I have a battleground to prepare.’
Chapter Ten
Four days later, Celeste gazed out of the window of her guest bedchamber at Hunter’s Reach, the country estate in neighbouring Surrey where Wellington was hosting his dinner—although in actual fact it was Lord and Lady Elmsford, the owners of the house, who were the nominal hosts.
The house had been constructed during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, built in the classic ‘E’ shape which was a common tribute to the Virgin Queen. Celeste’s room was on the third floor on the north wing of the house, facing towards a long sweep of carriageway. Jack had been clearly on edge when they arrived a few hours ago, as much on her behalf as his, but she had managed to reassure him that she was more than capable of playing her part. Though as Celeste watched the stream of carriages arriving, she felt less certain with every passing minute.
Moving restlessly to the mirror, she studied her reflection critically. Her evening dress was of white silk, the overdress gauze woven with sky-blue leaves of flossed silk, trimmed with net and satin. She had had it made in Paris on a whim a month after her mother died, a fruitless attempt to console herself with something utterly frivolous which she would never have the opportunity to wear. She had no idea what impulse had made her bring it with her to England, but she was vastly relieved that she had. Her long evening gloves were also new, as were the sky-blue slippers which matched her gown. Her fingers went automatically to the locket, glittering at her throat. ‘I wish I had you here to advise me, Maman,’ she whispered. ‘You would know all the protocols regarding how deep I should curtsy to each rank of attendee.’
She had refused her host’s offer of a lady’s maid, never having had one, and kept her coiffure simple, in a topknot held by a ribbon to match her gown, with a few artful curls. Now, peering nervously at the result, Celeste worried that it was overly simple for such a grand occasion. She had no shawl, and could only hope that the throng of guests would warm the cavernous rooms downstairs. Another thing she could not understand about the English, the way they made a virtue of the cold. Staring at the empty grate in her bedchamber, she wondered if there was some unwritten rule that fires were not to be lit until the first snowfall.
A discreet tap on the door startled her. ‘Jack. Thank goodness. I was not sure if I was expected to make my way down myself. Sacré bleu!’
He was wearing the tight red military dress uniform with its high, gold-braided collar. His jaw was clean-shaven, tanned against the gleaming white of his starched shirt and neatly tied cravat, just visible beneath the coat. His hair was swept back from his brow. The gold braid ran in a broad line down the front of his uniform, which fitted snuggly at his waist, where a heavy gold sash was tied. More gold braid on his cuffs, and more on the short tails of the coat, made him look quite magnificent. White gloves, white, very tight breeches, and boots polished so highly that they could have acted as a mirror. ‘You look exactly like your portrait!’
‘I seem to remember you thought I looked like a pompous ass.’
‘You said that. I said you looked like a Greek god, peering down on us mere mortals.’ Her smile faded a little as she studied his face. ‘I know as your aide-de-camp I am to be all stiff upper lip, but am I permitted to ask how you feel in uniform?’
‘Damned uncomfortable.’ Jack coloured. ‘Fine. Odd. I feel like an imposter. But fine. This is my dress uniform. I never— The only bad memories it has are of dinners such as this one, with too many egos recounting their own particular tales of bravery, and far too many toasts.’ He bowed low over her hand, brushing his lips to her glove. ‘I have been remiss. Mademoiselle Marmion, may I say that you look utterly radiant.’
‘Lieutenant-Colonel Trestain, may I say in return that you look exceedingly dashing.’
He smiled faintly, tucking her hand into his arm and making for the stairs. ‘Are you nervous?’
‘Not at all.’ Jack raised his brow. ‘Only a little. Mostly of Wellington. Will he look down that famous nose at me because I am French? Then there is your English politics. I can’t tell the difference between a Tory and a Wig.’
‘Whig. Frankly, neither can they,’ Jack said drily. He led her to a first-floor balcony which overlooked the Great Hall. ‘You have nothing to worry about, you know. They are just people.’
Celeste gripped the wooden banister, peering down at the glittering crowd through the huge iron light-fitting, shaped like a carriage wheel, which was suspended from the ceiling. ‘People with titles, dripping in jewels, who talk as if they own the land.’
Jack laughed. ‘That’s because many of them do. Where is your Revolutionary spirit?’
‘Beheaded,’ Celeste said, her eyes fixed on the crowd. Most of the men were in red, a positive battalion of senior British military personnel. If it was daunting for her it would be even more so for Jack, who was doing this for her. She waved her hand at the swarm of Redcoats beneath. ‘Do you know all of these officers?’
‘Most of them.’
She studied his face anxiously, torn between awed admiration at his courage, and concern lest he fail this challenge he had set himself. Was he really prepared for this? No matter, this was not the time for doubts or questions. Jack wanted his aide-de-camp to watch his back, not cower like a frightened rabbit. She stiffened her shoulders, preparing to do battle. ‘Allons, mon colonel,’ she said, tucking her hand into his arm. ‘I won’t let you down. And if I do make some terrible gaffe, you can blame it on the fact that I am French, since I am sure that is what everyone will be thinking in any case.’
* * *
The Duke of Wellington was receiving his guests at the foot of the stairs. He had the aloof carriage and expression of a man who at the same time disdained and expected reverence. He was immaculately dressed, his scarlet coat giving the appearance of having been moulded to his fine shoulders. The famous nose was not nearly so hooked as the caricatures portrayed, Celeste noted, though his eyes were every bit as hooded. And every bit as observant. The mouth was unexpectedly sensual. As he treated the woman in the queue in front of them to a charming smile, Celeste understood why his Grace had his pick of the ladies.
‘Trestain. You are looking well. Regimentals suit you.’
Jack, Celeste noticed, instinctively straightened his shoulders as if he were being inspected which, she supposed, he was. ‘Your Grace. May I introduce
Mademoiselle Marmion.’
‘A pleasure, Mademoiselle,’ the great man said, bowing over her hand. ‘I understand that you are an artist. If your paintings are as pretty as you then I am sure you are much in demand.’
Flustered, Celeste nodded, casting an enquiring look at Jack, but he looked just as surprised as she.
‘You must not think that because I no longer have you in my service, that I am entirely bereft of spies to gather the latest intelligence on you, despite the exceedingly short notice the Scots Upstart provided me with,’ Wellington said to Jack with a diffident smile. ‘I confess, I was surprised to hear that you had been tempted out of hibernation. It gives me some hope that we may yet tempt you back into harness.’
Wellington turned to Lord and Lady Elmsford. ‘You will know Lieutenant-Colonel Trestain as my code-breaker,’ he said.
‘It is an honour, sir,’ his lordship said, ‘I believe your work has been invaluable to his Grace. He tells me you are much missed.’
Jack’s smile was tight. ‘No one is irreplaceable,’ he said. ‘His Grace excepted, naturally.’
The Duke of Wellington smiled thinly at this sally, though Celeste suspected he was of the opinion that it was true. The man had an ego the size of France. He was also, she reminded herself, a master strategist, and he clearly wanted Jack to return to his service. It hadn’t occurred to her until now that the Duke, if he did grant Jack access to Arthur Derwent’s file, would expect to be paid in kind. Surely Jack was not contemplating a return to the army?
‘A code-breaker! I am very fond of acrostics myself,’ Lady Elmsford was saying to Jack, ‘though no doubt you find such puzzles embarrassingly simple.’
‘You would be surprised to know how many codes are based on similar principles,’ he replied. ‘Unless you wish his Grace to try to recruit you too, I would keep that talent under your hat.’
* * *
Jack had not expected quite so many of his fellow officers to be here. He ought to have checked the guest list with Finlay, but then, if he had, there was a chance it would have discouraged him. Now, smiling and exchanging pleasantries with familiar faces, he was not precisely glad he was here, but he would be when it was over.
Celeste’s grip on his arm was like a vice. His aide-de-camp was much more nervous than she was letting on. In this rather daunting gathering, she was no seasoned trouper, but more akin to a young ensign bravely carrying the colours. He smiled down at her reassuringly, feeling his own spirits rise. He had not had his nightmare since returning from London. He had worked his way through the entire battle of Waterloo, skirmish by skirmish, in the presence of two small boys and his brother, without faltering once. Now here he was, in his regimentals, engaging in reminiscent chat on that same subject, and his palms were not even sweating.
One of the late Lieutenant-General Picton’s men was recounting, for Celeste’s benefit, the legend of the Frenchman, dressed as a English Hussar officer, who descended on a British-occupied village, pretending to be on an information-gathering mission from Lord Uxbridge. She was hanging on his every word, her eyes wide, like a child being told a fairy story. Jack had heard these stories so often, they had ceased to mean anything to him, but now he listened afresh, it really was amusing, for the French spy had been so convincing, he’d actually managed to order the British soldiers about, though he disappeared in jig time when their commanding officer turned up.
Waterloo made its appearance as he had expected, in several more conversations, but each time Jack tensed a little less. Not even four months ago, the battle had taken place, but it seemed a great deal more distant. Listening to the men who had been his friends and comrades for so many years, he felt a detachment he had not expected. Their world was no longer his.
A wave of sadness for what he had lost threatened to envelop him. He reminded himself that it was not lost but voluntarily surrendered. A sharp nip on his arm made him look down at Celeste. The eloquent look she drew him made it obvious that she was in dire need of rescue. The lascivious look on the face of the guards captain entertaining her with tales of his own heroism made it clear what she needed rescuing from. He was not the first to seem smitten with her. Jack hadn’t exactly forgotten how beautiful she was, but he’d forgotten the impact she made when first encountered. Until now, Celeste herself had seemed oblivious of the admiring glances, raised quizzing glasses and downright leers. Or perhaps she was accustomed to it? Jack slipped his hand around her waist and drew her in to his side. She smiled up at him and slipped her hand back through his arm.
* * *
The dining room at Hunter’s Reach was like a very much larger version of the one in Trestain Manor, with exposed oak timbers and extensive panelling. To Celeste’s relief, Jack was seated next to her at dinner. Aside from that one moment when she’d had to pinch him, he seemed to be handling the occasion effortlessly. It had been strange, seeing him mingle with those other soldiers. There was no doubting that he was one of them. She had learned more in the last two hours about his life in the army than he had told her in— Was it really less than six weeks since they had first met? The respect and admiration he drew from his fellow officers did not surprise her, but the awe in which a number of them held him did. They spoke of him as if he were a magician, recounted some of his successes as if they were achieved by a form of sorcery. She had thought Sir Charles’s claim that Jack was famous had been born from brotherly affection, but it seemed even Sir Charles had no idea of the extent of Jack’s abilities.
It struck her afresh how much he had given up when he resigned his commission. Perhaps he was thinking the same thing? The test, as he called it, began to make more sense now. Despite having insisted that his soldiering days were over, perhaps he was still hankering for them after all. He had sounded completely convincing, but that could be because he was trying very hard to persuade himself.
In the company of these senior militia men gathered round the huge table, Jack was a changed character. More intimidating, in a way. She looked at him, chatting smilingly with the overly forward and overly endowed woman on his right. He certainly looked relaxed and in control but she couldn’t help remembering what he’d said about putting on a front to go into battle.
As the first course was carried in by a small battalion of footmen, Celeste dragged her eyes and her thoughts away from Jack to the man seated on her left, one of the few in the room not wearing a red tunic. He needed little encouragement to talk about himself and the pivotal role he had played in the introduction of something called the Corn Laws which seemed, confusingly, to have very little to do with bread. When Celeste finally managed to complete a sentence without interruption, the man declared he hadn’t realised she was a Frenchie, and embarked upon a description of his recent pilgrimage to the Devon coast to view HMS Bellerophon, in which Napoleon was being conveyed to exile on Elba. He seemed to think that Celeste was personally acquainted with the Emperor, and consequently was inclined to take umbrage on behalf of the entire English nation.
The arrival of the next course was the signal for all heads to turn almost as one. Celeste bit back a smile. All heads save one, that was. The woman on Jack’s right was still talking. She could not see his face, but the woman was quite unmistakably casting lures. That she was beautiful could not be denied, with blue-black hair almost the colour of Jack’s own, huge blue eyes, and an expanse of creamy skin on display. Her eyelashes fluttered. Her hands also. The pink tip of her tongue kept touching the plump indentation in the centre of her upper lip in a brazen gesture of seduction. Even as Celeste watched, she managed to lean over, display her bounteous cleavage, whisper something in Jack’s ear and drop her napkin on to his lap at the same time.
Celeste committed the cardinal sin of leaning across Jack’s arm. ‘You will excuse me, Madam, but I have something most particular to say to Monsieur Trestain.’
‘That was rude,’ Jack said, though he was
smiling.
‘No doubt you thought her very beautiful.’
‘No doubt that is what you think I thought.’
Celeste narrowed her eyes. ‘I think her gown is vulgar. The décolleté is indecent.’
‘Only a woman would say so. There is no such thing as a décolleté that is too low, as far as we men are concerned.’
‘Nor a bosom that is too full,’ Celeste replied tartly.
Jack burst out laughing. ‘I cannot believe you said that.’
‘I meant only to think it.’
He grinned. ‘You know, despite the fact that you are not parading your quite delightful bosom about like a—a houri in a sultan’s harem, you must be perfectly well aware that you, Mademoiselle Marmion, have turned every male head in this room.’
‘Though not yours,’ Celeste said before she could stop herself.
‘Oh, mine was turned the moment I first saw you on the banks of the lake.’
He meant it teasingly, but she remembered him then, as she had first seen him, naked, scything at that awkward angle through the water, and heat flooded her. ‘I could not take my eyes off you,’ she said.
‘That,’ Jack said, ‘is a feeling which is entirely mutual.’
His eyes darkened as he leaned towards her, and she moved too, as if drawn by some invisible force, only the clatter of a spoon on a glass making them leap apart, as his Grace the Duke of Wellington got to his feet and announced a toast: To England, Home and Beauty.
* * *
Jack watched impatiently as the port made a slow circuit of the table for the second time. Without Celeste by his side, he was distracted, worrying how she would fare in the company of the ladies. He had always found the endless toasts in the officers’ mess tedious, always found the need to disguise the fact he wasn’t actually emptying his glass each time tiresome, and tonight was no different, although at least when they were toasting the ladies and the king and their host and hostess and this patron and that patron, there was no opportunity for any other topic of conversation.
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