Teresa Grant

by Imperial Scandal

  “I’ve seen the same with Livia,” Cordelia said.

  “I went in to sit with Jamie. I told him a nonsense story, stayed with him until he went back to sleep.” Jane plucked at her sash. “On my way back to my bedchamber, I heard voices in the hall below.”

  She hesitated. Cordelia had the oddest sense her friend was standing on the edge of a precipice, still unsure whether or not to step forward and tumble into the abyss. “The first voice belonged to my husband. The other was a man’s voice I didn’t recognize. I caught a glimpse of them down the stairwell, but all I could see of this man was a dark coat and hair that looked dark as well. At least it didn’t gleam in the candlelight the way Tony’s did.”

  She paused again, one foot in the abyss. Her last chance to jump back. “The only words I could make out were the man saying, ‘Everything is set,’” she said in a rush, “and Tony saying something about ‘you will receive payment.’ ”

  Cordelia swallowed, tasting unexpected bitterness. Somehow despite all the revelations, she hadn’t thought it possible.

  Suzanne Rannoch sat very still. “That could refer to a number of things.”

  “So it could,” Jane said, face pale, eyes filled with the agony of uncertainty. “But—”

  “But Lady Julia’s death the next night made you wonder.”

  “How could I not?” The words tore from Jane’s lips. “Especially when we learned her death wasn’t accidental.”

  “You knew that the first time we spoke,” Suzanne said. “Why come to us now?”

  “Because my first instinct was to protect Tony. Until I realized I couldn’t live with myself.” Jane locked her hands together, as though to still the thoughts roiling inside her. “I need to know the truth, Mrs. Rannoch. But I’m not brave enough to seek it myself.”

  Malcolm Rannoch’s horse bolted down the allée. Harry set his heels to his own horse and cantered after. But even as he set off, Rannoch got his horse under control, pulling up on the reins and circling round. “I’m all right,” he called to Harry, clutching his shoulder. “Go after him.”

  Harry turned his horse toward the trees that bordered the path. He’d had Claudius with him in Spain. The horse responded at once, crashing through brush, dodging between the trees.

  Another shot whistled between the branches. Harry ducked and caught sight of a man in a dark coat lowering his rifle. He touched his heels to Claudius again. The shooter set off at a gallop. Harry urged Claudius to a faster speed. He cut between two trees and had to pull up abruptly at the sight of a bramble hedge, too close to jump.

  The shooter was beyond his reach. He returned to the allée to find Rannoch on his feet, breathing hard but examining something he held between two fingers.

  “A rifle bullet,” he said, looking up at Harry.

  “I saw him,” Harry said. “He got off another shot, then he bolted.” He ran an appraising gaze over Rannoch. “You were hit?”

  “It grazed my shoulder. Hardly worth mentioning.”

  “I doubt your wife will agree.”

  Rannoch gave a wry grin. “Before we face her, we need to tell the duke.”

  Wellington set down his wineglass as Malcolm and Davenport stepped into the Headquarters dining room where the duke was dining with his staff and the Prince of Orange. “Good God, Rannoch, did you let the French get to you again?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. I seem to have lost my touch since the Peninsula.”

  Canning gave an appreciative laugh. Alexander Gordon avoided Malcolm’s gaze.

  Wellington peered at Malcolm through the late-afternoon light that streamed through the dining parlor windows. “What was it this time, swords or a pistol?”

  “A rifle. In the Allée Verte.”

  “Good God.” Fitzroy’s knife clattered to his plate.

  The Prince of Orange looked from Malcolm to Wellington. “Pardonnez-moi? Someone is trying to kill Malcolm? Why?”

  “It seems to have something to do with your mistress’s death,” Davenport said.

  The prince’s face drained of color. Canning and Gordon exchanged glances. Fitzroy cast a questioning look at Malcolm.

  Wellington waved a hand toward two empty chairs. “Sit down. Drink some wine. You look as though you could do with it.” He continued cutting into his mutton. “We’ve had some interesting news. The prince reports that the Prussians have been driven from Binche and that he himself heard gunfire round Charleroi, which confirms the news I’ve had from Ziethen and Blücher. It appears the French have attacked the Prussians south of the Sambre.”

  Davenport poured himself a glass of wine, his hand not faltering. “Do we march?”

  “Not yet.” Wellington took a bite of mutton. “I’ve ordered the divisions to concentrate, but I’m still afraid the gunfire round Charleroi is a feint. The French could just as easily advance to the west, through Mons or Tournai. If I were Bonaparte I’d attack from the west and cut us off from the North Sea and our supply lines. As well as our evacuation route. Bonaparte’s no fool. I’m waiting for intelligence from Grant. What the devil’s keeping him, Davenport?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Having been commanded elsewhere.”

  “Hrmph.” Wellington turned to Fitzroy, Gordon, Canning, and the rest of his staff. “Take your plates into the outer office. The prince and I need a word with Rannoch and Davenport in private.”

  The prince was still frowning. “Was someone trying to kill Malcolm at the château two nights ago?” he asked as Wellington’s staff withdrew. “And Julia was caught in the cross fire?”

  “It may be more complicated.” Malcolm reached for the glass of wine Davenport had poured for him and took a sip, controlling the instinctive wince at the pain that shot through his arm. He glanced at Wellington. Wellington gave a crisp nod.

  “It appears Lady Julia was not simply a disinterested observer in events in Brussels this spring,” Malcolm said.

  “Of course not,” Billy said. “She was a ... a British officer’s wife.”

  “Quite. But she had her own loyalties that were rather more complicated.” Malcolm looked directly into his friend’s eyes, recalling John Ashton’s shock at the news. “Lady Julia was giving information to the French.”

  “Julia was—?” The prince shook his head. “No, it’s not possible.”

  “I’m afraid the evidence is incontrovertible.” Malcolm leaned forward. “Think, Billy. You said last night that you had found her going through the pockets of your coat.”

  “But—” Billy’s eyes went wide with horror as disbelief gave way to sick certainty. “Mon Dieu.”

  “What could she have learned?” Wellington asked, in a soft voice that held the force of a sword cut.

  “Nothing.”

  “Billy,” Malcolm said.

  The prince put a hand to his neckcloth. “There was a note from Rebecque about the disposition of the troops round Braine-le-Comte. If I’d known—”

  “No sense refining upon it now.” Wellington set down his wineglass, sloshing the Burgundy. “Our friend Vedrin gave his minder the slip before we could bring him in and seems to have gone to earth. There’s little to be done on any front until we receive more news. We’d best prepare for the ball.”

  The prince stared at him. “You mean—”

  “To forestall panic as long as possible. Once rumors get about we’ll have every Bonapartist in the city setting off fireworks.”

  The prince winced but met the duke’s gaze. “And you think the Dutch-Belgian soldiers will desert.”

  “I think it’s entirely possible they will if they think the battle is lost before it begins. Besides, I need to speak to a number of my officers, and the ball is where I’ll find most every British officer of rank. Rannoch, you’d best get home and let your wife patch you up or you won’t be presentable.” He took a sip of wine. “And more to the point, Suzanne won’t forgive me.”

  Suzanne snipped off a length of linen. “You’ve always been good at adapting your thesis as
new data emerges, darling. I trust you’ve now abandoned your claim that no one could be trying to kill you?”

  “It is becoming a bit indefensible.”

  Suzanne tied the ends of the bandage, willing her fingers to be steady. “It’s a good thing you aren’t a soldier. Neither one of your arms is going to be of much use.”

  “I still managed to ride.”

  She swallowed the fear that threatened to choke her. “I’ve seen you manage to ride with a broken arm and a bullet in your side.”

  “So you should know this is nothing. I’m more interested in what we learned from Anthony Chase before the shooting started.”

  “What?” Cordelia asked. She was sitting beside Suzanne on one of the salon sofas, handing her items from her medical supply box.

  Malcolm looked at Davenport.

  “Cordy—” Davenport looked into his wife’s eyes. “Tony claims Julia broke with him because she was having an affair with George.”

  Cordelia stared at him for the length of a half-dozen heartbeats. Then she flung back her head and gave a shout of bitter laughter. “Oh, dear God.”

  “It doesn’t surprise you?”

  “That George would have an affair with my sister? We know he’s capable of betraying his marriage.”

  “But he—”

  “Loved me?” Cordelia shook her head. “I told you, I don’t believe in love anymore.” She frowned. “Why would the French want Julia to spy on George?”

  “I don’t know.” Malcolm drew his shirt up over his bandaged shoulder.

  “So this is why—” Cordelia pushed herself to her feet and paced the length of the salon, flounced muslin skirts whipping about her legs. “Julia broke with Tony because she was having an affair with George.”

  “And Tony learned of it apparently,” Davenport said. “That forced the issue.”

  “Tony must have been furious,” Cordelia said. “And he’s a rifleman.”

  “Anyone could have hired someone to fire those shots in the allée,” Malcolm said. “Even if Tony Chase was behind it, I doubt he actually did the shooting.”

  “No, but—” Cordelia exchanged a look with Suzanne, then told Malcolm and Davenport about Jane Chase’s account of her husband’s visitor the night before the ball.

  Malcolm’s brows drew together. “Anthony Chase says he didn’t learn of the affair until he saw his brother and Lady Julia together at the ball.”

  “Says,” Davenport murmured.

  Malcolm was looking at Suzanne. “Mrs. Chase must be very angry at her husband.”

  “Jane Chase is terrified of what her husband might be capable of, afraid she doesn’t know him, and sick at the thought that she loves him despite it all,” Suzanne said. “She wants to know the truth.”

  “Which could break her heart.”

  Suzanne rubbed her arms. “So could not knowing.”

  Malcolm exchanged a look with Davenport. “It appears we need to talk to both Chase brothers at the ball tonight.”

  Cordelia drew a breath. Suzanne saw Davenport’s gaze go to his wife’s face. Whatever she might claim, Cordelia’s feelings for George Chase were far more complicated than cynical indifference.

  Cordelia forced a smile to her lips. “It appears the next step for all of us is to dress for the ball.”

  30

  Swags of crimson, gold, and black, the Royal colors of the Netherlands, veiled the rose trellis wallpaper in the Duchess of Richmond’s ballroom. Ribbons and flowers garlanded the pillars. The younger Lennoxes had thrown open the windows that ran along one side of the room, letting in a welcome breeze to stir the hot, heavy air. Cool moonlight blended on the parquet floor with warmer light from the brilliant chandeliers. The flames of dozens of branches of candles shimmered in the dark glass of the French windows and the brightly polished gilt-edged mirrors. The strains of a waltz rose above the clink of glasses and buzz of brittle talk. But Suzanne had the oddest sense the delicate atmosphere could shatter as easily as one could break a champagne glass with a silver spoon.

  “There are so many dignitaries present, from so many countries,” Georgiana Lennox said. “It’s quite a chore keeping precedence straight.”

  “Just like Vienna,” Aline murmured.

  Indeed the profusion of medals, braid, and gold and silver lace glittering in the candlelight called to mind scenes at the Congress, as did the perfume, beeswax, and sweat vying with the sweet aroma from the banks of roses and lilies that decorated the room. But the two hundred some guests crowding Georgiana’s mother’s ballroom were a small crowd compared to the thousand and more Prince and Princess Metternich had entertained at their villa.

  “It looks splendid,” Suzanne said.

  Georgiana gave a smile slightly strained about the edges. “You’d never guess my sisters use this room as a schoolroom, would you? Or that we’ve been known to play battledore and shuttlecock in here.” She scanned the crowd. “I do wish Wellington would come.”

  “He may have ordered the army ready to march,” Aline said, “but he obviously isn’t in a panic. Half his officers are here.”

  “But there’s a distinct dearth of Dutch-Belgians.” Georgiana tugged at a loose thread in her sleeve. “None of General Perponcher’s officers has put in an appearance.”

  “Lord Hill is saying everything that is reassuring.” Suzanne scanned the soldiers thronging the floor with ladies in gauzy, ribbon-trimmed gowns in a hothouse of colors—-lilac, rose, Pomona green, jonquil, cerulean blue. Her gaze settled on a man in Belgian uniform. Good God. Surely that handsome face with the slanting cheekbones belonged to General de la Bédoyère, who had taken his regiment over to Napoleon and was now one of his aides-de-camp. La Bédoyère met her gaze for the briefest moment, a reckless glint in his eyes, then continued to glance round the room.

  Aline pulled her lace shawl closer about her shoulders despite the heat in the room. “Georgy’s right, Perponcher’s officers not being here is worrying.”

  Georgiana shot a surprised look at her. “You’re always so calm, Allie.”

  “Calm?” Aline’s voice turned unwontedly sharp. “My insides are roiling about, and for once I don’t think it’s anything to do with the baby.”

  “But—”

  “My husband’s a military doctor, Georgy. That means he’ll be near the front. Which does rather strain one’s savoir faire.”

  Suzanne put an arm round Aline and squeezed her shoulders. With everything else going on these past days, she’d quite failed to think about what her young cousin was going through. “Geoff’s been through countless battles.”

  “And he’ll be in much less danger than the soldiers. I know.” Aline’s shoulders were taut beneath Suzanne’s arm. “But somehow it doesn’t help.”

  Georgiana flicked her fan open and then closed. “The Prince of Orange gave this to me,” she said, fingering the amber sticks. “So odd to think of him commanding troops. I can’t help—”

  “If one ignores the smell of nervousness in the air and half the conversation, it could almost be a normal evening.” Cordelia emerged from the crowd to stand beside them. Though Suzanne knew just how little time her friend had had to tend to her toilette, she was as dramatic as always in jet-beaded gossamer net over cream-colored silk.

  “Define normal,” Aline said.

  “There’s the rub. If—” Cordelia broke off as a tall, sandy-haired man in a colonel’s uniform came toward them. Colonel Peregrine Waterford. Suzanne had met him in the Peninsula and seen him once or twice in Brussels.

  Waterford greeted all the women, but his gaze lingered on Cordelia, hot with memories. “I was hoping I could persuade you to dance.” His voice was a bit slurred, as though he’d been dipping too deep into the Richmonds’ excellent champagne.

  Cordelia’s answering smile was as distant as it was polite. “Thank you, Colonel, but I won’t dance tonight. My sister died only two days ago.”

  Embarrassment shot through the colonel’s eyes. He murmured an apology
and his condolences on her loss, then quickly took himself off.

  “How ill-mannered,” Georgiana said. “I’m sorry, Cordelia.”

  “I’m the one who should apologize, Georgy. Your mother wouldn’t thank me for letting you so close to one of my scandals.”

  “Oh, stuff.” Georgiana gave a quick flick of her fan. A great deal had changed in her attitude toward Cordelia since Stuart’s ball two days ago. “Scandal seems quite irrelevant now.”

  “Scandal is sadly never irrelevant. And the past seems to be always with us. Oh, good, here’s someone who should know something. Lord Uxbridge.” Cordelia held out her hand to the cavalry commander, who was walking toward them. “Do tell us you have news.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Uxbridge bowed over her hand. “But surely you don’t think all the officers would have leave to be here were the situation really dire?”

  “Yes,” Cordelia said, “if Wellington wanted people to believe the situation less dire than it is.”

  Uxbridge threw back his head and laughed. “Touché. It’s a pity you couldn’t have joined the cavalry, Cordy. I could have made something of you.”

  “It’s just so hard not knowing,” Georgiana said. “Three of my brothers are in the army, as is Mrs. Blackwell’s husband.”

  “And my husband,” Cordelia said.

  Georgiana cast a quick glance at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

  “Quite understandable. But Harry is my husband and the father of my daughter, and as it happens his fate is a matter of some concern to me.”

  Uxbridge looked at her, brows drawing together. “Cordelia—”

  “Lord Uxbridge.” Cordelia put her hands on his shoulders with the familiarity of an old friend. “Tell us the truth.”

  Uxbridge smiled down at her. “The truth, my dear Cordelia, is that I know little more than you.”

  “But you rather think Wellington should have told you more, as second in command.”