“It’s odd,” Cordelia said, when Raoul had moved off. “Half the people I meet here know more about Harry’s life in the past four years than I do. I’d never have thought that Harry—”
“Was the sort for adventure? Malcolm would say intelligence work isn’t about adventure, it’s about analyzing data and calculating odds.”
“So analyzing the Punic wars is good training for analyzing French troop movement?”
“Precisely. Malcolm read history at Baliol.”
“Some of the best conversations Harry and I had were about classical history.” Cordelia cast a quick glance round the ballroom, a swirl of noise and color. “I wish—”
“Cordy.” Violet Chase ran up to them and gripped Cordelia’s arm. One puffed sleeve of sapphire gauze slipped from her shoulder and a ringlet had fallen loose from its pearl pins. “Where’s Johnny? Is he here?”
“He didn’t intend to be,” Cordelia said, “and I doubt he’d have changed his mind.”
Violet squeezed her eyes shut. “Dear God. I can’t not say good-bye.”
“Violet—”
“Don’t you see?” Violet tightened her grip on Cordelia’s arm. “I daresay he despises me after I flung myself at him in the garden two nights ago, but pride doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t even care how he feels about me. I can’t imagine he feels very much. But I need to tell him how I feel about him. Before it’s too late.”
“I’m sorry, Vi.” Cordelia squeezed her friend’s hands.
Violet drew a shuddering breath. “He’s never going to get over Julia, is he?”
“I don’t know about never, but it’s going to take time. Whatever he’s learned about her, she was his wife.”
“Damn Julia.” Violet’s eyes darkened to indigo. “Despite everything she did I can’t think about her without feeling guilty.”
“About Johnny? Vi, I wouldn’t—”
“Not just about Johnny.” Violet hesitated a moment, then looked from Cordelia to Suzanne. Her lips trembled, but her gaze was steady with determination. “The night of Stuart’s ball Tony didn’t go home with Jane and me. He said he was meeting some of his fellow officers at a café.”
“He followed John Ashton home,” Suzanne said. “He was concerned about Lady Julia. He learned she’d been killed from one of the servants. I think he spent the rest of the night in a tavern.”
Violet gave a quick, jerky nod. “That wasn’t why I told you. Tony saw Jane and me to our carriage. When he handed me into the carriage I glanced down and—” She cast a quick glance to either side, then looked back at Suzanne and Cordelia. The strains of the waltz and the buzz of excited talk echoed in the silence. “There was a stain on his sleeve. I think it was blood.”
32
Suzanne looked into Violet Chase’s bright, fierce gaze. She recognized the guilt she saw there all too well. “It was very brave of you to tell us that.”
Violet lifted her chin. “It was an appalling betrayal of my brother. But we’re none of us going to have any peace if we don’t learn what happened to Julia. Johnny especially. And somehow—After hating her for years, I can’t stop feeling I owe her the truth.”
“Thank you, Vi,” Cordelia said.
“I’m a fool.” Violet tugged her sleeve up over her shoulder. “There could be other ways Tony got blood on his sleeve.”
“So there could,” Suzanne said.
Violet gave a quick nod and then looked at Cordelia. “If you see Johnny, tell him—Tell him I’ll be thinking of him.”
“Dear God,” Cordelia said when Violet moved off. Her lip rouge and eye blacking stood out against her pale face.
“She’s right,” Suzanne said. “There could be another explanation.”
“For the blood and for what Jane overheard?”
“One thing I’ve learned being married to an intelligence officer is to be wary of the obvious explanation.”
“But—” Cordelia broke off as their husbands slipped through the crowd to join them.
“What’s happened?” Davenport asked, scanning his wife’s face.
“Isn’t Wellington’s news enough?”
“It would take more than Bonaparte marching to make you go so white.”
Cordelia swallowed. “Violet told us she saw blood on Tony’s sleeve the night of the ball.”
Davenport’s gaze jerked round the room.
“Tony Chase told me he’d engaged the man his wife heard him with to follow Julia,” Malcolm said. “He gave me the man’s name and direction. If we ask him about the blood I’m sure he’ll have an equally plausible story. Just like Gordon did for slipping away from the ball.”
“Gordon had no motive to kill Julia,” Davenport said. “Whereas we have more evidence against Anthony Chase by the hour.”
Suzanne pictured Alexander Gordon’s cheerful, mocking face and considered the hints of steel she’d glimpsed beneath his carefree façade. “Gordon is one of Wellington’s most trusted aides-de-camp,” she pointed out.
Malcolm stared at her. “My God, Suzette.”
Davenport looked between them. “You think Wellington ordered Gordon to deal with Julia?” His voice had the taut quality of a rope pulled to the point of breaking.
“And then had us investigate?” Malcolm shook his head. “I’d like to think he has more respect for us. Not to mention a greater sense of honor.”
“I’d have agreed with you when Julia was merely the Prince of Orange’s mistress,” Davenport said. “But if Wellington had learned she was a French spy, I’d say all bets are off. Codes of honor tend not to apply to spies. As we both have cause to know.”
“It still wouldn’t make sense for Gordon to have been working with Tony Chase. Who’s the one we have the evidence against.”
“Unless it was Tony who figured out his mistress was a French spy and went to Wellington,” Davenport said, still scanning the room.
“Harry.” Cordelia put a hand on her husband’s arm.
“What?”
“The procession’s about to form for supper.”
“And?”
She curled her black-gloved fingers round his arm. “You won’t solve anything by causing an incident right this moment. And I need you to escort me.”
He cast a surprised look at her. “It isn’t fashionable for husbands and wives to sit together.”
She tightened her grip on his arm. “Don’t be difficult.”
“Malcolm,” Suzanne said, under cover of the hum of conversation as the company began to move toward the passage to the hall, “does Truxhillo mean anything to you?”
“In Spain? Why?”
“Supposedly it has to do with why the Silver Hawk’s employer wants you dead.”
He cast a surprised glance at her. “How do you know?”
“My dressmaker’s assistant,” Suzanne said, her prepared story easy on her lips. “I asked her for information, and she said she’d see what she could learn. She smuggled me a message just now with one of the footmen. She has a number of clients with French sympathies. She couldn’t or wouldn’t say from whom she heard it, but her intelligence has been good before.”
Malcolm frowned. “A British expeditionary force on their way to rendezvous with some guerrilleros were ambushed by a French patrol near Truxhillo in early ’11. They fought off superior numbers. It was where Anthony Chase first distinguished himself.”
“Captain Chase?” Suzanne tried to fit this in with what Raoul had told her.
“He was only a lieutenant then. The captain and half the men were killed, but Chase rallied the survivors and led them to victory.”
“How odd. Do you think—”
She broke off at a stir of movement near the doorway. An officer, dressed for riding, not dancing, his hair damp with sweat, pushed his way through the crowd. Lieutenant Webster, she realized, Lady Holland’s son from her first marriage. He handed a paper to the Prince of Orange, who was standing with Wellington, Lady Charlotte Greville, and the Duchess of Richmond
by the ballroom door. The prince glanced at the paper without much concern and then held it out, unopened, to Wellington.
“Billy,” Malcolm murmured. “You need to learn to read dispatches.”
Wellington slit open the dispatch and scanned it quickly. His face remained impassive, but tension shot through his shoulders. “Webster,” he said, “four horses to the Prince of Orange’s carriage.”
Wellington issued more low-voiced instructions, then turned to the Duchess of Richmond with an easy smile and went to take Georgiana’s arm to lead her in to supper. The company proceeded down the passage and across the hall to the dining room. Royal Dutch red, black, and gold veiled the walls here as well. White linen, polished silver, and sparkling crystal gleamed on the tables. Champagne bottles stood cooling in silver buckets. A world of elegance and artifice, far removed from the battlefield.
But Suzanne had barely dropped into her chair when the Prince of Orange hurried into the room, pushed his way between the linen-covered tables, and began to whisper to Wellington. They conversed for some minutes, their words unintelligible, while the rest of the company stared at their wineglasses and silverware in taut silence.
“I have no fresh orders to give,” Wellington said at last. His lowered tones gave way to a voice meant to carry. “I advise Your Royal Highness to go back to your quarters and to bed.”
The prince regarded him in surprise, then nodded, straightened up, and made his way from the room at a more dignified pace. Wellington smiled and said something to Georgiana that made her laugh.
Davenport took a sip of wine. “Might as well enjoy a good meal. God knows when we’ll get another.”
Cordelia looked at him for a moment but merely picked up her wineglass. “Wellington’s the only one in the room who’s still managing to act as though this is a social occasion,” she observed a few moments later. The duke was sitting between Georgiana and his Brussels flirt, Lady Frances Webster. He had given Georgiana a miniature that she exclaimed over. He was smiling and laughing in response.
“He’s an excellent actor,” Malcolm said. “Excuse me.” He got to his feet and conferred briefly with the Prince of Orange near the door.
“The dispatch Webster brought was from Rebecque at Braine-le-Comte,” he said when he returned to their table. “Written at ten this evening and reporting that the French under Grouchy have attacked the Prussians at Sombreffe.”
“Are they still fighting?” Davenport asked.
“No, the Prussians have fallen back to Fleurus. But before he could follow Wellington’s order to return to Braine-le-Comte, Billy received another dispatch from Rebecque, this one written at ten-thirty, half an hour after the one Webster brought. Apparently having taken Charleroi, more French troops under Marshal Ney have pushed up the central chaussée to the crossroads at Quatre Bras. Ney and some French cavalry engaged Prince Bernhard and the Nassau troops at Frasnes.”
Davenport frowned. “I thought Prince Bernhard was at Genappe.”
“Apparently he moved forward. Ney didn’t have enough forces to pursue the engagement. He’s bivouacked for the night. Rebecque and Perponcher decided to ignore Wellington’s orders and send Perponcher’s second division to Quatre Bras to support Prince Bernhard.”
Suzanne cast a glance at the duke. “For once I suspect Wellington doesn’t mind his orders being disregarded.”
Cordelia frowned. “Caro mentioned going through Quatre Bras on a picnic last month. It’s almost directly south of Brussels, isn’t it? So Wellington must have been wrong about the real attack coming from the west—”
“Yes, it looks as though the French are attacking from the south,” Davenport finished for her. “To separate us from the Prussians. Grouchy’s attacked the Prussians, and Ney’s keeping us from going to their aid. Clever man, Boney.”
Suzanne said nothing. If that was true and Wellington had only just realized it, the French had gained valuable time. She didn’t dare risk a glance round the supper room for Raoul. She wondered how much he knew.
As the company picked at their food, rumors about the contents of the Prince of Orange’s message spread through the room. Suzanne avoided the impulse to look at Raoul and see how he was taking things. She wondered if Malcolm would leave Brussels tonight or if they’d have until tomorrow before someone sent him on an errand.
Though some had already left the ball and some, like Fitzroy and Harriet Somerset, weren’t present at all, the tables were crowded. Lord Uxbridge attempted to keep up a convivial mood, toasting the Richmonds’ fifteen-year-old son, Lord William Lennox (his arm in a sling and a bandage on his head from his recent riding accident), and some of the other junior officers who were standing round the sideboard due to the lack of space.
When the meal came to an end, the spell that had held the company under some semblance of illusion that they were at an ordinary ball well and truly broke. Malcolm was claimed by Stuart, Davenport by Colonel Canning. Raoul met Suzanne’s gaze briefly across the supper room. It was, she knew, the only good-bye they would have.
By the time Suzanne and Cordelia stepped back into the hall it was a scene of chaos. Soldiers calling for their horses; girls darting across the floor, tripping over their skirts, shouting the names of their beloveds; parents scanning the crowd for sons. The musicians had begun to play again in the ballroom, but the strains of the waltz vied with the call of bugles and the shrill song of fifes from outside. A broken champagne glass scrunched under Suzanne’s satin slipper. By the dining room door a young captain stood holding the hands of a girl in orange blossom crêpe. A little farther off a girl in pink muslin had sunk to the floor, weeping into her hands. Suzanne felt Cordelia go still beside her.
A man in a rifleman’s uniform brushed past them, a girl in white on his arm. Suzanne suppressed a start at the sight of those finely molded features. Then she forced her gaze away. The ghosts of her past seemed irrelevant in the chaos of the present.
“Suzanne.” Georgiana touched her arm. “I’m going to help March pack up his things.” She glanced toward the ballroom. “I can’t believe people are so heartless as to still be dancing.”
Cordelia drew a harsh breath. “I wouldn’t be too hard on them. It may be their last chance.”
“Malcolm. Glad I found you.” Stuart gripped Malcolm’s arm, his face uncharacteristically grim. He jerked his head toward the Duke of Richmond’s study. Malcolm followed the ambassador into the room to find Wellington and the Duke of Richmond already there, amid the ranks of books and the smell of old leather and dusty paper. Richmond was spreading a map out on the desk.
“Napoleon has humbugged me by God!” Wellington glanced at the door as Malcolm and Stuart stepped into the room. “He has gained twenty-four hours’ march on me. And separated us from the Prussians.”
“What do you intend doing?” the Duke of Richmond asked. He was a soldier himself, in command of the reserves in Brussels. Three of his sons were in the army, and Malcolm knew Richmond himself had been displeased not to receive an appointment on Wellington’s staff.
Wellington moved to the desk and stared down at the map. “I have ordered the army to concentrate at Quatre Bras, but we shan’t stop him there, and if so,” he said, pressing his thumb down on the map, “I must fight him here.”
Malcolm moved to the duke’s side to see what he was pointing at. Wellington’s thumbnail rested on a small village called Waterloo.
33
Jane Chase paused on the staircase. Women pushed past her, fastening the ties on cloaks they’d retrieved from upstairs, pausing to scan the hall below with anxious eyes, hurrying forward and calling the names of lovers, husbands, sons, brothers. The hall was a sea of red and green and blue coats and pale gowns as soldiers took their leave. The front door banged open and shut every few moments as someone new departed, letting in a blast from the bugles calling the soldiers to march.
Jane had already said one tearful good-bye, but now she was looking for her husband. She hadn’t seen him sinc
e supper and then across the room. He’d had a pretty girl in blue on his left and a pretty girl in yellow on his right. Jane wasn’t sure of their names, though she thought one had been one of the Lennox daughters. Truth to tell Jane had avoided Tony as much as possible all afternoon and evening. Guilt bit her in the throat whenever she looked at him.
But now reality had hit with the force of a cannonball. The reality that her husband would soon be gone. And that there was no guarantee she’d ever see him again.
“Jane.” Tony appeared at the base of the stairs. “Thank God, I’ve been looking for you. I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave at once.”
She ran down the steps and seized his hands. He returned her clasp, a look of faint surprise on his face.
“Tony, I—”
He put his finger to her lips. “I’m sorry, Janie. There’s no time to say it all now.”
For a moment they were standing in the ballroom of her parents’ London house, a quadrille playing in the background, the scent of hyacinths in the air, the world fading away round them. She was a girl again, robbed of her customary irony, struck by the wonder of having found love—that thing she had always laughed at—and having found someone who loved her.
Betraying tears sprang to her eyes at the memories. She reached up and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “I’m sorry, too, Tony.”
He grimaced. “Don’t, Janie, there’s no sense—” He tightened his grip on her hands and pulled her closer. “I love you, Jane.”
A flash of bitterness shot through her. “If that was true, you wouldn’t—”
“Whatever I’ve done, it has nothing to do with you, my darling.” He stooped his head toward her, then hesitated.
She closed the distance between them and lifted her lips to his. “Whatever happens, Tony, remember I loved you. More than anything.”
“Cordelia.”
Cordelia turned round at the sound of her name, hoping it was Harry. She hadn’t seen him since supper. Officers were streaming out the door, and she realized he might well have left without saying good-bye. Why should he after all? Whatever they’d shared in the last two days was set against four years of being strangers.
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