Teresa Grant

by Imperial Scandal

  She turned to find not Harry but her brother-in-law crossing the hall toward her. “Johnny.” She moved through the crowd and took his hands. “I didn’t know you were here.” He was dressed for riding, she saw, not dancing.

  “I came to find you.” He returned the clasp of her hands with a convulsive clench. “I thought the duchess would understand in the circumstances. I’m off to my regiment. Are you staying?”

  “At the ball? Not much longer, but—”

  “In Brussels.”

  “Where else would I be?”

  She thought he might be going to try to talk her out of it, but he nodded with evident relief. “Robbie’s nurse is a sensible girl, but I was wondering—”

  “Of course, they can both come to me. I should have suggested it myself.”

  “Thank you.” His fingers tightened over her hands. “I didn’t realize how quickly events would unfold.”

  “None of us did.” Cordelia hugged him. He clutched her for a moment, a drowning man grasping onto a spar.

  “Johnny, listen.” She drew back and took his face between her hands. “You don’t have anything to prove. It isn’t your job to make up for Julia’s faults. Just come back alive to your son.”

  He drew a rough breath, but she saw his eyes focus with welcome clarity. He nodded and kissed her cheek.

  “Johnny.” The cry rose above the voices round them. Violet Chase rushed forward in a stir of sapphire gauze. For a moment Cordelia thought she’d fling herself at Johnny, but she stopped a few feet off. “I was afraid you weren’t here.”

  Johnny blinked at her as though she’d stumbled in from another world. “I came to find Cordy. To talk to her about Robbie.”

  “Of course.” Violet drew a breath. “Johnny, I’m so sorry. About Julia. About everything. I was afraid I’d never have a chance to say so.”

  He met her gaze. Cordelia felt the reverberations in the air—echoes stretching from the night he’d danced with Julia at Emily Cowper’s to whatever had passed between them at Stuart’s ball.

  “Thank you,” Johnny said.

  Violet swallowed, put out her hand, but checked herself before she touched him. “Be careful.”

  Johnny managed a faint smile. “As careful as a man can be with bullets flying about.”

  Violet’s fingers twisted in the folds of her skirt. “There are people who’d be very distressed if anything happened to you.”

  To Cordelia’s surprise, Johnny took Violet’s hand and pressed it. “It’s kind of you to say so.”

  Violet gave an unexpected smile. “Rubbish. You know perfectly well I’m not in the least kind. It’s just that—What’s happened tonight has a way of making so many things seem absurdly trivial, doesn’t it?”

  Johnny met her gaze, his own surprisingly steady. “Yes, I suppose in a way it does.” He hesitated. “Vi—”

  She flung her arms round him, as though they were still the children who played on the banks of the stream between their parents’ estates, and hugged him hard. “Take care, Johnny.”

  “Rannoch.” Davenport fell in beside Malcolm outside the door of the duke’s study. “What did Hookey have to say?”

  “That Bonaparte has humbugged him. He’s gained a day’s march on us and separated us from the Prussians.”

  Davenport grimaced. “Exile apparently hasn’t dulled Boney’s brilliance. It looks as though I’m back to being a staff officer. I’m off to Fleurus with a message. I don’t know if I’ll get back to Brussels before the fighting starts. Tony Chase—”

  “I’ll talk to him.” Malcolm nearly said more, but he wasn’t quite ready to share the suspicions roiling in his head. “You need to find Lady Cordelia and make your farewells.”

  Two cavalry officers pushed past them. A girl in blue ran up and seized one by the arm. Davenport glanced at them for a moment, then turned his gaze back to Malcolm. “Look, Rannoch.” His voice was clipped. “I know Cordelia. I’ve no illusions she’ll go home or even to Antwerp.”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Suzanne wouldn’t, either.”

  A smile of acknowledgment tugged at Davenport’s mouth. “And Wellington wouldn’t thank me for considering defeat. But I have a healthy respect for Napoleon Bonaparte. Should the unthinkable happen—”

  Malcolm gripped his friend’s shoulder. He had many acquaintances but few friends. He realized Davenport had become one of them. “I’ll make sure Lady Cordelia and your daughter get to safety. My word on it.”

  Davenport met his gaze, for once with no hint of mockery. “Thank you.”

  Davenport strode off in search of his wife. Malcolm spared a brief thought for what it would be like to say farewell to Suzanne with such a nightmare of estrangement between them. Then he pushed the thought to where personal thoughts had to go at times like these and glanced round the chaos of the hall for Anthony Chase. Soldiers pushed past; white-gloved fingers clutched scarlet-coated arms; shouts for horses and calls to husbands, wives, sweethearts, children, parents cut the air. Malcolm saw a flash of green and a bright gold head near the front door and pushed his way through the crowd, only to find it was a lieutenant in the 95th rather than Chase.

  He turned back toward the ballroom and saw a familiar face. “March. Are you off?”

  “When I’ve seen my parents,” Lord March said. “Georgy helped me pack.”

  “You haven’t seen Tony Chase by any chance, have you?”

  “Not since supper, I think. Probably slipped off to say good-bye to his latest mistress.” March grimaced with distaste. “I’ve always thought Jane Chase deserved better.”

  “I won’t argue with you there. Though one can’t deny Chase’s bravery at Truxhillo.”

  “No, though if you ask me half of his success was the French being so bloody incompetent.”

  “I was in Andalusia at the time,” Malcolm said. “I think the accounts I’ve heard were rather exaggerated.”

  March frowned. “It’s odd. Tony Chase asked me about that.”

  “About the accounts being exaggerated?”

  “Where you were at the time, of all things. Seemed to think you were on a mission near Truxhillo.”

  Malcolm felt his pulse quicken. “When was this?”

  “Fortnight or so ago. Wellington’s ball for Blücher perhaps? One of the endless round of parties we’ve been attending. The days have a way of running together.”

  Malcolm gripped the other man’s arm. “Thank you, March. Look after yourself.”

  “Always do, old fellow.”

  Malcolm scanned the hall for Tony Chase again. Finding him had suddenly become a matter of pressing urgency.

  Geoffrey Blackwell caught sight of Suzanne, the silver gauze and ivory satin of her gown shimmering in the candlelight. She was just inside the door to the ballroom, a gloved arm round Sarah Lennox, who was visibly holding back tears. Suzanne seemed as self-assured as always, but he knew her senses were keyed to wherever Malcolm was. Geoffrey slipped through the crowd, his dark coat making him feel invisible in the sea of red and blue and rifleman’s green.

  He touched Suzanne’s arm as Lady Sarah moved off with one of her sisters. “I’m off tonight. I want to make sure I have a makeshift surgery established before there are any casualties.” He hesitated, searching for words that would say what was required without being excessive. “Suzanne—”

  “Of course Allie should come to us. I’ll welcome the company. And of course should we need to leave, we’ll take her with us.”

  “That’s the Suzanne I know. Not afraid to admit the possibility of defeat.”

  “It would be foolish to do so. Not that I’m suggesting it’s likely.”

  “No. You’re much too sensible. Thank you, my dear.” He cast a glance round the ballroom, wondering how many of the young men clutching sweethearts’ hands or hugging parents would be lying on stretchers by this time tomorrow. Or already dead. “Whatever happens, wounded are bound to be brought into Brussels. You saw enough in the Peninsula to know what l
ies ahead. It will be like nothing Allie’s ever seen.”

  “Allie has a good head on her shoulders. She’ll cope.”

  Geoffrey controlled an inward flinch. “For a lifelong bachelor, I picked a damnable time to get married.”

  “Nonsense. You got married because you fell in love with Aline. Of all the insane reasons people marry that’s the most sensible I can imagine.”

  Geoffrey smiled, though something still twisted sharp inside him. If anything happened to him, he’d be leaving Aline to raise their child alone. “My dear Suzanne. Who would have thought war would turn you into a romantic?”

  “Geoff.” Aline slipped through the crowd to stand beside them. Her ash-brown hair was coming free from its pins and slithering round her face. She smiled at him with determination. “Are you off?”

  He looked at her for a moment, memorizing the arc of her brows, the steady brightness of her wide, dark eyes, the sweet, ironic curve of her mouth. “As soon as I found you to say good-bye.”

  “Right. Well then.” She looked up at him. In five months of marriage, despite a number of surprisingly intense private moments, she’d never done more than take his arm in public. Now she stepped forward, reached up, and kissed him full on the lips. “We’ll be waiting for you. Both of us.”

  “Harry.” Cordelia skidded over fallen roses and shards of broken champagne glasses on the hall floor. “Thank God. I was afraid you’d left.”

  “Cordy.” He was standing by the base of the stairs, drawing on his gloves. She thought, inconsequentially, that he must have had them off since supper. Absurd the way one’s mind worked at such moments. “You’re staying in Brussels?” he asked.

  “Don’t try to argue me out of—”

  He gave a faint smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it. This is no time to waste one’s breath. But in the event it becomes necessary, Rannoch can help you get back to England.”

  She nodded, swallowing her surprise.

  Harry continued pulling on his gloves. “Should I—In the event I don’t see you again, my man of business has all the necessary documents. Alford-Smith in St. Albans Lane. There’s a portion for you and everything else is in trust for Livia with you as trustee. Neither of you should want for anything.”

  She stared at him. It was as though she was looking at a stranger, and yet she sensed he had never spoken so genuinely. “Harry—I didn’t expect—”

  He tugged the second glove smooth. “What did you think I’d do? Support you and Livia in life and abandon you in death?”

  “No, of course not. But I wish you wouldn’t talk about—”

  “Merely taking precautions. I’ve lived through a tiresome number of battles, I daresay I shall live through this one.”

  Beneath his easy tone and cool gaze something belied his words. She looked at him for a moment, every nerve stretched taut beneath her skin. This could be the last time she would ever see him. She reached up and curled her gloved fingers behind his neck.

  He stiffened beneath her touch. “Cordy—”

  “I have no right to ask you to come back to me, Harry. But for God’s sake, please come back.” She drew his head down and pressed her mouth to his.

  For a moment he went completely still. Then his arms closed about her, as though he would meld her to him. His mouth tasted of wine. His hair was soft beneath her gloved fingers, his hands taut and urgent through the net and silk of her gown, his mouth desperate yet oddly tender against her own.

  When he raised his head, his eyes were like dark glass. He stared down at her with the wonder and fear of a man who has stepped into an alien world. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  She put her hand against the side of his face. Her fingers trembled. “Thank you. That is, I didn’t mean to—”

  He seized her hand and pressed it to his lips with a fervor equal to his kiss. “Tell Livia—”

  “You can tell her yourself when you come back.”

  He gave a twisted smile. “Look after yourself, Cordy.”

  She swallowed. “That’s one thing I’ve always been good at.”

  “Suzette.” Malcolm emerged out of the crowd at her side. “Have you seen Anthony Chase?”

  “He was by the stairs with Jane a quarter hour or so ago. I think he must have left.”

  “Damnation.”

  “Malcolm?” Suzanne scanned her husband’s face. “What is it?”

  “I think Chase is a French spy.”

  34

  Suzanne stared at her husband, not sure she had heard him aright. Shouted names and bugle calls and the lilt of the waltz swirled about them. Just behind Malcolm, a red-coated lieutenant was taking leave of his parents. “You think—”

  “Truxhillo. Supposedly the reason the Silver Hawk’s master wants me dead. Also the moment that made Anthony Chase a hero. Against remarkable odds. But what if it was designed to make him a hero? What if the French set it up because Chase was one of theirs?”

  Suzanne sought frantically through her knowledge from Raoul for anything that would support or refute this. Fortunately or not, nothing did. “There’s no proof—”

  “None except that it makes the puzzle pieces fall into place. Tony Chase didn’t try to rescue Julia from the Comte de Vedrin, he and Vedrin recruited her.”

  “And wanted her to kill you? Because he was afraid you knew Truxhillo was a setup?”

  “March just told me that only a fortnight ago Anthony Chase asked him where I was during the Truxhillo attack. He seemed to think I was on a mission nearby. Which I wasn’t. But apparently Tony thought I had knowledge of what happened at Truxhillo.”

  “As did the Silver Hawk’s spymaster.”

  “The whole deathless love affair Tony has been telling us about, the love affair that didn’t fit with any of the other facts we know about Lady Julia. It never existed.”

  The sound of sobbing cut the air. The lieutenant’s mother had burst into tears as her son departed. Her husband put his arm round her. Suzanne frowned, fragments of information shifting in her head in light of Malcolm’s theory. “When Violet heard Julia and Tony fighting at Stuart’s ball. Tony told Julia she couldn’t just walk away. He didn’t meant the love affair—”

  “He meant her work for him. Quite.” Malcolm squeezed her hand, his gaze roaming over the ballroom. “I have to find Wellington.”

  “Cordelia.” Caro caught her arm. “Have you heard?”

  “It would have been difficult not to.”

  “I’ve already sent word back to the house for them to start packing. We can leave for Antwerp at dawn.”

  Cordelia stared at her friend. “You want to leave?”

  “For God’s sake, Cordy, there’s about to be a battle.” Caro’s fingers tightened on her arm. “The French could be in Brussels tomorrow.”

  “For shame, Caro, Wellington wouldn’t thank you for even considering the possibility of defeat.”

  “Cordy—”

  “Besides, the fighting’s sure to last a few days at least.”

  A blast of night air rushed into the hall as a trio of infantry officers went out the door. One paused to look over his shoulder at a girl in a white frock with pink ribbons who stood with her gaze glued to his face.

  “Cordelia.” Caro seized her hands. “I know I’m not the most practical person. Being in Brussels at all was flirting with disaster, which is what I’ve done all my life. But even I can tell that staying here would be madness.”

  “Since when have you steered clear of madness?”

  “Since now.” Caro cast a quick glance round the hall, beginning to empty of soldiers. The girl in white had begun to weep. A fair-haired girl in lavender ran to comfort her.

  Cordelia hugged Caroline. “It’s all right, Caro. I understand. You should go to Antwerp. But I need to stay.”

  “Why?” Caro’s wide eyes skimmed over her face. “Because of Julia? You can’t think you can learn the truth with battle about to break out.”

  “This may be a better time than eve
r. But it’s not just Julia.”

  “George? Cordy, for God’s sake—”

  “Not George.” Cordelia realized she hadn’t seen him since supper and had felt no impulse to look for him. “Of that I assure you. He’s Annabel’s to worry about.”

  A young dragoon lieutenant pushed past them, clutching a lady’s white kid glove as though it were a talisman. Caro scanned Cordelia’s face with anxious eyes. “Harry? If you’re doing this because you think you can repay some debt to Harry—”

  “No.” Cordelia felt an odd sort of smile break across her face. “Not a debt.”

  “What then?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You can wait for him in Antwerp. God knows I’m worried about my brother Fred, but—”

  Cordelia gave her friend another hug. “We’ll be fine, Caro.”

  Caro clung to her for a moment, then drew back and studied her face. “You look happy.”

  Cordelia shook her head. “Not happy—who could be happy in the midst of all this? But perhaps—”

  “What?” Caro’s voice was sharp with concern.

  “Perhaps things seem possible now that once didn’t.”

  “Oh, Cordy.” Caro’s voice held wonder, worry, and something else that might have been envy. “You could so easily be burned.”

  “Of course. But when is that not true of anything that matters?”

  Wellington stared at Malcolm, fingers frozen on the ties of his evening cloak. “You’re telling me one of my officers is a French spy?”

  “I’m telling you I suspect he is.”

  “Damn it, Rannoch, we’re marching off to war. Where is he?”

  “Off to his regiment. Presumably.”

  Wellington jerked the cords closed. “Find him. And deal with it.”

  A few couples were still waltzing in the ballroom. Cordelia found Suzanne beside a gilded table that held a porcelain bowl of wilting roses and a brace of candles dripping wax onto the marble tabletop.