Teresa Grant

by Imperial Scandal

  Tony didn’t get any further. Malcolm flung him to the muddy ground and put a foot on his back. As Tony tried to struggle up, Malcolm dealt him a blow to the head with the butt of his pistol. Tony subsided into the mud and fallen leaves, unconscious.

  Raoul O’Roarke scanned the field in the pale gathering light. Mist hovered over the ground, but the day promised to be clear and hot.

  “The ground’s still too wet,” Flahaut said beside him. “We’re going to have to delay.”

  Raoul glanced round at the soldiers cleaning their weapons, sipping coffee, tramping their feet against the damp ground. One could almost smell the eagerness for battle running through the men. “They’re going to get impatient.”

  “Can’t be helped.” Flahaut’s face was drawn with tension. Today would decide whether he was branded a traitor or crowned as a hero who might have a chance for a life with the woman he loved. “We can’t get the guns into position in this mud, and the men wouldn’t be able to move fast enough.”

  Raoul nodded. His gaze focused on a figure in the distance. It looked like—Raoul lifted his spyglass. Good God. Malcolm Rannoch was a madman. Not but what Raoul hadn’t been behind enemy lines often enough himself. But he could do so in the guise of an ally. And he didn’t have a wife and son to think of. At least not who were dependent on him.

  “What is it?” Flahaut asked.

  “Nothing,” Raoul said, lowering the spyglass. “Nothing at all.”

  “Malcolm.” The voice called out across the street as Malcolm rode back into the village of Waterloo. He turned to see the Prince of Orange standing before the house that had been his quarters for the night, drawing on his gloves.

  Malcolm swung down from Perdita and walked toward Billy. The rain had let up and a dawn glow battled the mist, but the ground was still a sea of ankle-deep mud.

  Billy walked forward, grinning. “I knew you’d be back.”

  “On a day like today, where else could I be, sir?”

  “That’s the spirit.” Billy met Malcolm in the midst of the street, mud squelching round their boots. Gold braid glittered on Billy’s uniform jacket in the fitful light, but above his stiff, high-standing black collar, his face was the face of an uncertain undergraduate. “Somehow I didn’t quite believe today would actually come. Facing Bonaparte. After two days ago—”

  “Don’t think about two days ago.” Malcolm gripped Billy by the shoulders. “All that matters is today. One moment at a time.”

  Billy swallowed. “But I don’t know—”

  Malcolm had a clear memory of teaching Billy to hold a cricket bat on the lawn at Carfax Court. He looked into the eager, anxious gaze. The gaze of his boyhood friend. The gaze of the man who might be a killer. He pushed all questions about Amelia Beckwith and Julia Ashton to the back of his mind and said the words that needed to be said. “You’ll do splendidly, sir.”

  Harry held his restive horse in check and ran his gaze over Malcolm Rannoch as they waited in the street for the duke’s staff to assemble. The duke and his aides had been breakfasting by the time Rannoch returned to Waterloo, so they’d had no chance for private conversation until now. “Well?” Harry asked Rannoch.

  “Nothing conclusive.”

  “For God’s sake, Rannoch, this isn’t my first engagement. I won’t be distracted. But if I’m going to die, I’d like to have as many pieces of the puzzle as possible in my possession.”

  “I confess I feel much the same.” Rannoch told him about Tony Chase’s duel with Will Flemming.

  Harry shook his head. “Damned fools. So our obvious suspect has an alibi.”

  “He could still have set up the ambush.”

  “But much of the evidence against him and against George is explained away.”

  “There’s still Billy.” Rannoch’s gaze drifted down the street. The Prince of Orange was conferring with March and Rebecque.

  Harry noted the concern in Rannoch’s eyes. Concern and, beneath it, fear. “You’re fond of him,” he said.

  Rannoch’s mouth tightened. “He isn’t the first murder suspect I’ve been fond of.”

  Malcolm was far from the only civilian to ride out with the Duke of Wellington. In addition to his staff, the Prince of Orange, and Lord Uxbridge, Wellington was accompanied by a diplomatic corps including Pozzo di Borgo, who was Corsican but represented Tsar Alexander of Russia, Spanish General Alava, the Austrian representative Baron Vincent, and Prussian Baron von Müffling. Wellington, in white buckskin breeches and tasseled top boots, the gold knotted sash of a Spanish field marshal showing beneath his blue coat, might have been setting out on a fox hunt. Malcolm, who knew the value of costume and disguise, could appreciate that everything from Wellington’s polished, casual dress to his easy manner was part of his campaign tactics.

  As they rode toward the troops, two men on horseback approached them. “Good God,” murmured Alexander Gordon, who was riding beside Malcolm. “It’s Richmond.”

  It was indeed his grace the Duke of Richmond, whom Malcolm had last seen in his study at the ball, poring over the map as Wellington pointed at the village of Waterloo. Beside the duke rode his fifteen-year-old son, Lord William, his arm in a sling and a bandage on his head. Malcolm recalled Uxbridge toasting William and the other junior officers at the Richmond ball.

  “William has come to present himself for duty,” Richmond informed Wellington.

  Wellington cast a glance at the young lieutenant. “Nonsense. William, you ought to be in bed. Duke, you have no business here.”

  Richmond’s reply was carried away on the wind, but he appeared to be arguing with his friend Wellington. He and William continued to ride alongside Wellington’s cortège, and when they did move off it was toward General Picton’s division rather than back to Brussels.

  Malcolm turned his head to see a tall figure in the short-tailed blue jacket and red-plumed shako of the light dragoons riding toward him. Even before the rider was close enough for Malcolm to make out his features or his captain’s insignia, his posture was unmistakable. Malcolm’s throat tightened, and he breathed a small sigh of relief. He hadn’t consciously let himself think it, but he’d been dreading the prospect that he might never see his brother again.

  “Malcolm.” Edgar reined in beside him. “I was hoping I could find you.”

  “You knew I’d be here?”

  “I know you, brother mine.” A shadow crossed Edgar’s normally sunny face. Since their mother’s death, they didn’t know each other as well as they once had. Then he gave one of his careless grins. “Have a care, will you? You’re the only brother I’ve got.”

  Malcolm felt his own face relax into a smile. “I could say the same to you. And I’m only observing.”

  “Ha. You may be able to run intellectual rings round me, Malcolm, but I’m not quite so naïve.” Edgar glanced toward Picton’s division. “Couldn’t believe it when I saw Richmond and young William.”

  “Family honor,” Malcolm said.

  Edgar turned his gaze back to him. “At least if anything happens to either of us we know it won’t affect Father overmuch.” He said it matter-of-factly, because matter-of-fact was what they’d come to be when it came to their father, out of sheer survival instinct.

  “Quite,” Malcolm said. For a moment, the name of their mother, who would have cared, hung between them, tightening the air with past questions and past guilt.

  Edgar gathered up his reins. “Give my love to Suzanne and Colin if I don’t come back. And to Gelly.”

  “Likewise,” Malcolm said. Gisèle was their seventeen-year-old sister, home in England with Aline’s mother. He looked into Edgar’s eyes, the eyes of his boyhood confidant and first friend, and for a moment understood precisely why George Chase hadn’t turned Tony in. His throat went tight with all the things he couldn’t say. He clapped his brother on the arm. “Go carefully, Edgar.”

  Edgar’s gloved fingers closed over Malcolm’s own. “You too.”

  Malcolm watched his broth
er ride out of view. Mist hung over the fields, mixed with smoke from the Allied cooking fires and those of the French on the opposite ridge. Steam rose from cheap tea brewed in iron kettles. The smell of clay pipes and officers’ cigars mingled with the stench of wool still sodden from the night’s rain. Shots split the air as soldiers fired their guns to clean them.

  “Waste of ammunition,” Davenport said to Malcolm. “It’s going to be a long day.”

  And it had yet to properly begin. A breeze gusted over what would be the battlefield, stirring the corn, cutting through the curtain of mist. Wellington had taken up a position before the small village of Mont-Saint-Jean. Fitzroy had said that the duke would have preferred the position across the field at the inn of La Belle Alliance, which Bonaparte occupied, but the Allied position had its advantages. Wellington had seen the ground when he was in Brussels the previous year. Malcolm remembered the duke mentioning the slope of the land to the north, which would allow him to keep most of his troops out of sight of an enemy across the field.

  To the left stood the fortified farm La Haye Sainte, with whitewashed walls and a blue-tiled roof that gleamed where the sunlight broke the mist, and still farther to the left the twin farms of Papelotte and La Haye. To the right, in a small valley hidden by cornfields, was Hougoumont, a pretty, walled château surrounded by a wood and a hedged orchard. Both Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte had been garrisoned with Allied soldiers.

  The ground before them sloped down to a valley, through which the road to Charleroi ran, then rose to the ridge on which stood La Belle Alliance. On this ridge, the French army had begun to deploy. An elegant, masterful pageant. Malcolm lifted his spyglass. Lancers with white-plumed shapkas on their heads, chasseurs with plumes of scarlet and green, hussars, dragoons, cuirassiers, and carabiniers, and the Imperial Guard in their scarlet-faced blue coats. Gunners adjusted the positions of their weapons. Pennants snapped in the breeze and gold eagles caught the sun as it battled the mist.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Davenport murmured.

  “Bonaparte understands the value of theatre,” Malcolm said.

  “Unless he’s also a master of illusion, there are a bloody lot of them. I hope to God the Prussians get here.”

  Malcolm cast a glance along the Allied lines. “We happy few.”

  “Shakespeare was a genius, but he’d never been on a battlefield. Do you know what you’re in for, Rannoch?”

  “I’ve seen battles before,” Malcolm said, scenes from the Peninsula fresh in his mind. “But I don’t think any of us has seen anything like what’s about to unfold.”

  Cheers went up among the French troops as a figure on a gray horse galloped into their midst.

  “Boney,” Davenport said. “Odd to think I’ve never seen him before.”

  Malcolm handed his spyglass to Davenport. Bonaparte wore the undress uniform of a colonel in the Imperial Guard and a bicorne hat without cockades. Wellington, too, wore casual dress for battle, though his buckskins and blue coat were more in the style of a gentleman out for a morning’s ride. He wore four cockades on his own bicorne, for Britain, Spain, Portugal, and the Netherlands.

  Even without a spyglass, the cheers of the French troops for Bonaparte were evident. In response Wellington rode among his own troops, at a sedate trot rather than Bonaparte’s gallop. The duke was greeted with respectful nods but no cheering.

  Alexander Gordon pulled up beside Malcolm and Davenport. “Uxbridge has ordered sherry for his staff so they can toast today’s fox.”

  “Fox hunting always struck me as a bloody business,” Davenport said. “And a damned waste. My sympathies go to the fox.”

  Gordon shot an amused glance at him and held out a paper. “Well, while you’re feeling sympathetic toward Boney, you can take this to Picton. Wellington’s orders.”

  Davenport wheeled his horse round but turned back to Malcolm before he rode off. “I don’t say this often, but it’s been a pleasure working with you, Malcolm.”

  Malcolm reached between the horses to clasp the other man’s hand. “Likewise, Harry.”

  Gordon cast a glance after Davenport as he galloped off. “Odd devil. But a brave one.” He turned his gaze to Malcolm. “We all right, Rannoch?”

  “Really, Gordon. Arranging a duel in the middle of a ball?”

  Gordon flushed. “Flemming’s one of my oldest friends. One doesn’t refuse such a request from a friend. Besides, no one was badly hurt. If Will hadn’t been drinking he wouldn’t have winged Tony Chase at all.” His gaze moved to the field stretching before them and the French on the opposite ridge. “Seems like child’s play compared to today.”

  “It gives both Chase brothers an alibi.”

  Gordon met his gaze, a soldier not shirking rebuke. “I couldn’t tell you, Malcolm. It was a confidence.”

  Malcolm reached out and gripped his friend’s arm. “It’s all right, Sandy. I do understand.”

  Gordon’s face relaxed, though doubt still lurked in his eyes. “If—”

  As Gordon spoke, the roar of guns cracked open the summer morning.

  It had begun.

  Suzanne was kneeling on the hall floor, spooning gruel to Christophe, the young Belgian private, when the sound of guns thundered through the house. Strangely not as loud as the noise two days ago from Quatre Bras, which was farther from Brussels, but still enough to shake the windows in their frames and set the crystals in the chandelier tinkling.

  “It’s started,” Christophe said.

  “Yes.” Suzanne kept her fingers steady on the spoon. The hall clock showed that it was just before eleven-thirty. Across the hall, Cordelia was applying fresh fomentations to Angus, the Highland sergeant. Aline was bathing the face of Higgins, an infantry corporal. Both women went still and met Suzanne’s gaze for a moment. Suzanne gave them the most encouraging smile she could muster. Aline grinned with determination. Cordelia gave an ironic smile. Suzanne looked back at Christophe. “It’s started, but it will be a long time before it ends.”

  “I should be there.”

  “Nonsense. You did more than enough at Quatre Bras. You have to let others have their turn.”

  He gave a weak smile. “You’re kind, Madame Rannoch.”

  “I’m practical. Have some more broth.”

  David and Simon came through the front door a few minutes later. They had gone to arrange burial for the soldier who had died during the night. Suzanne, Cordelia, and Aline met them by the door. They had long since given up having a footman answer the door. The servants were all helping care for the wounded, either in the house or in the streets.

  “Any news?” Aline asked.

  “Wild rumors,” David said. “No news.”

  “Save that apparently some wealthy Bruxellois are preparing a banquet to welcome the victorious emperor and his officers,” Simon added. “Meanwhile, some of their compatriots are fleeing for Antwerp. People are lined up trying to get passports from Colonel Jones. Poor devil may be thinking it would have been less arduous to take the field than to be left in Brussels as military commander.”

  “And more wounded are being brought in,” David said.

  “Or limping in. We found one man who fell at Quatre Bras two days ago.” Anger sharpened Simon’s usually ironic voice. “He crawled out of the mud yesterday and walked twenty-some miles to Brussels. It’s a miracle he survived. We got him to his billet.”

  David looked at Suzanne. “We thought we’d take one of the carriages and drive toward Waterloo. We can bring back what men we can and see if we can learn any news.”

  “Of course.”

  David and Simon left the house, shoulder to shoulder. They worked together seamlessly in the face of necessity, yet she could still feel the distance between them. As though the air between them was empty where before it had pulsed with a tangible connection. How much could be lost so quickly.

  Stuart stopped by an hour or so later. “All those years in Lisbon,” he said, glancing round the hall, “I don’t think I ever real
ized quite how fortunate we were to be so removed from the battlefield.” He squeezed her arm. “You’re doing a capital job, which doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

  “Thank you,” Suzanne said, oddly touched. Stuart had come to be almost like family in the years she’d been Malcolm’s wife. For some reason, seeing anyone she was close to these past few days made her want to burst into tears.

  Stuart took her arm and steered her into the privacy of the study, where no soldiers were quartered. “I received a dispatch from Wellington at seven this morning. Basically instructing me to guard against panic.” He regarded her with a faint smile. “You aren’t panicked, I take it?”

  “After all these years don’t you know me?”

  The smile deepened to a grin. “Quite right.” His face turned serious. “We need to be ready to move the British civilians and our allies out of Brussels should things go against us. Wellington may have to fall back and leave Brussels to the French. Are you prepared to move quickly if necessary?”

  She nodded. “Malcolm left travel documents and we have horses ready in the stables. I have the necessary items packed.”

  “Good girl. I’ve talked to Capellen”—Baron van der Capellen was the secretary of state of the Netherlands—“and he’s issued a proclamation designed to be reassuring. I daresay it will be some time before we hear anything more. I haven’t had any news from Malcolm. I suspect you haven’t, either?”

  She shook her head.

  “Yes, well, I wouldn’t have expected to. Don’t believe everything you hear today. Rumors are thick as molasses already.”

  “My dear sir,” Suzanne said, firmly ignoring the fear that was twisting her stomach into knots, “by now you should know me well enough to realize I’m a healthy skeptic about everything.”

  “You’re one in a million, Suzanne. If there were more women like you, I wouldn’t be a bachelor.”

  “If you were less fond of flirting you wouldn’t be a bachelor.”

  He grinned. “You have a point. One would never have guessed it was Malcolm who had the makings of an ideal husband. But then you make it look easy.”