Teresa Grant

by Imperial Scandal

  The ground shook with the pounding of horse hoofs. The Prince of Orange flung himself down beside them. “Malcolm. March. Who—Oh God.” He put his fingers to Canning’s face. For a moment, they were all back in the Peninsula, laughing heedlessly over a flask of wine, danger quickening their blood but death still impossible to imagine.

  “He’s gone, sir.” Malcolm touched the prince’s arm. “We have to go.”

  Billy turned toward him. “We can’t just—”

  A bullet whistled through the air. Malcolm grabbed the prince but not quite quickly enough. Billy collapsed against him, blood spurting from his shoulder.

  “Sir,” Malcolm said. “Billy? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, of course.” The prince struggled to sit up, then fell against Malcolm again, his breath quick and uneven. “I shall be quite all right in a moment.”

  “I’ll get someone to carry you off the field, sir.” March released Canning’s hand, hesitated a moment, then plucked the Orange cockade from Billy’s hat. “Wouldn’t do to have you recognized.”

  Billy gave a weak smile. Blood dripped from his shoulder but not so quickly an artery had been struck.

  March looked toward the trees from which the shot had come. “What the devil were the French doing shooting from there?”

  Malcolm glanced at the trees, now still. “I don’t think it was the French.”

  47

  Georgiana and Sarah Lennox came to drink coffee in the Rue Ducale late in the evening, eyes bright with nerves.

  “Father and William returned home about six,” Georgiana said. “They reported that all was going as well as possible. But we stopped to see the Misses Ord on our way here. Hamilton had been to see them. Well, to see Mr. Creevey, their stepfather. He came into town with Adjutant General Barnes—Hamilton did, that is, I’m getting it all muddled. According to Hamilton, he—that is, Barnes—thinks the battle is quite lost.” Georgiana took a quick gulp of coffee.

  “But Mr. Creevey pointed out that Barnes was carried off the field at five,” Sarah said, putting her hand over her younger sister’s. “Goodness knows what’s happened since then.”

  Georgiana gave a determined smile, but her lips trembled. “It isn’t just the battle,” she said, and then drew a sharp breath.

  It was the fate of her brothers Lord March and Lord George, not to mention Sarah’s unspoken love, General Maitland.

  Fear seemed to thrum against the walls of the salon. Suzanne realized why. The sound of the guns had stopped. “It’s over,” Cordelia said, as she had two nights ago on the city walls. “Though God knows how long it will be until we know what’s happened. More coffee?”

  Georgiana lifted her cup with trembling fingers. “The lights are actually shining in the Théâtre de Monnaie, can you believe it? Mademoiselle Tennaux in something called L’Eclipse à Colonne. Who on earth could be heartless enough to go to the theatre tonight of all nights?”

  “Someone who doesn’t know any soldiers,” Aline said.

  “Someone who’s hoping for a French victory,” Cordelia added.

  Suzanne stirred milk into her coffee. She couldn’t imagine being able to sit through a play tonight of all nights.

  Harry Davenport pulled his horse up beside Wellington. “The Fifth division is reduced from four thousand to closer to four hundred, sir. They have little chance of keeping their post.”

  Wellington cast a glance toward La Haye Sainte, from which the French were now peppering the Allies with musket balls. “We have no reinforcements to send. Will they stand?”

  “I think so.”

  Wellington shot him a brief smile. “Never one to exaggerate, are you, Davenport? Tell them I shall stand with them until the last man.” The duke tugged his watch from his pocket and cast a glance at the sky. “It’s night or Blücher,” he muttered. Then he thrust a paper at Davenport. “All right, off with you. This is for Maitland. Bonaparte’s about to send in the Guard.”

  At least Maitland was still alive and might make it home to pretty Sarah Lennox. Three generals had been killed and five carried from the field that Harry knew of. He had begun to ask, “Who commands here?” whenever he rode up to a brigade with a message.

  As he bent over Claudius’s neck, he heard a stirring along the Allied line. A glance across the field made the reason plain. As Wellington had said, Bonaparte was at last sending in the Imperial Guard. The legendary elite troops, never defeated in battle, marched forward to the beating of drums, gleaming bayonets fixed. They moved over the undulating ground through a rippling curtain of cannon smoke, hidden for moments by the ground or the smoke only to emerge seemingly stronger and more implacable than ever.

  By the time Harry had delivered his message to General Maitland, chaos engulfed the field again. The Allied infantry waited for the French columns in line, some of them, such as Maitland’s men, lying flat on the ground to conceal their presence. Cannon thundered on both sides. Shells whistled through the air, exploded, or lay spitting and hissing on the muddy, bloody ground.

  The French closed to within forty feet. “Now, Maitland!” Wellington’s voice rang out over the cacophony of drums and shots. “Now is your time! Up, Guards! Make ready! Fire!”

  Maitland’s men sprang up from the ground and fired. Drumbeats, musket fire, and screams choked the air. Caught up in the confusion, Harry saw a familiar face in the smoky mêlée. “Ashton.” He edged Claudius toward his brother-in-law. “What are you doing among the infantry?”

  “Sent with a message. We’re running short of staff officers.” Ashton’s voice sagged with exhaustion. Blood and dirt crusted his coat and his face glistened with sweat. “Glad you’re alive, Davenport.”

  “It isn’t over yet.”

  “I’m glad—” Ashton hesitated. “I know if I fall you’ll help Cordelia look after Robbie. Thank you.”

  “Look, Ashton—”

  But Ashton had already ridden off. Through the smoke, Harry saw a musket shot wing his brother-in-law’s horse, saw Ashton tumble from the saddle and roll downhill. Harry urged Claudius forward in time to see a French grenadier rip through the cannon smoke, bearing down on Ashton with a bayonet. Harry fired off a shot, but he was at an awkward angle and it only grazed the grenadier’s cheek. As Harry fought his way forward, knowing he was too far to save Julia’s husband, a French infantry officer hurled himself forward and took the bayonet thrust. Ashton fired his pistol from the ground, bringing down the grenadier.

  It was only when Harry flung himself down beside Ashton that he recognized the soldier on the ground beside him who had taken the bayonet thrust. Anthony Chase. In a blue coat. There was blue on both sides today, but that coat was unmistakably a French uniform.

  “What the devil—” Ashton pushed himself up on his knees and bent over his childhood friend.

  “Ask Davenport and Rannoch,” Tony gasped. Blood dripped from his mouth and his eyes were already clouding. “No time to explain. Listen, Ashton. Look after Violet.”

  “But—”

  “She wants you. She always has. And I think you want her.”

  “I don’t—”

  But as Ashton spoke, Tony’s gaze froze, and his head flopped to the side. Ashton stared down at him for a long moment, then lifted a hand and closed his former friend’s eyes. “Why in God’s name—”

  Harry touched his shoulder. “Explanations if we survive this, Ashton.” Musket fire sounded on either side of them. They seemed to be in a gap between the French attack on the Allied right and another attack farther to the east. Ashton’s horse had galloped down the hill toward them. Harry caught its bridle. The animal had a graze in its side but was otherwise unhurt. “Get back in the saddle before you’re trampled.” Harry pulled Ashton to his feet and swung back up onto Claudius. No possibility of moving Tony’s body in the chaos.

  Allied soldiers were advancing down the slope. Harry lost sight of Ashton as Allied and French soldiers spilled in from either side. Shouts of “Vive l’empereur,” “Form up,�
�� and “Oranje boven” cut the air. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a flicker of movement in the smoke to his left. Pain exploded in his chest. He tumbled from his horse and gasped Cordelia’s name into the mud.

  The Imperial Guard had broken. Cries of “la Garde recule” sounded from the French ranks. Allied cavalry thundered down the ridge. Allied infantry followed. Malcolm, who had just delivered a message to Sir John Colborne, watched the Allied army, which had fought a defensive battle most of the day, at last advance. Three hussars galloped past him. A gust of wind stirred the smoke, and he caught sight of a muddy form in a dark blue coat sprawled on the slope below. A staff officer. A familiar-looking brown horse nuzzled the fallen man’s arm. Malcolm urged Perdita forward. Brown hair. Something mocking and instantly recognizable about the small bit of profile showing. Malcolm swung down from Perdita, reached for Harry Davenport’s wrist, and felt a faint pulse.

  He turned Davenport over. Blood streamed from a wound in his chest. He gave a groan, then seemed to lose consciousness. Malcolm lifted him as carefully as he could.

  Boots thudded against the ground. Malcolm looked up to see a chasseur leveling a musket at him.

  They had lost. Raoul O’Roarke had known that even before he rode in the Guard’s advance at Marshal Ney’s side. They had seen troops approaching from the east. On Napoleon’s orders, la Bédoyère had shouted that it was Grouchy bringing French reinforcements, but Raoul had been sure from the first that it was the Prussians, come at last to reinforce Wellington.

  Still he fought, even now the seemingly invincible Guard had been pushed back. He heard shouts of “nous sommes trahis” from French soldiers who had realized the Prussians were at hand. Ney, his fifth horse shot from under him, wielded his sword with grim determination. For Raoul, the world had shrunk down to the few feet of ground in front of him. He slashed at a British hussar and saw a man in a brown civilian coat kneeling on the ground a few feet away. He held a fallen comrade in the dark blue coat of one of Wellington’s staff officers. Good God. A chill went through Raoul. It was Malcolm Rannoch. And Raoul wasn’t the only one who had seen him. A chasseur moved toward Malcolm, musket leveled.

  Raoul didn’t hesitate. He lifted his pistol and shot the chasseur in the back.

  Georgiana and Sarah returned home in the still warm evening air, escorted by the footman who had come with them from the Rue de la Blanchisserie. Suzanne helped David and Simon settle a Prussian private they’d brought back from the road to Waterloo, gave some laudanum to Henri Rivaux, who was tossing restlessly, assisted Cordelia with changing Angus’s bandages. She went upstairs to look in on the children. They were all sharing a room tonight, as they’d seemed comforted by being together. She found Colin stirring fretfully, his blankets pushed down round his feet. She straightened the covers and stroked his hair until he flopped against the pillows. She touched her fingers to Livia’s and Robbie’s hair, surprised at how steadied she felt.

  When she stepped into the passage raised voices assailed her from the hall below. She hurried to the stair head, pulse quickened. The light of the chandelier and lamps and candles flickered over the scene below. Christophe and two of the other wounded men were on their feet, cheering and slapping hands with the footmen. Aline was hugging Rachel. Addison was embracing Blanca. Cordelia, hair falling from its pins, had her arms round David and Simon.

  “Wonderful news.” David caught sight of Suzanne and moved to the base of the stairs, a surprisingly youthful grin splitting his face. “The French are in retreat. We’ve won.”

  48

  Sunday, 18 June–Monday, 19 June

  Such simple words. And it was over. The fighting, the struggle, the betrayals. All so she could stand at the head of a flight of mahogany stairs and hear the end of everything she had fought for pronounced by her husband’s grinning best friend.

  Suzanne ran down the stairs and flung her arms round David, burying her face in his shoulder. He swung her round in an exuberant circle. By the time he set her back on her feet, she had recovered her self-command. “Tell me. Where did you hear?”

  “Stuart just sent word round. He had the news from Alten.”

  Suzanne shook her head. She could still not make sense of it. “I thought General Alten had been brought in wounded.”

  “He ordered one of his aides-de-camp to send word to him as soon as the battle was decided,” Simon said.

  Suzanne hugged Simon, holding on a little tighter than usual. “What else have you learned?”

  “Nothing about anyone we know.”

  She nodded and reached out to hug Cordelia and then Aline. Rachel had dropped back down beside Henri, who was sitting up against the pillows, a smile creasing his face.

  Simon and Cordelia opened champagne and handed it round in a variety of drinking vessels. Suzanne sipped champagne from a teacup, laughed, grinned, said and did everything that seemed appropriate.

  Cordelia caught her eye. “I know. Such amazing news, and it won’t mean anything to me if they don’t come back.”

  “Quite.”

  “Drink some more champagne.”

  With the giddy atmosphere in the hall, it was a moment before Suzanne realized the door had opened. She turned round to see her husband standing just inside the door. She ran to him and flung her arms round him with the force of everything coursing through her.

  Malcolm hugged her to him hard, but he spoke over her shoulder to David, Simon, and Addison. “Davenport’s in the cart outside, badly wounded. I’m going to need help getting him in.”

  Suzanne drew back to see that Cordelia had taken two steps forward, parchment pale but all questions suppressed.

  “It’s serious,” Malcolm said, meeting Cordelia’s gaze. “But not beyond hope.”

  Cordelia gave a quick nod and snatched up a lamp. “Put him in my room.”

  Malcolm, David, and Simon carried Harry Davenport upstairs, while Addison saw to Perdita and Claudius, who had somehow survived the battle. Cordelia held the lamp to light the way. Suzanne set about gathering up lint, brandy, and clean cloths. Aline brought a bowl of warm water from the kitchen.

  By the time they came into Cordelia’s room, the men had got Harry’s boots and coat off. He was moaning and twisting his head against the pillows but seemed unconscious of his surroundings.

  “Bless you for the water.” Cordelia dampened a cloth and sponged her husband’s mud-caked face.

  “He fell facedown,” Malcolm said. “And it was some time before I got to him. I fear at least one horse trampled him. Blackwell says he has two broken ribs, but it’s the wound in his chest that’s really concerning. Blackwell said to tell you to change the dressing.”

  Suzanne pushed back the remnants of Harry’s shirt, which had already been sliced neatly in two, probably by Geoffrey Blackwell. She peeled back the dressing. Cordelia sucked in her breath. The wound was deep and perilously close to Harry’s heart. But at least it was leaking clean blood. She cleaned it with brandy and applied a fresh dressing. He twitched but didn’t waken from his feverish state. Cordelia held him steady, as Rachel had done earlier with Henri.

  Suzanne bent over Cordelia and put her arms round her shoulders. “I’ll have some tea sent up, and I’ll be just downstairs should you need me. I’ve seen men much farther gone make a complete recovery.”

  Cordelia squeezed Suzanne’s fingers. She didn’t ask how many men in a similar state Suzanne had seen die, though the question lurked in her eyes.

  Suzanne slipped out into the passage. Malcolm followed and pulled the door to behind him. For the first time since he’d come into the house, Suzanne looked properly at him. In the light from the candle sconces, she saw that his face was mud spattered and covered with a day’s stubble. There was a red-brown smear just below his jaw. She put her hand up to it.

  “I’m all right.” He curled his fingers round her own. “I don’t think it’s mine.”

  “We heard the battle’s won,” she said, carefully calibrating a note of br
ight cheerfulness tempered by the horrors all round them.

  Malcolm’s mouth twisted. “At an intolerable cost.”

  The candlelight bounced off his eyes, revealing a hell starker than all the horrors of their years in the Peninsula. “Who?” she asked.

  He swallowed. “Easier to ask who survived. Canning died of a stomach wound. De Lancey fell and last I heard no one had found him. Gordon lost his leg. He’s in Wellington’s bedchamber at Headquarters, and I doubt he’ll last the night.”

  She sucked in her breath as though she’d received a blow to the gut. Gordon’s infectious laughter echoed in her ears. She saw Canning’s smile, heard Gordon’s ironic voice, had a clear image of De Lancey bending over his young wife’s hand. “Fitzroy?” she asked, holding her breath for the answer.

  “He lost his arm. But Blackwell thinks he’ll recover.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “March?”

  “He was alive last I saw. He got Slender Billy off the field.”

  “The prince was wounded? Is he—”

  “Alive at last report. He took a shoulder wound from a sniper. Who I think was aiming for me.”

  “Tony Chase?”

  “So I suspect. Though I think any number of people would have quite cheerfully put a bullet through Billy in the course of the day. The damn fool ordered his men to form line instead of square again. It was like giving them a death sentence. The number who fell—”

  “Malcolm.” She tightened her fingers round his own. “Harry was right last night. Billy’s failures shouldn’t be on your conscience.”

  “Countless pointless deaths. If I’d been truly brave I’d have bashed him over the head and dragged him from the field.” He caught her other hand in his, so tight she could feel the pressure of bone on bone. “The road from Waterloo is clogged with dead and dying men. Some were crushed under overturned wagons. Some are lying among the trees on the side of the road, unlikely ever to emerge. The number I passed without stopping—”