How to Deceive a Duke

by Lecia Cornwall

  “What makes you so sure I will be the one to die, Ferrau?” Nicholas called.

  The Frenchman smiled, the grin twisting the ugly scar. “How many men do you have in there with you? As I recall, you prefer to work alone. I have a dozen soldiers on my side. Come out and I’ll shoot you cleanly, give you a good death. You’ve stolen something that belongs to me. You need only return it and admit that I have won. You are a poor spy, Hartley, and a terrible thief.”

  “Now what could I possibly have that belongs to you? Last time I saw you, you were blubbering over that scratch I gave you.”

  Ferrau pointed the gun at the woman and fired into her arm. She screamed as her striped apron turned crimson and blood sprayed Ferrau’s face. He held her up, refusing to let her fall. “The next bullet kills her if you do not come out, mon ami.”

  Nicholas’s gut tightened. He had only minutes before she bled to death. He kept his face impassive as he studied his old adversary.

  Ferrau took a second pistol out of his belt and pointed it at her head. “Shall I blow her head off?”

  Nicholas took the map out of his pocket and hid it under the straw where Napier could reach it. “Let her go. I’m coming out,” he called out to Ferrau. Lieutenant Napier was pale and sweating. “Stay quiet,” he told Napier. “Take the map and ride out at nightfall if I don’t win this round.”

  “You can’t go out there—he’ll kill you!”

  “No he won’t,” Nicholas said. “Not right away. We have a history, you see. He’ll want to torture me awhile before he kills me.”

  He tucked a loaded pistol into Napier’s hand. The gun shook. The young lieutenant would need help soon.

  He lifted the heavy bar and the door swung open. He tossed the empty pistol in the yellow dust at Ferrau’s feet. In Spain the dust had been red.

  “Let her go.”

  Ferrau instantly dropped the woman into the dirt and turned his pistol on Nicholas. She crawled away, whimpering.

  “Now return what you stole.”

  Nicholas frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Ferrau reddened. “You were seen leaving that stable. You are not as clever as you think. You seem to have lost your touch after so many years of dissipation. I shot the courier for his stupidity. Imagine what I will do to you.”

  Nicholas looked over his old enemy. Like Nicholas, he usually wore civilian clothes while out on a mission, yet today he had on the same style of military greatcoat that Napoleon favored. It suggested the French army was close by, and he was on his way to join them. Ferrau wore a glittering military decoration over the place where his heart would have been if he’d had one.

  “I regret my offer to kill you quickly, but I am in a hurry.” He pointed his pistol at Nicholas’s heart. “But I can spare a few minutes to hear you beg for your life.”

  Nicholas stared into the barrel of the gun. He had come to war not caring what happened to him. He intended to acquit himself bravely and honorably on the field of battle and leave this life a hero. But he realized now that he didn’t want to die. He wanted to go home to his wife.

  “Check my pockets, Ferrau—there’s nothing in them but my watch.”

  Ferrau suddenly changed his aim and fired at someone behind Nicholas. Napier slumped against the barn door. “I thought you were alone. Are the maps in his pocket? The next bullet goes through your knee, mon ami. Then I’ll shoot your fingers off, one at a time, then your ears . . .”

  Napier was screaming, rolling in agony on the straw. It was impossible to tell how badly he was hurt.

  Nicholas turned back to Ferrau and shrugged. “Now how can we discuss things with all this screaming? Let me get one of the others in the barn to help him, and I’ll see what I can remember about—maps, was it? I’ve been drinking rather a lot in the past few days.” His eyes bored into the Frenchman’s. “Dissipation.”

  A flicker passed through Ferrau’s eyes as he quickly glanced into the dark interior of the barn, and Nicholas knew. His men were dead, and Ferrau was alone.

  “Temberlay, move!” Napier croaked, and Nicholas dove. Daniel’s shot went wide, but it gave him time to draw his own gun, and his shot hit the Frenchman in the eye, and he dropped without a sound. The dust darkened under his head, a black halo. This time Nicholas leaned over the corpse, making certain he was dead.

  Nicholas went to Napier. He had a second wound in the arm, a mere scratch, but his leg was bleeding again. “Is he dead?” he whispered, his white face sheened with sweat.

  “Yes, at last,” Nicholas said. He retrieved the maps.

  “Will you tell Claire that I did my duty?” Napier sighed. “She’s with child—”

  Nicholas unpinned Ferrau’s gaudy medal and put it in the lieutenant’s tunic. “Something to show her when you see her. Those look like real diamonds,” he murmured.

  He thought of Meg, wondered if possibly— He shook the thought away. He wanted to be there, see her face when—if—

  But that pleasure would have to wait.

  He bandaged Napier’s wounds as best he could, dosed him with rum, and pulled the lieutenant up behind him on Hannibal and rode north.

  Blessedly, Napier fainted after a few miles. When Nicholas reached British lines, he tucked the maps into Napier’s tunic. “Get him to headquarters in Brussels as quickly as possible, he has information Wellington will need to see.”

  He turned Hannibal’s head.

  “Where the devil are you going?” the major asked.

  “Charleroi. That’s where Napoleon will cross the border,” he said.

  Nicholas spurred Hannibal along the road. It was nearly dusk. Lives were at stake, including his own. He looked down at the ducal signet ring on his finger. He had a duty, to his wife, his country, and Temberlay.

  If his luck held, he’d see them all again.

  Chapter 68

  “What a crush!” Delphine said as they took the Fairlies’ coach to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. “It is becoming a dreadful inconvenience to have all those soldiers in the streets. It is impossible to go anywhere at all! We’re sure to be late.”

  Meg looked out the window. White faces passed the coach, torchlight gleaming on gunmetal and bayonets.

  “William, this is hardly the time for a parade,” Eleanor said to her husband. “What’s happening?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, my dear. The duchess herself asked Lord Wellington if it would be safe to hold her ball tonight. He assured her it would indeed, and if he believes—”

  “Will.” Eleanor insisted on the truth. “These men are not out for an evening stroll. They are on the march. I have been an army wife for eight years.”

  The colonel glanced at Meg and Delphine and sighed. “We had word this afternoon. Napoleon has crossed into Belgium.”

  Delphine gave a shriek and put a gloved hand to her mouth. “Is he coming here, tonight?”

  “Calm yourself. We are merely on alert. There’s no danger. It may be days yet before anything happens. Would Wellington be dancing the night away otherwise?” Fairlie soothed.

  Meg searched the crowds. She watched as a soldier fell out of line to kiss his sweetheart as the sergeants bawled. Be safe, she wished him, and hoped wherever Nicholas was, he was safe too.

  The Duke and Duchess of Richmond had rented the grand home of a coach maker as their Brussels residence. The ball was being held in the workshop, a fine open space for a party, which the duchess had decorated with trellises, flowers, and thousands of candles.

  “Listen,” Meg said as they climbed the steps. The sound of marching feet kept macabre time with the gay dance music that spilled out the open windows. She shivered.

  The duchess’s daughter met them at the door. “Georgiana, the streets are filled with soldiers! Aren’t you afraid?” Delphine asked.

  Georgiana laughed. “You look as if Napoleon himself is going to march up to these doors and invade the party. Lord Wellington has assured Mother a dozen times there’s
nothing to fear. Have you ever seen anything so grand as this? So many handsome gentlemen—I plan to dance with all of them.”

  The gay atmosphere inside stood out in stark contrast to the scene outside. If anyone was fearful, it didn’t show. The candlelight here glinted off nothing more threatening than gold braid and diamond necklaces. Meg supposed she should feel relieved, but her chest knotted.

  “Do you think Temberlay is here?” Eleanor asked.

  Meg shook her head. She’d spoken to soldiers who had known him in Spain, heard more of the stories that Stephen Ives had begun telling her. She knew now that the soldier, the man of honor, was the real Nicholas. The rake, the rogue—those were the false images. If battle was imminent, he was near the fray.

  Delphine pressed a glass of champagne into her hand, but the sparkling wine tasted bitter. Georgiana dragged Delphine off to meet a group of grinning officers.

  “Would you excuse me, my dear?” Fairlie said, and took his leave. Meg stood with Eleanor and watched him cross the room.

  “I suppose that leaves us to join the matrons. Shall we do so, or would you like to dance?”

  “I don’t think I could,” Meg replied.

  Eleanor squeezed her arm. “I’m a soldier’s wife too. Fairlie may be a colonel, but he sees limited action now he’s inherited his title. Nicholas is a duke. They won’t put him in harm’s way. He will stand well back if there’s to be a battle, with Wellington, out of danger.”

  “He isn’t that kind of soldier,” Meg murmured. “He wouldn’t want that.”

  Eleanor pointed. “Look, there’s Lord Wellington. Would he be here tonight at all if there was any danger? Come, I’ll introduce you.”

  The commander swept a bow as the ladies greeted him, his dark eyes assessing Meg. “Is it true that Napoleon has crossed the border, Your Grace?” Eleanor asked.

  Wellington raised his brows. “Yes, Lady Fairlie, the rumors are true. We are off tomorrow.”

  Eleanor gasped. “As soon as that?”

  Meg’s limbs turned to water. She read the truth in Wellington’s eyes. There was little time left for gaiety and parties. War was upon them yet again.

  “Your Grace, might I ask after my husband? Have you any word of him?” she asked breathlessly.

  His eyes traveled over her with male appreciation. He held out an arm. “Dance with me, Your Grace.” It was an order, and she laid her hand on his sleeve and let him lead her out.

  “Do you have any idea what your husband does, madam?”

  She studied the braid on the front of his uniform for a moment, the medals and honors on the blue silk sash, and swept her gaze back up to meet his. “I believe I do, Your Grace.”

  “Then you should know that there are gentlemen here tonight who perform similar services for the enemy.”

  Meg looked around, but the duke squeezed her hand. “Smile, if you would, Your Grace, as if I’ve said something amusing. This is a party. It wouldn’t do to give the impression that we are in the least worried about the outcome of the battle.”

  A young officer swept up to him and bowed. “Your Grace, I must interrupt. A courier just arrived.”

  Wellington bowed over her hand. “Please excuse me—duty calls, Your Grace.” He paused. “Wherever Temberlay might be, I pray that he is safe, both for your sake and for the sake of my army.”

  He asked his aide to escort her back to Eleanor, and she watched as he disappeared into a small withdrawing room and shut the door.

  An officer emerged moments later, and waved the orchestra to silence.

  “Gentlemen, finish your dances, and return to your regiments as quickly as possible.”

  Eleanor clutched her arm. “It’s begun!”

  Fairlie pressed through the crowds toward them. “It’s time to go. I will see you to the coach, and go and join my men.”

  Delphine leaned out the window of the coach and waved the regiments off with her handkerchief as they made slow progress through the streets.

  As they passed Claire Howard’s rooms, Meg turned to Eleanor. “I’m going to see Claire. She might not know what’s happening. She’ll be worried about Daniel.”

  Eleanor laid a hand on her arm. “I cannot let you do that! If things go badly, Fairlie has ordered us to go north at once. By morning, possibly.”

  Delphine frowned. “Are we in danger?”

  Eleanor took her sister’s hand. “This isn’t the time to go missish! We must be brave. I’m simply to keep the horses in harness, be prepared.”

  Meg opened the door. “Then it is all the more important that I speak to Claire.”

  Eleanor pursed her lips a moment. “Yes, fine, but hurry. Napoleon is advancing far faster than they imagined he would. I can’t send the coach back for you.”

  “We’ll find a way,” Meg said, and got out of the vehicle.

  Whatever happened, she was not leaving without Nicholas.

  Chapter 69

  Claire was pacing the floor when Meg arrived. She burst into anxious tears when Meg told her the news.

  They sat in the window throughout the night and watched the soldiers march toward the city’s south gate. The Royal Dragoons, Nicholas’s regiment, rode past, each man tall in the saddle, ready to fight, but he and Hannibal were not among them.

  At dawn, low rumbling peals of thunder rolled across the Belgian farmland. “We’re in for a storm,” Claire said.

  “I think that’s artillery. Colonel Fairlie said we’d be able to hear it,” Meg replied with tears in her eyes. “The battle has begun.”

  Chapter 70

  The Belgian army came through the city in a disordered retreat as the sun rose, causing panic. Behind them, carts filled with wounded men began pouring into town.

  “I can’t sit here and wait,” Meg said, worry choking her. “I’m going to see if—” She couldn’t say it.

  “I’m going with you,” Claire said, and picked up her cloak.

  The two women went to the Richmonds’ lodgings, where the carts were unloading their grim passengers in the same courtyard where coaches had let down ladies in silk and lace only hours before. The carefully swept cobbles were slick with blood.

  Claire began to search among the wounded for Daniel. Meg felt her stomach shrivel at the sheer number of men here. The sound of their cries rose like a dirge.

  Georgiana, still in her evening gown, stood staring down at one mangled body. The young man was still wearing his dancing shoes and his dress uniform.

  Meg took her hand. “I danced with him last night, Meg! He can’t be dead.” Meg bent and placed two fingers on his neck, seeking a pulse, but his heart was still, his flesh cold. She closed his eyes and looked around for something to cover him. Georgiana burst into tears. “Go and find your mother, Georgiana. Ask her for some blankets, something we can use as bandages,” Meg told her.

  Someone caught at her skirts. “Water, miss, if you please.” Meg crossed to the pump and filled the bucket. She held the dipper to the man’s lips.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “The French are pushing us back,” he grunted. “We’re trying to stop them at a place called Quatre Bras, south of here. The line won’t hold. I was hit in the first volley. Am I going to die?” He clutched at her hand, leaving bloody streaks on her skin. Meg resisted the urge to pull away.

  She looked for a surgeon, anyone who could help. The courtyard was full now, and still men were pouring through the gates, some walking, some being carried. They slumped against the walls, exhausted. She looked back at the soldier still clinging to her hand and saw Nicholas’s face in his homely features.

  “No,” she said firmly. “You are not going to die.”

  Meg carried water until her arms ached. She asked every man who could speak for news of Temberlay, but no one had seen him. She offered what comfort she could, hoping some other woman would do the same for Nicholas if he came to her.

  “There’s more wounded in the park,” a soldier told her. “Women are looking fo
r their men there.”

  She found Claire, working with the wounded as she was, and they hurried through the chaos of the streets. The park was crowded with bodies, and women tiptoed from man to man, looking into each battered face.

  Claire cried out, and bent over a wounded man. “Daniel!” His arm came around her, the fingers filthy as they caressed her hair. Meg felt her heart swell, then break with disappointment.

  “Are you well?” he asked, caressing Claire’s face. “Are you even real?”

  Claire began to touch his limbs with shaking hands, searching for his wounds. “Temberlay bandaged me as best he could, got me back to our lines.”

  Meg dropped to her knees. “You’ve seen Nicholas?”

  He focused on her slowly. “Two days ago, Your Grace.”

  “Was he—unhurt?” she asked.

  Daniel smiled tiredly. “He saved my life,” he said.

  “That man next,” a surgeon directed, pushing her aside. “Carry him over to the taproom.”

  “Please, I have rooms, just there.” Claire pointed. “I can care for him.”

  The surgeon wiped his hands on his apron. “There are many men needing care, many that have a better chance than he does.”

  “He’s her husband,” Meg said fiercely. “Surely he stands the best chance of all in her care.”

  The surgeon stared at her for a moment, then nodded to the stretcher bearers to carry Daniel where Claire directed. He caught Meg’s arm as she tried to follow. “I need help here. Can you stitch wounds?”

  Meg looked around her. It appeared the whole city was filled with blood and misery. She straightened her shoulders. She had managed to cope with death before.

  She turned to the surgeon. “Show me what to do.”

  It was dark when Nicholas rode toward Wellington’s lines at a full gallop. The fields were high with ripening grain, and he stayed low, hoping it would shield him.