The Heart That Wins (Regency Spies Book 3)

by April Munday

  Even though he knew the battle would come tomorrow or the next day he was looking forward to an evening of fun. Sophia might not be able to dance, but he thought she might be prepared to stumble round the floor with him for a few minutes. The idea of holding her while she did so excited him. There had been rumours that the duchess was going to allow the waltz to be danced and that would be ideal for his purpose.

  It was raining when they left for the ball in a single carriage after dinner. Mary and Sophia were chattering happily about the baby. Edmund was looking silently out of the window and John was studying him. These days he looked a lot older than his thirty-five years. Whilst they were waiting for the carriage to be brought round Edmund had spoken forcefully about Wellington’s stupidity in failing to see the approaching danger, but now he said nothing and looked out of the window. Then there was Franz. Edmund had written to Franz’s father and told him that Franz had died falling from his horse. He had even managed to get a statement from an army doctor to that effect. No one else knew that Franz was dead. John knew that there was a good chance that he would be joining him in the next day or two. At least, he was with Sophia for the evening. They held hands all the way to the ball, careless of what Edmund or Mary would think.

  Every now and again John ran his thumb over the inside of Sophia’s wrist and watched her swallow in response. She turned her attention from Mary to him and back again and he was content.

  They arrived at the house in which the Duke and Duchess of Richmond had taken up residence. The queue of carriages was long and it took some time for them to reach a place where they could alight. The ball was held in the carriage house, which was the largest space that the house offered. It was not easy to get them all from the carriage to the ballroom without getting soaked.

  The ball was full of rumours about French movements along the border and John was not at liberty to correct them. From the activity amongst the Allied armies, most guessed that they would be moving into France next week or the week after, but all knew that it would not be before Wellington’s ball on the following Wednesday. For himself, John did not feel inclined to celebrate the victory. Vittoria had been his first big battle and it had brought home to him that the army was not in the least his vocation. He had managed to keep his head and had even acted with bravery, but the chaos of the battlefield still haunted his dreams. If that was victory, he thought, he should hate to taste defeat.

  The ball was not as crowded as John had expected, but he knew that the Finches dined earlier than most and others would come later. Edmund and Mary began greeting the many people they knew, but John claimed Sophia for a dance, knowing that if he did not, he might not get the chance for the rest of the evening. She was more popular than ever among the young soldiers, because she was kind and knew that some of them would not survive the next few weeks. Even if she could not dance with them, they would want to stand and talk to her and she would want to let them.

  John knew they looked well together and Sophia was particularly beautiful this evening. She was wearing one of the dresses that Mary had bought for her in Paris and it set off her pale skin wonderfully. It was more daring than anything he had ever seen her in before and he hoped it was for his sake, even as he hated the idea of other men enjoying the same sight. The bodice was so low that he expected at any moment to see the breasts that had given him so much pleasure that afternoon. Sophia seemed unconcerned, however, and he tried to accept that she knew best.

  Earlier in the evening John had given her some earrings and a necklace, which she had refused at first, but he had told her that she had never before refused any of his gifts and she had accepted them, even though they were worth all his previous gifts put together financially. She had already accepted the sonnets, however, and nothing was worth more to him than that. He had been planning his gift for a long time, as he had planned all his gifts for her, and the earrings and necklace suited her. She had allowed him to put them on, which had involved a lot of kissing and touching of her exposed bosom, until Mary had come into the sitting-room where they were waiting. Every now and again Sophia raised her hands to her ears and touched an earring and smiled. It made him absurdly happy. This was going to be a wonderful evening, he knew. Perhaps he would change his plan and propose tonight.

  As he had hoped, she was prepared to try to dance with him, but they were awkward. Sophia laughed and John made the most of every opportunity to hold her when she lost her balance. Her cane did, at least, support the story of the ‘illness’ that had confined her to the house for the last two weeks.

  When the dance ended there were a number of other men hoping to talk to Sophia and even simply to look at her. They looked at him jealously and he was glad that they seemed to know that he was the one she wanted to be with. He watched her walk away reluctantly on the arm of another man and he made his decision; he would propose to her after the ball. He took up his usual position at the edge of the room and watched her carefully, avoiding giving any attention to the women who walked by in the hope of engaging him for a dance. Sophia returned to him a few times, followed by her admirers and they stood next to one another discussing the dancing, the weather and Wellington.

  John was alone when Edmund came and stood beside him.

  “There is news,” he said quietly. “You might as well fetch Sophia, there’s nothing more she can do tonight. We’ll go home. ”

  John turned to him.

  The French must have crossed the border. Franz’s information had been correct. John had never really doubted it. He just wished that the allies could have been in control of the situation.

  John moved around the room. He caught Sophia’s eye and she nodded, then her expression froze on her face. John turned his head to look where she was looking, but could see nothing to explain the change.

  He was about to go to her, when she excused herself from the man she was talking to and eased her way around the edge of the dancers and out of the door at the far side of the room. It took John longer to get through the press of people and she was out of sight before he managed to get out into the courtyard. It was quiet there, apart from the rain dripping from the gutters, but he waited until the sounds of the ballroom had receded into the background and heard a small scream, quickly stifled. Since Sophia had gone to Sint Stefaan, he had carried a pistol wherever he went and he got it out now. As he walked towards the noise, he also retrieved one of the knives that he carried and held it in his other hand.

  He crossed the courtyard and found himself by the doorway that led down to the kitchen. Taking care to hide his weapons again, John went into the kitchen. It was full of servants and he quickly learned that Sophia had not been this way. Asking whether there was another entrance to the house in this part of the courtyard, he was pointed in the direction of the cellar. A servant led him to an interior door that opened onto some stairs.

  As the door closed behind him, he heard a man’s voice. He was speaking English, but with an accent. A native French speaker, but whether French or more local, John could not tell.

  John was in darkness; he had not dared to bring a candle down here. Hoping his eyes would soon adjust, he felt his way down the stairs, having taken his boots off at the top. At the bottom he retrieved the pistol and his knife and moved off towards the voice.

  He froze as he heard Sophia’s voice, unnaturally loud for being unexpected.

  “I won’t.”

  Then the other voice said something quiet and indistinct.

  “I’d rather die.”

  Sophia again, clearly and distinctly leading him to her. At least in this he could reward her trust in him.

  He froze again as he heard a slap. He doubted Sophia was the one doing the slapping.

  From a child he had been raised not to be governed by his emotions and he still regretted the only time he had forgotten this lesson. It had served him well in battle and he hoped it would serve Sophia well now. It cost him everything to remain motionless and not to run to her. His ha
nd was shaking and his breathing shallow. Still he forced himself to stay where he was. He had no idea what he would find if he ran to her and his lack of knowledge could cost Sophia her life.

  “You see,” the male voice said, louder and more confident than before, “no one comes to save you. We are quite alone.”

  He continued talking and John made his way towards the voice, his stockinged feet moving noiselessly across the floor of the cellar.

  Gradually it grew lighter and he edged around a corner until he could see the source of the light: a lantern on the floor.

  In its light John could see that the man held a pistol pointed at Sophia. Now that he was in sight, John concentrated on what the man was saying.

  “Our last meeting was inconclusive, but I’m sure you understand what I mean for you.”

  “You mean to kill me.”

  “I’m glad you understand that. But for the moment you are still of some use to me. You will live until Finch comes.”

  Had he not been in control of himself, John would have cursed; he should have brought Edmund. This was Joude; Sophia would not have put herself in danger for anyone else.

  “He will not come for me as he came for Mary.”

  “No,” admitted the man, “you are expendable. Nonetheless he will try to rescue you. He will not do so blindly and he will give it much thought, but he will come.”

  Edmund would probably do exactly that. He would have to look after himself; John’s responsibility was clear.

  “Even if he came, he would tell you nothing.”

  “My dear Mademoiselle Arbuthnot, of course he would tell me nothing. I only want him to acknowledge his defeat before he dies.”

  John assessed his chances of getting a clean shot at the man. The light was poor and Sophia was between him and his target. He was a good shot, but too much depended on this.

  “Step into the light, Monsieur Finch!”

  It was a moment before John realised that this was addressed to him. He did not know what he had done to draw attention to himself. It did not matter; he had killed Sophia. Keeping his weapons in a firm grip, he stepped out of his hiding place.

  “Don’t kill him!” shouted Sophia, at the same time as the man said, “Ah, Captain Warren, I should have known. I am, nonetheless, disappointed that you are not Edmund Finch.”

  The Frenchman’s gun had not moved and John realised that Sophia had shouted at him; he was not supposed to kill the man holding a pistol to her head, for Joude now held her in front of him as a shield. It was unlikely that John could kill Joude without injuring, or perhaps killing Sophia. Nonetheless, John decided that whatever else happened, Joude would die here.

  “I’m a soldier,” shouted Sophia, “and soldiers die in wars.”

  John thought he might have a chance of hitting the man’s right shoulder but it would not be a clean shot and he could not estimate the risk to Sophia.

  “My life for yours,” she was saying, “that was my bargain. I’m happy to die if you can live.”

  The depth of her love shamed him. It was not that he would not die for her, he would, and suffer any torture to prevent her suffering the smallest amount of pain; it was the knowledge that she valued his worthless life more than he did.

  He could not afford to pay any attention to her. The shot would take all his concentration.

  Out of the corner of his eye John saw a light flicker. Joude saw it, too, and, for a second, he relaxed his grip on the pistol. John fired. Sophia screamed, but so did Joude.

  They fell to the floor and John ran to them and had his knife to Joude’s neck even as he became aware of Edmund beside him pulling Sophia away.

  “She’s alive,” Edmund said shortly. “Your shot grazed her temple. How’s he?”

  John examined Joude. His eyes were open, but his face was pale and covered by a thin sheen of sweat. He was shaking and there was a sticky mess of blood at his shoulder.

  “I think I shattered his shoulder.”

  “Good. Take Sophia home. Mary’s waiting in the carriage. Then you need to join your regiment.”

  “My regiment?”

  “The ball’s over, John. Blücher engaged the French this afternoon.”

  This was irrelevant to John. The only thing that mattered was that Sophia was hurt, perhaps dying and he had killed her.

  “So you have found me, Monsieur Finch.” Joude’s voice revealed his pain. He struggled to breathe and each breath was a gasp. “I will tell you nothing.”

  “I expect you to tell me nothing. There is nothing left to tell.” Edmund’s voice was emotionless. “I expect you to pay – for James Vincent, for Franz Schröder, for the woman who called herself Louise Favelle and all the others who have died because of you.”

  “You seem to forget that you killed Louise, or I assume that you did.”

  “It was only necessary because you corrupted her.”

  Joude’s laugh became a cough, then a groan.

  “She came to me a fully-formed monster. When I interrogated you, she begged me to allow her to torture you. Our lovemaking afterwards was like nothing I have known before or since. She lived to cause pain.”

  John lifted Sophia into his arms. He had no interest in what Joude wanted to say, but he did not want to leave Edmund alone with him.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “That you should leave me here?” Edmund considered for a moment. “I heard your voice,” he said to Joude. “It was all I ever knew of you, but I have heard it in my dreams every time I have slept since. And I have wondered if we are the same, but I know that we are not, not quite.” He took a deep breath. “I’m safe now, John, thank you.” Edmund pointed his pistol at Joude. “We have a few things to discuss before we’re finished. Take Sophia home, John, and tell Mary that I shall be delayed.”

  John left them, making his way surely in the dark. He was no longer concerned about what would happen to Joude. If he did not die from the wound to his shoulder, Edmund would make sure that he did not live past this night. Perseus’ reputation no longer seemed quite so abhorrent.

  Sophia’s face was warm against his neck, but he could also feel the stickiness from the blood seeping from her wound.

  Edmund must have come into the cellar from the courtyard leaving the door open, for John felt a cool breeze before he came to the stairs to the kitchen. There would be fewer questions if he went that way.

  The courtyard was full of people taking their leave. He was familiar with the atmosphere of the night before battle and he recognised it here. There was a sense of anticipation and barely concealed fear. He held Sophia tighter, hoping that no one would notice a man without boots carrying an unconscious woman.

  Edmund’s carriage was in the street outside the house. One of the grooms jumped down and held the door open for him. Mary was already inside the carriage. She did not panic when she saw Sophia, but merely examined her wound in the dim light. Paul set the horses in motion; it was obvious they were not expecting Edmund to return with them.

  It was a short journey to the house, but still it took some time, as soldiers were leaving their lodgings and filling the streets. All of Brussels seemed to be out to see what was happening. When they reached the house John lifted Sophia carefully out of the carriage and took her up to her bedroom where he laid her on the bed. Mary followed with water, bandages and some jars of ointment. He watched her carefully clean away the blood from the wound. Then he held Sophia so that Mary could bandage her head. Before he set her down again, he kissed Sophia’s cheek. Even though he knew the wound itself was little more than a graze, he had seen soldiers die from less.

  John straightened away from the bed. He was a soldier and there was one thing left to do.

  “I must go,” he said, as he turned back to Mary.

  “I know. Please take care.”

  It was a promise he could not make. If he had killed Sophia and there was no point to anything anymore.

  Chapter Thirteen

  16th J
une 1815

  Sophia woke shortly before dawn on the day after the ball to see Mary sitting by her bed. Her head hurt and she had no memory of how she came to be here.

  “John?”

  Sophia’s first, somewhat vague, thought was for him.

  “He’s gone. The French have fought the Prussians and all the soldiers have gone to meet them.”

  Sophia knew she should be worried about this, but Mary seemed calm. Why was it important that the French had come? Where was John?

  “Edmund?”

  “I don’t know. He said he would be gone a while.”

  Mary’s quiet voice was soothing, if hesitant.

  “I..?”

  There had been a knife at her throat. Sophia remembered a man with a gun. Had that been John? She did not know.

  “You were wounded. John was too shaken to tell me how.”

  “I think he shot the man who was threatening me.”

  That made some kind of sense. Sophia began to remember. She had followed a man for some reason she could not recall. There had been a shot and pain and somehow John had been there and now he was gone.

  “Joude.” Her voice was little more than a breath. “Edmund is with him, isn’t he?”

  Mary paled.

  “Probably.”

  Edmund was with Joude and John was with Bonaparte. They would die and not come back and it was all her fault

  Sophia slept again.

  18th June 1815

  On Sunday morning Mary and the boys had not gone to church, partly to give Sophia the chance to rest and partly so that Edmund’s continued absence would not be noticed. Sophia suspected that the real reason was that Mary wanted to be in the house when Edmund returned. Sophia had made a good recovery, but her nerve had gone. The smallest noise made her jump and she cried whenever she thought of John, which was most of the time.

  Mary sat with her as much as she could, but even the sight of her nursing Elizabeth could not raise Sophia’s spirits. She was so certain that John would die that she had no desire to recover.