by Violet
“Is Colonel, Lord St. Simon at headquarters this morning?” she inquired pleasantly.
“Oh, no, señorita. He’s with his brigade. His division will be part of the assault force tonight.”
“So it’s to be tonight,” Tamsyn said. A shudder quivered along her spine. How many men would lie dead beneath those walls by morning? Would Julian St. Simon be one of them? A little cold spot began to bloom in her stomach.
She pushed back her chair with a sudden movement that took the lieutenant by surprise. He looked up from his coffee cup and drew breath sharply at her face, which had become a mask, all light and mobility banished.
Of course, if St. Simon did fall at the storming of Badajos, she’d be back to square one. A very annoying prospect, enough to cause cold spots in anyone’s belly. She stood up, wiping her sticky fingers on a checkered napkin.
“Let’s go then, Lieutenant.”
Her voice, incisive and commanding, brought him to his feet immediately, abandoning his half-full cup. He found he almost had to trot to keep up with her as she strode through the streets.
Wellington greeted her with brusque courtesy. He was clearly preoccupied, and Tamsyn refused the seat he offered, choosing instead to perch on the windowsill.
“So what is the price of your information, Violette?” The commander in chief came straight to the point. “Sanderson, take notes, will you?”
The aide-de-camp sat down at the desk and began to sharpen a quill.
Tamsyn said with a cool smile, “I will tell you my price in the presence of Colonel, Lord St. Simon. Not otherwise. “
“What?” Wellington glared at her, remembering what Julian had said about the brigand’s penchant for game playing. “What nonsense is this?”
“No, nonsense, sir.” She slid off the windowsill. “That’s my condition. You’ll understand why when you hear my terms. You may find me at the cottage when the colonel arrives.” Without further ado she left the room, offering them both a smiling nod as she did so.
“What the devil’s going on between the girl and St. Simon?” Wellington mused in an undertone that Sanderson pretended he hadn’t heard since it didn’t seem to be directed at him. “Something’s afoot there.”
He paced the room from window to fireplace and back again. For whatever reason, Julian had made it clear he wanted nothing further to do with the girl. Was it fair to compel his presence just because the brigand insisted upon it?
But he wanted that information. Once Badajos had fallen, they’d be on the march again, north toward Campo Mayor, and Violette’s knowledge would greatly facilitate the march. Besides, if he passed up this opportunity, he was unlikely to meet up with another such source.
“Sanderson, send someone to ask Colonel St. Simon to report to headquarters at his earliest convenience.”
“Yes, sir.” The aide-de-camp left at a run. It was still relatively early in the day, but in a few hours no one would have time for anything but preparations for the assault.
Julian was discussing with his company commanders the procedure for the brigade’s attack on the San Vicente bastion. They would not be part of the main assault, but a flanking secondary assault made simultaneously with the main attack, intended to distract attention and divert French forces from the breaches.
The ensign, riding in great haste through the neat rows of tents, drew raised eyebrows as he approached the group of men clustered around a map spread on a rough planking table outside St. Simon’s tent.
“Your pardon, Colonel, sir.” The ensign leaped from his mount, offering a sketchy salute. “The commander wishes you to report to headquarters at your earliest convenience.”
“Yesterday, in other words,” Frank said with a grin, straightening from the map.
Julian stood, frowning. What could possibly be so important that Wellington would tear him away from his brigade on the eve of battle? The answer was a red flag waving in his brain. La Violette. Whatever this was, the half-breed brigand was behind it. And by the living God, she was going to understand once and for all that he could not be pushed around like a pawn on a chessboard!
“Dobbin! My horse!” He disappeared into his tent on the bellowed instruction, leaving his officers to exchange glances of surprise. He emerged in a minute, buckling his sword belt, thunderclouds massed on the broad forehead beneath the unruly lock of red-gold hair, his bright eyes darting around his assembled staff like fire-tipped arrows.
“I’ll be no more than an hour. Major O’Connor, I want that assault plan drawn up for when I return.” Impatiently, he took the reins of his horse from Dobbin and swung into the saddle.
“Yes, sir,” Tim muttered. Something was awry. Julian rarely pulled rank and was not given to taking his ill temper out on his subordinates; it was one reason his men would follow him into hell, and the competition for a place on his staff was always fierce. Lord St. Simon was one of the youngest colonels in the armies of the Peninsular, but older men were as eager to serve under him as were his peers.
“I’ll lay odds that that Violette is behind this,” Frank observed, stretching. “Julian don’t care for her above half, and if she’s pulling his string, the fur will fly, you mark my words.”
“Can’t see a Spanish brigand getting the better of the Peer, let alone St. Simon,” Captain Deerbourne observed. “And if she’s playing tricks today of all days, she’s a fool.”
All eyes went as one to the walls of Badajos, shrouded in the smoke from the bombardment.
Julian cantered toward Elvas, seething. The sight of La Violette sitting on a rock on the Portuguese side of the pontoon bridge did nothing to placate him. It was as clear as day she was waiting for him, and therefore that she was responsible for this summons.
Tamsyn had indeed been waiting for him. She guessed he would not be in the best of tempers and summoned up her most charming smile, rising to meet him as he walked his mount across the swaying bridge.
“Good morning, milord colonel.” Hastily, Tamsyn stepped into his path when it rather looked as if he was going to ride straight past her. “I’m so happy to see you.” Shielding her gaze from the sun, she squinted up at him, a smile crinkling the golden skin around her eyes, her hair almost white in the sunlight. “How nice that your work did bring you into Elvas, after all.”
Julian’s fingers twitched on his reins as he imagined placing them tightly around the slender column of her throat rising out of the opened white collar of her shirt … and slowly squeezing.… And then he imagined his fingers sliding up behind her ears, those little shells lying flat against the side of her head, tickling in the tender skin behind …
“Get up!” he ordered curtly. “I assume we’re going to the same place.” Leaning down, he extended his hand. She took it without demur, put her foot on his boot, and sprang upward, with an agile twist landing on the saddle in front of him.
“Yes, I believe we are,” she said cheerfully, leaning back against him so that he could feel the heat of her skin through her thin shirt. “It’s certainly very convenient this way.”
“And as we know, you order everything to your own convenience,” he observed acidly.
“I suppose you might think that,” Tamsyn said after judicious reflection. “But you don’t really know me as yet.”
“Oh, believe me, Violette, there’s going to be no ‘as yet,’ ” he declared with savage emphasis. “This is as familiar as we get.”
“If you say so.” She sounded perfectly untroubled by his statement; it was as if she were humoring a fractious child. Julian almost tipped her off his saddle at her tone.
“So the attack is to be tonight,” she said in a different tone. “You won’t wish to remain long away from your brigade, but my business shouldn’t take long.”
“Oh, I’m relieved to hear it, but you mustn’t hurry yourself on my account. I’m certain the storming of Badajos can await your pleasure.”
Tamsyn swiveled round to look up at him. “Don’t be petulant, milord colonel. It
doesn’t suit you, and it’s not in the least convincing.”
His jaw dropped, and inadvertently he kicked his mount’s flanks. The horse broke into a startled gallop, and Tamsyn, unbalanced already by her turned position, reeled on her perch.
“Hell and the devil!” Julian grabbed at her, hauling her back with one hand as he drew on the reins with his other, bringing his horse under control. “Just hold your tongue, would you?” he gritted. “It’ll be a damn sight safer all round.”
“Yes, milord colonel,” Tamsyn murmured with a demure smile, allowing her body to rest against him again.
Julian wondered why he wanted to laugh. It struck him as the impulse of a bedlamite in present circumstances, but there was something about her mischief that invited—no, challenged—him to a response. It was almost as if she were saying she wasn’t fooled by his attitude, that she knew he was enjoying their unorthodox proximity as much as she was if he’d only allow himself to acknowledge it.
They left his horse in the stableyard at the rear of Wellington’s headquarters and entered by the outside stairs again. “He’s waiting for you, Colonel.” Sanderson hastened to open the door onto the commander in chief’s sanctum.
“Oh, good. You’re both here.” Wellington stood up from his desk, his expression curt. “I’m sorry for this, Julian, but La Violette insists that you must be part of these negotiations.”
“So I assumed, sir.” Julian regarded Tamsyn with ill-disguised resentment. “Very well, you’ve got what you wanted, now let’s get on with it. I’ve more important things to do with my time this morning than humoring the mercenary spawn of a bloody brigand.”
Wellington hid his astonishment at this brutal speech. A man didn’t speak like that to a mere acquaintance, let alone a stranger.
Tamsyn, however, seemed unconcerned. “Yes, I understand you’re both busy, but the timing of this business was not of my choice, I’ll have you remember, milord colonel. I came here under your escort.”
“Having delayed us by two days,” he snapped. “Now, what do you want, girl?”
Tamsyn shrugged and sat down uninvited on a chair before the desk, crossing her legs, her hands clasped lightly in her lap. “Very well, to points. I will give you the information you desire, my lord, except that about the partisan armories. The condition of their weapons is not mine to reveal. They will tell you what they wish you to know. I’ll also draw for you a detailed map of the mountain passes El Baron used between Spain and France. Some of them are very narrow and treacherous, but I daresay you’ll discover that for yourself. They’re not, to my knowledge, known to the French.”
“Good … good,” Wellington said, rubbing his hands. “This is all very good … very useful.” He glanced at St. Simon. “Don’t you agree, Julian?”
“Oh, yes,” Julian agreed. “Very useful.” He stood against the door, his arms folded, his eyes brightly sardonic as they rested on Tamsyn. “And what do you want of us, brigand?”
“Yes, Violette. Your price?”
Tamsyn paused before answering, her eyes on her lap, her fingers playing cat’s cradle; then she looked up and met the colonel’s eye before switching her gaze to Wellington. “My price, sir, is the colonel … Lord St. Simon.”
The silence in the room was as deep and impenetrable as the grave. The two men stared at Violette, who sat back in her chair, a picture of relaxation, no sign of the ferment in her head. It was a stroke of such boldness, she was actually amazed at herself for conceiving the plan, let alone executing it.
“This is some lunatic raving,” Julian declared, breaking the silence, his voice harsh as a scouring pad. “Either that or you’re making game of His Majesty’s army, girl, and that will cost you dear!” He crossed to her chair and leaned over her, bracing his hands on the chair back on either side of her head. She was impaled on the bright-blue ferocity of his eyes as he said very slowly and distinctly, “Cease this idle foolishness, or I’ll have you thrown in irons in the stockade.”
“Hear me out,” she said simply, not flinching, although it cost her some effort.
“Let her speak, Julian.”
“Speak!” The colonel whirled toward his commander, his eyes stark in his white face, his mouth a thin slash in a clenched jaw. “The girl’s either moon mad or she’s making game of us. Must I remind you, sir, that men are going to die tonight and this … this distempered chit is playing us for fools.”
“No, I’m not,” Tamsyn said swiftly. “I do assure you I’m not. Only hear me out.”
“Go on,” Wellington instructed, holding up a hand to silence the younger man’s seething tirade. “But keep to the point. I warn you, if this is some kind of game, then I’ll send you back to Cornichet gift wrapped and with my compliments.”
The threats were flowing thick, fast, and most unpleasantly. Tamsyn swallowed the little nut of fear in her throat, reminding herself that the stakes were very high, and began to explain the plan that would require the cooperation of Lord St. Simon.
“I explained that my mother was English. Her family came from Cornwall … your home county, Colonel.”
Julian’s expression was dark. “What has that to do with me?”
“Well, I thought you could help me rediscover my mother’s family,” she said simply. “My mother wouldn’t tell me their name. She … she had not been happy with them, and when she met my father, she chose to cut herself off completely from that part of her life and heritage.”
Reaching behind her neck, she unfastened the locket and held it out to Wellington. “This is a picture of her. With my father. The locket is a family heirloom, and I thought perhaps with this and the portrait I might be able to locate them. My mother implied that they were quite a prominent family.”
Wellington examined it and then handed it to Julian, who looked at it without really taking it in, his mind running over Cornwall’s powerful families. The St. Simons and the Penhallans were the greatest landowners with the most political influence. Tregarthan, the St. Simon estate, and the Penhallan estate of Lanjerrick took up half the county. His lip curled unconsciously at the thought of the Penhallans. The viscount pursued his political ambition with utter ruthlessness, but his character was a shining example of moral rectitude compared with his nephews, the loathsome twins.
He dropped the locket onto a side table, and the delicate filigree chain chimed as it fell. “There’s no heraldic device on this … no insignia to identify it.”
“But there’s her picture inside,” Tamsyn stressed. “Look inside.”
Wellington picked it up again, snapping it open. The woman was undoubtedly Tamsyn’s mother; the likeness was striking: the same locket hung around her neck, and she was smiling, radiating perfect happiness. He handed it to St. Simon, who read the signature on the back of the woman’s portrait. She’d signed herself simply Cecile, in a flowery hand, full of energy. The date was a mere three years ago.
He glanced at Tamsyn, who sat quietly, waiting. He examined the man’s portrait, struck by the elegant features of this notorious robber baron. Black eyes like a hawk’s regarded him with a quizzical air from the delicate frame. Tamsyn had her father’s mouth and that particularly resolute set of the jaw; her mother’s eyes and coloring.
“So?” He handed back the locket. “Even if we believe your mother was English, what is that to do with anything?”
“Why, everything,” she said. They listened while she explained that her parents had been killed six months earlier, that her own men had either been killed in Cornichet’s ambush or had disbanded; that, with the exception of Gabriel, she was alone in the world.
The pathos of her story was somehow accentuated by the scarcity of detail. She said nothing as to how her parents had met their deaths, merely stated the fact. Her appeal when she made it was to Wellington. St. Simon still bore the look of a man seething and impatient, definitely not one to respond sympathetically to a sad tale, but she thought she might be able to tug the commander’s heartstrings.
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nbsp; “I would like to discover my mother’s family,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap, offering the duke a tremulous smile. “I have no one in the world to care for me or to give me a home. I thought if I could find them, they might take me under their wing. Only I see some difficulties.”
The colonel made a sound between a snort and an oath and exchanged a comprehending glance with the duke. Some difficulties. This girl clearly didn’t know the first thing about English society, how closed and prideful it was.
“And supposing you do identify them, just how do you intend to introduce yourself?” Julian demanded scornfully. “Are you going to walk up to them and say, ‘I’m your long-lost cousin,’ or whatever relationship you are?”
“No, I can quite see that that wouldn’t do,” she said in a doleful tone that caused the duke to look reproachfully at the colonel. “I don’t think they’d be prepared to accept me as I am. I don’t know how to go on in such society … indeed, I know nothing of England but what Cecile told me. And besides”—a delicate flush mantled the sun-browned cheeks—“there is one other awkwardness.…”
“Do go on, my dear.” Wellington had quite lost his earlier harshness.
“It’s somewhat embarrassing … but, you see, I’m not entirely sure that Cecile and the baron were ever properly married … in the eyes of the Church,” she said in a rush, twisting her fingers into impossible knots.
“Oh,” said the duke.
“Well, my mother’s family might consider that I didn’t have a claim on them if they knew that, don’t you think?” she said anxiously, fixing her great purple eyes on his face.
He cleared his throat. “It is possible, yes.”
“Why on earth wouldn’t they formalize their relationship?” Julian demanded. “If they were inseparable, as you implied last night, and they had a child.”
“I don’t believe they considered it in the least important,” Tamsyn said truthfully. “And as for me, well, I know I was an accident—”