Assuming Saybrook was among the guests taking refreshments, she hurried into the side corridor to search for the stairway—only to find the earl standing outside the doorway of the facing room. Several other officers were pressed up against the molding across from him, looking very solemn.
Seeing her approach, he signaled her to remain silent.
Arianna moved quietly and took him arm, intending to whisper the need for them to leave. The door, however, was half-open and in the fluttery light of a single oil lamp, she saw Wellington and the Duke of Richmond studying a map that lay upon the table.
“Napoleon has humbugged me, by God,” muttered Wellington. “He has gained 24 hours’ march on me.”
“The French have indeed stolen a march on us,” explained Saybrook, just loud enough for her to hear. “Napoleon and part of his army are already moving on the Prussians at Ligny, while Ney and another French force are approaching Quatre Bras. Thankfully Richmond had an accurate map of the area in his study. They are assessing—” He stopped as Wellington cleared his throat.
“Here . . .” Wellington underlined a place on the map with his fingernail. “We’ll position our forces to meet them here. The hill will give us an advantage.” A brusque wave summoned his adjutants, and after a brief discussion with Richmond, he scribbled a number of notes and sent his officers flying.
“It appears the grand clash of generals is about to happen,” murmured the earl, observing Wellington standing thoughtfully over the map, his angular profile cast in sharp relief by the smoky flame. “And the fate of Europe hangs in the balance.”
“Ye gods, Sandro, speaking of Fate . . .” She drew him away from Richmond’s study. “We have a chance to play our own part in this unfolding drama.”
Saybrook listened, his expression turning increasingly grim as she explained what had happened—and what she and Paloma had decided they must do.
“We’ll be riding right into the teeth of the fighting,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but you heard The Beau,” she countered. “The French aren’t expected to arrive until the day after tomorrow, and he’ll use that time to move his army into position. Our mission needs no more than a few hours.”
“The army is rushing helter-pelter to take up their positions. With the confusion and chaos, we’ll likely be stopped and turned back.”
“Grentham has a special pass, signed by the King himself,” she reminded him.
Saybrook thinned his lips.
“We don’t need to reach the actual rendezvous point. We just need to get close.” She went on to outline what she had in mind.
“Hell’s Teeth, that’s madness,” muttered the earl when she finished. “Grentham will demand that I consign you to Bedlam when we return home.”
Arianna smiled. “Only if it doesn’t work.” She tugged at his sleeve. “Come, we need to go.”
“Hmmph—no doubt I, too, will be locked away for life.” But a glimmer of amusement belied his huff as he let himself be hurried outside. “Do try to get your calculations right so I don’t look like an arse.”
The lamp flickered as they saddled their horses, its lone flame stirring a skittering of menacing shadows over the rough-planked stalls of the mews.
Even more forbidding was Grentham’s scowl, which turned blacker as he glanced at Sophia, who was making a last-minute check of her rifle.
“If you are so opposed to this mission,” she said without looking up from the hammer, “you need not come along.”
“Since you are determined to ride to hell in a handbasket, I have no choice,” he muttered, and then cast Saybrook another look of mute appeal.
Arianna noted that the earl was wise enough to pretend not to see it.
“Handbasket?” Sophia quirked a brow. “I thought this lovely beast’s name is Satan.”
“The Devil save me from headstrong Amazons.” The minister cinched his mount’s girth and swung himself into the saddle.
“The notion of noblesse oblige is awfully antiquated, milord,” murmured her friend.
“Yes, well, apparently I’m an old fossil,” he retorted, “whose brain ossified in the last century.”
“Why don’t we hold our fire for the enemy?” suggested Saybrook dryly.
Grentham expelled a harried snort. But before he could come up with a rejoinder, the thud of hooves in the alleyway outside the mews caused Sophia to whip around and draw her pistol.
“Put your weapon away,” said Arianna. “Sandro and I encountered Captain Leete as we left the duchess’s ball, and asked him to accompany us. His uniform marks him as a member of the Prince of Orange’s staff, and will allow us to move unchallenged through the assembling army.”
Saybrook slid the stable door open a crack and exchanged a few words with Leete, then blew out the lantern.
Arianna mounted her mare in the dark, giving thanks for its placid disposition and smooth gait. She wasn’t looking forward to another hell-for leather gallop over the countryside.
“You would prefer bouncing along in a hot-air balloon?” asked Sophia, seeming to read her thoughts. In a previous mission they had endured a wild, bone-rattling flight over the English Channel in pursuit of a traitor, and had come perilously close to crashing into the sea.
“Actually, yes,” she replied, gingerly adjusting her boots in the stirrups. “My backside wouldn’t be bruised for the next few months.”
The black stallion blew out a snort as Sophia gathered her reins. “Better a sore bum than the Emperor’s arse on the throne of Europe.”
It might only have been a faint whoosh of the breeze swirling down the alley, but Arianna thought he heard Grentham stifle a chuckle.
“Leete knows the military encampments in the area and the shortest route to where we are going,” said Saybrook, once he had swung the door shut behind them and mounted his horse. “Once we’re close, we’ll consult my wife’s map for more precise positioning.”
Arianna had the precious paper and her calculations tucked securely inside her shirt.
“For now, stay together and keep up with Leete,” he added.
“I’ve been told that whatever it is you’re up to, time is of the essence,” said the captain. “So be forewarned that I’ll be flying like a bat with devil’s breath burning at its bollocks.”
“Sounds terribly painful,” murmured Sophia. “I’ve heard that’s a very sensitive part of a man’s anatomy.”
Leete spurred forward, cutting off any further clever bon mots.
Be damned with quips. Arianna was soon struggling to simply draw in a ragged gulp of air as the horses pounded over the rutted roads. Wind slapped at her face and tore at the capes of her cloak. Her hands ached with the effort of gripping the reins and guiding the mare around the regiments of foot soldiers now on the march out of the city. At one point, they cut through the forest, forcing her to duck low to avoid the whipping branches.
Somehow she managed to keep her seat.
At last, Leete slowed his pace as they crested a rise and drew to a merciful halt. Some infantry battalions were already in position, spreading out left and right along the ridge of the hill. From her vantagepoint, Arianna could see a long, sloping swath of cropland rolling down into a shallow valley, the stalks of ripening grain shimmering like a ghostly army in the waning moonlight.
The captain answered the sentry’s challenge, then barked a sharp order. “Take us to the closest artillery unit.”
The soldier guided them to rocky knoll. In the distance, she could just make out the shadowy ribbon of the road.
“What the devil . . .” grumbled the major in charge as Leete and Grentham stormed into his tent and roused him from sleep.
The minister produced his fancy parchment document, tattooed with numerous wax seals, and sporting the signature of the Prince Regent and shoved it under the officer’s nose.
The major snapped to attention after reading the short missive. “Sir! How can I be of service?”
“Wake your gunner
s and have them harness their horses, Major . . .” replied Grentham.
“Mansfield, sir!”
“I want you to move your battery of cannons, Mansfield.”
“B-but milord, the P-Prince of Orange has ordered me to take up position here to guard our flank. I can’t abandon—”
“Never fear.” Grentham bared his teeth in what clearly wasn’t meant to be a smile. “We’ll have you back here by dawn.”
The major blinked in confusion. “H-How—”
“Stop lollygagging and get your men moving!”
At the minister’s note of command, Mansfield jumped into action. In short order, the half dozen six-pounder cannons were hitched to their teams and a munitions wagon was readied for loading.
As the gunners transferred gunpowder and shot from the supply tent, Grentham moved over to Arianna. Her horse was acting a little skittish at the creaks and thuds of the big guns being shifted, but as he placed a hand on its withers and murmured a few calming words, the mare stilled its nervous shuffling.
His gaze then rose . . . and his brow notched up.
Damnation. Arianna had hoped that he wouldn’t notice her hands were shaking.
“You really are uncomfortable around horses,” he observed.
“We all have our weaknesses, milord,” she said softly. “It’s what makes us human.”
“Ah.” His lips twitched. “I’ve always thought of you as more of an avenging angel.”
“If I were an angel, I’d have wings,” muttered Arianna, “and wouldn’t need to sit in this cursed saddle to move from here to there.”
That drew a low laugh.
“I must say, though,” she mused, “I’m surprised you didn’t choose harpy rather than angel.”
“It seems we both surprise each other at times.”
An interesting comment.
However, Arianna had no time to ponder it, as she heard Saybrook tell the major to be sure to bring his spyglass. Her thoughts must stay focused on the present moment.
She quickly waved him over, not wishing to raise her voice with the gun crews moving around close by. “Tell him to bring all his maps as well. He may have an even more accurate one than mine.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he answered. “Wellington looks down his nose at the artillery—perhaps it’s because their officers have to earn their rank, rather than purchase it, thus many of them aren’t gentlemen. However, they’re known for being extremely well-educated and well-trained in their profession.”
“Let us hope our major is one of them.”
The earl blew out his breath. “We shall soon see which side Luck—and Fate—decide to favor.”
“Fortes fortuna juvat—Fortune favors the bold. It was my father’s favorite adage, which he often repeated,” replied Arianna, careful not to remind him of how the late earl’s untempered optimism had led him to a very unpleasant demise.
“I know a number of other Latin homilies,” he replied. “However, I shall refrain from saying them.” Seeing the major and his men were ready to move, the earl signaled Leete to lead the way to the narrow cart track skirting the fields of grain.
They rode on in silence, save for the rattles and groans of the cumbersome guns. Arianna kept her gaze on the landscape, mentally matching the contours she saw to the squiggles on her map. She had chosen a spot based on the vantagepoint and distance shown on the paper. But whether the information would prove accurate . . .
“There,” she called ahead to Leete and the major, deepening her voice and pointing out a spot ahead, where the main road swung in to run along the farmland.
Saybrook and Grentham spurred ahead to join the officers. After several moments, he gestured for her to join them.
Arianna glanced around, and through the mists she spotted the jut of rooftops in the distance to the rear of their position, rising from behind a stone wall.
“Is that Château d’Hougoumont, Major Mansfield?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied. After clearing his throat with a strangled cough, he looked at the minister. “Is that . . .”
“A lady? Yes, it is.” Grentham assumed his most menacing scowl. “And you will obey everything she tells to do. Then, once you and your men return to your post, you’ll forget that you ever encountered her. Understood?”
The major gave a wide-eyed nod.
“Excellent.” To Arianna, he snapped a mock salute. “I shall leave you and the major to work out the logistics here.”
She acknowledged his words by sliding down from the saddle, feeling a rush of relief on touching terra firma. Sophia dismounted beside her—with far more grace—and took charge of the mare’s reins.
“Bless you,” murmured Arianna. After taking a moment to steady her legs, she pulled out her map and approached the major.
He was, she noted, still looking a little shell-shocked.
“Let us compare notes, sir,” she said brusquely. “If you’ve had a chance to do some local reconnaissance, I imagine you’ve made accurate measurements between the various landmarks.”
“Yes, sir . . . er, madam.”
“You may call me Smythe,” she said, choosing the nom de guerre she had first used when she and Saybrook first clashed. “The fewer of your men who are alerted to the fact that a female is involved in this action, the better.”
Mansfield nodded.
“And do try to relax.” Arianna smiled. “I don’t bite.”
The major gave a feeble smile. “I’m glad to hear it, as the Frogs will likely soon be snapping their teeth, looking to devour us.”
Ah, so the man had a sense of humor. That boded well.
“Yes, but if we accomplish our mission, we’ll have swallowed one of their hopes for victory.”
His gaze sharpened. Seeing she had piqued his professional interest, she quickly explained, “We know that a courier has left a package containing something Napoleon very much wants in a special hiding place. However, we don’t know exactly where it is, and can’t risk sending in a party to root around trying to find it. Not only would it put them in grave danger, but with the French advancing, it might draw their attention and allow them to seize it first.” She smoothed out her map upon a flat rock and tapped at a squiggle on the paper. “It’s located here.”
Mansfield squinted at the spot. “Aye, I know that tree.” He took his spyglass out of the leather case slung over his chest and snapped it open. After a quick glance through the gloom, he passed it to her. “It’s an ancient oak, the tallest one around, as most of the other older trees have been cut down for farm land.”
Arianna studied the dark silhouette. “Have you an accurate assessment of the height?” That information wasn’t marked on her map.
This time, his smile was genuine. “I sent a man up it yesterday. We know it down to the bloody inch.” A cough. “Pardon my language.”
“Alas, my feminine sensibilities are not as easily shocked as they should be. I likely know as many colorful curses as you do—and in a variety of languages,” answered Arianna dryly. “Be that as it may, please have your gunners triangulate the distance from here to there. Once we have that, we’ll configure the cannons.”
The last vestiges of his awkwardness melted away as he suddenly understood what she had in mind. They set to work on the calculations, referring to his maps as well as hers, and sketching out the angle of fire on a fresh sheet of paper.
After drawing in a last line, Mansfield leaned back. “Can we try a few ranging shots? We can, of course, compute the trajectory needed for the weight of the ball and the required powder charge for a shot, based on the wind and other weather factors.” He made a face “But it’s very complicated mathematics, and our ballistic tables aren’t as accurate as they should be.”
Arianna shook her head. “We don’t know how close the enemy is, and we can’t risk alerting them to what we intend to do. So no firing of the cannons until we’re confident the first salvo will take out our target. We’ll have to count on our own s
kills.” She rolled her pencil between her fingers. “Just give me the variables, and I’ll work out the mathematics.”
His brows rose, but he rose without comment and went to consult with his men. A short while later, he returned with a handful of notes, accompanied by a grizzled fellow with greasy gray hair tied back in an old-fashioned queue.
“McAndrews is our master gunner and an expert on our military ballistics tables.”
“Auch, aye,” The man then muttered something in an unintelligible brogue.
“He’s a Highlander and says the tables are—”
“Bolloxed!” snorted McAndrews.
“Yes, they are,” agreed Arianna. She held out her hand. “Which is why I’m going to compute the correct numbers.”
As Mansfield passed over the papers, McAndrews started to chuckle—a slurpy rasp akin to a rusty caisson wheel trying to squelch through a quagmire of mud.
Ignoring the gunner—whose mirth tailed off with a mumble that sounded suspiciously like, “God help us all,” Arianna took a seat and began to run through the necessary additions and multiplications.
“Now,” she murmured aloud after covering a sheet of paper with a series of equations, “I need to square the number 47—no make that 47.5 to compensate for the breeze . . .”
More scribbling as the major and McAndrews exchanged surprised looks.
“Which would be 2256.25,” she announced. “Then divide by . . .” She did a few more calculations before tearing off a bit of paper and writing down a final number. “Have the two cannons elevated to this setting. I want that pair rolled forward and aimed directly at the tree, with a pair on either side angled for the same target. Add an extra three degrees to their settings.”
The major passed the paper to McAndrews. “Do exactly as Smythe says.”
The man fixed her with an owlish look, then hurried away, muttering under his breath.
Releasing a silent exhale, Arianna rose and looked around for the others. Saybrook and Grentham appeared deep in discussion by their horses, so she went to join Sophia, who had found a perch atop one of the rock outcroppings overlooking the mist-swirled road. A hint of light fluttered just below the horizon. Dawn would soon be here, bringing with it . . .
A Question of Numbers Page 27