A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  She pushed all thoughts of the future from her head. Whatever the outcome of the coming battle, the human toll would be unimaginable.

  Shifting her gaze, Arianna sought out the target. Without the spyglass, the tree was just an amorphous shadow among shadows. Numbers—now it all came down to a question of numbers.

  “If only our luck will hold,” she whispered.

  “Luck, Chance, Fate.” Her friend made a face. “I confess to being a stick in the mud, for the time I’ve spent in my laboratory has taught me to believe in empirical evidence, rather than habble-gabble mysticism.”

  “Intuition and Imagination are important,” mused Arianna. “But so is Reason. It’s dangerous to confuse fantasy with facts.” She thought back to Elba and the look of . . . obsession—there was no other word for it—on Napoleon’s face when he talked about Fate.

  “Or think you can twist them into one in the same.”

  A thumping and scraping signaled that the gun crews were wrestling the artillery into place. She turned and watched Mansfield carefully inspect each of the cannons.

  Pebbles crunched under the earl’s boots as he climbed up to join them. Grentham was right behind him.

  “It appears we’re nearly ready,” observed Saybrook.

  The minister looked as if he was about to say something, then merely pursed his lips.

  Arianna nodded, not trusting her voice. The numbers, the numbers . . . As she raced through the numbers one last time, looking for any error, she could feel the unspoken tension crackling through the silence.

  Crunch, crunch. The major climbed up the slope to join them. “All is exactly as you requested,” he reported. “And by the by, you’ve rendered McAndrews speechless—a feat no one else has ever accomplished. He and six of his sergeants have been working through the calculations, and it appears your mathematics are faultless.”

  Dawn was inching up on the horizon, its pink-tinged glow lightening the gloom. The tree was now visible to the naked eye.

  Mansfield cleared his throat. “So, what do we do now?”

  Arianna flexed her shoulders, suddenly thinking of Grunwald, a man with a love of Shakespeare and a steadfast belief that Good must triumph over Evil. Without his steadfast courage, she and Saybrook might never have discovered the sinister web of deception threatening all they held dear.

  Honor, loyalty, friendship. The elemental themes of drama had also woven their little group together in ways she never would have imagined several short weeks ago.

  “Arianna?” murmured Saybrook.

  “Cry havoc,” she said, quoting from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. “And let slip the dogs of war.”

  Grentham’s lips twitched. “What she means, Major, is fire the damn cannons and pound that bloody tree into a pulp.”

  BOOM! A half dozen tongues of fire exploded from the iron snouts of the cannons, and for a heartbeat, the soft shades of dawn gave way to a blaze of blood red.

  An instant later, Arianna saw the stately oak shatter into a whirling dervish fury of splintered wood and torn leaves. A cheer rose from the gun crews, but a sharp bark from Mansfield brought them back to order.

  “Reload!” he commanded. “And pound it again!”

  After the third salvo, Grentham snapped the major’s spyglass shut. “I think we can call a halt to the ballistics, Major!” he shouted. Turning to her, he added, “The talisman is now buried in a crater that reaches halfway to Hell.”

  “Huzzah! You did it, Arianna!” Sophia raised her arms in triumph—and then suddenly spun around and pulled Grentham into a fierce embrace.

  “Yes, well done, my dear,” murmured Saybrook, sliding his arm around her waist as the spyglass bounced down the pebbled path.

  Threading her hands through his wind-snarled hair, Arianna drew him into a long kiss.

  “I would offer yet another quote from Shakespeare and say All’s well that ends well,” she whispered after a lengthy interlude. “However, the real battle has yet to begin.”

  The warmth in his eyes gave way to shadows as he nodded. “Yes, but we must leave that to Wellington and his generals.” He paused and looked up at the scudding clouds. “And to whatever forces of the cosmos control our destiny.”

  “Amen to that,” growled Grentham as he tugged at his rumpled cravat. His expression was . . .

  If she didn’t know better, she would say he looked flustered.

  However, his usual iron-willed composure was back in a flash. “Now, unless you have some other fanciful scheme, Lady Saybrook—like summoning a silver-winged unicorn and swooping down to kidnap Napoleon—we had better get the major and his battalion back to their proper battle position.”

  “No unicorns,” she murmured. “You know how much I dislike horses—even ones with silver wings.”

  “Then might we return forthwith to your residence?” replied the minister. “It’s nearing time for breakfast, and given all we’ve been through lately, I’m sure everyone would welcome a steaming pot of your brewed chocolate.”

  Chapter 29

  The fighting began the next day, with news coming in of a battle at Quatre Bras, where a part of Wellington’s army fought a French force under the command of Marshall Ney. The British and Dutch troops held the day, but heavy losses—and the alarming news that the Prussian army had been defeated at Ligny—forced a retreat back to join the rest of Wellington’s forces on a high ridge near the village of Waterloo, a defensive position that the duke had determined gave his outnumbered raggle-taggle army the best chance of victory.

  Having returned to Brussels just as dawn rose over the horizon, Arianna and the others waited in agonizing uncertainty as over the next few days conflicting reports of the fighting swirled through the city. Panicked by word that the French were on the verge of routing Wellington and marching through the gates of Brussels, many of the residents and English expatriates fled to Antwerp and the coast. Saybrook and Grentham did their best to ferret out accurate information, but even the officers at Wellington’s rear guard command post had no idea of what was happening on the battlefield.

  When at last word had come that Blücher and the Prussian army had managed to come to Wellington’s aid in the nick of time, breaking the last French charge and forcing Napoleon’s elite Guards into full retreat, Arianna was too drained to feel any elation. Perhaps champagne and celebration would come later, once the horrors of the clash had faded from memory.

  She and the others had visited the battlefield in the aftermath of the fighting. Yes, the battle at Waterloo had been a momentous victory for Britain and her allies—but, oh, at what a terrible cost. As Wellington had said, nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won. So many of the laughing officers she had met in the ballroom would never again dance with the ladies . . . the mischievous Lord Hay, the Duke of Brunswick, whose flirtations had amused Harriet Capel . . .

  Amid the grimness, there were countless stories of courage and valorous deeds. Château d’Hougoumont and the walled farmhouse of La Haye Sainte had proved the keys to the triumph. The steadfast bravery of the Anglo-Dutch soldiers—including Major Mansfield and their artillery comrades—in defending their positions against the relentless French attack had kept Wellington’s forces from being flanked. The momentum had shifted time and again. But in the end, Luck had been on their side.

  Exhausted in body and spirit, Arianna and Saybrook, along with Sophia, Constantina and her paramour, had been grateful when Grentham somehow managed to commandeer accommodations on a naval frigate that left from Antwerp two days after the victory. allowing them to leave behind the chaos of the armies regrouping and tending to the wounded and sail for home . . .

  Home.

  Shaking off the memories of the last hell-and-brimstone week, Arianna took hold of the ship’s ratlines and lifted her face to catch the caress of sunlight and the cool ocean breeze. Breathe, she told herself, and slowly filled her lungs. The fresh scents—the briny tang of the sea, the pure currents of air, t
he salt-flecked canvas snapping overhead—helped dispel the stink of death that had pervaded every nook and cranny of Brussels and the surrounding countryside during the last few days.

  The waves drummed against the wooden hull, the sound a soothing reminder that death and destruction weren’t the only elemental rhythms of the cosmos.

  “A lovely day, isn’t it?” Saybrook joined her at the railing and slipped his arm around her waist. They had left the port several hours ago, and the land had faded from view, leaving only sea and sky to meet the eye. “That the sun rises up from the darkness each morning is reason for Hope.”

  Arianna leaned into him, savoring his warmth and the strong steady support of his muscled body as the deck pitched beneath their feet. “Yes, if we didn’t believe in the glorious possibilities of the future, then I’m not sure what we are fighting for.”

  His eyes crinkled in humor as he shot a glance back at the quarterdeck, where Grentham and Sophia were standing by the taffrail. “The possibilities of the future . . .” he mused. The minister had a naval cutlass in his hand and appeared to be explaining the basic moves of attack to Sophia. “What are the chances?”

  The wind freshened and Arianna watched the glittering shards of diamond-bright light skim across the sea-green water. “We were a far more unlikely couple—wary, cynical, sure that the battle with our inner demons left no room for softer sentiments in our hearts.”

  He chuckled. “Ye gods, what a pair we were.”

  “Yes, it’s a wonder we ever had the chance to fall in love.”

  “Not really.” A pair of gulls swooped and shrieked, white specks against a brilliant blue sky. “You know how fond I am of chocolate.”

  Arianna found his hand. Their fingers twined together. “And here I thought you lusted after my mind.”

  “Hmmm.” He pressed a kiss to her brow. “That’s high on the list of enchantments. However . . .”

  They stood for a moment in companionable silence as the breeze ruffled through their hair.

  “However,” repeated Saybrook, “getting back to those two . . .”

  Turning pensive, she considered the question for several long moments. “Who can say what binds two people together?” Her lips quirked. “Sophia has an expertise in chemistry, so she would likely have a scientific answer on the complexities of how various elements attract or repel.” A pause. “Or simply blow up in your face.”

  The earl gave another laugh.

  “They’re both very strong-willed people, hardened by life,” she continued. “But perhaps not as much as they think.”

  “She will test him,” mused the earl.

  “And torment him.” Arianna smiled. “It will do him good.”

  “Amen to that,” he said with a look of unholy amusement.

  “As for love . . .” Her gaze fell on Constantina, who, like Grentham and Sophia, was enjoying a visit to the quarterdeck with Dampierre. “It works in mysterious ways, and perhaps that’s what makes it so wondrous.”

  The dowager caught Arianna’s eye and gestured for her and Saybrook to come join them.

  “What topic has you two so deep in conversation?” called Constantina as they climbed the ladder up to the raised rear deck of the ship. Normally the captain’s private bailiwick, it had been made available to them for the duration of the voyage.

  “Yes, pray—do tell,” said the minister, setting aside the sword and escorting Sophia to join the group.

  “Love,” announced Arianna, once the pair had stepped into the swath of shade cast by the mizzensail.

  Sophia’s cheeks turned a trifle pink.

  “We were simply discussing the fact that it seemed to be in the air.”

  “Indeed?” Grentham scowled. “I would think there are far more pressing matters to ponder.”

  “I’m not sure what’s more important than our friends—and friendship is an elemental part of love,” replied Arianna. “I find it heartening that Señora Marone-Cinzano was willing to look after Mr. Pierson until he’s strong enough to travel.” The two of them had bonded over their daughters, and it soon had become clear that there was a spark between the two of them. Given the dark side of human nature made up a good part of the world in which they each toiled, it was likely hard to find a kindred soul who understood the sacrifices required to do such a difficult job.

  “The señora has also offered to help him find another school for Emma,” said Sophia.

  “Yes, well, perhaps now the threat to peace on the Continent is over, he can think of creating a more stable home for his daughter,” mused Arianna.

  “Pierson was very lucky,” observed Saybrook. “For him to have survived and for his daughter to have escaped the clutches of the French required that every roll of the dice came up in our favor.”

  “Luck,” said Grentham.

  Arianna expected him to snap a sarcastic comment. But he surprised her.

  “Luck,” he repeated, the flutter of light and shadow from the sails making his face hard to read. “I suppose it did play a role in the outcome. Both for our mission and for Wellington. We got very lucky at every step of the way in rescuing Pierson and his daughter. Had just one little thing—an errant movement, a moment’s hesitation—worked in the enemy’s favor, all would have been lost.”

  Saybrook eyed him thoughtfully.

  “And as for the battle, as Wellington said, it has been a damned close-run thing—the nearest run thing you ever saw in your life.” The minister paused. “Wellington was extraordinarily lucky, and Napoleon was extraordinarily unlucky. Victory should have been his. But for Grouchy choosing the wrong direction in pursuing the Prussian army, which allowed Blücher to come to Wellington’s aid . . . but for the weather, which delayed his first attack at Waterloo . . . but for the heroics of the men defending Château d’Hougoumont . . .”

  “So, it seems we’re making a mystic of you,” murmured Arianna, a smile touching her lips.

  “On the contrary,” he retorted. “What you choose to call Luck, is merely the workings of the cosmos, which demands that we make countless little decisions. If we exercise logic and work exceedingly hard at gathering evidence and clues, we improve the chances of making the right ones when the time comes to make a move.”

  “I disagree,” said Arianna. “Granted, logic help us make certain decisions, but as we’ve discussed before, there are times when we just . . . feel lucky. And somehow things just fall in our favor.”

  “Are you really saying Napoleon was defeated because he didn’t have his beloved bauble in his pocket?”

  “He had great faith in his talisman,” she replied. “It gave him confidence. And without confidence—”

  The minister made a rude sound.

  “Would you just call it Fate?” suggested Saybrook.

  Grentham shrugged. “I don’t feel compelled to give it a name.”

  The sail canvas gave a loud crack as the wind shifted.

  “Call it whatever you will,” said Arianna. “What matters is that Evil has been defeated, and the threat to peace on the Continent is over.”

  Grentham shaded his eyes as he stared out at the storm clouds that were suddenly forming on the horizon. “Don’t be naïve, Lady Saybook. You know as well as I do that a victory over Evil, no matter how cataclysmic, is never final. A new threat will re-form from the smoking cinders and ashes . . .”

  Arianna felt a serpentine chill slither down her spine.

  The minister turned and flashed a mirthless smile. “And rise up to strike again—usually when we least expect it.”

  “Percival!” chided the dowager, punctuating rebuke by thumping her cane against his boot. “Don’t be so . . . so pessimistic.”

  “I prefer to consider it realistic, Lady Sterling,” he countered. “My job requires that I look at the world with ice-cold clarity, rather than viewing it through rose-tinted spectacles.” His eyes shifted to Sophia, and Arianna thought she detected a gleam of a challenge.

  Sophia returned the stare
without flinching.

  “Love and duty aren’t mutually exclusive, milord,” said Arianna softly. “Indeed, I think the bonds of love and friendship make one even more inspired to fight the forces of darkness.”

  Grentham’s expression remained cynical, and yet a tiny twitch seemed to soften the set of his mouth.

  “However, you’re right, of course,” she added. “There will be new challenges, and we won’t always win them.”

  Overhead the sky was still a brilliant blue, with motes of pure light dancing through the air.

  “But we did just beat the Devil at his own game, so for now, let us simply enjoy our day in the sun.”

  Author’s Note

  One of the things I love about writing historical novels set in the Regency era is the fact that the actual history is a source of endless inspiration for plot elements and twists. (As Lord Byron said, Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction!) In the case of this book, there were a number of things that proved great fun to work into the story.

  To begin with, Napoleon’s Theorem is real, not a figment of my imagination! As mentioned in the book, Napoleon Bonaparte rose to prominence in the army in no small part because of his aptitude for mathematics. (He was an artillery officer, and math is key in determining ballistics—the distance and accuracy of cannonfire.) His interest in the subject didn’t wan when he became ruler of France. Along with his many other interests—he spearheaded great reforms in jurisprudence, agriculture, government bureaucracy, to name just a few—he met regularly with Joseph-Louis Lagrange and Pierre-Simon Laplace, the leading French mathematicians of the day, to discuss the subject. (Now, some people question whether Napoleon really came up with the theorem, but he claimed that he did, and I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt!”

  The Ladies’ Diary, in which Lady Arianna finds the theorem, was indeed a real publication. Founded in 1704, it was intended as more than just a compendium of household hints and useful calendar table, as its subtitle indicates—“Containing New Improvements in ARTS and SCIENCES, and many entertaining PARTICULARS: Designed for the USE AND DIVERSION OF THE FAIR SEX.” The math problems presented in the Diary were very sophisticated, and many of the leading male mathematicians read it to see the answers to the problems posed in the pages. It’s also interesting to note that many of the women readers were just as skilled as the men in mathematics!