Part 3 (1/2)

To her absolute delight, they no sooner finished that ditty than they broke into another, this one about Wellington upon receiving word that Napoleon had abdicated. The two were meant to go together, surely.

aHe was pulling on his boots so it was said,

planning the next campaign, all in his head.

Then the messenger came all out of breath,

shouting, aNo more death, no more death.a

aAnd Wellington said, aLeave me be, leave me be,

Iall put on my s.h.i.+rt and then Iall see.a

aBut the messenger grinned and danced with guile,

shouting, aListen, milord, heas choked on his bile.

Napoleonas eaten his hat, tossed down his sword.

Weall now go home and all be bored.a

aHurrah, Hurrah,a said Wellington.

aBy G.o.d, weave done it, by G.o.d, weave won!

No more battles, no more glory,

Iam England-bound to become a Tory.a a

She was grinning like a fool at the lilting melody, and the way the soldiers were butchering it and having such fun doing it. They enjoyed it, that was the point. She drew back into her bedchamber as the soldiers pa.s.sed out of her sight and her hearing, down the street and around the corner, their voices becoming a faraway echo.

The words werenat perfect, oh no, but to sing about what Wellington had supposedly said, it was warming, at least to her. There was another song, this one shorter, but shead heard it several times already when shead been out walking with Badger in St. James and had seen it being sold at Hookhams. Both the words and the music had been hastily printed, and thus reading it was difficult, but evidently enough people managed well enough. It was about the French Senate, manipulated by the astute and cunning Talleyrand, who had doubtless convinced the Czar to vote in old Louis to become king, and now that fat old idiot, brother to the late King, would now become Louis XVIII.

And now, wherever he was, Marcus was safe. Head been safe since April 6, the day Napoleon had abdicated, no, that wasnat true, theread been another huge battle at Toulouse and a myriad of small skirmishes. G.o.d, how shead prayed he hadnat been in Toulouse, the loss of life in that needless battle had been staggering. Surely he wouldnat have been there, surely. Spears would have gotten her word somehow.

Soon she would know exactly where he was. Soon, she would have him, the stupid fool, for time was growing short.

She walked to her small writing desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out Spearsas last letter. Unfortunately the letter was dated at the end of March. Head written that he and his lords.h.i.+p were off on an a.s.signment and he didnat know where they were being sent. He would inform her, he concluded, when he was able. He ended by a.s.suring her that his lords.h.i.+p continued in his stubborn ways, but even a stoat could be brought about to mend his manners, perhaps. He finished by saying that all h.e.l.l was breaking loose now.

What did that mean? It made her shudder. What if he had been wounded or killed after Napoleonas abdication? Shead searched the papers for war news, for the notices of deaths. No word of Marcus. She wouldnat believe he was dead, never, for she knew that if anything had happened to him, Spears would have managed to get back to her, yes, yes, he would, she must believe that or go mad. No, he was well. She folded the letter and slipped it back into the desk drawer.

That evening, a balmy spring evening so enjoyed by lovers, as she sat alone in the magnificent drawing room of the Wyndham townhouse in Berkeley Square, she realized she had to devise a plan, a campaign really, just as Wellington was always doing, mostly with outstanding success. Once she found Marcus, she couldnat really see him succ.u.mbing to reason, despite all the private conversations shead created, first playing herself and then playing him. No, it would take more than words and sound reason. With Marcus, it would require an a.s.sault, the use of guile and cunning. Not a frontal a.s.sault, but an a.s.sault that would allow for no unforeseen deviations by his clever and equally cunning lords.h.i.+p. She rose, rang the bell cord, and waited for Badger. She hummed the ditty shead heard earlier, treasuring the melody and the words alike.

When Badger appeared in the drawing room, she grinned at him, not at all a stingy grin, and announced blithely, aIave got it now, Badger. The Plan. Are you all set to leave the moment we hear word?a aIave been ready for three weeks, d.u.c.h.ess,a Badger said, grinning back at her. aHis b.l.o.o.d.y lords.h.i.+p doesnat stand a chance if youave finally got a plan.a aNo, he doesnat, the fool.a

8.

PARIS.

MAY 1814.

HEaD BEEN AN a.s.s, a complete sod of an a.s.s, and he wished he could forget it, but he couldnat seem to, even though so many days and weeks had pa.s.sed. It was always there in the back of his mind, ready to spring back and shout it to his face, like now. d.a.m.nation, but head been b.l.o.o.d.y unfair to her. Not that shead shown any particular pain or distress when head shouted all those things at hera”calling her cold-blooded, frigid, for G.o.das sakea”insulting her until if head been her, he would have killed him. Dead, right on the spot, but she hadnat, shead just sat there, looking at him, saying nothing, d.a.m.n her beautiful eyes, d.a.m.n her control. Control, something head lost completely.

He hated being an a.s.s and realizing it and feeling guilty about it. And head done nothing about it. Head not written an apology to her, for surely what her father had done wasnat her fault, no, head done nothing at all. G.o.d, he wished she were here right now and he would . . . What would he do? He didnat really know. He hoped he would apologize for spewing his venom and bitterness on her.

He shook his head. He looked up to see his friend North Nightingale, Major Lord Chilton, come into the vast chamber. He waited until North was close then said, aAh, here comes Lord Brooks with two of his bootlicking aides, the chinless sots. They were right on your heels.a aWhere they belong,a North said, and smiled, that dark saturnine smile of his, and looked around the immense room with its thirty-foot ceilings and its gilded and lavish gold-and-white furnis.h.i.+ngs. Marcus was used to the opulence. North wasnat yet used to the heavy splendor of it, the oppressiveness of it. The room was in the former Parisian mansion of the Duc de Noaille, now on loan to Wellington and his staff. Czar Alexander was just down the street, in the even more splendidly decadent mansion of Talleyrand; he was Talleyrandas guest, no surprise, Wellington had remarked to Marcus and North shortly after Napoleonas abdication, since Talleyrand wanted to manipulate Alexander, and having him under his own roof with access to his remarkable cellars, would aid him enormously, as it indeed had.

aYes, but theyare not all that bad, Marcusa”the aides, that is. I heard them singing that new ditty about Talleyrand and how that wily and ruthless old fox is maneuvering not only the Czar but also the French Senate to bring back fat old Louis. They sang rather well as I recall.a aHeas got no more sense than a goat, does Louis, but at least heas the rightful ruler.a aAnd no more presence than a pompous stoat. Ah, but Talleyrand succeeded, and Louis is now on the French throne. Lord, but I never want to tangle with that man. Itas said that his mistresses put shame to a legionas numbers.a Marcus looked bored. aIave sometimes wished,a he said after a moment, keeping an eye on Lord Brooks and those two eavesdropping aides of his, athat Talleyrand were English. Castlereagh is a brilliant diplomat; men trust him, but still, it seems to me thereas just too much honor in Castlereagh, not enough guile. He has difficulty, Iave seen, lying directly into another manas face.a aA failure indeed,a North said, and un.o.btrusively poked Marcus in the ribs, for Lord Brooks appeared to be coming over for a chat.

aMy lords,a Lord Brooks said, all amiability as he looked them over, as he did on a daily basis. He was an older man with a fierce tuft of white hair, a large nose, and a brain that was exceeded only by his height, which was just barely over five and a half feet. aSo, we now have Louis XVIII as the French king. I believe it an excellent thing that Napoleon has retained his t.i.tle of emperor, donat you?a Marcus thought it the height of stupidity, but said nothing, merely began sorting through some military dispatches.

North said easily, shrugging, aEmperor of what, isnat that a question that gives one pause? Ah, yes, he is now the sovereign ruler of Elba, an emperor of boulders and beaches and a few scrubby trees.a Marcus said, aDonat forget all those French and Polish bodyguards. And he does have a navy, Lord Brooks, the brig Inconstant.a aYou perhaps dwell too lightly on an occurrence that surely justifies more sober reflection,a Lord Brooks said, looked at both men as if he would like to strike his glove on their cheeks, then strode back to his aides.

aWhat did that mean?a North said.

aG.o.d knows.a aG.o.d cares, Iam sure. Weall be more careful in the future, Marcus. It doesnat do to insult the man. Heas proud as the devil and hates to be shown his stupidity, a deadly combination.a They laughed, but not too loudly. There was no point in further angering Lord Brooks.

aIam bored,a Marcus said. ab.l.o.o.d.y bored. I donat know what I want to do but it isnat this.a aI know. Thereas nothing but the diplomats dancing around each other now, making promises, breaking them when the dawn breaks. Lord, I sometimes hate diplomats and all the endless games of diplomacy. Ah, Marcus, do smile at Lord Brooks, the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d.a aMore intrigue,a Marcus said. aI have this feeling he came over here to discover if we know anything he doesnat know. I canat count the times Iave been approached by underlings of Talleyrand, Metternich, Czar Alexander, to reveal any secrets I might have on Wellingtonas stand on this or that, or opinions, as those d.a.m.ned diplomats phrase their requests. Well, d.a.m.n all of them.a aAmen,a North Nightingale said. aYour arm looks a bit stiff today, Marcus. Youare moving it awkwardly.a aI know. Spears never leaves me alone. Every morning he watches me lift my heavy sword, up and down, up and down, very slowly, fifty times to get the arm back to its full strength. Then he ma.s.sages it. This morning I believe he must have overdone it a bit, it hurts like b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l.a aStill, despite his enthusiasm, it seems to help. Itas been just a matter of weeks since you took that bullet at Toulouse. Trust Spears, heas a good man.a aChrist, North, at least Iam alive with but a stiff arm. We lost four thousand five hundred men, not just casualties, as the war ministry says so glibly, and all because a messenger can ride only so quickly to inform Wellington that Napoleon abdicated four days earlier. The d.a.m.ned waste of it. So many men, dead for naught.a He unconsciously rubbed his arm again.

North watched Marcus close and lock the desk drawer, then stare down at the small golden key as delicate as a fine piece of jewelry, so insubstantial it looked. Yet Marcus always kept it with him. There had been two robbery attempts in the past two weeks. Even if a thief ripped the drawer open, he would only find outdated papers, for the secret drawer was well hidden.

The two men left the mansion and spent the next thirty minutes walking along the banks of the Seine, breathing in the clear early evening air, before crossing the western tip of Ile de la Cit on Le Pont Neufa”actually the bridge wasnat new at all, indeed it was the oldest bridge in Paris. They strolled down the Boulevard Saint Michel, speaking desultorily, cutting over to the Boulevard Saint Germain to where their rooms were located in a large early eighteenth-century mansion, the H'tel Matignon, at number 57, Rue de Grenelle.

Marcus waved to a fellow officer, crossing the street at a diagonal from them. aWe have our own battalion here in the Faubourg Saint Germain.a aDonat forget all the Russian soldiers here as well. Last night I had my window open, more fool I. I could hear them singing in their incomprehensible language until nearly dawn, drunker than a.s.ses. How the devil do they manage to get up and go about their duties?a Marcus shook his head. aIave seen them staggering in at dawn and up again at seven oaclock. And the number of prost.i.tutes has grown to staggering numbers, the randy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.a aNone of them owes any of their wages to you, Marcus. How is the fair Lisette?a aFair as usual. I leased a very charming apartment on the Rue de Varenne for her. Her appreciation moved me.a North laughed. aIall just bet it did.a She was beautifully skilled, Marcus thought. He said aloud, aYou know what I really like about Lisette, other than the obvious things? Sheas always talking, chattering really, flitting about the chamber, always moving, telling me jests, laughing, always laughing. Sheas never silent, never likea”a aLike what? Like who?a aLike the d.a.m.ned d.u.c.h.ess, if you would know the truth of it.a North Nightingale looked at the fast-flowing Seine in the distance. aYouare a fool, Marcus.a aStow it, North. Iam a lucky man, so very lucky. Do you know that in my pocket at this very minute is a bank draft for two hundred pounds? My quarterly allowance for being the b.l.o.o.d.y earl of Chase, all duly notarized by Mr. Wicks. Itas taken long enough to catch up to me. I do wonder how Mr. Wicks found me.a aI do too. Youave managed to keep yourself hidden from everyone else in England. You wonat turn down the funds will you, Marcus?a ah.e.l.l, no. A goodly portion of it goes to Lisetteas upkeep.a He smiled at that, wondering what Mr. Wicks would say if he knew the old earlas groats were being spent on his hated nephewas mistress. Well, the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d had had his own mistress, the d.u.c.h.essas mother. Odd, how it seemed different, given the d.u.c.h.ess.

Where was the d.u.c.h.ess? Back at her d.a.m.ned cottage? Or reveling in her fifty thousand pounds in the middle of London society, entertaining gentlemen who doubtless all drooled on her, d.a.m.n her beautiful blue eyes. Head thought about her many times, wondered about what was in her d.a.m.ned mind, wondering, always wondering in those off moments, if there had been a man to protect her, to pay the rent on Pipwell Cottage, to pay Badger, to pay . . . G.o.d, none of it mattered now, not her motives, not her, none of it. His rage still burned deep and bright and strong. He never would see Chase Park or her or any of the other Wyndhams as long as he lived.