The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

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, “Ah, here comes Lord Brooks with two of his bootlicking aides, the chinless sots. They were right on your heels.”

“Where they belong,” 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 furnishings. Marcus was used to the opulence. North wasn’t 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 Talleyrand’s guest, no surprise, Wellington had remarked to Marcus and North shortly after Napoleon’s 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.

“Yes, but they’re not all that bad, Marcus—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.”

“He’s got no more sense than a goat, does Louis, but at least he’s the rightful ruler.”

“And 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. It’s said that his mistresses put shame to a legion’s numbers.”

Marcus looked bored. “I’ve sometimes wished,” he said after a moment, keeping an eye on Lord Brooks and those two eavesdropping aides of his, “that Talleyrand were English. Castlereagh is a brilliant diplomat; men trust him, but still, it seems to me there’s just too much honor in Castlereagh, not enough guile. He has difficulty, I’ve seen, lying directly into another man’s face.”

“A failure indeed,” North said, and unobtrusively poked Marcus in the ribs, for Lord Brooks appeared to be coming over for a chat.

“My lords,” 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. “So, we now have Louis XVIII as the French king. I believe it an excellent thing that Napoleon has retained his title of emperor, don’t you?”

Marcus thought it the height of stupidity, but said nothing, merely began sorting through some military dispatches.

North said easily, shrugging, “Emperor of what, isn’t 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.”

Marcus said, “Don’t forget all those French and Polish bodyguards. And he does have a navy, Lord Brooks, the brig Inconstant.”

“You perhaps dwell too lightly on an occurrence that surely justifies more sober reflection,” 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.

“What did that mean?” North said.

“God knows.”

“God cares, I’m sure. We’ll be more careful in the future, Marcus. It doesn’t do to insult the man. He’s proud as the devil and hates to be shown his stupidity, a deadly combination.”

They laughed, but not too loudly. There was no point in further angering Lord Brooks.

“I’m bored,” Marcus said. “Bloody bored. I don’t know what I want to do but it isn’t this.”

“I know. There’s 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 bastard.”

“More intrigue,” Marcus said. “I have this feeling he came over here to discover if we know anything he doesn’t know. I can’t count the times I’ve been approached by underlings of Talleyrand, Metternich, Czar Alexander, to reveal any secrets I might have on Wellington’s stand on this or that, or opinions, as those damned diplomats phrase their requests. Well, damn all of them.”

“Amen,” North Nightingale said. “Your arm looks a bit stiff today, Marcus. You’re moving it awkwardly.”

“I 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 massages it. This morning I believe he must have overdone it a bit, it hurts like bloody hell.”

“Still, despite his enthusiasm, it seems to help. It’s been just a matter of weeks since you took that bullet at Toulouse. Trust Spears, he’s a good man.”

“Christ, North, at least I’m 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 damned waste of it. So many men, dead for naught.” 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 Cité on Le Pont Neuf—actually the bridge wasn’t 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 Hôtel Matignon, at number 57, Rue de Grenelle.

Marcus waved to a fellow officer, crossing the street at a diagonal from them. “We have our own battalion here in the Faubourg Saint Germain.”

“Don’t 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 asses. How the devil do they manage to get up and go about their duties?”

Marcus shook his head. “I’ve seen them staggering in at dawn and up again at seven o’clock. And the number of prostitutes has grown to staggering numbers, the randy bastards.”

“None of them owes any of their wages to you, Marcus. How is the fair Lisette?”

“Fair as usual. I leased a very charming apartment on the Rue de Varenne for her. Her appreciation moved me.”