“He 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, ‘No more death, no more death.’
“And Wellington said, ‘Leave me be, leave me be,
I’ll put on my shirt and then I’ll see.’
“But the messenger grinned and danced with guile,
shouting, ‘Listen, milord, he’s choked on his bile.
Napoleon’s eaten his hat, tossed down his sword.
We’ll now go home and all be bored.’
‘Hurrah, Hurrah,’ said Wellington.
‘By God, we’ve done it, by God, we’ve won!
No more battles, no more glory,
I’m England-bound to become a Tory.’ ”
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 passed out of her sight and her hearing, down the street and around the corner, their voices becoming a faraway echo.
The words weren’t 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 she’d heard it several times already when she’d 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. He’d been safe since April 6, the day Napoleon had abdicated, no, that wasn’t true, there’d been another huge battle at Toulouse and a myriad of small skirmishes. God, how she’d prayed he hadn’t been in Toulouse, the loss of life in that needless battle had been staggering. Surely he wouldn’t 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 Spears’s last letter. Unfortunately the letter was dated at the end of March. He’d written that he and his lordship were off on an assignment and he didn’t know where they were being sent. He would inform her, he concluded, when he was able. He ended by assuring her that his lordship continued in his stubborn ways, but even a stoat could be brought about to mend his manners, perhaps. He finished by saying that all hell was breaking loose now.
What did that mean? It made her shudder. What if he had been wounded or killed after Napoleon’s abdication? She’d searched the papers for war news, for the notices of deaths. No word of Marcus. She wouldn’t 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 couldn’t really see him succumbing to reason, despite all the private conversations she’d created, first playing herself and then playing him. No, it would take more than words and sound reason. With Marcus, it would require an assault, the use of guile and cunning. Not a frontal assault, but an assault that would allow for no unforeseen deviations by his clever and equally cunning lordship. She rose, rang the bell cord, and waited for Badger. She hummed the ditty she’d 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, “I’ve got it now, Badger. The Plan. Are you all set to leave the moment we hear word?”
“I’ve been ready for three weeks, Duchess,” Badger said, grinning back at her. “His bloody lordship doesn’t stand a chance if you’ve finally got a plan.”
“No, he doesn’t, the fool.”
8
PARIS
MAY 1814
HE’D BEEN AN ass, a complete sod of an ass, and he wished he could forget it, but he couldn’t seem to, even though so many days and weeks had passed. It was always there in the back of his mind, ready to spring back and shout it to his face, like now. Damnation, but he’d been bloody unfair to her. Not that she’d shown any particular pain or distress when he’d shouted all those things
at her—calling her cold-blooded, frigid, for God’s sake—insulting her until if he’d been her, he would have killed him. Dead, right on the spot, but she hadn’t, she’d just sat there, looking at him, saying nothing, damn her beautiful eyes, damn her control. Control, something he’d lost completely.
He hated being an ass and realizing it and feeling guilty about it. And he’d done nothing about it. He’d not written an apology to her, for surely what her father had done wasn’t her fault, no, he’d done nothing at all. God, he wished she were here right now and he would . . . What would he do? He didn’t really know. He hoped he would apologize for spewing his venom and bitterness on her.