So much bluster, so many promises. Spencer? I’ll see you upstairs, and meet you with a book tossed at your head if you dare to even hint that you’ll attempt to follow the drum again.”
Everyone waited until Mariah had left the drawing room before bursting into laughter at Spencer’s expense.
“Well and truly tied to the apron strings, aren’t you, old fellow?” Jack Eastwood asked, earning himself a speaking look from the love of his life. Morgan or Mariah would have delivered a sharp jab to his ribs, but the petite, ladylike Eleanor needed only to send a level look from her speaking eyes, and Jack subsided, murmuring a quiet, “Sorry, Spence.”
“It’s all right,” Spencer said, walking over to the drinks table to pour himself a glass of wine. “I know I can’t go. And neither can you two, not when the Black Ghost has to ride out with regularity, and definitely not when we still don’t know where our old friend Edmund Beales might next show his face—and recognize yours. What if he’s acting as Talleyrand has, and has now thrown in his lot with the Alliance, abandoning Bonaparte after the fiasco that was his attempt to free him from Elba last August? Bonaparte might not be quite in love with the man now, you know?”
Mention of Edmund Beales cast the room into silence for some moments, and Ainsley was, as always, thrown back in time, remembering the days when he’d considered Edmund his best friend and partner. Before Edmund’s betrayal. Before Isabella’s death at Edmund’s hands. Before the massacre on the island that had brought them all to England and the protective isolation of Romney Marsh seventeen years ago. Before they’d learned that Edmund still lived, and had taken his study of Machiavelli’s mad genius to heart, believing himself destined to control the destinies of half the world. Before…before…before…
“It’s true,” Callie said, breaking the silence, as she saw the shadows in her papa’s eyes, and wanted them gone. “None of you can be seen by Beales, as he may have seen all of your faces at one time or another. So you can relax, Papa, nobody is running off to war. Except Rian, of course,” she added, her pretty face marred by a frown as she thought about the day, a few weeks earlier, Rian had made his farewells and ridden away with an eagerness he couldn’t quite disguise, his commission in his pocket.
“Our brother is so damn hot to play the hero, the fool,” Spencer said, shaking his head. “We can only hope he’ll stay cooling his heels in Belgium, and never even set foot on French soil.”
“Amen to that, Spencer. I still find it difficult to believe the way the French have embraced Bonaparte, after damning him just over a year ago,” Eleanor said, paging through the newspapers she’d been holding on her lap. “Just look at these, for pity’s sake. Let me read the titles of the articles written over the course of the past weeks by the Moniteur, once so loyal to the Emperor. Here, darling, help me before they all slide to the floor.”
She passed some of the newspapers to Jack, whom she asked to read the oldest one first.
“It would be my pleasure. Ah, here we go. ‘The Corsican werewolf has landed at Cannes.’”
“Yes, the werewolf,” Eleanor said. “Now this one is next, only a few short days later. ‘The tiger appeared at Gap, troops were sent against him, the wretched adventurer ended his career in the mountains.’ They said he’d been killed, for pity’s sake.”
Jack reached for another newspaper. “And were forced to eat their own words. ‘The fiend has actually, thanks to treachery, been able to get as far as Grenoble.’”
Eleanor continued with the title of a later article, “‘The tyrant has reached Lyons, where horror paralyzed all attempts at resistance.’ But, Papa, haven’t your agents in France already told you Bonaparte was greeted with cheers and bouquets?”
Ainsley nodded. “Eleanor, you really expect truth from a newspaper controlled by the state? I thought I’d taught you to be more discerning than that. Read the rest, if you please. They are amusing, in a rather macabre way.”
Jack lifted another newspaper, scanned it and smiled ruefully. “Ah, no longer the werewolf, tiger or tyrant, I see, but actually at last referred to by name. And in just a few days time. ‘Bonaparte moves northward with rapid strides, but he will never reach Paris.’”
“And these last two,” Eleanor said, shaking her head. “‘Tomorrow Napoleon will be at our gates.’ And, lastly, this, ‘His Majesty is at Fontainebleau.’ His Majesty, is it? Hypocrites, all of them! But if that’s how rapidly the French can turn their coats, can Bonaparte sleep easy at night?”
Ainsley drained the last of his brandy and stood, ready to return to his study and the maps he’d been poring over since first he heard of Bonaparte’s escape, comparing those maps to the steady stream of information his money so cleverly bought. He’d correctly picked Cannes as the man’s initial destination. Now he looked north, to the area around Brussels, feeling that to be the logical ground for Wellington and the Emperor to at last meet across a battlefield. He’d already forwarded his thoughts to Chance and Ethan, with little hope such an necessarily anonymous warning would be heeded by their superiors.
And Rian, God help them, was already in Belgium.
“Remy,” he said, referring to his informant in Paris, “has written me that Bonaparte paused on the steps of his palace the day of his arrival, to look out on the quiet city, and said, ‘They have let me come, just as they let the others go.’ So, if that answers your question, Eleanor, I would say that the man knows his rule is tenuous, at best. Which I believe, sadly, means he will march out of Paris soon, to confront the Allies, rather than wait for them to come to him. He has to prove that he is still the strongest man in Europe.”
Courtland, who had spent many hours poring over the same communiqués and maps as Ainsley, disagreed. “It will be the end of July before the Russians and Austrians can meet up with our own army, and neither we English nor the Prussians will be fool enough to engage Bonaparte until all of the Allies are together.”
Ainsley smiled indulgently. “Don’t think of rosy scenarios, where the world works to your hopes, Court. Better to think like your enemy. Can you conceive of a better reason for Bonaparte to move now? His people will want to see a victory, a bit of the old soldier in his battle-worn green greatcoat, even if that means coming out with a smaller army than he’d like. And I do not believe he wants that initial fight to be a defensive action, one that takes place on French soil. No, Bonaparte is first and foremost a soldier. War may have been declared on him by the Alliance, but he will take the initiative, attack. If only the fools in the War Office could understand this.”
“Pray God they will, Papa. So…so Rian could be closer to this first battle, when it comes, than we believe?” Eleanor asked, slipping her hand into Jack’s.
“That blasted girl!”
All heads turned to look at Mariah, who was standing in the doorway, her cheeks flushed, and clutching a thick lock of light blond hair. She held it aloft, shook it with some fury.
Ainsley looked at the hank of hair and felt a frightening chill, as if a goose had just walked over his grave. “Fanny?”
Mariah nodded, scarcely able to speak. Fanny Becket had pushed back from the dinner table the previous evening, complaining of the headache, and gone to her room. “I knocked on her door a few times today, but there was no answer. You know how can she can be, sulking ever since Rian left, and I decided—Eleanor and I decided—to simply let her stay locked up in there until her stomach finally forced her out again. But tonight, well, enough is enough, so I commandeered a key and…and she’s not there.”
