awaited. Brussels awaited.
Rian, although he didn’t know it yet, awaited.
CHAPTER THREE
RIAN BECKET sat alone at a back table in a small roadside tavern in an area he believed was called something akin to Scendelbeck, the top button of his uniform opened, his overlong black hair damp and plastered against his forehead above bright blue eyes that hadn’t seen more than a few hours of sleep in several weeks.
So much for the romance and glory of war.
Thus far, that war consisted of a prodigious amount of parading under a hot sun or a drenching downpour, a good deal of tending to his horse, a measure of drinking, and much too much sitting and waiting.
At least at long last Rian had seen the man he’d been cheated out of meeting last year in London, as the Duke of Wellington himself had just today inspected their forces, along with the Prince of Orange, the Duc de Berri, the Duke of Brunswick and even Field Marshal Blücher, the man, it was said, who had drunk half of London under the table when there last August for, it turned out now, the premature Peace Celebrations.
“Lieutenant Rian Becket?”
Rian looked up at the tall man standing in front of the table, about to rise if that man had been wearing a uniform. But as he wasn’t, and looked very much as if the clothes he did stand up in were the same clothes he’d laid down in several nights in a row, Rian only slipped lower on his spine in the wooden chair and motioned for the fellow to join him.
“I’d offer you some of my wine,” Rian said, hefting the dark blue bottle in front of him, “but as you can see, alas, I’ve finished the last of it. You know my name. If you’d now return the favor, perhaps we can then split a new bottle.”
The sandy-haired ruffian—he did, truly, look the ruffian—smiled as he sat down and extended his hand. “Valentine Clement, Mr. Becket, at your service. Jack Eastwood wrote to me, asked that I—”
“Jack? Oh, bloody hell,” Rian swore, sitting up straight while ignoring the man’s outstretched hand. “My brother-in-law thinks I need a nursemaid? No, thank you. And if you’re applying for the role of batman, Clement, it should have occurred to you to first clean up your dirt before presenting yourself.”
The man withdrew his hand, his light hazel eyes twinkling in amusement. “A thousand pardons, Lieutenant Becket. I’ll inform your brother-in-law of your so polite refusal.” He pushed back his chair and got to his feet before making a damned graceful bow for a ruffian, a small smile on his face. “Good day to you, sir.”
Feeling as if he might have made some sort of mistake, Rian called for another bottle. But, instead of the barmaid, one of his superiors from the 13th Light Dragoons delivered the wine, as well as a second glass clearly meant for himself.
“Remain seated, Lieutenant. That conversation was a mite short,” Captain Moray commented, pulling the cork from the bottle and pouring them each a full tumbler of surprisingly good wine. “What did his lordship want? He say anything about what’s going on with Boney?”
Rian looked at the older man, the quick flip of his stomach telling him he probably didn’t want to hear anything Moray might say next. “His lordship? You’re not mistaken? His lordship?”
Moray nodded, and then drank deeply from his glass before setting it down again. “I still hate this part, the waiting. One more bloody parade, Becket, and we’ll all be busy reshoeing our horses while Boney is driving over us with his cannon. And, right you are, his lordship. That was himself, Valentine Clement. Earl of Brede, you know. Haven’t seen him in a while, and us that know are never supposed to let on who he is, but I’ve been down this road before, and that was him, I’m sure of it. The great bloody Brede himself.”
Rian jammed his fingers through his hair, feeling young and stupid. “Oh, well…hell,” he said, disgusted, and then slumped back against his chair. “I just turned him down for the position of my batman. And all but told him he smelled, needed a bath. Which he did, damn it all anyway, on both counts.”
Moray’s braying laugh had heads turning in the tavern. “Cheeky young pup. But he knew you, didn’t he, called you by name? Brede’s one of Wellington’s own, you know, and been with him forever. Handpicked for being sneaky. Flits around wherever he wants, his ear always to the ground. Odds are his lordship supped with Boney at that fancy Versailles of his three nights ago, and then flirted into the mornin’ with all the prettiest mam-selles. And you all but served the man his notice? There’s bollocks for you, I’ll give you that. I think that calls for another bottle, I do.” And he leaned back in his chair, snapping his fingers at the barmaid.
Rian drank silently, mentally kicking himself for his own arrogance. Elly’s husband had written a letter, sent Brede to him. Jack never spoke much about what he’d done years ago, but they all knew he’d acted as a spy on the Peninsula, among other things. A spy like Brede. So did Jack then break both his hands affixing a seal to the letter to Brede, so that he couldn’t send another to his brother-in-law, warning him as to what he’d done?
“That man—Brede—he looked as tired as old death itself, didn’t he?” Rian asked his Captain, feeling young and damned foolish. “He’s seen things I shouldn’t want to see, I think. I thought this all would be…different somehow. Good. Noble.”
Moray lifted his head, smacked his lips together a time or two, as the wine, far from his first bottle of the evening, had begun to make his tongue numb and thick. He peered across the tabletop at Rian. “Noble, is it? Then that’s your mistake, boy. You never should have set foot from home, not a dreamer like you. Put that dreaming away. If you don’t, you’ll end up dead, mark my words.”
“Then I’ll put away the dreams, if that’s what it takes. I want to fight, Captain Moray,” Rian said, bristling. “And I’m damn good at it.”
The captain grinned, his head sort of sliding down between his palms as one cheek made slow, gentle contact with the tabletop. “You can ride like the very devil, I’ll give you that. Never miss the straw with your saber, either. But a heap of straw ain’t flesh, boy, and that fine, light-footed bay of yours will probably be shot from under you in the first minute of the charge. When you’re knee deep in blood and mud, tripping over pieces of the men you drank with the night before, and the Froggies are screaming, running at you—then we’ll see how damn good you are. Enough. Jesus, I hate this…I hate this. Too much waiting…too much thinking. Too much remembering the last time. Cursed Boney, he was supposed to be gone….”
CHAPTER FOUR
FANNY SAT WITH her back against the raw wood planks that made up the hold of the small ship, her knees bent as she braced herself against the storm raging in the Channel. Molly, her lead tied to a hook like the other sixty-five horses jammed in together in the cramped space, kept trying to nuzzle Fanny’s shoulder, her huge brown eyes wide and frightened.
“It’s all right, Molly,” Fanny told the mare, reaching up to stroke the horse’s velvety muzzle. “Just a little wind, just a little rain.”
Her eyelids heavy, Fanny continued to comfort Molly, but the black gelding was becoming anxious, rolling its red-rimmed eyes and jerking back its head, trying to be free of the rope, the dark hold, the ship itself, most probably.
“Shamus Reilly! Control that damn horse before it sets the others off, or I’ll have your skinny
