One
London, February 25, 1813
The sun was starting to shine through the fog when, dressed in civilian clothes, Colonel Leo Standish, Earl of Branford, passed through the front door of the Horse Guards building, home of the War Office. There was just the faintest trace of a limp in his walk, legacy of a wound he had taken at the siege of Burgos several months before.
Branford entered a functional room painted in a rich, dark green, with a desk, a glass-fronted bookcase and a large table with a map spread out upon it. Two men were sitting on either side of the desk, and when the earl walked in they both rose to their feet.
“My lord,” John Herries, commissary-in-chief of the British Army, addressed him. “Thank you for coming. I don’t believe you’ve met Mr. Nathan Rothschild.”
“No, I have not. How do you do, Mr. Rothschild?” The earl came forward with an outstretched hand. He had certainly heard of Rothschild, the London scion of the industrious financial family, whose brothers were spread throughout Europe.
The short bald man was dressed in a flawless black coat, white necktie and buff pantaloons. He put his hand into the earl’s large grasp. “It is an honor to meet you, my lord,” he said.
The earl’s blue-green eyes moved from Rothschild to Herries. “What’s this all about, Herries?” he asked.
“Won’t you have a seat, my lord?” the commissary-in-chief said. “We have a job for you and I’d like to explain it.”
The earl drew his eyebrows together. “A job? I don’t have time to do any jobs, Herries. I am returning to my regiment next week.”
“If you would just let me explain, my lord…”
“Oh, all right.” The earl folded his six-foot-two body onto one of the chairs. “Go on.”
“I’m sure you are aware of the difficulties the Marquess of Wellington has been having with funds,” Herries began.
The earl nodded. “He needs to feed and pay the troops, and the local Spanish and Portuguese bankers won’t accept paper money anymore. He needs gold coin.”
Herries continued. “Mr. Rothschild has managed to buy up for us several million newly minted napoléon d’or coins in Holland.”
The earl’s face broke into a rare smile. “Good for you, Mr. Rothschild. Well done.”
Rothschild smiled back.
Herries went on. “Our only problem, my lord, is that we need a way to safely transport the gold to the army in Portugal.”
“It’s still in Holland?” the earl asked.
“Yes, and we need to get it through France to Wellington in Portugal. Needless to say, once the French government gets word of the sale of all those gold coins to Rothschild, they will be on the lookout for anything that might look like an English conveyance.”
The earl arched an eyebrow. “By any chance, does this job you have for me have something to do with the transportation of these coins?”
“It does, my lord.” Herries pulled at his lip, then turned to the other man. “I think I’ll let Mr. Rothschild explain.”
Rothschild looked earnestly at the tall, fair-haired man. “I have had some experience in this sort of thing, my lord. As you may or may not know, my family has transferred money around Europe all during the years of Napoléon’s regime. One of the most trustworthy means we have found for doing this is a French circus, the Cirque Equestre. The circus owner, François Robichon, used to be Master of the Horse to Louis XVI, and he has no love for the Revolution or for Napoléon. The circus can travel anywhere without question, and Pierre has moved money for us successfully on a number of occasions.”
“Two of the circus wagons have false bottoms where the gold can be stored,” Herries put in.
The earl nodded. “It sounds like an excellent idea, but how does it involve me?”
Herries looked at the splendid young man who was sitting across from him. He had never met the Earl of Branford before, and faced with the man in person, a task that had once seemed reasonable now seemed highly improbable. He looked again at Nathan Rothschild.
Nathan continued. “Very unfortunately, François died several months ago and the circus is now headed by his daughter. I am hesitant to commit such a large sum of money to the care of so young a girl. I want her to have a British escort to make certain that the money gets safely to Portugal.”
“And I want her to have a British escort to keep her honest. We don’t want little fingers dipping into the gold bags,” Herries said bluntly.
Now both of the earl’s eyebrows went up. “A British escort would most certainly draw French attention to the circus, exactly what you are trying to avoid.”
“Not if the escort pretended to be a part of the circus,” Rothschild reasoned bluntly.
There was a moment of silence. “And you want that escort to be me?” the earl asked at last.
Herries shifted on his chair. The earl hadn’t changed his own position, but there was a dangerous look in his eyes. Herries cleared his throat. “That’s right, my lord.”
“May I ask whose idea it was to attach me to a circus?” the earl asked, his pleasant voice in contrast to the look in his eyes.
Herries could not bring himself to meet that blue-green gaze. “Lord Castlereagh put forth your name, my lord. As you can understand, he is quite anxious that the gold arrive as safely and as promptly as possible. Wellington will need it to finance his next campaign and his subsequent entry into France.”
Silence. Finally the earl asked with awful courtesy, “Am I supposed to—perform?”
“Of course not, my lord,” the two men chorused in horror.
The earl linked his long, manicured fingers together on his lap. “Then how are we to account for my sudden attachment to a circus? I speak French, but not like a Frenchman. And I’m not the sort of person who just blends into the background,” he added ironically.
“We have thought about that problem, my lord, and we have come up with a solution,” Herries assured him. “You will pretend to be Gabrielle Robichon’s new husband.”
This time the earl’s eyebrows almost disappeared under the lock of golden hair that had fallen over his forehead. “What?”
Herries said earnestly, “It is the only way to disguise you, my lord, other than making you a performer. Mademoiselle Robichon’s family will have to know the truth, but the rest of the circus performers will think you are married.”
“I see,” the earl said slowly. “I am to pretend to be the husband of a circus owner.”
Herries and Rothschild
