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PEACE!

All England is rejoicing. Napoleon, that scourge of the Continent, has at last been put in his cage. Paris has capitulated, with the trusted Marmont leading his unsuspecting men straight into the Austrian camp in surrender. Now an emperor in name only, with but a scant four-hundred-man army and living on the charity of the country he had led in triumph for nearly twenty years, Bonaparte barely escaped France with his life and is living in genteel poverty on the unpretentious island of Elba.

His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, is delirious with joy; so overcome that he’d had to be bled of twenty-seven ounces of blood. Indeed, for nearly a month, he languished in his bed, hovering between life and death.

The rush to cross the Channel is already in full force, with even the Duke of Wellington, now British ambassador to France, characteristically ignoring the angry glances cast his way as he saunters down the streets of Paris, dines on good, plain English fare at the Café des Anglais, and accepts the grateful thanks of the repatriated French nobility.

London is in a whirl, eagerly anticipating the arrival of Czar Alexander of Russia, King Frederick William of Prussia, and, wonder of wonders, the much loved Field Marshal von Blücher. Indeed, the Grand Duchess Catherine of Oldenburg, the czar’s “platter-faced” sister, has already disembarked and is royally ensconced in Pulteney’s Hotel, busily setting up the Regent’s back with her Whig antics.

That this endears her to the residents of London is no surprise, for the Regent has been out of favor with his subjects for some time. The younger generation has no memory of the glorious Florizel that was once the Prince of Wales and cannot think of him as the genial Big Ben. They see him instead as Swellfoot, an obese, grotesque, thoroughly evil man. They glory in the little ditty penned by Charles Lamb:

By his bulk and by his size,

By his oily qualities,

This (or else my eyesight fails)

This should be the Prince of Whales.

Not that Louix XVIII, who had been cheered through the streets as he headed toward the Channel Ports and a return to his homeland, fared much better once he reached Paris. The King, whom Lord Byron has irreverently dubbed Louis the Gouty, seems to have spent his entire exile in thrall with his host country’s cooking, and is so thoroughly corpulent that the Regent, after investing the King with the Order of the Garter, and buckling the Garter around a leg even thicker than his own, remarked, “When I clasped his knee it was exactly as if I were fastening a sash around a young man’s waist.”

One German account of the King’s appearance commented on both the advanced age and accumulated fat of Napoleon’s replacement. Telling of the King’s entrance into the room, the report centered on the fact that Louis, clad in soft black satin boots and supported on either side, was so disablingly obese that he “would stumble over a straw.”

While Europe laughs at reports of Napoleon’s frugal inventories of mattresses and his drawing up of lists of his personal clothing (“my underlinen is in a lamentable state”), and ridicules his official-sounding Council of State that he has set up to investigate improvements in the iron mines and salt pits of Elba while considering the possibility of importing silkworms, the banished Emperor is reading of the high jinks being perpetrated by his vanquishers.

“They are mad!” he said of the governments that had a hand in putting Louis on the throne. “The Bourbons in France; they would not be able to hold their position for a year! Nine-tenths of the nation cannot endure them; my soldiers will never serve under them.”

But none of the leaders of the world, their minds filled with plans for pomp and ceremony and grand celebrations, hear the words of Napoleon Bonaparte, or, if they do hear them, heed them.

Only a few shake their heads at the merry-making and wonder—wonder, if this glorious peace is really to be believed. Sir Henry Ruffton, one of the War Office’s most intelligent members, wonders.

Then word reaches Sir Henry of one of Bonaparte’s final statements before leaving France. “Between ourselves,” Napoleon has told a trusted aide who had feared his Emperor would commit suicide, “a living drummer is better than a dead emperor.”

So, while London rings with cheers and hangs bunting from the façades, Sir Henry pens two messages. One missive goes to Sussex by private courier. The other is sent by packet to Calais, to his most trusted operative. Both messages are the same: “Come to me, now.”

CHAPTER ONE

May 1814

“HONESTLY, MARY, that new coachman of Sir Henry’s drives as if he’s riding to hounds.” Gratefully subsiding into a chair in the rather spartanly furnished drawing room, Rachel Gladwin removed her straw bonnet and proceeded to use it as a fan to cool her flushed cheeks. “While I applaud your guardian’s hiring of returned soldiers, I do believe he should temper his generosity with a bit of common sense. I doubt if even Wellington would have survived if all of our troop charges into battle were accomplished with the same reckless fervor our driver just demonstrated on Bond Street.”

Pushing at the dark coppery curls that had been slightly crushed by her fetching, if a bit imprudent, choice of headgear, Mary Lawrence smiled into the mirror that reflected Rachel’s frowning face. “Coming it a bit too brown, aren’t you, Aunt?” she asked, using the courtesy title that lady had insisted upon. “Considering it was you who applauded so enthusiastically when that same driver sent that ridiculous dandy scurrying up the lamppost in fear of his life?”

Rachel’s features relaxed into a small smile. “I will admit to being a bit amused by the spectacle,” she owned cheerfully enough, “but I would be shirking my duty as your resident bear-leader if I did not stress once again that putting one’s fingers in one’s mouth and whistling encouragement to servants is just not done. Wherever did you acquire such a disgusting talent, Mary?”

“In Sussex,” Mary Lawrence replied, leaving the mirror to take up residence in the chair across from Rachel’s. “You’d be surprised at the accomplishments I have mastered through the kind offices of my last keepers, may they live long and prosper. And you are not bear-leading me, no one could. You are my friend and companion while I’m forced to live in London.”

Rachel shook her head. “Still singing the same sad song, Mary? I thought Sir Henry had succeeded in convincing you that this is the best, the safest, place for you at the moment.”

“Bah! All the world is in Paris. The papers are full of ondits about the English lords and ladies who are scampering about France, aping the latest fashions and gambling away their fortunes at the Palais-Royal—among other things,” she ended, winking broadly. “I fail to see why Sir Henry refuses to let me cross the Channel. It’s so dreadfully flat here; I was better entertained in Sussex.”

Looking at the very young, very beautiful girl dressed in the height of fashion, a girl who in her few short weeks in the metropolis had already been dubbed the latest Incomparable, Rachel suppressed a chuckle and tried for a commiserating tone. “La, you poor, oppressed creature. Forced to spend your time dragging yourself from ballroom to theater party, your unwilling body pressed into wearing an endless array of flattering silks and satins, while saddled with the unpalatable chore of breaking every young male heart in London. I daresay I admire you for not dissolving on your bed in a flood of tears, so onerous is your trial.”

Mary screwed up her patrician nose and stuck out her tongue. “Wretch! You know I’m loving every delicious minute of it. It’s just that I should love it even more if I were doing it in Paris. Besides—surely he wouldn’t be so odious as to follow me there to make my life miserable.”

“Ah, we’re back to that, are we?” Rachel chuckled, shaking her head. “My nephew seems to have gotten under your skin.”

“Like an annoying splinter,” Mary admitted irritably. “How that insufferable man dogs my every step! If you’re afraid of the way our coachman drives, I am fearful that your odious nephew is going to drive me—into strong hysterics. Are you quite sure he wasn’t a soldier, perhaps suffering from some head injury that makes him behave so toward me?”

“Tristan was never a soldier, Mary,” Rachel replied, crossing her fingers in her lap. “There have been rumors about his actions during the war, but I discount them. No, my nephew is just being his usual annoying self.”

Mary looked closely at her companion. “You sound as if you don’t like him. Not that I blame you, of course, for he does not wear easily.”

Rachel smiled sadly. “Not like him? Why, Mary, I couldn’t love him more. Tris is loyal, trustworthy, unflinchingly honest and the staunchest friend a person could ever have.”

“I once had a terrier with the same attributes.” Mary sniffed derisively. “Only he was better trained. All your nephew seems to have mastered is the ability to heel! Besides, if Lord Rule is such a paragon of virtue, why do you always give such a deep sigh when you see him? Seems rather unloving to me.”

Now the older woman laughed aloud. “Because he’s such a royal pain in the rump, Mary dearest, why else?”

Mary decided to change the subject, as their discussion of the Right Honorable Baron Rule was fast beginning to give her the headache. She rose and walked over to take the card rack down from the mantel, meaning to sort out the cards of invitation for the one she needed for that evening. “We’re expected at Lady Salerton’s for her daughter’s come-out. Shall I wear my yellow tiffany?”

“Not unless you want Elsie Salerton to throw her not unimpressive bulk against the door to bar you from entering. Really, Mary, can you not let the poor girl have her evening without spoiling it by ensnaring every young buck her mother is bound to have cajoled, blackmailed or bludgeoned into appearing?”

Mary smiled, showing up the very fetching dimple in her left cheek, then batted her large, wide green eyes innocently. “Why, Aunt, whatever do you mean? I merely enjoy dancing and chatting with people my own age. Anyone would think you believe me to be a heartless flirt.” Her smile fading, she added, “Besides, once your dear nephew, Lord Rule, comes on the scene—which I am sure he will do as he seems to have an uncanny knack for knowing exactly which entertainment I have chosen for the evening—all my intrepid dancing partners will depart posthaste for the hinterlands, their tails between their legs.”

“Maybe he’s developed a tendre for you, dear,” Rachel offered without much hope of being taken seriously.

“Not surprising. Who hasn’t fallen head over ears for my beautiful ward?”

“Uncle Henry!” Mary cried, running across the room to give her guardian an enthusiastic hug. “Aunt Rachel has told me you have gotten us vouchers for Almack’s. However did you manage it?”

The gray-haired, rosy-cheeked cherub who stood smiling inanely while his adored ward embraced him was Sir Henry Ruffton, a wealthy bachelor on the shady side of forty with a reputation as a truly guileless, completely lovable soul. That he had the total admiration of his ward was obvious, and he felt the years fall away from him as he basked in her affection. “Silly puss, who could afford to ignore such a diamond of the first water as you? Not Lady Jersey, that much is certain. Besides, I do have a smattering of friends who were not adverse to pulling a few strings in the right places.”

Rachel watched the scene unfolding in front of her, a sad smile on her face. Mary could have been his daughter, could have been their daughter, if only… “Henry, I do believe you’re blushing!” she teased, rising to ring for refreshments.

Seating himself in his favorite chair, allowing Mary to curl up on the floor at his feet, her head pressed against his knees, Sir Henry acknowledged Rachel’s words unself-consciously. “I admit it, Rachel, my dear friend. I have not been so diverted in years. Having Mary join me in the city was truly an inspiration. And finding you after all this time to act as companion and chaperon, why there are times I believe myself to be the happiest of men.”

“Don’t forget that the war is over, Uncle,” Mary pointed out. “That’s another reason for you to be happy.”

“Napoleon is within spitting distance of Europe, child,” he answered, suddenly looking something less than cherubic. “I cannot help but agree with Talleyrand, who fought to have Bonaparte exiled in Corfu, or even St. Helena, where he could be more closely guarded.”

“Piffle,” Mary argued. “Fouché, I’ve heard, suggested Boney flee to America and start over. I wonder how the Americans would have taken to that notion. Besides, Talleyrand is no good authority. I have read that Napoleon once called him ‘filth in silk stockings.’”

“Talleyrand is an amoral thief, Mary, but he hasn’t survived in France this long without being a fairly good judge of men. If he says Bonaparte still presents a danger, I tend to believe him.”

“But—”

“Enough, child. You make my head buzz with all your silly prattle. I have given you my reasons and you have agreed to abide by my decision. Once some time has passed, and the governments conclude their deliberations, perhaps then I shall set you off to France with my blessing. I may even accompany you. But for now—”

“But for now I am safer in London,” Mary ended fatalistically. “But all this pretense, I vow I cannot like it. Even my name—”

“Perkins!” Rachel interrupted rather loudly, startling the butler into nearly oversetting the tray of tea and cakes. “How famished I am. If you would set the tray on this table I’m sure we shall be able to serve ourselves quite well unaided. Thank you, Perkins.”

Mary watched the butler’s departing back, a rueful smile on her lips. “I almost gave it away just then, didn’t I, Aunt? Thank you for your timely intervention.” Then, momentarily feeling mulish, she added, “Though I still think this whole deception is silly.”

Rachel and Sir Henry exchanged knowing looks over Mary’s head and pretended not to hear her last statement. Biting into a warm scone, Sir Henry questioned, “Which one of Mary’s suitors were you discussing when I entered the room? It’s getting to the point where I have to keep a list with me at all times so that I may check them off when I am forced to turn down their requests for her hand.”

Mary thrust her full lower lip forward into a pout. “Lord Tristan Rule, Uncle Henry, and he is not a suitor. He’s a nuisance!”

“Tristan?” Sir Henry repeated, puzzled. “I’ve never known him to be in the petticoat line. My congratulations, my dear, he’s a fine young man.”

Mary leaped to her feet and glared at her beloved guardian. “If you have any affection for that fine young man, you will steer him swiftly away from my direction before I skewer him with my parasol! I cannot stand the creature!”

And with that, Mary quit the room, stopping only to snatch up a few fragrant scones, leaving Rachel to explain Lord Rule’s recent behavior to Sir Henry.

TRISTAN RULE REACHED DOWN a hand to assist his opponent to his feet. “Sorry, George. It seems my tiresome temper has gotten the better of me again.”

“On the contrary,” Lord Byron replied, gingerly rubbing his aching jaw, “it was my fault entirely. I should have known better than to cast aspersions on our esteemed War Office while sparring with Ruthless Rule. Besides, I thought I had a better chin than I seem to possess. Just remember, Tris, the pen is mightier than the sword. I’ll simply have to scribble a canto or two someday about our esteemed military gentlemen.” Stepping out between the ropes held apart by his friend, Byron called out ruefully, “Tom, my good man, you’d better look to your laurels now that Ruthless Rule is stepping into the ring. I do believe he would make even you a fair competitor. Now toss me that towel and help me totter over to find a glass of wine, if you please.”

Dexter Rutherford, who had been holding a towel at the ready for his idol, Lord Tristan Rule, dashed to the side of the ring, a look of slavish adoration on his young face. “What a leveler you served him, Tris!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hero’s bare shoulders with more enthusiasm than expertise. “The great man himself, dropped by a single blow. What science, what speed, what—”

“What loss of control,” Tristan ended crossly, effectively wiping the grin from Dexter’s face. “We were only sparring, you bloodthirsty infant. George wasn’t expecting that bit of home-brewed I served up to him. Thank goodness he’s a gentleman.” Taking the towel from his shoulders, Rule rubbed it briskly across his face and neck. “It’s this deuced inaction, I feel like a coiled wire ready to spring. I can see that this peace everyone is so delirious about is going to take a bit of getting used to.”

Tom Cribb, the retired “Champion Boxer of all England,” approached the pair, a nearly full glass of wine held in front of him. “With Lord Byron’s compliments, my lord. And may I say it was an honor to watch you in there. If you ever have a mind to go a few rounds, I wouldn’t say no to you. Your right hand reminds me a bit of Ikey Pigg’s, and I considered him a very worthy opponent in his day.”

“Ikey Pigg!” Dexter cried scoffingly. “Molyneaux, more like, and it took you thirty rounds or more to best him too. Ikey Pigg?” Dexter shook his head. “Damned insult if you ask me.”

“Nobody did, sprig,” came a voice from behind the young man. “I’d say my good-byes now, if I were you, before Tom here takes it into his head to squash you like a bug.”

Dexter whirled to greet his cousin. “Julian! Did you see him? It was nothing next to marvelous, I tell you. One moment Lord Byron was standing there, his fives at the ready, and the next he was rump down on the mat, with Lord Rule standing above him, breathing fire.”

“Sorry we missed it,” Julian Rutherford, Earl of Thorpe, mourned falsely as he joined the group. “Yet somehow I feel that we shall all be able to relive the moment ad nauseam over dinner this evening if Dex here has anything to say in the matter.” Julian turned to address Lord Rule as Tom Cribb drifted away to talk to some of his other patrons. “You haven’t forgotten Lucy’s invitation, have you? I’ll have the devil to pay if I tell her I’ve seen you here without reminding you that your presence is required at table.”

“Not to mention what Jennie will do to me,” Kit Wilde, Earl of Bourne, put in as he too joined the small group, barely concealing a smile as he thought of his wife. “Your cousins are both rare handfuls in their separate ways, Tris, as you must know.”

“Will your aunt Rachel and her charge also be present?” Tris asked, slipping his arms into the shirt Dexter was holding up for him.

“Mary Lawrence?” Julian asked rhetorically, winking slyly at Kit, who was hiding a grin behind his hand. “So it’s true, what Lucy and Jennie say? I warn you, they’ve as much as made a match of it between you.”

Tris looked blank, as indeed he was at a loss to understand what Lord Thorpe was talking about. “Make a match of it? With Mary Lawrence? What in blazes put a fool notion like that into their maggoty heads?”

“Not just them, Tris,” Dexter supplied with all the innocence his ignorance of the world provided him. “Saw it in the betting book at Boodle’s. At least three wagers on when the announcement will make the Morning Chronicle.”

Tris snorted. “The Morning Chronicle—as if anyone would believe anything James Perry has to say in that paper of his. Why, I read one of his ‘stories’ just the other day that told of Prinny being applauded as he passed through the streets. As if being hissed at and having your coach pelted with cabbages can be called acclamation. Give me the Times, thank you. At least John Walter could be trusted to keep the war news straight.” Then, belatedly getting down off his high ropes, he gave a bit of thought to just what Dexter had said. “Betting on me at Boodle’s, are they? Who, damn it? Give me names, boy, and I’ll call the bastards out, damned if I won’t!”

“That’s it, Tris, keep a cool head, just like you’re known to do,” Lord Bourne jibed, placing an arm around the other man’s shoulders. “Besides, you have no one to blame but yourself, the way you act whenever the chit enters a room. Can’t remember being so dashed silly about Jennie, even when she was leading me around like a puppy longing for a pat on the head.”

Rule retied his cravat with more intensity than flair, his dark eyes flashing in a way that made Dexter decidedly nervous. “I only stand up with the girl for a single dance in an evening. I don’t see where that should serve to set the world to hearing wedding bells.”

Now it was time for Kit to wink at Julian. “I see your point, Tris. How like society to jump headlong to the wrong conclusion. Just because you show up everywhere Miss Lawrence happens to be as regularly as the sun rises every morning and claim her for a dance before retiring to a pillar and staring a hole in her back for the remainder of the evening. Imagine Lucy and Jennie, for instance, being so rash as to put any credence in the silly coincidence that you always quit the room just as soon as Miss Lawrence retires, or the fact that more than one young buck has reportedly withdrawn from the lists of those seeking the lady’s favors due to the belief that you would call them out if they so much as looked in her direction.” Lord Bourne shook his head sadly. “How sorely our motives are misinterpreted. What, precisely, then are your motives, Tris, if you aren’t smitten?”

Rule answered with some questions of his own. “Who exactly is Mary Lawrence? Where does she come from? Who are her parents? What is she doing in London? Why is she living with Sir Henry Ruffton? My Aunt Rachel may be the girl’s chaperon but she’s as close as an oyster whenever I try to get a few answers out of her. I know about her botched engagement with Sir Henry all those years ago, but could loyalty to an old beau cloud her judgment to the point where she’d allow herself to be involved in…never mind, George is getting ready to leave. I really must offer my apologies to him one more time. Excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll see you later this evening.”

Before either Julian or Kit could gainsay him, Tris was off, his long strides taking him swiftly across the room, the ever-present Dexter scampering to keep up with him.

“What the devil was all that in aid of?” Julian asked his cousin-in-law, who was looking no more enlightened than he. “Rachel told me he was a strange one, alluding to some secret association with the war effort, but I do believe the years of pressure have served to unhinge his mind. Did you ever hear such ridiculousness? Anyone would think he believes Sir Henry to be harboring a lady of ill repute, or a spy, or something. No, can’t be a spy. After all the war’s over, isn’t it?”

Kit was still watching Lord Rule, taking in his naturally belligerent stance and remembering how well the fellow had looked stripped to the waist. No soft London dandy was Tristan Rule. He had the look of a fighting man, even a Peninsula man, unless Kit missed his guess. Yet, for all the rumors about the man, no one could actually say Rule had ever been within a hundred miles of a battle. Strange, moody fellow. But a man of strong convictions for all that. And now he has a bee in his bonnet about Mary Lawrence. Kit turned to look at Julian, a thoughtful twist on his lips. “The war over, you say, Julian? For some of us, maybe. But not for him, it would appear.” He took one last look at the man they called Ruthless Rule as the tall, black-clad figure strode toward the door. “I tell you, Julian, I’d give my matched bays for a glimpse inside Tristan Rule’s head.”