“God only knows what she’s doing here! And with her damned lover!” D’Alembord steered Lucille firmly away from Jane and Lord John Rossendale. “Richard will kill him!”
Lucille could not resist turning one more time. “She’s very beautiful,” she said sadly, then she lost sight of Jane as the Duke of Wellington’s party moved across the ballroom floor.
The Duke was offering bland reassurance about the scanty news of the day’s skirmishes. Brussels was full of rumours about a French attack, rumours that the Duke was scarcely able to correct or deny. He knew there had been fighting about Charleroi, and he had heard of some skirmishes being fought in the villages south of the Prince of Orange’s headquarters, but whether the French had invaded in force, or whether there was an attack coming in the direction of Mons, the Duke still did not know. Some of his staff had urged that he abandon the Duchess’s ball, but such an act, he knew, would only have offered encouragement to the Emperor’s many supporters in Brussels and could even have prompted the wholesale desertion of Belgian troops. The Duke had to appear confident of victory or else every waverer in his army would run to be with the Emperor and the winning side.
“Is Orange here?” the Duke asked an aide.
“No, sir.”
“Let’s hope he brings news. My dear Lady Mary, how very good to see you.” He bowed over her hand, then dismissed her fears of an imminent French invasion. Gently disengaging himself he walked on and saw Lord John Rossendale waiting to present himself and, with him, a young, pretty and under-dressed girl who somehow looked familiar.
“Who in God’s name brought Rossendale here?” the Duke angrily asked an aide.
“He’s been appointed to Uxbridge’s staff, sir.”
“Damn Harry. Haven’t we enough bloody fools in the cavalry already?” Harry Paget, Earl of Uxbridge and commander of the British cavalry, was second in command to the Duke. Uxbridge had eloped with the wife of the Duke’s younger brother, which did not precisely endear him to the Duke. “Is Harry here?” the Duke now asked.
“No, Your Grace.”
“He’s sent Rossendale as deputy adulterer instead, eh?” The Duke’s jest was grim, then his face froze into a chill smile as Rossendale ushered Jane forward.
“Your Grace.” Lord John bowed. “May I name Miss Jane Gibbons for you?” He deliberately used Jane’s maiden name.
“Miss Gibbons.” The Duke found himself staring down her powdered cleavage as she curtseyed. “Have we not met, Miss Gibbons?”
“Briefly, Your Grace. In southern France.”
He had her now. Good God! Wellington stiffened, remembering the details of the gossip. This was Sharpe’s wife! What in hell’s name did Rossendale think he was doing? The Duke, realizing that the introduction had been made in order to give the adulterous liaison the appearance of his approval, icily turned away without another word. It was not the adultery that offended him, but the stupidity of Lord John Rossendale risking a duel with Sharpe.
The Duke turned abruptly back, intending to inform his lordship that he did not permit duelling among his officers, but Rossendale and Jane had been swallowed up in the crowd.
The Duke forced a smile and airily denied to a lady that he had any fear of an imminent French attack. “It takes longer to push an army up a road than you might think. It’s not like herding cows, madam. We’ll have good warning when Bonaparte marches, I do assure you.”
Another burst of applause announced the arrival of the Prince of Orange, who had come with a handful of staff officers. The Young Frog waved happily to the dancers and, ignoring his hostess, made straight for the Duke. “I knew you wouldn’t cancel the ball.”
“Should I have done?” the Duke asked tartly.
“There have been rumours,” the Prince said airily, “nothing but rumours. Isn’t this splendid?” He stared eagerly about the room in search of the prettiest faces, but instead caught sight of Lieutenant Harry Webster, one of his own British aides, who was hurrying across the dance floor. Webster offered the Prince a perfunctory bow, then offered him a despatch.
Most of the ballroom saw the despatch being given, and could tell from Webster’s dust-stained boots that he must have ridden hard to bring the paper to Brussels, but the Prince merely thrust the despatch into a pocket of his coat and went back to his scrutiny of the younger women. Webster’s face showed alarm. The Duke, catching the expression, smiled thinly at the Prince. “Might I know the contents of the despatch, Your Highness?”
“If you wish. Of course.” The Prince carelessly handed over the sealed paper, then sent one of his Dutch aides to enquire about the identity of the girl in the diaphanous gold dress.
The Duke tore the despatch open. Rebecque, in Braine-le-Comte, had news both from the Prussians and from Dornberg in Mons. The French had advanced north from Charleroi, but had turned eastwards to attack Blücher and had halted for the night at a village called Fleurus. General Dornberg reported no activity at all on the roads leading to Mons. His cavalry patrols had ridden ten miles into France and had met no enemy troops.
The Prince, his eyes more bulbous than ever, had seized Webster’s arm. “You see that girl? Do you know her?”
“Lieutenant Webster,” the Duke’s voice was as cold as a sword in winter, “four horses instantly to the Prince of Orange’s carriage. Your Highness will return immediately to your headquarters.”
The Prince blinked in surprise at his Commander-in-Chief, then offered a small laugh. “Surely it can wait till — „
“Instantly, sir!” The Duke did not raise his voice, but there was something quite terrifying in his tone. “Your corps will concentrate on Nivelles now. Go, sir, go!”
The Prince, aghast, stayed a half-second, then fled. A thousand eyes had watched the brief altercation, and now the whispers began in earnest. Something must have happened; something alarming enough to send the Prince scurrying from the ball.
The Duke and Duchess of Richmond sought an answer, but the Duke of Wellington merely smiled and blithely proposed that the company should proceed to supper. He offered the Duchess his arm and the orchestra, seeing the gesture, stopped their playing to allow the Highland pipers to begin their sword dance.
The pipes wailed and squealed into life, then caught their air to fill the room with a martial sound as the company, two by two and slow as an army’s progress up a country road, went in to supper.
There were quails’ eggs served on scrambled eggs and topped with caviar which the Duchess’s chef obscurely called les trois oeufs de victoire. They were followed by a port-wine jelly and a cold soup.
The Duke of Wellington was happily seated between two attractive young ladies, while Lucille found herself between d’Alembord and a Dutch gunner colonel who complained about the victory eggs, refused the soup, and said the bread was too hard. Lucille had seen the Prince’s arrival and hasty departure, and had resigned herself to Sharpe’s absence. In a way she was glad, for she feared Sharpe’s violence if he discovered Lord John Rossendale at the ball.
Lucille, a Norman, had been raised on stories of the merciless English pirates who lived just across the Channel and who, for centuries, had raided her homeland to kill and burn and plunder. She loved Sharpe, yet she saw in her lover the embodiment of those ghouls who had been used to scare her into childhood obedience. In the last few months, as the soldier had tried to become a farmer, Lucille had tried to educate her Englishman. She had convinced him that sometimes diplomacy was more effective than force, that anger must sometimes be tamed, and that the sword was not the clinching argument of peace. Yet, Lucille knew, he would remember none of those pacifist lessons if he saw Lord John. The big sword would scrape free. Peter d’Alembord, who shared her fears, had promised to restrain Sharpe if he appeared.