Mélanie and Charles Fraser


CityHallPride

Today was quite a day, from waking up to marriage equality news to walking past the rainbow lights on San Francisco’s City Hall and the War Memorial Opera House tonight and drinking in the full meaning of today’s events. There’s still so much in the world that needs changing, but it’s a very different landscape than in 1818. Particularly when it comes to marriage. I couldn’t but think of a scene I wrote recently in my WIP between David and Charles/Malcolm but focused on David and Simon and the challenges they face. David and Simon have such a stable relationship, that I sometimes don’t focus enough on the fact that not only can they not marry, their very relationship isn’t legal.

OperaHousePride

Minor spoilers in this for the very beginning of the next book. David and Simon are raising Louisa’s children. This is an early draft, so please forgive typos and editing errors!

Simon got to his feet. “I should be getting back to the Albany.”
David and Simon had shared rooms since their Oxford days, but after Louisa’s death, David had moved into the Craven house while Simon still at least nominally lived in the rooms they had once shared in the Albany. Simon, usually careless of appearances, was careful to preserve them for the children’s sake. The arrangement, Charles thought, couldn’t be comfortable for any of them.
Simon bent and gave David a quick hard kiss. There was a time when they’d have avoided such displays, even in front of Charles. It was almost as those the changed circumstances made it more important to establish the reality of their relationship. Whatever the reason, that at least, Charles thought, was progress.
“This can’t be easy on either of you,” Charles said when Simon had left the room.
David grimaced. “Simon’s a marvel. He’s the only one—including Bridget—who can get Jamie to sleep. We all nearly went mad one night when he had a late rehearsal.” He took a drink of whisky and stared into his glass. “It’s odd, I don’t think they saw Craven or even Louisa that much, but they sure as hell notice their absence.”
“There’s a difference between absence and knowing one will never see one’s parent again,” Charles said, remembering his own mother’s absences.
David tapped his fingers on the sofa arm. “Bel couldn’t have taken the children without neglecting her own. Mary’s got enough to deal with with her own husband’s death. Georgiana’s out of the country. Mother and Father— They found their own children challenging enough. And I told you what I think of Eustace and Lydia.”
“You don’t have to convince me,” Charles said. “I agree it was the best choice.” He leaned back in his chair. “I always thought you and Simon would make good parents.”
David shook his head. “I never thought— Simon didn’t ask for any of this.”
“I don’t see him complaining.”
“He’s being a saint. I hope— I keep thinking we’ll get back to something like normal.”
“I think every parent thinks that. Until they realize the new reality is normal.” Charles hesitated. “I don’t know that anyone would say anything if Simon stayed here. Rupert and Bertrand live together.”
“Rupert is married to Bertrand’s cousin. An uncomfortable situation for all of them but it has advantages.”
“True. But if Simon stayed here—“
“There’d be talk.” David drained his glass. “The children—“
“The children love you both. They’ll sort it out eventually.”
David shot a look at him. “Not everyone does.”
“I’m sorry,” Charles said. “I don’t mean to belittle the challenges.”
David got to his feet and refilled his glass. “A few of our friends accept us. Others—notably my parents—choose to be blind to what’s in front of them. Some others really are blind I suppose, or simply don’t have the imagination to see it.” He poured more whisky into Charles’s glass. “But still others are only too ready to gossip. And many to condemn.”
Charles looked at his friend, his chief confidante since they’d both been schoolboys Teddy’s age. He had shared things with David he hadn’t even shared with Suzanne. And yet— “You don’t talk this way often.”
David shrugged as he clunked down the decanter. “Nothing to be gained by dwelling. But it’s still a hanging offense.”
“My God.” Charles set his glass down hard on the chair arm. “We live in an appalling country.”
His wife would have said You only just discovered that? But David shook his head. “You don’t mean that. There are challenges, but they don’t outweigh all the things to honor and admire.”
“A country that condemns two of the finest people I know for loving each other has a lot to answer for.” And he was a member of that country’s government. As was David, though they both sat in the Opposition.
David sank down on the couch. He moved as though his bones ached. “It’s not as though every other country would welcome us with open arms. One grows used to living with secrets.”
Charles took a swallow of whisky that burned his throat. He knew a great deal about living with secrets since he’d learned his wife had been a Bonapartist agent. But for once he couldn’t confide in David.

Imperial Scandal

The scenes of the Battle of Waterloo in Imperial Scandal were some of the most exciting, challenging, and sad I have ever written. I was in the first trimester of pregnancy when I did the revisions, and I remember working on these, my cats curled up in my lap, and being an emotional wreck.

Here, in honor of the 200th anniversary of Waterloo, 18 June 1815, are a sampling of those scenes.

Harry held his restive horse in check and ran his gaze over Malcolm Rannoch as they waited in the street for the duke’s staff to assemble. The duke and his aides had been breakfasting by the time Rannoch returned to Waterloo, so they’d had no chance for private conversation until now. “Well?” Harry asked Rannoch.

“Nothing conclusive.”

“For God’s sake, Rannoch, this isn’t my first engagement. I won’t be distracted. But if I’m going to die, I’d like to have as many pieces of the puzzle as possible in my possession.”

“I confess I feel much the same.” Rannoch told him about Tony Chase’s duel with Will Flemming.

Harry shook his head. “Damned fools. So our obvious suspect has an alibi.”

“He could still have set up the ambush.”

“But much of the evidence against him and against George is explained away.”

“There’s still Billy.” Rannoch’s gaze drifted down the street. The Prince of Orange was conferring with March and Rebecque.

Harry noted the concern in Rannoch’s eyes. Concern and, beneath it, fear. “You’re fond of him,” he said.

Rannoch’s mouth tightened. “He isn’t the first murder suspect I’ve been fond of.”

<1L#>

<TXT>Malcolm was far from the only civilian to ride out with the Duke of Wellington. In addition to his staff, the Prince of Orange, and Lord Uxbridge, Wellington was accompanied by a diplomatic corps including Pozzo di Borgo, who was Corsican but represented Tsar Alexander of Russia, Spanish General Alava, the Austrian representative Baron Vincent, and Prussian Baron Müffling. Wellington, in white buckskin breeches and tasseled top boots, the gold knotted sash of a Spanish field marshal showing beneath his blue coat, might have been setting out on a fox hunt. Malcolm, who knew the value of costume and disguise, could appreciate that everything from Wellington’s polished, casual dress to his easy manner was part of his campaign tactics.

As they rode toward the troops, two men on horseback approached them. “Good God,” murmured Alexander Gordon, who was riding beside Malcolm. “It’s Richmond.”

It was indeed his grace the Duke of Richmond, whom Malcolm had last seen in his study at the ball, poring over the map as Wellington pointed at the village of Waterloo. Beside the duke rode his fifteen-year-old son, Lord William, his arm in a sling and a sticking plaster on his head. Malcolm recalled Uxbridge toasting William and the other junior officers at the Richmond ball.

“William has come to present himself for duty,” Richmond informed Wellington.

Wellington cast a glance at the young lieutenant. “Nonsense. William, you ought to be in bed. Duke, you have no business here.”

Richmond’s reply was carried away on the wind, but he appeared to be arguing with his friend Wellington. He and William continued to ride alongside Wellington’s cortège, and when they did move off it was toward General Picton’s division rather than back to Brussels.

Malcolm turned his head to see a tall figure in the short-tailed blue jacket and red-plumed shako of the light dragoons riding toward him. Even before the rider was close enough for Malcolm to make out his features or his captain’s insignia, his posture was unmistakable. Malcolm’s throat tightened, and he breathed a small sigh of relief. He hadn’t consciously let himself think it, but he’d been dreading the prospect that he might never see his brother again.

“Malcolm.” Edgar reined in beside him. “I was hoping I could find you.”

“You knew I’d be here?”

“I know you, brother mine.” A shadow crossed Edgar’s normally sunny face. Since their mother’s death, they didn’t know each other as well as they once had. Then he gave one of his careless grins. “Have a care, will you? You’re the only brother I’ve got.”

Malcolm felt his own face relax into a smile. “I could say the same to you. And I’m only observing.”

“Ha. You may be able to run intellectual rings round me, Malcolm, but I’m not quite so naïve.” Edgar glanced toward Picton’s division. “Couldn’t believe it when I saw Richmond and young William.”

“Family honor,” Malcolm said.

Edgar turned his gaze back to him. “At least if anything happens to either of us we know it won’t affect Father overmuch.” He said it matter-of-factly, because matter-of-fact was what they’d come to be when it came to their father, out of sheer survival instinct.

“Quite,” Malcolm said. For a moment, the name of their mother, who would have cared, hung between them, tightening the air with past questions and past guilt.

Edgar gathered up his reins. “Give my love to Suzanne and Colin if I don’t come back. And to Gelly.”

“Likewise,” Malcolm said. Gisèle was their seventeen-year-old-sister, home in England with Aline’s mother. He looked into Edgar’s eyes, the eyes of his boyhood confidant and first friend, and for a moment understood precisely why George Chase hadn’t turned Tony in. His throat went tight with all the things he couldn’t say. He clapped his brother on the arm. “Go carefully, Edgar.”

Edgar’s gloved fingers closed over Malcolm’s own. “You too.”

Malcolm watched his brother ride out of view. Mist hung over the fields, mixed with smoke from the Allied cooking fires and those of the French on the opposite ridge. Steam rose from cheap tea brewed in iron kettles. The smell of clay pipes and officers’ cigars mingled with the stench of wool still sodden from the night’s rain. Shots split the air as soldiers fired their guns to clean them.

“Waste of ammunition,” Davenport said to Malcolm. “It’s going to be a long day.”

And it had yet to properly begin. A breeze gusted over what would be the battlefield, stirring the corn, cutting through the curtain of mist. Wellington had taken up a position before the small village of Mont-Saint-Jean. Fitzroy had said that the duke would have preferred the position across the field at the inn of La Belle Alliance, which Bonaparte occupied, but the Allied position had its advantages. Wellington had seen the ground when he was in Brussels the previous year. Malcolm remembered the duke mentioning the slope of the land to the north, which would allow him to keep most of his troops out of sight of an enemy across the field.

To the left stood the fortified farm La Haye Sainte, with whitewashed walls and a blue-tiled roof that gleamed where the sunlight broke the mist, and still farther to the left the twin farms of Papelotte and La Haye. To the right, in a small valley hidden by cornfields, was Hougoumont, a pretty, walled château surrounded by a wood and a hedged orchard. Both Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte had been garrisoned with Allied soldiers.

The ground before them sloped down to a valley, through which the road to Charleroi ran, then rose to the ridge on which stood La Belle Alliance. On this ridge, the French army had begun to deploy. An elegant, masterful pageant. Malcolm lifted his spyglass. Lancers with white-plumed shapkas on their heads, chasseurs with plumes of scarlet and green, hussars, dragoons, cuirassiers, and carabiniers, and the Imperial Guard in their scarlet-faced blue coats. Gunners adjusted the positions of their weapons. Pennants snapped in the breeze and gold eagles caught the sun as it battled the mist.

“Sweet Jesus,” Davenport murmured.

“Bonaparte understands the value of theatre,” Malcolm said.

“Unless he’s also a master of illusion, there are a bloody lot of them. I hope to God the Prussians get here.”

Malcolm cast a glance along the Allied lines. “We happy few.”

“Shakespeare was a genius, but he’d never been on a battlefield. Do you know what you’re in for, Rannoch?”

“I’ve seen battles before,” Malcolm said, scenes from the Peninsula fresh in his mind. “But I don’t think any of us has seen anything like what’s about to unfold.”

Cheers went up among the French troops as a figure on a gray horse galloped into their midst.

“Boney,” Davenport said. “Odd to think I’ve never seen him before.”

Malcolm handed his spyglass to Davenport. Bonaparte wore the undress uniform of a colonel in the Imperial Guard and a bicorne hat without cockades. Wellington, too, wore casual dress for battle, though his buckskins and blue coat were more in the style of a gentleman out for a morning’s ride. He wore four cockades on his own bicorne, for Britain, Spain, Portugal, and the Netherlands.

Even without a spyglass, the cheers of the French troops for Bonaparte were evident. In response Wellington rode among his own troops, at a sedate trot rather than Bonaparte’s gallop. The duke was greeted with respectful nods but no cheering.

Alexander Gordon pulled up beside Malcolm and Davenport. “Uxbridge has ordered sherry for his staff so they can toast today’s fox.”

“Fox hunting always struck me as a bloody business,” Davenport said. “And a damned waste. My sympathies go to the fox.”

Gordon shot an amused glance at him and held out a paper. “Well, while you’re feeling sympathetic toward Boney, you can take this to Picton. Wellington’s orders.”

Davenport wheeled his horse round but turned back to Malcolm before he rode off. “I don’t say this often, but it’s been a pleasure working with you, Malcolm.”

Malcolm reached between the horses to clasp the other man’s hand. “Likewise, Harry.”

Gordon cast a glance after Davenport as he galloped off. “Odd devil. But a brave one.” He turned his gaze to Malcolm. “We all right, Rannoch?”

“Really, Gordon. Arranging a duel in the middle of a ball?”

Gordon flushed. “Flemming’s one of my oldest friends. One doesn’t refuse such a request from a friend. Besides, no one was badly hurt. If Will hadn’t been drinking he wouldn’t have winged Tony Chase at all.” His gaze moved to the field stretching before them and the French on the opposite ridge. “Seems like child’s play compared to today.”

“It gives both Chase brothers an alibi.”

Gordon met his gaze, a soldier not shirking rebuke. “I couldn’t tell you, Malcolm. It was a confidence.”

Malcolm reached out and gripped his friend’s arm. “It’s all right, Sandy. I do understand.”

Gordon’s face relaxed, though doubt still lurked in his eyes. “If–”

As Gordon spoke, the roar of guns cracked open the summer morning.

It had begun.

***

Raoul O’Roarke reined in his restive horse, sweat dripping from his forehead, and muttered a curse. The damned assault on Hougoumont, intended as a diversion, had sucked up far too many French troops. They should have taken the château within the first hour. It was now almost half past one, nearly two hours since the assault on Hougoumont had begun. Jerome Bonaparte, Napoleon’s youngest brother, was leading a ferocious fight, but he was pulling precious resources away from the rest of the battle.

Raoul had spent the time supervising the placement of a battery of guns–twelve-pounders and eight-pounders and horse artillery–in front of d’Erlon’s infantry divisions. Now, with a crashing rumble, a renewed cannonade thundered across the valley. The cannonballs should have ricocheted over the crest of the opposite ridge and reached the Allied soldiers sheltering behind it, but they fell into the mud. The poor Dutch-Belgian devils at the front of the Allied lines were cut to pieces, but most of the Allied army remained safely behind the reverse slope of the ridge or the thick hedges that bordered it.

Though the assault of the guns was less effective than it should have been, the French infantry began to advance in columns. Save that instead of the narrow columns that Raoul had seen prove ruinously ineffective against British infantry, d’Erlon spread his men into shallower, wider columns that were closer to line formation yet still deeper than the Allied lines they faced. “Clever,” Raoul murmured to Flahaut, who had pulled up beside him. “The British muskets cut our columns to pieces in the Peninsula.”

Drumbeats and voices raised in “The Marseillaise” echoed across the valley. Flahaut scanned the mass of advancing French. “They look as though they’re going to sweep right over the British and Dutch-Belgians.”

Raoul frowned at the Allied ridge. It wasn’t like Wellington to sit this quietly and let the enemy overwhelm him. “I wouldn’t cry victory yet. ‘That island of England breeds very valiant creatures,’ ” he added in English rather than the French they’d been speaking.

“Must you start quoting now of all times, O’Roarke?”

“It’s rather apt. Wellington’s sure to have a counter-measure up his sleeve.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.” Flahaut gathered up the reins, then looked back over his shoulder. “O’Roarke,” he said, over the roar of cannon fire and blare of martial music.

Raoul looked into the younger man’s eyes, dark with fear and uncertainty. “If I live through this and you don’t, of course I’ll tell Hortense. Not that she doesn’t know already.”

“Thank you.” A smile crossed Flahaut’s smoke-blackened, blood-smeared face. He regarded Raoul for a moment, eyes narrowed against the smoke and the glare of the sun. “What about Suzanne?”

Raoul drew a breath. His neckcloth seemed to have tightened round his throat. “Tell her that I have every confidence she’ll make the right decisions.”

Flahaut looked at him a moment longer, then saluted and rode off. Raoul turned his gaze to the opposite ridge. Quiot’s left brigade had success at the walled farm of La Haye Sainte, driving back the King’s German Legion troops in the orchard. His right brigade drove Prince Bernhard’s Saxe-Weimar brigade from the twin farms of Papelotte and La Haye and pushed the 95th from the sandpit opposite La Haye Sainte. A Dutch-Belgian light brigade either withdrew or fled.

But Wellington had indeed had a counter-measure up his sleeve. Squadron after squadron of Allied heavy cavalry charged down the slope. The French cavalry met them near La Haye Sainte. The French cuirassiers should have been able to hold them, but the Allied cavalry were fresh and ready for blood after missing the fighting at Quatre Bras. The French cavalry broke in confusion before the Allied charge. Much of the infantry followed suit in a tangle of fallen men and blood-spattered ground.

Raoul spurred his horse forward from his station at the gun battery, calling to the retreating soldiers to rally and re-form. His cries fell on deaf ears. Formations dissolved, men ran away, others stood their ground and hacked wildly at the onrushing Allied soldiers only to be mowed down by the tide. The Eagles of the 45th and 105th glittered in the hands of Allied soldiers, drunk on their success.

Raoul waited for the British cavalry to rally and draw back. But the Scots Greys instead pounded on across the valley. Good God, the madmen. They would be slaughtered.

The thunder of hooves shook the ground. Cries of “92nd” and “Scotland forever” carried on the breeze over the screams and groans and neighing of horses as the Allied cavalry fell beneath the blows of the French cuirassiers and lancers who had been sent up as reinforcements. For a moment Raoul could almost smell the salt breeze off Dunmykel Bay in Perthshire.

More Allied cavalry pounded after. Life Guards and King’s Dragoons judging by the helmets and crests. They slammed against Travers’s cuirassiers, British swords smashing against French breastplates. Raoul drew in his breath. Dear heaven, was that Lord Uxbridge leading the Household Cavalry? Why the devil hadn’t the cavalry commander remained behind to direct the reserves?

The breeze carried the sickly-sweet smell of fresh blood. Buglers sounded the rally, but by then the British cavalry were tired, scattered, and deep in enemy lines. Raoul drew his sword as the British swept over the French guns. Instinct took over, honed through the Revolution, the United Irish Uprising, the Peninsular War. He cut, parried, slashed, dispatching soldier after soldier.

He ran his sword through the throat of a dragoon, pulled it clear, and wheeled his horse round to parry an attack from a hussar lieutenant. He dispatched the hussar with a cut to the chest, then nearly fell from the saddle as his horse stumbled. He looked down to see that his horse had tripped over the body of a French private. He found himself staring into the dead blue eyes of Philippe Valery.

Later, when the numbness wore off, he would feel grief. If he survived.

Someone touched his arm. He spun round in the saddle, sword raised.

“O’Roarke.” Flahaut grabbed him by the arm. “Pull back. The British are trapped.”

French lancers and hussars filled the valley, cutting the British cavalry off from their lines. The British cavalry circled in disarray. One colonel, both his arms shot off, gripped his horse’s reins between his teeth. French swords and lances hacked and stabbed those who tried to ride back to their own lines. Raoul saw Sir William Ponsonby, with whom he had shared a glass of champagne at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, fall to a lance thrust.

“Christ,” Flahaut said. “Only a handful of them can have survived.”

Raoul wiped his hand across his face and realized he’d smeared blood over his forehead. “They took two eagles. And more than a dozen of our guns are disabled.”

“Are you saying the fight went to them?”

Raoul tugged a handkerchief from his pocket and dragged it across his forehead. “I’m saying it was a damned waste.”

***

An odd quiet had come over the battlefield. At least it was quiet compared to the chaos of the cavalry charge. Shots still sounded to the right from Hougoumont and to the left from La Haye Sainte, on which the French had begun a determined assault. Malcolm swung down from Perdita and ran to help one of the stretcher parties carrying the wounded to makeshift hospitals behind the lines. Across the valley, the French were doing the same.

Eye-stinging black smoke hung over the field. Soldiers marched prisoners behind the lines, put bullets through the heads of horses too wounded too walk, rounded up riderless horses galloping among the injured or cropping the grass with fine disregard for the chaos. Malcolm paused to yell at an infantry sergeant pulling a watch from the pocket of a dead lieutenant. Then he knelt beside a dragoon with blood dripping from his mouth and the light fading from his eyes and took a letter and ring the young man begged him to send to his wife and son. Closer to the lines Malcolm closed the eyes of a lance corporal with whom he remembered sharing a flask of wine before the battle of Toulouse.

“If we lose La Haye Sainte the French will smash right through our center,” Fitzroy said when Malcolm returned to the elm tree that served as Wellington’s command post.

Malcolm glanced to the right. “I still see flames from Hougoumont.”

“They’re managing to hold out. The duke’s told them to hold on as long as they can but not endanger their lives from falling timbers.”

“Wellington looks calm.” Malcolm had spotted the duke riding among the troops on his chestnut horse Copenhagen.

“Looks. He must have taken his cloak on and off two dozen times. Sure sign of disquiet. Good God. The madman.” Fitzroy’s gaze went across the valley to the French ridge. “Ney’s going to send his cavalry at us without infantry support.”

“Perhaps he thought it only sporting to even up the score when we were so reckless with our own cavalry,” Malcolm said.

Shouts of “prepare to receive cavalry” echoed along the Allied line. The infantry began to form into squares. French cuirassiers pounded across the valley and up the hill. Division after division of heavy and light cavalry joined them. Wave upon wave, with no supporting infantry or horse artillery. They met a checkerboard of Allied infantry squares, four men deep, the front lines kneeling with bayonet-tipped muskets pointed, the rear lines holding muskets ready to fire. Confronted with the bayonets, horses reared up and dashed to the side.

With no supporting infantry to batter the squares, the French cavalry wheeled and slashed, retreated, re-formed, charged again. And again and again. The squares held steady. When a soldier fell, his fellows pulled him into the center of the square and closed ranks.

“Oh, Rannoch, good.” Wellington thrust a paper at Malcolm as shots whistled by. “Take this to Maitland. I’ve lost too damned many aides-de-camp.”

Malcolm tucked the paper into his coat and galloped toward General Maitland, by instinct as much as sight. Guns thundered. Bullets hammered against metal breastplates, sabres rang against bayonets. Cannon smoke choked the air. Men screamed, horses flailed, blood spurted, piles of dead and dying men and animals littered the ground.

He delivered the message to Maitland and made his way back to Wellington, who was moving among the squares, pausing to exhort the soldiers and offer encouragement. Wellington thrust another message at him, and he galloped on again in the choking inferno, this time to the Prince of Orange. Sweat soaked through his shirt. Smoke stripped his throat raw.

“We tried to save La Haye Sainte,” Billy said when Malcolm reached him, eyes fever bright in his pale face. “Alten ordered two battalions of the King’s German Legion to attack in line. Ompteda objected, but I told him– It should have worked.”

“It’s done, sir.” March laid a hand on Billy’s arm. “You can’t refine upon it.”

Malcolm held out the dispatch. “Remember, sir. One moment at a time.”

March, his face set in harsh lines, rode part of the way off with Malcolm. “When Billy insisted Ompteda follow Alten’s order to form line, Ompteda stared at him as though he’d received a death sentence. After a moment he said that then he would try to save the lives of his two nephews. Fourteen and fifteen.”

“Did they survive?”

“Yes, but Ompteda and dozens of others didn’t. And God knows how many were taken prisoner.”

“Try to keep him steady, March. It’s all you can do.”

March nodded. “The others?”

He meant the rest of the “family,” Wellington’s staff from the Peninsula. “Fitzroy’s fine,” Malcolm said. “I just saw him with the duke. I saw Gordon about an hour ago rallying some Hanoverians and Canning half an hour or so before that. I saw Freemantle and Davenport some time after the cavalry charge. The time starts to blur.”

March gave a brief nod.

“Your brothers?” Malcolm asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen George since the start of the battle.” George Lennox was also an aide-de-camp to Wellington.

“I haven’t, either. I can only hope Father and William have the wit to keep out of fire. Edgar?”

“I haven’t seen him since this morning.”

On the way to deliver another message to Sir Colin Halkett, Malcolm turned his head to see a French cuirassier galloping straight at him. He dashed into a nearby square, which opened to receive him, then quickly drew closed. The ranks were thinned, scarcely two deep now. Inside, red-coated men lay on the ground, some twisted in an agony of death, some groaning with wounds. A man in his shirtsleeves bent over them.

“Geoff.” Malcolm swung down from Perdita.

Geoffrey Blackwell’s gaze skimmed over Malcolm as he finished tying a bandage round the arm of a young private. “Are you–”

“Unhurt.” Malcolm dropped down beside Blackwell. “Just delivering messages.”

“A lot of Wellington’s message deliverers have lost their lives today.” Blackwell cast a glance round the square. “I’d give a great deal to have Suzanne here.”

“So would I.” Malcolm shook his head. “Odd. A man should want to protect his wife from this.”

“Not a man who knows his wife as well as you do.” Blackwell crawled over to an ensign who was curled on his side, his ribs exposed. “Let’s have a look at you, lad.”

“Shall I stay?” Malcolm asked.

“Get your message delivered. I’ll manage.”

A quarter hour later, Malcolm drew up beside Wellington and Fitzroy. “Billy ordered another line attack. Or rather Alten ordered it, but Billy backed him up.”

Wellington grimaced. “Ney’s going to come straight at our center now La Haye Sainte has fallen. And we don’t have the heavy cavalry left to oppose him. If–”

A hail of sniper fire came from La Haye Sainte. “A bit hot,” Wellington murmured. And then, in a different tone, “Fitzroy?”

Fitzroy was clutching his right arm. Malcolm grabbed his friend as he swayed in the saddle. “I’ll be all right, sir,” Fitzroy murmured, face drained of color, blood spurting from his arm.

“So you will when you’ve seen a surgeon,” Wellington said. “Get him behind the lines, Malcolm.”

***

Malcolm returned from taking Fitzroy behind the lines only to be dispatched by the duke with a message for Lord Edward Somerset, Fitzroy’s elder brother, whose brigade had played a prominent role in the cavalry charge. He found Lord Edward by the side of the road with only two squadrons. “Pressed into service, Rannoch?” he asked, lifting his hand to shield his eyes against the slanting rays of the sun.

“Wellington’s running short of aides-de-camp,” Malcolm said. “Fitzroy took a bad shot to the arm. But he was conscious and in good spirits when I got him off the field.”

Edward drew in and released his breath. “Thanks.”

Malcolm held out his message. “Where’s your brigade?”

Edward glanced at the few men surrounding him. “Here,” he replied.

Malcolm returned to Wellington to find him riding among the Brunswickers, attempting to rally the younger troops. Cannon and pistol smoke choked the air and bullets whistled by. Alexander Gordon had pulled his horse up beside the duke. “For God’s sake, sir, you’re an open target. This isn’t fit for you.”

Wellington wheeled Copenhagen round. “It’s work that needs to be done, Gordon. Oh, Malcolm, good, I need you–”

The sound of a ball connecting with flesh interrupted him. Gordon tumbled from the saddle. Malcolm flung himself down beside his friend. Gordon’s leg was a mess of blood and torn flesh.

Gordon seemed to have lost consciousness, but as Malcolm slid his arm beneath his shoulders he opened his eyes. “Glad you know about Stuart’s ball at least. Wouldn’t want us to part enemies.”

“Don’t be a damned fool,” Malcolm said, lifting Gordon in his arms.

Two men with a stretcher arrived to take Gordon from the field. Wellington looked after his aide-de-camp for a moment with drawn brows, then thrust a paper into Malcolm’s hand. “For the Prince of Orange.”

Malcolm nodded and turned Perdita. Men and horses littered the ground, wounded, dying, dead. Bullets sang through the air, shells exploded, cannon rumbled. Beneath his coat, his sweat-soaked shirt was plastered to his skin. The smell of blood and powder, the screams of men and horses, the sight of gaping wounds and blown-off limbs had become monotonous reality. His own wounds from the past few days were a dull throbbing on the edge of his consciousness. He steered Perdita round two dead dragoons sprawled over the body of a horse with the lower part of its face shot off. Perdita was breathing hard, her sides damp with sweat, but she pressed on, surefooted and remarkably calm in the chaos. Malcolm patted her neck. With the part of his mind that could still think beyond the moment, he felt a flash of regret that he hadn’t left her in Brussels and ridden a borrowed horse.

At last he caught sight of March through the smoke.

“Malcolm! Glad you’re still alive.”

“Gordon took a hellish shot to the leg.” Malcolm said. “And I think Fitzroy’s going to lose his arm.”

March squeezed his eyes shut. His face was bone pale and smeared with blood.

“Where’s Slender Billy?” Malcolm asked. “I have a message from the duke.”

March jerked his head to the right. Then his gaze fastened on a lone rider approaching down the line. “I think that’s Canning.” He raised a hand in greeting.

Malcolm turned his gaze in the direction March was looking. Canning saw them and lifted his hand in acknowledgment. A moment later, grapeshot hit him in the stomach, and he fell from the saddle.

Malcolm and March touched their heels to their horses. Canning pushed himself up on one elbow as they swung down beside him. Pain glazed his eyes and blood seeped through his coat. His mouth twisted with the effort at speech. “The duke,” he said in a choked voice. “Is he safe?”

“Unhurt. I just saw him.” Malcolm slid an arm beneath Canning’s shoulders.

“God bless him,” Canning gasped. He turned his head toward March, who was kneeling at his other side, and reached for his hand, then looked between March and Malcolm. “God bless you both,” he murmured, and went still, the light gone from his eyes.

March drew a breath that shuddered with grief and rage. When he lifted his gaze to Malcolm, tears glistened in the blood and dirt on his face. “Curzon died in much the same way. Only a few– God, I can’t say how many hours ago it was. Damn this day.”

The ground shook with the pounding of horse hoofs. The Prince of Orange flung himself down beside them. “Malcolm. March. Who– Oh God.” He put his fingers to Canning’s face. For a moment, they were all back in the Peninsula, laughing heedlessly over a flask of wine, danger quickening their blood but death still impossible to imagine.

“He’s gone, sir.” Malcolm touched the prince’s arm. “We have to go.”

Billy turned toward him. “We can’t just–”

A bullet whistled through the air. Malcolm grabbed the prince but not quite quickly enough. Billy collapsed against him, blooding spurting from his shoulder.

“Sir,” Malcolm said. “Billy? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, of course.” The prince struggled to sit up, then fell against Malcolm again, his breath quick and uneven. “I shall be quite all right in a moment.”

“I’ll get someone to carry you off the field, sir.” March released Canning’s hand, hesitated a moment, then plucked the Orange cockade from Billy’s hat. “Wouldn’t do to have you recognized.”

Billy gave a weak smile. Blood dripped from his shoulder but not so quickly an artery had been struck.

March looked toward the trees from which the shot had come. “What the devil were the French doing shooting from there?”

Malcolm glanced at the trees, now still. “I don’t think it was the French.”

***

Harry Davenport pulled his horse up beside Wellington. “The 5th division is reduced from four thousand to closer to four hundred, sir. They have little chance of keeping their post.”

Wellington cast a glance toward La Haye Sainte, from which the French were now peppering the Allies with musket balls. “We have no reinforcements to send. Will they stand?”

“I think so.”

Wellington shot him a brief smile. “Never one to exaggerate, are you, Davenport? Tell them I shall stand with them until the last man.” The duke tugged his watch from his pocket and cast a glance at the sky. “It’s night or Blücher,” he muttered. Then he thrust a paper at Davenport. “All right, off with you. This is for Maitland. Bonaparte’s about to send in the Guard.”

At least Maitland was still alive and might make it home to pretty Sarah Lennox. Three generals had been killed and five carried from the field that Harry knew of. He had begun to ask, “Who commands here?” whenever he rode up to a brigade with a message.

As he bent over Claudius’s neck, he heard a stirring along the Allied line. A glance across the field made the reason plain. As Wellington had said, Bonaparte was at last sending in the Imperial Guard. The legendary elite troops, never defeated in battle, marched forward to the beating of drums, gleaming bayonets fixed. They moved over the undulating ground through a rippling curtain of cannon smoke, hidden for moments by the ground or the smoke only to emerge seemingly stronger and more implacable than ever.

By the time Harry had delivered his message to General Maitland, chaos engulfed the field again. The Allied infantry waited for the French columns in line, some of them, such as Maitland’s men, lying flat on the ground to conceal their presence. Cannon thundered on both sides. Shells whistled through the air, exploded, or lay spitting and hissing on the muddy, bloody ground.

The French closed to within forty feet. “Now, Maitland!” Wellington’s voice rang out over the cacophony of drums and shots. “Now is your time! Up, Guards! Make ready! Fire!”

Maitland’s men sprang up from the ground and fired. Drumbeats, musket fire, and screams choked the air. Caught up in the confusion, Harry saw a familiar face in the smoky mêlée. “Ashton.” He edged Claudius toward his brother-in-law. “What are you doing among the infantry?”

“Sent with a message. We’re running short of staff officers.” Ashton’s voice sagged with exhaustion. Blood and dirt crusted his coat and his face glistened with sweat. “Glad you’re alive, Davenport.”

“It isn’t over yet.”

“I’m glad–” Ashton hesitated. “I know if I fall you’ll help Cordelia look after Robbie. Thank you.”

“Look, Ashton–”

But Ashton had already ridden off. Through the smoke, Harry saw a musket shot wing his brother-in-law’s horse, saw Ashton tumble from the saddle and roll downhill. Harry urged Claudius forward in time to see a French grenadier rip through the cannon smoke, bearing down on Ashton with a bayonet. Harry fired off a shot, but he was at an awkward angle and it only grazed the grenadier’s cheek. As Harry fought his way forward, knowing he was too far to save Julia’s husband, a French infantry officer hurled himself forward and took the bayonet thrust. Ashton fired his pistol from the ground, bringing down the grenadier.

It was only when Harry flung himself down beside Ashton that he recognized the soldier on the ground beside him who had taken the bayonet thrust. Anthony Chase. In a blue coat. There was blue on both sides today, but that coat was unmistakably a French uniform.

“What the devil–” Ashton pushed himself up on his knees and bent over his childhood friend.

“Ask Davenport and Rannoch,” Tony gasped. Blood dripped from his mouth and his eyes were already clouding. “No time to explain. Listen, Ashton. Look after Violet.”

“But–”

“She wants you. She always has. And I think you want her.”

“I don’t–”

But as Ashton spoke, Tony’s gaze froze, and his head flopped to the side. Ashton stared down at him for a long moment, then lifted a hand and closed his former friend’s eyes. “Why in God’s name–”

Harry touched his shoulder. “Explanations if we survive this, Ashton.” Musket fire sounded on either side of them. They seemed to be in a gap between the French attack on the Allied right and another attack farther to the east. Ashton’s horse had galloped down the hill toward them. Harry caught its bridle. The animal had a graze in its side but was otherwise unhurt. “Get back in the saddle before you’re trampled.” Harry pulled Ashton to his feet and swung back up onto Claudius. No possibility of moving Tony’s body in the chaos.

Allied soldiers were advancing down the slope. Harry lost sight of Ashton as Allied and French soldiers spilled in from either side. Shouts of “Vive l’empereur,” “Form up,” and “Oranje boven” cut the air. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a flicker of movement in the smoke to his left. Pain exploded in his chest. He tumbled from his horse and gasped Cordelia’s name into the mud.

***

The Imperial Guard had broken. Cries of “la Garde recule” sounded from the French ranks. Allied cavalry thundered down the ridge. Allied infantry followed. Malcolm, who had just delivered a message to Sir John Colborne, watched the Allied army, which had fought a defensive battle most of the day, at last advance. Three hussars galloped past him. A gust of wind stirred the smoke, and he caught sight of a muddy form in a dark blue coat sprawled on the slope below. A staff officer. A familiar-looking brown horse nuzzled the fallen man’s arm. Malcolm urged Perdita forward. Brown hair. Something mocking and instantly recognizable about the small bit of profile showing. Malcolm swung down from Perdita, reached for Harry Davenport’s wrist, and felt a faint pulse.

He turned Davenport over. Blood streamed from a wound in his chest. He gave a groan, then seemed to lose consciousness. Malcolm lifted him as carefully as he could.

Boots thudded against the ground. Malcolm looked up to see a chasseur leveling a musket at him.

***

They had lost. Raoul O’Roarke had known that even before he rode in the Guard’s advance at Marshal Ney’s side. They had seen troops approaching from the east. On Napoleon’s orders, la Bédoyère had shouted that it was Grouchy bringing French reinforcements, but Raoul had been sure from the first that it was the Prussians, come at last to reinforce Wellington.

Still he fought, even now the seemingly invincible Guard had been pushed back. He heard shouts of “nous sommes trahis” from French soldiers who had realized the Prussians were at hand. Ney, his fifth horse shot from under him, wielded his sword with grim determination. For Raoul, the world had shrunk down to the few feet of ground in front of him. He slashed at a British hussar and saw a man in a brown civilian coat kneeling on the ground a few feet away. He held a fallen comrade in the dark blue coat of one of Wellington’s staff officers. Good God. A chill went through Raoul. It was Malcolm Rannoch. And Raoul wasn’t the only one who had seen him. A chasseur moved toward Malcolm, musket leveled.

Raoul didn’t hesitate. He lifted his pistol and shot the chasseur in the back.

***

Georgiana and Sarah returned home in the still warm evening air, escorted by the footman who had come with them from the Rue de la Blanchisserie. Suzanne helped David and Simon settle a Prussian private they’d brought back from the road to Waterloo, gave some laudanum to Henri Rivaux, who was tossing restlessly, assisted Cordelia with changing Angus’s bandages. She went upstairs to look in on the children. They were all sharing a room tonight, as they’d seemed comforted by being together. She found Colin stirring fretfully, his blankets pushed down round his feet. She straightened the covers and stroked his hair until he flopped against the pillows. She touched her fingers to Livia’s and Robbie’s hair, surprised at how steadied she felt.

When she stepped into the passage raised voices assailed her from the hall below. She hurried to the stair head, pulse quickened. The light of the chandelier and lamps and candles flickered over the scene below. Christophe and two of the other wounded men were on their feet, cheering and slapping hands with the footmen. Aline was hugging Rachel. Addison was embracing Blanca. Cordelia, hair falling from its pins, had her arms round David and Simon.

“Wonderful news.” David caught sight of Suzanne and moved to the base of the stairs, a surprisingly youthful grin splitting his face. “The French are in retreat. We’ve won.”

Such simple words. And it was over. The fighting, the struggle, the betrayals. All so she could stand at the head of a flight of mahogany stairs and hear the end of everything she had fought for pronounced by her husband’s grinning best friend.

Suzanne ran down the stairs and flung her arms round David, burying her face in his shoulder. He swung her round in an exuberant circle. By the time he set her back on her feet, she had recovered her self-command. “Tell me. Where did you hear?”

“Stuart just sent word round. He had the news from Alten.”

Suzanne shook her head. She could still not make sense of it. “I thought General Alten had been brought in wounded.”

“He ordered one of his aides-de-camp to send word to him as soon as the battle was decided,” Simon said.

Suzanne hugged Simon, holding on a little tighter than usual. “What else have you learned?”

“Nothing about anyone we know.”

She nodded and reached out to hug Cordelia and then Aline. Rachel had dropped back down beside Henri, who was sitting up against the pillows, a smile creasing his face.

Simon and Cordelia opened champagne and handed it round in a variety of drinking vessels. Suzanne sipped champagne from a teacup, laughed, grinned, said and did everything that seemed appropriate.

Cordelia caught her eye. “I know. Such amazing news, and it won’t mean anything to me if they don’t come back.”

“Quite.”

“Drink some more champagne.”

With the giddy atmosphere in the hall, it was a moment before Suzanne realized the door had opened. She turned round to see her husband standing just inside the door. She ran to him and flung her arms round him with the force of everything coursing through her.

Malcolm hugged her to him hard, but he spoke over her shoulder to David, Simon, and Addison. “Davenport’s in the cart outside, badly wounded. I’m going to need help getting him in.”

Suzanne drew back to see that Cordelia had taken two steps forward, parchment pale but all questions suppressed.

“It’s serious,” Malcolm said, meeting Cordelia’s gaze. “But not beyond hope.”

Cordelia gave a quick nod and snatched up a lamp. “Put him in my room.”

Malcolm, David, and Simon carried Harry Davenport upstairs, while Addison saw to Perdita and Claudius, who had somehow survived the battle. Cordelia held the lamp to light the way. Suzanne set about gathering up lint, brandy, and clean cloths. Aline brought a bowl of warm water from the kitchen.

By the time they came into Cordelia’s room, the men had got Harry’s boots and coat off. He was moaning and twisting his head against the pillows but seemed unconscious of his surroundings.

“Bless you for the water.” Cordelia dampened a cloth and sponged her husband’s mud-caked face.

“He fell facedown,” Malcolm said. “And it was some time before I got to him. I fear at least one horse trampled him. Blackwell says he has two broken ribs, but it’s the wound in his chest that’s really concerning. Blackwell said to tell you to change the dressing.”

Suzanne pushed back the remnants of Harry’s shirt, which had already been sliced neatly in two, probably by Geoffrey Blackwell. She peeled back the dressing. Cordelia sucked in her breath. The wound was deep and perilously close to Harry’s heart. But at least it was leaking clean blood. She cleaned it with brandy and applied a fresh dressing. He twitched but didn’t waken from his feverish state. Cordelia held him steady, as Rachel had done earlier with Henri.

Suzanne bent over Cordelia and put her arms round her shoulders. “I’ll have some tea sent up, and I’ll be just downstairs should you need me. I’ve seen men much farther gone make a complete recovery.”

Cordelia squeezed Suzanne’s fingers. She didn’t ask how many men in a similar state Suzanne had seen die, though the question lurked in her eyes.

Suzanne slipped out into the passage. Malcolm followed and pulled the door to behind him. For the first time since he’d come into the house, Suzanne looked properly at him. In the light from the candle sconces, she saw that his face was mud spattered and covered with a day’s stubble. There was a red- brown smear just below his jaw. She put her hand up to it.

“I’m all right.” He curled his fingers round her own. “I don’t think it’s mine.”

“We heard the battle’s won,” she said, carefully calibrating a note of bright cheerfulness tempered by the horrors all round them.

Malcolm’s mouth twisted. “At an intolerable cost.”

The candlelight bounced off his eyes, revealing a hell starker than all the horrors of their years in the Peninsula. “Who?” she asked.

He swallowed. “Easier to ask who survived. Canning died of a stomach wound. De Lancey fell and last I heard no one had found him. Gordon lost his leg. He’s in Wellington’s bedchamber at Headquarters, and I doubt he’ll last the night.”

She sucked in her breath as though she’d received a blow to the gut. Gordon’s infectious laughter echoed in her ears. She saw Canning’s smile, heard Gordon’s ironic voice, had a clear image of De Lancey bending over his young wife’s hand. “Fitzroy?” she asked, holding her breath for the answer.

“He lost his arm. But Blackwell thinks he’ll recover.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “March?”

“He was alive last I saw. He got Slender Billy off the field.”

“The prince was wounded? Is he–”

“Alive at last report. He took a shoulder wound from a sniper. Who I think was aiming for me.”

“Tony Chase?”

“So I suspect. Though I think any number of people would have quite cheerfully put a bullet through Billy in the course of the day. The damn fool ordered his men to form line instead of square again. It was like giving them a death sentence. The number who fell–”

“Malcolm.” She tightened her fingers round his own. “Harry was right last night. Billy’s failures shouldn’t be on your conscience.”

“Countless pointless deaths. If I’d been truly brave I’d have bashed him over the head and dragged him from the field.” He caught her other hand in his, so tight she could feel the pressure of bone on bone. “The road from Waterloo is clogged with dead and dying men. Some were crushed under overturned wagons. Some are lying among the trees on the side of the road, unlikely ever to emerge. The number I passed without stopping–”

“Darling.” She pulled her fingers free of his grip and took his face between her hands. “You can’t save everyone.”

“Of course not. It would be hubris to think so. Not to mention idiocy.”

“But you still feel guilty when you can’t.”

He shook his head. “Wellington came through unscathed. But Blackwell told me Uxbridge had his leg shattered just at the end of the battle, when his horse was scarce more than a hand’s breadth from Wellington’s. He’ll lose his leg.” He drew a breath. “I was almost done for myself. When I was rescuing Davenport. A chasseur was coming straight at me.”

A chill shot through her. “What happened?”

“Someone shot him in the back. Whoever it was, I’ll be forever grateful to him.”

She wrapped her arms round him and pressed her face into the hollow of his throat. “So will I.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Excerpted from Imperial Scandal by TERESA GRANT Copyright © 2012 by Tracy Grant. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON BOOKS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Imperial Scandal

Wellington’s staff officers were some of my favorite real historical characters in Imperial Scandal. Here’s a glimpse of them interacting with Malcolm Rannoch and the other fictional characters on the night of 17 June 1815, the night before the Battle of Waterloo.

“Malcolm. Davenport.” Fitzroy Somerset, as usual, was bent over a pile of paperwork by the light of a single, guttering candle in the inn at Waterloo that served as Wellington’s temporary Headquarters. “Have you brought food?”

“And wine.” Malcolm pulled a bottle out from under his sodden greatcoat and set it on the gateleg table. Davenport did likewise. “Where’s the duke?”

“Asleep. I hope. I’m to call him between two and three so he can write letters. He’s been waiting all evening for news from Blücher.”

“Still nothing?” Davenport asked.

Fitzroy shook his head. “But Müffling continues to insist Blücher can and will support us tomorrow. So much depends on it.” A rare frown creased Fitzroy’s face.

“Have a glass of wine.” Malcolm, having extracted the cork from one of the bottles, splashed wine into a glass and held it out to Fitzroy. “For once you almost look worried. Which is enough to send your friends into a panic.”

Fitzroy grinned and accepted the glass.

Malcolm stripped off his greatcoat. “I sent your message on to Harriet in Antwerp. Suzette had seen the Duchess of Richmond, who had word that Harriet’s well, as is the baby.”

Fitzroy smiled. “Thanks.” He took a sip of wine. “The duke’s marked out a position at Mont-Saint-Jean. He would have preferred the ground on the opposite ridge at La Belle Alliance, but De Lancey thought it too extended. The emperor’s taken up the ground at La Belle Alliance. Boney had his batteries fire off some shots to try to smoke out our position, and some of our lads had the bad sense to fire back and give themselves away.”

“And so the duke’s in a temper?” Davenport picked up a glass of wine.

“He was. He’s calmed down a bit. Or he’s so busy he’s forgot he was angry.”

“You back, Malcolm?” Canning strolled into the room, yawning. “Still don’t have the wit to see when you’re well out of it?”

Malcolm took a sip of wine. “Can’t stand the thought of you lot having all the fun.”

“Ha. You don’t believe that for a moment. I’ve heard you talk about war. Poor me a glass of that wine, will you? The beds are too damned hard for sleeping.”

Alexander Gordon followed Canning into the room. “Is that wine? Always said you were a good man, Malcolm. For a diplomat.” He spoke in a cheerful voice. Their quarrel over why he had left Stuart’s ball might never have been. He moved to the table and accepted a glass of wine from Malcolm. “Lord, will the rain never let up? This is going to be the slowest battle ever, with all of us slogging through the mud.”

Fitzroy looked up from his paperwork. “There’s still time for it to dry out.”

Gordon dropped into a chair with his glass of wine. “You’re a damned optimist, Somerset.”

“If by that you mean I’m not given to exaggerated flights of fancy, I’ll concede the point.” Fitzroy held a lump of red sealing wax over his candle.

“You wrote to Harriet that we and the Prussians had repulsed the French.”

Fitzroy dripped the melting wax onto his folded letter. “The French didn’t overrun us.”

“What would you call our retreat today?” Gordon asked. “Advancing backward?”

Fitzroy pressed a seal into the wax. “When you’re married, Gordon, you’ll understand.”

“Malcolm is married.” Canning looked up from his wine to come to Gordon’s defense. “You wouldn’t catch him telling such a farrago to Suzanne.”

Gordon snorted. “Suzanne wouldn’t believe it.”

“Suzanne’s lived through battles before,” Fitzroy said. “Though she always had nerves of steel as I recall,” he added, looking at Malcolm. “Even when you first brought her to Lisbon.”

“She’d already been through a great deal,” Malcolm said. Even more, he had learned last autumn in Vienna, than he had at first supposed.

Gordon stretched his feet out toward the fire. “I miss Spain. Battle seemed friendlier in Spain.”

“By the way,” Canning said, “I saw Harry Smith earlier. With Lambert’s brigade from Ghent and not long before that from America.”

“Is Juana with him?” Malcolm asked. Juana Smith, like Suzanne, was a Spanish war bride.

“Yes, though he’s sending her to Brussels in the morning.”

Davenport, who had been leaning against the wall, moved toward Fitzroy. “Could I beg a sheet of writing paper?”

“Certainly. Ink as well.”

Davenport took the paper and ink and retired to a chair in the corner by the fireplace.

The door opened again, letting in a gust of wind, a hail of raindrops, and Geoffrey Blackwell. “Damnable weather. It’s all I can do to keep my instruments clean.”

“Sit down by the fire.” Canning got up to offer Blackwell his chair.

“No, no.” Blackwell waved a hand. “I may have nearly thirty years on you, Canning, but I’m not quite decrepit. Besides, have to get back to my patients. I have a good half dozen who’ll pull through if we can stave off wound fever. Only came to see if Malcolm was back.”

“Allie’s holding up well,” Malcolm said.

Blackwell met his gaze and colored slightly. “Thank you.”

“David and Simon are in Brussels. They and Suzanne and Allie and Cordelia have the house full of wounded soldiers. You trained Suzette and Allie well.”

Blackwell gave a crisp nod. “Glad to hear it. God knows there must be need enough of nursing in Brussels.”

Davenport crossed to Malcolm and held out a folded piece of paper. “Would you mind keeping this and giving it to Cordelia? In the event I don’t return.”

Malcolm met his gaze for a moment. Davenport’s expression was as armored as ever, but his blue eyes looked as though they could be smashed with a word. “Of course,” Malcolm said, and tucked the letter into his pocket.

“Thank you.” Davenport was silent for a moment. “It’s a damnable thing to find, on the eve of what’s probably going to be the worst battle in which one’s ever participated, that on the whole one would prefer not to die.”

“I can think of another Harry who couldn’t sleep before a battle against the French. He came through well enough.”

Davenport grinned. “ ’Fraid I’m not up to a St. Crispin’s Day speech.”

“I don’t think it’s much Wellington’s style, either.”

By the fireplace, Gordon let out a laugh.

“You’re impossible,” Canning said. “I don’t know why your friends put up with you.”

“My fellow staff officers don’t have any choice.”

“You have friends outside the staff. In fact, it’s disgusting how many friends you have.”

“Most of them don’t have any choice, either. Campbell and Flemming grew up with me–”

“Will Flemming?” Malcolm asked.

For a moment Gordon went still. Then he gave a deliberate smile, a trifle too broad. “Yes, he and Jack Campbell and I grew up on neighboring estates. Those are the friends one can never get rid of, don’t you know.”

“Quite.” Malcolm stared at Gordon. Between them Gordon and Canning had given him a new piece of the puzzle. He reached for his greatcoat–still damp, but at least it would keep the rain off the rest of his clothes–and moved to the door.

“Where are you off to?” Davenport asked.

“To have a talk with George Chase.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Excerpted from Imperial Scandal by TERESA GRANT Copyright © 2012 by Tracy Grant. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON BOOKS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Imperial Scandal

Following up on yesterday’s post about the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, here’s how a glimpse from Imperial Scandal of the evening of 16 June 1815 following the Battle of Quatre Bras.

Valentin opened the door in the Rue Ducale, a grin on his face. Suzanne saw why when she stepped into the hall. A tall figure appeared in the library doorway, in his shirtsleeves, a whisky glass in one hand.

Suzanne ran down the marble-tiled floor and flung her arms round her husband. Malcolm’s arms closed round her with gratifying force. When she pulled back enough to lift her face to his, he kissed her full on the lips, heedless of the others in the hall. Quite unlike her undemonstrative husband. But then nothing seemed to be the way it had been any longer. Half the whisky spilled over both of them.

She drew back at last, breathless, torn between a desire to laugh and to cry.

“I should go away more often,” Malcolm said with a grin, though his fingers trembled where he still held her. “I told you I was just delivering a message.”

“Liar.” She took his hand and drew him down the hall. “Look who’s joined us.”

Malcolm went forward to embrace his two friends. “I should have known you were madmen enough to journey into a war zone. Glad to see age isn’t rendering us too staid.”

He turned to Aline and Cordelia. “Geoff’s fine. I left him stitching up a wound in a young private’s collarbone while giving instructions about how to set an arm and bring down an attack of wound fever.”

Aline scarcely moved a muscle, but her breath shuddered through the hall.

“I saw Davenport about nine,” Malcolm said to Cordelia. “A musket ball grazed his cheek, but otherwise he was unhurt.”

Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t see Ashton or George Chase, but most of the British cavalry missed the fighting.”

They removed to the library, where Simon took it upon himself to refill Malcolm’s glass and pour whisky for the others.

“The fighting didn’t begin until about three,” Malcolm said. “God knows why. If Ney had attacked sooner, we’d have been in a pretty plight.”

Suzanne, who had been in the midst of taking a sip of whisky, choked and then swallowed with determination.

“When the fighting started most of our troops still hadn’t arrived. Apparently the orders got muddled. But they were there by three-thirty or so and fought amazingly well after having just marched. A number of officers fought in their ball dress.”

“So we prevailed?” David asked, his face taut.

“We seemed to be prevailing when I left. We were outnumbered much of the day. The highlanders–some of the same fellows who danced at the ball last night–took a savage beating. Picton came up in relief and the Brunswickers and Van Merlen’s cavalry. A few Dutch-Belgians have gone over to the French, but most have stayed loyal to the Allies.”

“What about the Prussians?” Aline asked. “They haven’t been able to join Wellington’s forces?”

“No, they’re about seven miles to the east at Ligny fighting Bonaparte himself. Wellington managed to ride over and confer with Blücher this morning before the fighting started, but it will be the devil’s own work to maintain communication between the two armies.”

Suzanne’s nails bit into her palms. “You’re going back.”

“Technically it’s up to the staff to maintain communication, but practically I think I can be of help.”

“You seem to have been very close to the fighting,” Simon said.

“Oh, I kept a healthy distance. I’m just good at synthesizing reports.”

Aline went up to her room soon after, pleading the exhaustion of pregnancy. Cordelia looked from Malcolm to David and Simon. “Shall I leave as well?”

“No, if you’re up to it, I’d prefer it if you stayed. You’re already well in the middle of this.” Malcolm glanced at David. “Your father sent you, didn’t he?”

David swallowed. “Malcolm–”

“Whatever your message, you can deliver it in front of Suzanne and Cordelia. And Simon. We’re in the midst of an investigation, and your father’s news may have bearing on it.”

David turned his whisky glass in his hand, gaze on the pale gold liquid.

“I’m not involved in the investigation,” Simon said. “Would you feel better if I left?”

David’s mouth relaxed into a reluctant smile. “Don’t be an idiot.” He reached inside his coat and drew out a sealed paper. “Father gave me this for you, Malcolm. I’m to tell you– Father thinks the French are intercepting your communications to him.”

Chapter 38

Suzanne’s whisky glass tilted in her fingers. She tightened her grip, so hard she nearly snapped the stem. Don’t forget to breathe. She could hear Raoul’s voice in her ear. That’s the key to preserving one’s equilibrium.

<TXT>Malcolm took the paper David was holding out to him. “Did your father say why he thought our communications were compromised?”

“Something to do with Upper Wimpole Street. Is that a code for something?”

Malcolm frowned at the paper. “It’s the address where a French spy ring was meeting in London.”

Suzanne choked down another sip of whisky.

Malcolm opened Carfax’s letter and glanced through it, then moved to the desk and reached for ink and paper. “Drink some more whisky. It will take a bit of time to decode this. Suzette, get the David Hume.”

It was a book code. Suzanne read out from the appropriate page in the volume of David Hume, her voice eerily calm to her own ears as she helped Malcolm decode the message. A message, she well knew, that might lead directly back to her. Her palms were damp, but her voice remained steady. Never had she so valued her early acting training.

When the letter was transformed to plaintext, Malcolm frowned at it but didn’t seem overly surprised.

“Well?” Simon asked. “Was it worth our rushing into a war zone?”

“Most definitely, though as it happens I’d already worked some of it out on my own. With the disruption to our courier system, Carfax decided it was important I know about one of his double agents. Who has since been murdered.”

Cordelia clunked her glass down. “Do you mean–”

Malcolm crossed the room and dropped down beside Cordelia. “I’ve learned a number of things in the past twenty-four hours. It wasn’t the Comte de Vedrin who tried to blackmail your sister into spying for the French. It was Tony Chase.”

Cordelia’s eyes went wide and still in her pale face. “Dear God.”

“And so Julia went to Tony’s brother. Who, unbeknownst to me, is in intelligence himself, reporting directly to Lord Carfax. Julia wasn’t spying for the French. She was spying for us and reporting to George.”

“And George–” Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut. “George had my sister whoring herself to the Prince of Orange to get information.”

“Intelligence is a dirty business. As George reminded me only hours ago.” Malcolm looked at Simon and David, then back at Cordelia. “With your permission–”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Of course. They already know so much.”

Malcolm quickly brought David and Simon up to date on the investigation into Julia Ashton’s death, with Suzanne filling in bits and pieces. Cordelia sipped her whisky in silence, her fingers white-knuckled round the glass.

“You know what I find the greatest relief?” she said. “Not that my sister wasn’t a traitor. That she wasn’t fool enough to contemplate leaving her husband child and running off with Tony Chase.”

“I can understand that,” Malcolm said.

David was frowning. “So Anthony Chase wants you dead?”

“Apparently. Presumably because he thinks I understand what really happened at Truxhillo. Which I don’t.”

“And the ambush that killed Lady Julia,” Simon said. “We’re they shooting at you? Or at Lady Julia?”

“We still don’t know.”

Cordelia hunched forward, shivering. “I didn’t think I had any illusions about Tony. I always knew he was selfish and arrogant. But I never–”

Suzanne moved to the sofa beside Cordelia and dropped an arm round her. “You grew up with him.”

“I don’t know why that should make a difference.”

“But it does.”

Cordelia swallowed. “Yes.”

“Where’s Anthony Chase now?” David asked.

Malcolm turned his whisky glass in his hand. “That would seem to be the question. I spent the better part of today looking for him.”

Cordelia rubbed her hand over her eyes. “You think he’s joined the French?”

“Perhaps. I’m more worried he’s still here to make difficulties for the British.”

“I’m more worried he hasn’t given up on killing you,” Suzanne said. She could breathe again now the message had been decoded, but she knew that wasn’t the end of it. Her blood seemed to have frozen and no amount of whisky could warm her.

David shook his head. “God in heaven–”

Malcolm gave him a crooked grin. “It’s all right. After a few years of living our life, you get used to insanity.”

Cordelia was frowning into her whisky glass. “I couldn’t understand Julia’s fancying herself head over heels in love with Tony. But I can understand this. Feeling the need to find something to do with oneself.”

“And that makes it easier?” Suzanne asked.

“I don’t know that it should,” Cordelia said. “But it does.”

David looked at Malcolm. “What does Upper Wimpole Street have to do with all this?”

“About a fortnight ago I sent your father information about a French spy ring operating there. But apparently they’d all flown the coop before Carfax could take them into custody. He thinks the only way they could have known to flee is if someone intercepted our communications and passed along a warning.” Malcolm glanced down at the plaintext of Carfax’s message again. “Your father also says he counts upon my discretion involving the family matter he mentioned, and that he hopes we can speak further after Bonaparte is dispatched. Do you know what he’s talking about?”

David’s brows rose. “You don’t?”

“Not in the least.”

David gave a slow nod. “More proof the French are intercepting your communications perhaps. Father wrote to you over a month since.”

“About?”

David looked from Suzanne to Cordelia to Simon. Apparently even his lover wasn’t privy to this particular piece of information.

“Do you want us to leave?” Suzanne asked.

David hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “An old instinct to protect family secrets. But it’s foolish to hold back when we’ve confided so much. In fact, we were talking about it earlier today.” He drew a breath. “It’s Amelia. Father’s taken it into his head her death wasn’t an accident.”

Cordelia gasped. Simon went very still.

“What makes Carfax suddenly suspect that?” Malcolm asked.

“One of the gardeners at Carfax Court fell ill recently. On his deathbed he confessed to his wife that he’d seen Amelia arguing with a man by the stream the day she died.”

“Did he say why he’d kept quiet about it?”

David shook his head. “One suspects money was involved, though the man’s widow claims to have found no evidence of it. Father thought– He knows how ably you investigated Princess Tatiana’s murder in Vienna last autumn. He wants you to look into Amy’s death.”

“David,” Simon said in a voice like rope pulled to the breaking point.

David cast a quick glance at his lover.

Simon was staring at David with dawning horror on his face. “All this happened a month since?”

“I would have–” David’s fingers curled inward. “I’d have told you, but it was . . . a family matter.”

Simon returned David’s gaze for a long moment. “Quite.”

“Simon–”

Simon sat back in his chair, his knuckles white round his whisky glass. “You know I try to stay out of matters involving your family. But in this case, it might have saved time if you’d told me.”

David’s brows drew together, dark slashes against his pale skin. “I don’t see–”

“What do you know about Amy’s death, Simon?” Malcolm asked.

Simon took a deliberate sip of whisky. “I wasn’t at Carfax Court or Carfax House in London a great deal, but I was there enough to get to know Amelia.”

David’s family turned a blind eye to David’s relationship with Simon, keeping up the pretense that they were friends who shared rooms, though Suzanne knew Lord Carfax was increasingly eager for David to marry and produce an heir.

“There was a certain sympathy between Amelia and me,” Simon continued. “We both knew what it was to be outsiders in that world.”

Simon’s father, the son of a wealthy brewer from Northumberland, had gone off to Paris to paint and married an artist’s model, Simon’s mother. After they both died, the ten-year-old Simon had been sent back to England, to a family that didn’t know what to make of him and packed him off to Westminster and then Oxford. He’d always had a comfortable fortune, but he was an outsider in David’s aristocratic world and his Radical politics rendered him even more so. It was one of the reasons Suzanne had felt an instant kinship with him.

“So we’d talk,” Simon said. “About inconsequential things usually, but we got in the habit of turning to each other when we felt particularly out in the cold. Turn of phrase,” he added, in response to a look from David. “That winter– God, there’s no easy way to say this.” He met David’s gaze across the library. “The day before she died, Amelia had confided to me that she was expecting a child.”

David went as still as a sculpture carved in ice. For seconds together he simply stared at Simon. When he spoke at last, he seemed to have difficulty forcing the words from his throat. “And you never–”

“I told her I was sure there was a way out of her predicament.” Simon pushed himself to his feet but checked himself, accepting the fire in David’s gaze like a duelist taking a pistol shot. “I thought I had a bit of time. I was trying to figure out how to tell you, if there was a way we could get her away for long enough without your parents knowing, how we could manage things if she wanted to keep the child. I was walking across the grounds looking for you the next day so I could tell you, when the gardener’s boy came running with her body in his arms.”

“And then?” David stared at his lover, a pulse beating in his jaw.

“It never occurred to me that anyone had done her harm. But I feared she might have taken her own life.” Simon swallowed, his gaze fixed on David’s face. “I was going to tell you when we were alone that night, and then I realized–what the hell good would it have done?”

“What good would it have done for me to know the truth about my foster sister’s death?” David’s voice shook with disbelief. “If I’d known what she’d been going through–”

“That’s just it. It was too late for you to protect her. All knowing her plight would have done is make you torture yourself. You might even have tried to find her lover–”

“Damned right, I would have,” said David, who rarely swore in the presence of ladies.

“To what end?”

“So I could make the bastard pay.”

“Yes, that’s what I was afraid of. You might even have been mad enough to challenge him to a duel.”

“I–” David, as opposed in theory to dueling as Malcolm was, opened his mouth to deny this, then went silent.

“Precisely,” Simon said. “As reform-minded as you are you’re still an English gentleman. Forgive me if I had no desire to see the man I love breaking the law and risking his life.”

David kept his gaze on Simon. There might have been no one else in the room. David didn’t even seem to notice that Simon had alluded directly to their relationship, something that in the general course of things neither of them did in front of others. “If you’d told me even a few hours sooner–”

“Don’t you think I haven’t said that to myself every day for the past four and a half years?”

David drew a harsh breath. “She didn’t give you any clue to who it was?”

“No.”

“Damn it, Simon, you can’t think I’d challenge the man to a duel now.”

“I’m not entirely convinced of it. But as it happens, she truly didn’t tell me.”

David looked at Cordelia. “Do you think Amelia confided in your sister?”

“Julia never mentioned anything about it to me. But–” Cordelia looked at Malcolm. “Do you think this is really all coincidence? Lord Carfax became suspicious that Julia’s childhood friend was murdered. And shortly afterwards Julia was killed herself.”

“Which of your friends was in Derbyshire in the winter of 1810 to 1811?” Malcolm asked.

Cordelia swallowed. “All of them. George and Tony both were home on leave, and Johnny was there.”

“Did Amelia seem particularly close to any of them?”

Cordelia shook her head. “Not that I remember. I was only in Derbyshire for a short time myself. Harry and I went to a house party in the Lake District. Truth to tell, George had just come back to England, and I was trying to avoid him. Much good it did me.”

Malcolm nodded. “I was at Carfax Court myself briefly that winter, but I can’t say I was aware of any particular sympathy between Amelia and anyone.” He looked at David and Simon. Both shook their heads.

“I’ve gone over all my memories of that winter time and time again,” Simon said. “If–”

A rumbling sound interrupted him. Carriages moving over cobblestones. Shouts quickly followed from the street outside. Without so much as exchanging glances, they all ran into the hall and out into the street. People spilled from the houses on either side of the street, some in nightclothes, some clutching glasses of wine or handfuls of cards. Shouts and questions in English and French cut the air. At last Suzanne made out that supposedly an artillery train had just retreated through the city, the British were in retreat, and the French were within a half hour’s march.

She shook her head, sure it couldn’t be over so simply. Though a part of her hoped against hope that it was.

“I think the artillery was going to the front,” Malcolm said. “Wellington wouldn’t retreat so easily.”

Suzanne knew the duke well enough to realize that was all too true.

Malcolm turned back toward the house while their neighbors continued to argue. Cordelia moved to Suzanne’s side. David and Simon followed, walking a few feet apart, the distance between them palpable.

“We’ll get no more intelligence tonight,” Malcolm said as they stepped into the hall.

Cordelia cast a glance at David and Simon, then moved toward the stairs. “I don’t know that I can sleep, but I suppose we should try.”

They all took candles and climbed the stairs. On the landing, they murmured subdued good nights. David and Simon hadn’t so much as met each other’s gaze. “Cordelia,” Malcolm said softly, when he and Suzanne and Cordelia were alone on the first-floor landing.

Cordelia looked at him in inquiry over the flame of her candle.

“George says Julia worked for him, but they weren’t lovers.”

Cordelia returned Malcolm’s gaze for a long moment and inclined her head. “Thank you. Though oddly, I find that it doesn’t matter very much anymore.”

“I hope David and Simon talk,” Suzanne said to Malcolm in the privacy of their bedchamber.

“I doubt they will.” Malcolm set his candle on the chest of drawers. “David’s the sort who shuts down instead of fighting.”

“There’s a reason you’re such good friends. You’re much alike.” Suzanne used her candle to light the tapers on her dressing table. “Did you know Amelia Beckwith?”

“A bit. But in those days I was even more inclined to retreat to the library with a book than I am now. I certainly never guessed–” He shrugged out of his coat, the same black evening coat he’d worn to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, and stared at the dusty superfine with drawn brows.

Suzanne peeled off her gloves and dropped them on the dressing table. “Cordelia’s right. The connection to Julia is suspiciously coincidental.”

“So it is.” Malcolm tugged at his crumpled cravat. “And if Julia Ashton’s killer is the person who intercepted messages between Carfax and me it narrows the field.”

Suzanne froze in the midst of removing her pearl earrings. “You think Tony Chase was intercepting your communications with Carfax?”

“Possibly.” Malcolm began to unbutton his stained ivory brocade waistcoat. “But George Chase is the one who knew Carfax’s courier system.”

“Tony Chase could have learned about courier system from his brother somehow.”

“He could. Or I could have been wrong to believe George’s denials that he’s working for the French as well.”

Suzanne dropped the second earring in its velvet-lined compartment beside the first, biting back all the objections she couldn’t possibly make. “Damn George for not telling you Tony was trying to kill you.”

Malcolm shrugged out of his waistcoat, wincing at the pull on the wound in his side. “I’m not feeling particularly charitable toward him myself. But I think I do understand.”

Suzanne’s fingers froze on the silver filigree clasp of her necklace. “Are you saying you’d protect Edgar, even at the risk of someone else’s life?”

“No. At least I hope not. But I can understand the impulse. And then there’s–” He broke off, frowning at the shirt cuff he’d been unfastening.

“Fitz.” Suzanne carefully aligned the pearl necklace against the black velvet in her jewelry box. Fitzwilliam Vaughn, Malcolm’s friend and fellow attaché from Vienna, was now on a mission in India. Talking about him at all was like touching a half-healed wound

“Difficult not to make the comparison.” Malcolm tugged the button free. “I need to find Tony Chase. For a whole host of reasons.”

Suzanne crossed the room to her husband. “I can’t believe you can actually stay the night.”

Malcolm pulled his shirt over his head with tired fingers. Someone, she was pleased to see, probably Geoffrey Blackwell, had changed his bandages. “I’m scarcely fit for anything else.”

Her gaze moved over the hollow of his throat, the angle of his shoulders, the lean lines of muscle picked out by the candlelight. “Not anything?”

His eyes widened in genuine surprise. “Suzette–”

“If there ever was a time to take pleasure where we can find it–” She took his face between her hands and covered his mouth with her own. When the pull of competing loyalties threatened to tear her in two, she’d always been able to find solace in his arms. A communication that bridged all differences and drove out treacherous thoughts. Once, when she’d feared Malcolm would never let down the barriers that kept them apart, she’d thought this was the only sort of knowledge she’d ever have of him. Even now it was the easiest way to reach him. And the only way she knew to drive the demons from her mind.

His arms closed tight round her, but she felt his moment of hesitation, as though he feared to take advantage of her humor. She deepened the kiss and sank her fingers into his hair, leaving no doubt of what she wanted. When his lips moved to her cheek, she heard the edge of desperation in his breath. The desperation of a man who wonders if he’s making love to his wife for the last time. His fingers shook as he lifted her in his arms and moved to the bed. She pulled him down to her and surrendered to welcome oblivion. Later she even slept for a time, curled against his chest, one hand clasping his own, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear.

A cry jerked her from her sleep. Malcolm was already on his feet, pulling on his dressing gown and pushing up the window. She scrambled into her own dressing gown and ran to his side. She could make out the words now. “Les Français sont ici! Les Français sont ici!”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Excerpted from Imperial Scandal by TERESA GRANT Copyright © 2012 by Tracy Grant. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON BOOKS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Last week I had the fun of going back to my favorite book store, Book Passage, this time for a summer reading event put on my the Larkspur Corte Madera Mothers Club, which I just joined. A great group which Mélanie and I are having a lot of fun with. I got to talk a bit about The Mayfair Affair and to listen to some wonderful summer reading suggestions for the moms and their children.

With the wonderful Elaine Petrocelli, founder and president of Book Passage

With the wonderful Elaine Petrocelli, founder and president of Book Passage

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With Laura von Waldburg and Erica Applestein who organized the event

And to keep the Mayfair discussion going, I’d love to hear readers thoughts on one of my favorites of the discussion questions.

  1. What do you think Raoul is really saying with his last question to Laura and why is he relieved she understands?

At the gate, he turned back, his hand on the latch. “Laura—”

She saw him hesitate, searching for the words. All at once she understood. She smiled. “I’ll look after them for you.”

Relief at her understanding broke across his face. “Thank you.”

Happy weekend!

Tracy

5.30.15TracyMel

Last Saturday, May 30, I had the fun of being back at my favorite bookstore, Book Passage, for a launch event for The Mayfair Affair. Always a treat for a writer to be able to talk about her books :-). Mélanie made the day for me. When we pulled into the parking lot, I said “We’re here because Mummy’s going to talk about her books.” Mélanie said, “I think you should talk about my books.” I said, “What books do you want me to talk about?” She replied, “Pride and Prejudice is my favorite.” (She has a couple of children’s versions of Pride and Prejudice).

For those who missed the event, here’s a photo diary, from arrival at the store through  a lovely dinner with friends afterwards.

And to keep the Mayfair discussion going, I’d love to hear what readers think of the state of Malcolm and Suzanne’s relationship in this book, three months on from the revelations of The Berkeley Square Affair.

Happy weekend!

Tracy

5.30.15TracyMeldisplay BonnieMelTracy

Melchair Tracytalking2 MelBooksTracytalking Tracysigning TracyMelsigning3 TracyMelsigning2 MelTracydistanceMelTracysnuggle BPsigning2 BPsigning TracyMelBob 5.30.15dinner

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The Pelican Inn, the setting for some key scenes in The Mayfair Affair, was inspired by the real Pelican Inn, a wonderful recreation of a sixteenth century inn near Muir Woods in Marin County, not far from the coast where Francis Drake landed. Mélanie and I spent a wonderful afternoon at the Pelican Inn doing research when I was writing Mayfair.

PelicanInnMelhallwayPelicanInnTracyMel

Following up on last week’s great spoiler thread discussion of Mayfair, (which I hope readers continue) this seemed a good time to start a spoiler thread about the developments in Laura and Raoul’s relationship that begin during their stay at the Pelican Inn. What did you think? Were you surprised? What do you think lies in store for them?

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Cheers,

Tracy

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