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"Do you object, as I have heard that Wellington does, to the lack of training we give our officers? If they are so illprepared, then throwing them against men who have attended schools on military strategy is putting them at the greatest of disadvantages, is it not?" Alex inquired, forgetting for a moment that she had intended to play least in sight during this particular gathering.
"Why, yes I do, I suppose, though nothing teaches one so well as experience." Christopher directed a sharp glance at her. It was as he had expected, behind that foolish look that Alexander de Montmorency so carefully maintained, a clever mind indeed was at work.
"But then you must also feel that Britain should maintain an army—an attitude that goes strongly against the grain of the independent-minded citizenry. Too often such a standing army becomes an instrument of oppression for a tyrant."
"Yes ... "—Lord Wrotham frowned, considering for a moment—"but if we had even a small army composed of professionals—veterans who had seen action, who were kept in readiness at all times—we would not now be in the position of having to beg for troops, and raw recruits at that." A sardonic note crept in his voice. "And I would not be here kicking my heels in this blessed place and having to go hat in hand from one oblivious peer to another begging for support in Parliament. Nor would Tony be wasting his time on guard duty."
"Too right," Tony joined in. "It is a crying shame too, to see all those splendid fellows who carried the day at Salamanca and Badajoz, who endured all sorts of hardships 108
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for their country, tossed back on the land without so much as a thank you."
"And," Alex added, "with very little chance of supporting themselves or their families, times being what they are." Wrotham nodded grimly before turning to accept a glass of punch from Radlett. "Ah, excellent as always, Radlett. Now if you could by another stroke of your magic return us to real scenes of action where we might truly accomplish something, all would be well."
"Ah, that's asking, isn't it, sir? You know I would if I could," the batman commiserated. "All these dandified gentlemen one sees in London are like to make a decent fellow sick, they are." Shaking his head, he proceeded to hand glasses of punch to Tony and then to Alex, who accepted hers cautiously, knowing there was no escaping drinking it this time. She only prayed that the batman's recipe was famous for its taste rather than its strength. Seated on the other side of the fire. Tony was too far away to exchange glasses. She hoped she would not disgrace herself by choking on it. Best to lead these two into a distracting discussion and deal with it as well as she could.
"Then you must be less than pleased with the motion against the renewal of war with France that it is rumored Whitbread is bringing." There, that was a topic sufficiently incendiary to direct their minds toward other matters.
"That fool," the major muttered. "I find his reasoning that a warlike response on our parts to the latest development will cause Napoleon to arm further to be entirely unsound. As if a show of force incites Bonaparte rather than his own 109
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unbounded greed for glory. It was not a show of force on our part that inspired him to escape from Elba, after all."
"Aye," Tony agreed. "That is the thinking of a man who has never faced Boney's troops or his generals. Given the chance to win back their fame and honor, they reckon not with the world's reaction. I say that if we do not arm ourselves, and quickly, it will be a very near thing."
"Precisely!" Leaning forward eagerly, Wrotham set down his glass with a snap and Alex seized the opportunity to toss down the fiery liquid all in one gulp. Ugh! It tasted as bad as any medicine Trevor Padgett had ever given her and it burned all the way down. However, she managed to swallow it without gasping and without betraying any visible signs of discomfort beyond a slight watering of the eyes. "We cannot let people like Whitbread gain the upper hand in this country, which I very much fear they will do," the major continued.
"Wellington fears the same thing, and that is why I have come back over here."
"But Whitbread is only one small voice, albeit a powerful one," Alex broke in. "I am sure that resistance in Parliament is more a result of inertia than anything else. People are so overjoyed at the thought of peace and a return to prosperity after all these years, that the idea of rearming and incurring new taxes is a dismaying one. I am certain that in the end, the general tenor of opinion will be in your favor. Why, even the recent article in the
Edinburgh Review
on Bonaparte's campaign in Russia, much as it deplores the horror of war and recognizes the exhaustion of all the peoples who have spent 110
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so many years opposing him, acknowledges the necessity of responding to this new crisis with military measures."
"Does it so?" Christopher looked thoughtful. "I did notice such an article, but I confess I did not read it as it looked to be merely a description of the disasters of his foray into Russia."
"In the main it is, but at the very end it addresses the problems of war in a more general way and demonstrates how an appetite for glory can corrupt people, from a leader on down to the humbler citizens of a nation. All of them eventually forget the reasons that made them go to such desperate lengths in the first place in their thrill over valorous deeds and great conquests. It suggests that this sort of blood lust will reanimate the French to the degree that they will flock to Napoleon again if he offers them a chance to recapture their glories. The author takes a most pessimistic view of the possibilities of peace and advocates England's immediate response to the threat."
"Would that it were immediate." The major looked grave.
"People here have no notion of how inspiring the man can be, how he can make citizens and soldiers alike do his bidding—
and very quickly and efficiently too."
"Yes," Tony chimed in. "Even though we never encountered the Emperor himself in the Peninsula, we felt the force of his personality in his generals. And his enormous capacity for instantly marshaling forces and moving them about all over the map was reflected in his armies in Spain. The British would do well to heed the past. It will never do to underestimate the man. After all, who could be more familiar 111
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with his tactics than Wellington and"—he nodded toward the major—"if your presence here is any indication, Wellington is taking his reappearance very seriously indeed."
"Very," Wrotham agreed solemnly. "This will be the first time the Iron Duke has actually faced Napoleon himself and I very much fear that given the circumstances, he is at a great disadvantage, for Napoleon thrives on concentrating his troops and moving them swiftly. Wellington, though a sound tactician, has his strength in defense and solid lines of supply. For that sort of warfare to prevail, one needs time and troops, neither of which he has. His communications in the Peninsula were always better than those of the French. Now he does not have that advantage, and the terrain between France and Belgium, unlike those beastly tracks in Spain, is such that it favors easy communication and advance for the French armies."
"Too right. Such hostile countryside as Spain and Portugal made it impossible for the French to requisition supplies the way they had counted on, but now what with a sympathetic population and fertile farmlands it will be the merest romp compared to all those miles slogging in the mud or the dust. I daresay we shall be called up soon, at least I hope we are. This kicking one's heels on guard duty while the whole world is amassing for war on the continent is the very devil!" Tony pounded his fist on the arm of his chair emphatically.
"Isn't it though." The major smiled sympathetically. "Were you at Vitoria, by the way?"
And with this, the two officers plunged into reminiscences of the heroic exploits, glaring blunders, and privations shared 112
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by all of those who took part in the Peninsular Campaign. Alex leaned back in her chair and listened to them, reflecting on how very different their lives were from hers. How pleasant it was to sit here while her brother spoke of hunting in the Pyrenees or the gallantry of a brother officer who, despite his colonel's orders to retreat, had grabbed the colors, stormed a wall single-handed, and stood there waving the troops on. How much more interesting were men's lives and conversations than women's. Why, she was lucky if she could lead a female conversation off the topics of household tasks or fashion on to anything as serious as the poor laws or the income taxes put into effect to finance the war. These were things that truly concerned her and engaged her attention, but if she were to bring them up in any company except that of Trevor Padgett, she would invariably meet with blank stares, derisive smiles, or worse.
This being a man had a good deal going for it, Alex was beginning to realize. Men had freedom, the possibility of participation in events beyond the realm of household or parish, and a wider variety of amusements to pursue. In short, the existence of Alexander de Montmorency was infinitely more varied and stimulating than that of Alexandra de Montmorency. If her twin survived, he would be lucky if she relinquished his identity to him, now that she had had the opportunity to enjoy it.
Across the room. Tony, interrupted briefly by the reappearance of Radlett with more punch, suddenly became conscious of his sister's presence. What was he thinking bringing her here to a gentleman's chambers? He must be all 113
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about in the head, though the quick glance he stole at Alexandra revealed her to be enjoying herself hugely. However, there were fine lines of strain around her eyes and the slump of her shoulders betrayed her exhaustion. It was high time she was home in bed. In the first place, Alex was unaccustomed to town hours; in the second place, it was extremely wearing to have to assume a role as she had done for such an extended period of time; and in the third place, the worries that had plagued her even before she arrived in London would have sapped the energy of anyone, even his redoubtable sister. Tony waved Radlett away with a regretful sigh. "Thank you, no. I must be off. I have guard duty early in the morning and must be up betimes. It is time I was in bed."
As Alex arose from her chair, half relieved, half regretful, her brother continued, "Of course there is no need for Alexander here to leave such excellent company."
"No, no." Alex managed a huge yawn. "Rustic that I am, I am as yet unaccustomed to these town hours, but I thank you for a pleasant evening and look forward to drubbing you again, sir." She cocked a quizzical eyebrow in the major's direction.
"To be sure." Wrotham grinned. "But I shall be ready for you, I warn you. You have defeated me for the last time."
"A challenge I shall most assuredly take you up on." Alex bowed low before heading out the door.
It said a great deal for her self-control that she was able to contain herself until they had strolled some distance down 114
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Bond Street. "Ten thousand pounds. Tony!" she exclaimed with glee. "Just think of it."
"I am thinking of it," her brother replied grimly, "and also about Major Lord Wrotham's marked interest in you. It was no accident, I'll wager, that he played with you this evening or invited us back to his chambers. The man was watching you like a hawk. He suspects something, I feel sure of it."
"Pooh, don't be silly. Tony." Alex dismissed her brother's worries with a wave of her hand. "He is merely watching to see whether or not I am cheating. He asked for new cards and was most observant of my every move while we were playing, but after that he let down his guard. I am but a new player come on the town who has enjoyed some success. Naturally he is suspicious, and it is a very good thing too, for now that he sees I am not a Captain Sharp, he will set the opinion for the others and they will take me on. Mark my words."
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Meanwhile, back in his chambers. Lord Wrotham was berating himself for just that letting down of his guard which Alex had been so quick to notice. At least you are not a flat, he muttered to himself as he relived their entire encounter at the gaming tables, but you may be all sorts of a fool. If he is not cheating, then what is his game? For game there is, I am certain of it.
The major stared absently into his glass of punch as he tried to recall every particular of his two evenings with the de Montmorencys. Certainly the younger, Anthony, was the genuine article. He was too ingenuous to be anything else but the honorable soldier he seemed. His reminiscences so nearly matched the major's and in such minute detail that Christopher had no questions regarding him. However, there had been moments when Captain de Montmorency had seemed as unsure of his brother as Lord Wrotham was. Alexander de Montmorency was a puzzle, there was no question about it. There was no doubt also that a keen intelligence lay behind the slightly bosky exterior that he was at such pains to present to the world. The comments he had made on the recent events were too thoughtful and articulate for someone who spent as much time with the bottle at the gaming table as he apparently wished everyone to think. In fact, Christopher had quite enjoyed the evening. It was rare to meet anyone whose eyes did not glaze over at the mention of anything more serious than the ankles of the 116
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latest opera dancer or the recent transactions at Tattersall's. Even rarer still was to come across someone who was not only aware of what was happening in the world outside the
ton,
but who actually reflected on it or had anything of substance to say about it.