Napoleon's Woman
Authors: Samantha Saxon
NAPOLEON’S WOMAN
(The Lady Spies Series #1)
Samantha Saxon
Tartan Publishing LLC
TARTAN PUBLISHING LLC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2016 by Samantha Saxon
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at
[email protected]
ISBN: 978-0-9971948-0-7
PRINTING HISTORY
Published as
The Lady Lies,
Berkley Sensation edition, June 2005
Reissued as
Napoleon's Woman
, Tartan Publishing, March 2016
Cover Design by Daniel Barajas
To my husband, Gaston, for showing our children what a man should be
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Table of Contents
London, England
September 24
th
, 1794
The first thing he saw was feathers.
The man wearing the ornate hat, he knew, was Christian St. John’s father, the Duke of York, home from a rousing victory as Commander of British forces at the Battle of Lincelles. The sun glinted off numerous metals as the duke emerged into the garden, making the uniform and the man that much more impressive, that much more heroic.
"Pay up, Wessex," Daniel McCurren demanded, drawing Aidan’s attention toward his auburn haired friend whose blue eyes were lost in the sky above him. "I told ya Christian’s father would na miss his birthday celebration."
Resigned, Aidan reached into his pocket and fished out a farthing. His own father, the Earl of Wessex, had sent a letter saying the regiment would be home in October, so it had been a sound wager. But if the Duke of York was home, his most trusted officer, the Earl of Wessex, would be too.
"Here," Aidan tossed him the coin, smiling at the thought of seeing his father again, before punching the arrogant Scot square in the shoulder. "You skirt wearing blackguard."
"It’s a kilt, you English puff." Daniel hit him three fold as hard, knocking him out of the tree they had been climbing and causing him very nearly to land on John Elkin’s chestnut head.
"Apologies," Aidan grunted as he lay sprawled across the grass.
John did not lift his eyes from the pages of his current read before giving Aidan a swift kick in the backside. "Think nothing of it."
The force of the kick rolled Aidan on his back where he lay, trying to remember why he had befriended such a motley crew.
John Elkin was a cynic whose warring parents had driven him firmly into the pages of his beloved books. But to a privileged few, he was fiercely loyal friend with a sardonic wit and a heart as soft as strawberry jam.
His brawny assailant was Daniel McCurren, a charismatic Scot who made people grin when they saw him and laugh when they chastised him. The word fear could not be found in his vocabulary and, unfortunately, neither could humility.
Christian St. John was the youngest son of the Duke of York and heir to absolutely nothing. He was carefree, gullible, and astonishingly naïve, believing the best of people until proven otherwise. All in all, he rather reminded Aidan of a pup.
"Oh, nicely done, John." Daniel laughed overhead.
"Careful, Daniel," Aidan tossed black strands from his eyes and glared up at his large friend. "Or I’ll not allow you to marry my sister."
"Sarah?" John asked, surprised. "Daniel wishes to marry Sarah?"
"He told me his intentions last week," Aidan smirked.
"A bit young to contemplate marriage, aren’t you Daniel? Well, never mind." John was so amused by this revelation that he slammed his book closed. "I suppose I should offer my congratulations to the bride."
"Take one step, Elkin, and I’ll throttle ya." Daniel promised, his eyes turned to slits but Aidan could see the hurt beneath the anger. Guilt washed over him and Aidan felt a child for allowing his annoyance to break the confidence of his closest friend. "Aidan, you should na divulge a man’s private affairs."
"Man!" John chuckled. "You’re ten same as us."
"I’ll be eleven in two weeks’ time," Daniel boasted, leaping on the change of subject. "A full year older than Christian."
Aidan sat up, reclining on his elbows and squinting in the direction of his fair friend as Christian greeted his illustrious father. The duke clasped his youngest son’s shoulder then bent down to whisper in his ear. Aidan watched, curious, as Christian’s Nordic blue eyes turned and locked on him.
"Aidan Duhearst," the duke called across the garden.
His heart bumped with excitement. He knew then that he was correct, that his father was indeed home. Aidan rose, praying that it was his father, and not a footman, who had come to fetch them from the party.
He dusted off his breeches and walked toward the duke, motioning to his sister as she sat on the lawn playing with the sixth of the seven McCurren boys. Sarah kissed the four year old on the cheek before sliding him from her lap.
She began to rise but the duke stopped her, saying, "Just Aidan."
Her dimpled smile faded and her green eyes met his.
Aidan indicated his ignorance with a discreet shrug and walked toward the Duke of York.
"Will you join me in my study?"
Stunned, Aidan could do nothing but give one brusque nod. He followed the duke’s broad back, listening to the rhythmic clicking of his Hessian boots on the white marble, a disconcerting contrast to Aidan’s lighter footfall.
The footmen opened black double doors at the end of the hall, closing them the moment they passed into the room. He glanced around, nervous and more than a little curious.
As many times as he had visited Christian’s town home, he had never set foot in this room. Not that they hadn’t tried. Christian had devised a scheme to pilfer a cheroot or two. But when the time came and the footmen distracted, not even McCurren could muster the courage to turn that doorknob.
"Aidan, have a seat."
He did. His lanky legs stretching to reach the carpeted floor as he settled in the enormous leather chair opposite the desk. He waited, watching as the duke stared out the tall windows with his hands clasped behind his back.
"You are aware, are you not, that I have just returned from Lincelles?"
"Yes, Your Grace." He sat up determined to sound more dignified, more mature. "All of England is aware of your victory."
The duke turned to face him, laughing at some private amusement Aidan did not understand.
"Yes, well, ‘twas not my victory," he said, sitting at his desk and placing his forearms on the polished mahogany.
"No, Your Grace." Aidan grasped the padded arms of the chair, afraid that he had offended in some way.
"We were outgunned at Lincelles." The duke lifted blond brows. "The French had column, after column of cannons." He sighed. "I’ve never seen such a force."
The duke stared through the wood of the desk and Aidan waited, not sure what to say.
"As our troops assembled, the French fired their cannons, confident that we would not charge. But we did." He nodded. "The first line of infantry was cut to ribbons, and when the second faltered. . ." He paused, taking a breath before starting again. "A lone dragoon officer rode to the front of the line, his sword drawn as he charged into the fray."
Aidan’s heart stopped.
"Nothing touched him. And when he reached the French line, he sailed his mount over the cannons as if borne on wings." The duke was lost in his memories, narrowing his pale eyes as if he could see them. "I have never seen anything more glorious in all my days.
Wave after wave of British infantry charged the French line to assist the brave officer who rode, cutting down their gunners as they reloaded their cannons. It was this unrelenting resolve that broke their line, and their will." He met Aidan’s eye. "A resolve carried across the battlefield of Lincelles by your father."
Aidan’s chin quivered, and he could not breathe, his nostrils flared as he struggled to take air into lungs locked by shock.
"I have never met a finer, braver man than your father."
The duke’s words faded as Aidan braced himself against the pain of knowing it was his fault, knowing that he had not been enough to keep his father home. If he had been a better son, a better brother, then perhaps his father would not have left them.
"The Earl of Wessex was the noblest of gentlemen, and I suspect that I shall never have the privilege of knowing another man like him."
Aidan stared at the carpet his mouth agape as the meticulous pattern blurred. He heard a metallic ping and absently glanced up, only to see his father’s gold ring shining against the dark wood.
"I know this is difficult, Aidan, but as of this moment…you are the Earl of Wessex."
Aidan had always known that one day he would be required to fill his father’s shoes, to ascend to the title he has been bred to. But not yet.
He wasn’t ready.
He reached for the Wessex signet and placed it on his middle finger, then watched in horror as the weight of the cold metal caused the ring to slide off. With a shaky hand, he pushed it up and clenched his fist, terrified that he would never grow to fit it.