Authors: Alicia Rasley
"Devlyn."
He dragged his eyes open. "My lord?"
Wellington's eyes were icy, but they usually were, even when his majors managed to stay awake in his presence. His voice, though, was deceptively sweet. "Would you like to go home and brief our superiors at Whitehall? You do seem to require a rest."
Devlyn glimpsed the chagrin of Major Ellingham, who had a year-old son in Wiltshire he'd never met. "Nothing that a night's sleep won't cure. Send one of the others." This sounded vaguely insubordinate, and Devlyn was usually punctiliously polite with his commanding officer. So he added, trying for once to infuse a little enthusiasm into his words, "I wouldn't want to miss the next battle."
Nothing hardened Wellington so much as opposition, especially from Devlyn. Brusquely he tossed the packet to his major. "There will be other battles for you. The most important skirmish now is with our own leaders. I must have fresh troops and fresh horses. By spring we'll want to be well into Spain, but we shan't be if they don't loosen the purse strings." He glanced almost apologetically at the major. "You'd only get angry, Ellingham, and set their backs up. Devlyn never loses his temper. He's so patient he'd debate Socrates to a standstill. And Lord Liverpool is no Socrates." To Devlyn he added ironically, "You may as well take leave for the autumn while you're there. I promise you, I won't drive the French out until you return with the new year."
"As you wish." Devlyn cared naught either way. Wellington was right: If they'd learned nothing else in two years here on the Peninsula, the British had discovered that there would always be another battle. So the major packed his kit in a minute or two, gathered up the maps and messages, promised to let a dozen families know their loved ones had survived another engagement, and headed for the coast. It was the next morning, on board ship, that he finally, carefully, peeled off his boots.
Once in London, the viscount had spent several days in the great government complex of Whitehall, briefing Horse Guards, the War Office, the Cabinet, and even the Prince Regent on the progress of Wellington's waiting game. Patiently he explained why the army would strike quickly and then fall back to fortify itself for the autumn, waiting for starvation and cold to drive the French north. Without heat he argued Wellington's conviction that the Spanish guerrillas needed immediate and consistent support for their insurgency, and that the British needed more cavalry, more guns, more supplies, more funds. If occasionally he considered throttling some naysayer who had never seen the inside of an army bivouac, he quelled his anger and kept his voice low and his arguments rational.
Now that he was finally released from the halls of government and officially on leave, Devlyn looked ahead to the long, lazy English August and realized he had utterly nothing to do.
He'd made the rounds of the clubs all week, never having to pay for a drink, for everywhere his acquaintances hailed him as a conquering hero. But they seemed even more frivolous than usual, with their talk of high stakes and cockfights and light-skirts. So here he was, home less than a week, and already bored.
That morning he woke alone. No need to search for a pretty name to match a pretty body next to him. No need to converse with some woman whose conversation was truly the least of her charms. He preferred it this way, to be alone in the early morning, to collect himself before he started the day.
Of long habit, he did not tarry in bed. He left his elaborate 16th Light Dragoons uniform in the wardrobe and dressed in riding clothes and top boots without the aid of a valet. After the privations of war, he could not accustom himself to the luxury of being shaved and dressed by a servant. He had only to smooth the counterpane on the bed, for instinct kept him still even in sleep. He left behind him a soldier's room, so sparsely furnished and precisely arranged the maid would have nothing to do but dust.
He was free of responsibilities until noon, when he was lunching with the Marquess of Wellesley, the foreign secretary. Unused to such leisure, the viscount stood uncertainly in the half-furnished breakfast room. He had met with his man of business yesterday, and the manager of his south coast estate the day before, and all was in order. They were both former soldiers, as efficient as he, and left him little to do during his infrequent sojourns in England.
What did soldiers usually do on leave? Visit their estates, he supposed, and he'd get to that, although his presence clearly wasn't needed. Visit their families, but he hadn't any, so that was out. Visit their wives and get them with child again, but he hadn't any of those either.
Too restless this morning for breakfast, he went for a hard ride on a young stallion out to the heath north of Hampstead. He finally pulled up on a bluff overlooking the green expanse, exhilarated with the fine horse beneath him. Ciardi had spirit, too much really, but perhaps after some training the horse could be shipped to Portugal. But then Ciardi would only get shot out from under him in the next campaign. It was too dire a fate for such an animal, so the major determined to leave him home to ride again whenever they finally drove the French off the Peninsula.
Even here on the edge of the urban uproar, Hampstead Heath seemed vast and empty after the crowded quarters of the army camp on the riverbank in Portugal. A hundred times in the past three years Devlyn had gazed out over the dusty Iberian landscape, longing for the misty green beauty of his native land. Yet here he was home now, and he felt no peace, only a silence that echoed with emptiness. He had been fighting forever, it seemed, in Denmark and Spain and Portugal, and could hardly remember what he was fighting for. Was this his home? He'd been gone so long he barely recognized it. It was lovely, it was peaceful, and it was not his.
But eventually the solitude soothed him and he lingered, listening to the breeze whisper in the very proper, very English trees. Even in an alien land, it was good to be home.
But he lingered too long, and was a few minutes late joining Wellesley at White's Club. The exquisitely dressed foreign secretary greeted Devlyn with a raised eyebrow, taking in his casual apparel and wind-tousled dark hair. "Not like you to be late, Devlyn. A new light-skirt keeping you?"
"A new stallion." Devlyn settled himself in a leather chair and poured a glass of port from Wellesley's bottle. He glanced around the private dining room, instinctively noting the position of the windows and exits. The room was of handsome proportions, with low couches lining two walls and red velvet drapes concealing the high windows. The linen tablecloth gleamed a costly white and the tableware was ostenstatiously and expensively plain. It was a pleasant room, private and quiet, the better to make a man feel at home. But Devlyn didn't feel at home; in fact he hardly recognized this place, though he had been a member since he was twenty.
Wellesley he recognized, if only because he was General Wellington's elder brother. The resemblance was unsettling. Wellesley was more elegant, of course, with his town pallor and his long graceful hands ever gesturing in the way of politicians everywhere. But the hook nose beloved by caricaturists was the same, and the heavy eyebrows and appraisingly cool eyes. And the foreign secretary was reputed to be just as talented, just as clever, just as cool as the general. Unfortunately, he was careless in public and private life as Wellington would never be, and was destined, Devlyn thought, to fail spectacularly someday.
Devlyn assessed the dissolute lines around the foreign secretary's mouth and remembered when Wellesley had come to survey the troops years earlier, before their retreat into Portugal. He had brought his mistress, a vulgar woman the general scorned as “the Moll," and flaunted her in front of the haughty Spanish nobility and the randy British soldiers. Even mad old King George had heard about that. Wellington had too much pride to apologize for his elder brother, of course. But for the first time in his life, Devlyn had almost been glad that he had no surviving siblings to shame him like that.
Devlyn repressed a mad impulse to remind Wellesley of that first meeting, to report that Moll had become legend among the cavalry, her voluptuous charms toasted in song and story around many a campfire. Perhaps Wellesley could now be forgiven his indiscretion, for he had been a good friend to the army these last three years, serving his brother's interests with characteristic guile and skill. Still Devlyn could not feign respect for a man so inconsiderate of his own and his brother's dignity. “You said you had an assignment for me."
"Don't get above yourself, young man," Wellesley said with amused rancor, choosing to misinterpret the major's insolent tone. “And my brother tells me you are his most patient officer. Let's lunch first, then I will relieve your curiosity."
Devlyn's eyes narrowed, but that was the only sign he allowed of his distrust. He disliked any man having the advantage of him even for a moment, for he did not like to act without a full understanding of his options. So he had to force himself to relax during lunch. Wellesley urged him to eat heartily. "You can't have been dining in splendor in that army encampment." But Devlyn thought of his dragoons chewing on saltback and radishes in their bivouacs, and allowed himself only one slice of rare roast beef. And that tasted like sawdust.
Finally, the porter removed their plates and Wellesley poured himself another glass of port. "More for you?" At Devlyn's refusal, the foreign secretary's hand sketched a mocking salute. "Ah, yes, the cool Viscount Devlyn always keeps his head. Have you never been drunk? Out of control? I thought not." With a touch of spite, Wellesley drank off his glass and poured another. "Uncomfortable for us mere mortals, but I suppose that is why you have proved so valuable to my brother. Just seeing you there, so stalwart and so calm, makes me think of dear Arthur. Do you and he rub along well together, as you are so alike?"
Devlyn heard the malice behind the marquess's admiring tone. It must be hard, he thought dispassionately, to have a genuine hero for a little brother. "General Lord Wellington is my commanding officer. He has the respect of all of his men."
"So I hear. But you did not answer my question. Arthur does that, too, you might have noticed. Answers some other question that better suits his purpose. Do you get on well with my brother?"
Devlyn knew he was walking through a minefield and picked his way carefully. But he spoke honestly; he was always honest, although he seldom revealed much. "As you say, we are somewhat similar in temperament. So the general expects a great deal of me, I think, and likes to test me."
Ruefully Wellesley replied, "Yes, Arthur likes to test, doesn't he? Have you failed yet?"
Devlyn thought of the three months he'd spent supervising the trench-digging crew, the recent assignment to build bivouacs. But those were lessons in the varieties of command duties, not punishment, or so Wellington had told him with an admirably straight face. "Not that I've heard. Perhaps this leave is my reward for passing the latest one—or my punishment for failing."
Wellesley leaned back against the cushion of his chair with a mostly benevolent smile. "You should be complimented that he takes such an interest in you. He must see you as a younger version of himself. You doubtlessly want to be a general just like him."
"I'd shoot myself first." Devlyn was surprised to hear his own declaration, for surely there had been a moment, years and years ago, when he considered such an ambition. He was good at soldiering, that was the problem—good at plotting strategy and leading troops and taking the long view of a campaign. But he was terrible at death; oh, not his own, he imagined he'd die bravely enough when the time came. But all those other young men littering the battlefields, and the poor civilians who got in the way—he didn't have the right perspective on that. He never saw it as a necessary evil, but just an evil, and no general could afford to be so craven. And none of Wellington's lessons in command had overcome that weakness.
Wellesley was regarding him with confusion and some dismay; doubtlessly he was accustomed to hearing adulation, not antipathy, from his brother's young aides. And Devlyn only made things worse by adding, "I expect to sell out my commission once we drive the French out of Spain. Then I want never to see the general again."
His unwonted candor angered Devlyn. This last engagement had taken the lives of two of his friends, he hadn't really enough friends to lose them so profligately. Then Wellington had sent him away like a delinquent schoolboy, exiled from the little family Devlyn wanted no part of in the first place. But that was no excuse for losing his self-possession. So he remained silent until he could explain his seeming disloyalty to a man he deeply admired.
"I am war-weary, you see. And the general, fortunately for us all, is not. But I can no longer enjoy any of it, not even the victories. I lack enthusiasm, and though the general has none himself, he values it in his staff. I think that's why he sent me home. He thought I'd be transformed somehow, and return a zealous man." He laughed shortly, imagining Wellington's disappointment at the turn of the year, when his major returned still without any zeal. "I ran into Ellingham on Bond Street yesterday. I gather he's briefed you already? His great weakness, you see, was that he wanted to meet his own son. Wellington finally did break down and give him leave after I left. When we saw each other, we looked away. Guilty, like two boys rusticated from Eton. The general has a way of earning our loyalty, but that loyalty has its costs—all our other loyalties, for one."
Clearly relieved that his brother's staff wasn't plotting mutiny, Wellesley said reassuringly, "Think of this not as rustication, but as a summer holiday. And I think you might need a respite from my prickly little brother. He does write laudatory things of you, you should know, whatever he might tell you to your face."
Devlyn didn't answer, for his relationship with Wellington was too complicated to discuss. They'd never got on well, but Wellington would not hear of transferring him to a line position—send away one of his boys? Never! Still Wellington never understood Devlyn's resistance to the concept of "our little family." Orphaned young, Devlyn had learned to do without paternal guidance. He couldn't accept it from Wellington, however much he admired the man. But the general wouldn't let him go, and wouldn't let him be. Devlyn reflected that perhaps this was a true father-son relationship, with as much conflict as charity, and never any end.