The house rented by the Duke and Duchess of Richmond was a grand structure, large and somber on the outside but inside a gilded masterpiece of marble columns, crystal chandeliers, and statues. Nearly every member of London’s upper class and what must be half the officers in the British military gathered in the large ballroom with its rose-and-trellis-patterned wallpaper.
Uniformed gentlemen mingled with feather-bedecked and diamond-spangled ladies around long tables on which silver platters held enough food to fill everyone twice over. Rising above the comestibles, gold statues of Grecian women lifted trays laden with grapes, quinces, figs, cherries, and strawberries. Swags of roses and ivy draped from the elbow of one statue to the elbow of another. Fountains gurgled. Above all, saturating the very air, swam the strains of waltzes played by a large, liveried orchestra.
When Ruel began to greet acquaintances, he slipped an arm around Anne’s waist. “This is my wife,” he introduced her. Then again, “My wife, the Marchioness of Blackthorne.” And again, “My wife.”
Cringing inside, Anne pasted on the best smile she could muster.
“My wife.”
For a few moments the night before, she had almost dared to believe his words. Yet they were merely a rote recitation from this same drama he had played with her so many times. She had been a fool to think his avowals held any essence of truth. Like his brother, he must detest the very idea that his rash marriage might threaten the family legacy.
Despite Anne’s unease, she had no choice but to join Ruel as they strolled through the ballroom, meeting colleagues they had recently seen in London and enduring introductions to countless members of the Brussels elite. Royalty fairly infested the place. The Duke and Duchess of Richmond chatted with the Duke of Brunswick, who bounced the little Prince de Ligne on his knee all the while. Talk of Napoleon mingled with inquiries about health and holiday plans.
The arrival of the Duke of Wellington, commander of the allied armies, produced an excited stir. With his patrician nose and strong jaw, the duke cut an imposing figure as he strode into the ballroom a good two hours late. Anne noticed that Mr. Walker took advantage of the hubbub to fill a plate with bread and fruit and escape through a pair of long, glassed doors. She would have traded her title to do the same. Prudence, she noted, was nowhere to be seen inside the crowded room.
Ruel moved to Anne’s side as people gathered around the Duke of Wellington to fawn over the handsome military leader. In his uniform adorned with jeweled medals, bright sashes, and loops of gold cording, he seemed to carry all of England’s majesty with him. Having led his troops to victories in India, Hannover, Portugal, and Denmark, he was considered a masterful soldier. His success in the recent Peninsular War against Napoleon had earned him the gratitude of the regent, along with large estates, cash awards, and the title of Duke of Wellington. Now that Napoleon had escaped Elba and returned to France, Wellington’s powerful presence in Brussels captivated everyone in the
ton
.
When the dancing began anew, Ruel guided Anne across the crowded floor. “I must speak with you alone for a moment,” he said in a low voice. “Walker told me he witnessed my brother treating you roughly in the carriage tonight. Can that be true?”
“Sir Alexander . . . he questioned me.” She glanced up, but the look in Ruel’s eyes made her turn away quickly.
How dare he gaze at her with feigned adoration? She could never take lightly what had happened between them, and he knew it. She had been willing to surrender herself completely, irreparably. Did that mean so little to him? His easy ability to slip into the role of doting husband infuriated her.
“Alex questioned you about what?” He took her elbow and turned her toward an alcove near the long windows. “Anne, you have no obligation to speak to my brother about anything. What occurs between you and me is none of his affair.”
“Ruel, people are beginning to stare at us.”
“Let them.” He slipped his hands behind her head and tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Last night I found him drunken and angry and filled with foundless accusations. I do not care what he thinks. Nothing matters but—”
“Someone is coming.” She looked over his shoulder at the three men approaching the alcove. “Ruel, please. Talking can only make things worse between us. I acknowledge my own responsibility in what occurred last night, and you may rest assured it will never happen again.”
“Never hap—?”
“Blackthorne.” One of the three men tapped him on the shoulder.
His dark brow furrowed, Ruel swung around. “What?” Seeing who stood there, he let out a breath. “Droughtmoor, Wimberley, Barkham. Good evening, gentlemen.”
“We have come to speak with you, sir.”
“As you can see, I am busy at the moment.”
“This is a matter of utmost urgency. We can wait no longer.”
“No longer? I returned from America three full months ago, yet you choose to address me only now?” He lifted one eyebrow. “Ah, yes, I forget myself. You have been absent from Society in London these past months, Lord Drought-moor. How we all have regretted the absence of your charming company.”
“Enough of your nonsense, Blackthorne,” Droughtmoor said. “We have an item of business to attend.”
“In such a place as this? Sirs, you will forgive my bluntness, but this is a pleasure ball. I have only lately arrived with my bride, and I intend to spend the evening dancing with her. Matters of business are not on my agenda.”
He made as if to lead Anne away, but Droughtmoor grabbed his arm. “You know very well why we have come, Blackthorne, and if you think you will escape our mission this time, you are sorely mistaken. You have besmirched each of us in a method most unforgivable, and we require recompense.”
“Besmirched you, have I?” Ruel squared his shoulders. “Droughtmoor, your inability to resist the bottle has blackened your name far more effectively than I ever could. Barkham, your dalliances with ladies dwelling in the West End of London are far more condemning than any indiscre- tions your wife may have committed before her marriage to you.”
“Upon my word!” Barkham exploded. “And Wimberley,” Ruel continued. “Dear old Wimberley.
Your fondness for gaming surpasses my own. Unfortunately, you are famous only for your outstanding losses. Equally unfortunate, you failed to abandon your fondness for cards when it became clear they were ruining you, while I have had the good sense to relinquish gambling to the faded recesses of my past.”
“Now then, Blackthorne—,” Wimberley began.
“Gentlemen, far be it from me to take credit for besmirching your honorable names. You have succeeded admirably without my assistance.”
Ruel took Anne’s hand, but before he could lead her out of the alcove, Droughtmoor stepped in front of him again.
“Vile man,” he spat. “Do not think your fine words will release you from your debt. This time you cannot flee to America. I am calling you out.”
Ruel turned, a slow-burning anger suffusing his face. “Anne, perhaps you would like to go and speak with the Duchess of Richmond’s daughter for a moment. I understand Lady Georgianna has been eager to make your acquaintance.”
Handed the opportunity for escape, Anne suddenly knew she could not take it. Ruel had been called out. A duel. She studied the hard angle of his jaw and understood at once the gravity of the matter. If he were to retain his honor, he could not decline.
“Excuse me,” she said in a low voice. Leaving the alcove, she headed straight for the long French doors.
Were Ruel to face Droughtmoor in a duel, he might be killed. The thought of it ripped through her stomach like a knife. No! She could never let it happen. Spotting the blacksmith alone at the far end of the walkway, she lifted her skirts and ran to him.
“Mr. Walker, you must come inside at once!”
“Lady Blackthorne?”
“Three men are confronting Ruel in the ballroom. One has called him out and means to kill him! You must stop them, I beg you!”
“I shall do what I can.”
In moments, Anne had directed Walker to the knot of men gathered in the alcove. She knew she should stand aside. But how could she? Ruel was her husband. No matter in what way he cared for her, she cared for him. More than that. She had given her heart to him. She loved him.
“Dear Lord, help!” she whispered in prayer as she started toward the men. She had to do something. Had to stop this madness.
“Tomorrow morning, then.” Droughtmoor nodded at Ruel. “Pistols.”
“At first daylight.”
“No!” Anne cried. “No, Ruel, you must not—”
Her words were drowned by a shout. “War! A message has come. Napoleon has crossed the Sambre. He has taken Charleroi by storm and is now marching toward Brussels!”
“War!” A cacophony of shrieks and screams erupted. Music faltered. The dancing stopped. Disorder broke out at the long tables. A lady swooned. Another collapsed into the arms of her partner.
As the room erupted into chaos, Anne clutched her fan and stood on tiptoe, searching for Ruel among the swarm of men. The Duke of Brunswick leapt to his feet, dropping the toddler prince to the floor. The Duchess of Richmond clutched her throat. Soldiers dashed to gather around the Duke of Wellington, who stood in earnest conversation with the messenger who had brought the news. Through the open windows, the roll of drums began to thunder through the night air. Trumpets called out from every part of the city.
“Anne!” Ruel caught her around the waist. “Stay near me.”
“Oh Ruel, will Napoleon really come to Brussels?”
“Brussels and then Vienna, if he has his way. Wellington will oppose him.”
“But Miss Pickworth says Napoleon has amassed two hundred thousand troops. Wellington has far fewer men—and less than a third of them are British.”
“Hang Miss Pickworth. What does a Society maven know of war? The Russians are on their way through Poland to assist him. Austrian troops will join Wellington, as well.”
“The Austrians are needed in Italy!”
“Never underestimate the Prussians. Field Marshal Blücher is a canny man.”
As he spoke, a second courier arrived. People made way to allow a caped soldier to approach Wellington. The man presented the duke with a leather packet, and the Englishman opened it. He scanned the documents enclosed, then lifted his head.
“Napoleon has attacked Field Marshal Blücher,” Wellington announced. “Due to the considerable force of the enemy, the battle has become serious. As reported earlier, the French have captured Charleroi. Now I am told they have gained some advantage over the Prussians.” He paused, looking around at his officers. “The English will march in support of our allies. Gentlemen, prepare to depart the city at once.”
Amid gasps and cries, Wellington strode out of the ballroom. Most of the uniformed men went with him. A few stayed behind to take a hasty leave of their wives. Women hurried to help their husbands, fathers, or brothers gather their belongings. In confusion, half the orchestra remained and began to play some frantic little tune. The other half rushed to join the departing troops.
“Droughtmoor!” Ruel spotted his accuser as he and Anne joined the throng pouring through the doors. “What of your challenge?”
“Tomorrow at dawn!”
“Impossible. We are leaving the city tonight.”
“I shall have my revenge, Blackthorne!” Droughtmoor vanished into the corridor and was lost to them in a flood of pushing, shoving people.
Ruel wrapped his arm around Anne’s shoulders and pulled her close. “We must return to the hotel at once.” He spoke against her ear so she could hear above the tumult. “Our plan begins immediately. A plain gown, black shawl, and bonnet lie in a paper-wrapped box inside your trunk. Put them on, pull the shawl over your head, and go downstairs. Miss Watson will join you, but explain nothing to her. No one must recognize either of you. Walker, Alex, and I will carry down the baggage. A vegetable cart will arrive at the back door of the hotel. Get in and pay the driver with this money. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” She nodded as she took the wallet he handed her.
“After the driver has taken you to safety, send him away and wait with Miss Watson until we come. Have you seen Walker?”
“He is over there.” Anne lifted her hand to point out the tall man in the throng, but the blacksmith was already pushing toward them, his eyes wide and his mouth open in a cry of desperation.
“No!” he shouted. “No!”
Anne smelled black powder just as Ruel crumpled onto her. She heard nothing but the roar of the crowd, saw nothing but the spurt of crimson blood that burst before her eyes, felt nothing but the weight of the man dragging her down to the hard marble floor.
“Blackthorne!” Walker bellowed as he threw himself across his fallen friend.
Anne lay pinned beneath the marquess, unable to move. A foot stepped into her hair. Another tangled in her dress, tore the fabric, hurried on. Someone leapt over them. She tried to breathe, tried to speak, and found she could not.
“Lady Blackthorne?” The weight lifted off of her, and a hand slid under her neck. “Are you injured?”
“No,” she said with a gasp. “Ruel?”
“He has been shot in the face,” Walker said. “Blackthorne, lie down. You are bleeding.”