Page 68 of Duke in Darkness

“There are those who mock Napoleon…because of his short stature,” said Gabriel slowly, as his facial scar tugged unmercifully. “That is a mistake. Height matters little when one possesses…a sharp intelligence. Also an inspirational gift for oratory, both of which he has. The emperor is determined. Highly innovative. Ruthlessly ambitious. Do not underestimate, even for a moment…the loyalty he commands. And receives. Or how much Frenchmen despise the English…”

His throat closed over, and Gabriel paused and coughed, just to regain his composure. This was far more difficult and wrenching than he’d thought. Even now, he could recall with great clarity all those blue coats storming toward him, faces twisted with a rage and hate that looked even more demonic in the light of burning torches, as they’d done their best to cut him to pieces with their swords.

“Don’t just stand there,” snapped Castlereagh to a clerk. “Can you not see that His Grace has a mild cold and requires water at once? Fetch a glass!”

Gabriel met the viscount’s gaze and inclined his head in gratitude as he sipped the cool water provided. Castlereagh knew damned well a cold wasn’t the issue. “Forgive me. As I was saying…a need for vengeance will keep men marching…long after their limbs tire. I’d wager men from all corners of France…are flocking to his banner in Paris?”

Castlereagh sighed and rapped his fingertips on the table. “Correct. The numbers are far greater than we feared. Tens of thousands already.”

“Indeed. Then I’ll also say this…don’t think for a moment that any great numbers…will fight Napoleon on behalf of the Bourbons. They are not well liked over there.”

Liverpool snorted. “Louis has already fled. Tell me, Exton. If you were the Corsican, what would you do next?”

Gabriel leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his jaw. To another observer it might sound like an idle question, but the Prime Minister had an air of grave tension about him that spoke of many sleepless nights. Which to be fair was probably the case after Napoleon had simply sailed away from the Mediterranean island of Elba aboard the brig Inconstant with seven hundred men. Allowing him the privilege of sovereignty, to keep his title of Emperor, and to build a small army and navy had been a terrible error in judgement, no matter what treaties were signed. Give a man like Napoleon an inch, and he would take a thousand miles.

“I would attack,” he said bluntly. “And soon. There are no doubt French spies everywhere…the emperor will be aware of all chess pieces. As we are.”

“He hasn’t been so aware in the past,” protested Liverpool. “Look how many ignoble defeats he suffered in Russia and Spain.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel, swallowing hard as memories of Spain, not the lighthearted ones he’d shared with Hobbs and Aggie, but brutal, bloodthirsty ones began to pound his mind. “But these are different times. The best British soldiers of the Peninsular War…are dead, medically unable, or still over in the colonies. Nursing their wounds…after being soundly defeated…by the Americans. Our armies, and those of our allies, are scattered across Europe. Soon Napoleon will have countless eager, experienced men. Willing to fight and die for him. They won’t stop until they’ve conquered…the damned continent.”

The Prime Minister shuddered and threw his quill down, splattering the table with black ink. “Damn it, Exton. Could you not at least offer a little hope or false cheer?”

He smiled grimly. “Wellington is our hope. I’ve never known…a more brilliant mind or strategist…than the Field Marshal. If he can retain enough green lads…and receive sufficient supplies. If our allies arrive in time, wherever the battles are. If he wears every lucky charm…ever bloody made…”

“Fuck,” said Castlereagh wearily, putting his head in his hands, and silence descended on the room like a death shroud.

In truth, no other word summarized the situation, really. A reckoning fast approached, and could well decide the future of the continent. Wellington and his generals had hauled England through twenty years of warfare so far, but even great men tasted bitter defeat as the pages of history often told.

With these odds, and with so many variables and risks, victory would take a bloody goddamned miracle.

LILIAN STARED at her looking glass, smoothing her dressing gown and unbound hair for the hundredth time.

It felt like she’d been pacing her bedchamber for hours waiting for Gabriel to return from Whitehall, and now she could hear him in his own chamber having some sort of argument with Hobbs. Hopefully the valet would finish his duties soon so she could go in, and see how her husband fared after his meeting. Today’s date had been nagging at her, but it wasn’t until she had searched through several newspapers that she had found why. Tomorrow was the first anniversary of Bayonne.

Of course she understood the critical nature of government business, but it seemed excessively cruel that the Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary had called Gabriel on the eve of the battle anniversary that had so dramatically changed his life. If he wanted to talk, she would listen. If he wanted no more than companionable silence, she would sit with him. Whatever he wanted, she would provide.

At last there was silence on the other side of the door, and she hurried to it, knocked, then entered her husband’s chamber. Gabriel wasn’t in bed, or even sitting in either of his new chairs, but had made a pile of cushions in front of the fire, and lay sprawled on them. “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” Gabriel replied. He smiled faintly, but his face was drawn, his eyes heavy lidded as if weary to the bone, and his shoulders were rigid with tension. “Hobbs was fussing. He wanted to stay. But it wasn’t his company…I needed. Told him to go visit Mrs. Taylor.”

Her heart lifted. “May I sit?”

“Please do.”

Lilian settled on a cushion opposite him. A cozy spot, so warm from the fire, and the cushions were half as long as a person and soft as a pillow. Even better, they were satin-covered rather than embroidered, so nothing rough to scratch the skin. Gabriel tilted his head and rubbed the back of his neck, and she practically had to sit on her hands to stop herself touching him. The urge to hug, to stroke his hair, to offer some sort of physical comfort almost overwhelmed her. She was desperately curious to know what had happened at Whitehall, but had no idea how to broach the topic the right way. Would he even want to discuss it with her? Many husbands thought anything more than the weather or children or household matters to be too much for a lady’s sensibilities. “You look, ah, very tired. Such a terribly long meeting today.”

He sighed and shifted uncomfortably. “It was.”

“Why don’t you take off your jacket and waistcoat and cravat?” she blurted. “I daresay that would help you relax a little.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Let me help. I want to help.”

Gabriel stared at her for the longest time, so long and so intently that Lilian was quite sure she had a spot on her chin. Then he sat up. “Very well, madam wife.”

Strangely, it felt like she had achieved a major victory.