Royal Renegade (32 page)

"Devlyn doesn't know anything," Tregier grumbled. He pulled his chair farther away to show his disapproval of the major's tactics. "Bluffing, as always. Have you ever played piquet with him? Straightest face I've ever seen. But I'm up to his rig. He's just trying to reduce the odds on that popinjay d'Annaud. Then, just before the regent announces the royal wedding, he'll bet the farm on Cumberland. You wait and see."

"Would I do that to you?" Devlyn said. "But what's this talk of d'Annaud? And who is this fellow Fallenwood? Looks like he bet on himself!"

"D'Annaud is cousin to the Pretender," Ellingham explained. "Cousin to the little princess, too, he says. He's been bruiting it about that a union of the French and Russian royal families will aid in reestablishing the Bourbon throne. And Fallenwood, you must know him. He's the highest ranking duke short of royalty, although he ranks himself somewhat higher than God. He bets on himself because no one else imagines he's got a chance. Did you hear the little princess told him that in Russia the title of duke isn't a minor one, as it is here in England'? I heard he almost swallowed his coronet."

"I'll have to repeat that to my own Respected Ducal Parent someday," Tregier murmured. Devlyn glanced quickly at his friend, for he suspected Jordy had joined the Guards only after being struck off by his father, the Duke of Carleen. Once, on a previous leave, Devlyn had collected some misdirected mail from Horse Guards to take back to the Peninsula. A letter from Tregier to his parents was there, with "Refused" written in hard black ink across the face. He'd pitched it overboard, thinking that being orphaned was not the worst fate in the world. He didn't knew what heinous crime could precipitate such a complete break. Considering Jordy's history, however, he assumed it to involve a woman. Jordy never spoke of it; in fact, this was the first time he had ever spoken of his family.

But Tregier had turned his attention back to the betting book, disregarding his previous scruples to pull his chair closer to Devlyn. "Come, Michael, lay down a bet," he demanded, placing an imperious hand on the back of Devlyn's neck and tensing it experimentally. "It's not that I don't trust you, lad, for I do, with my very life. But I've got a year's pay down on Cumberland, and trust evaporates at that temperature."

Lighthearted again, Devlyn twisted away from Tregier's threatening grip and held up his hand for a quill. "Understand I have no particular knowledge of the princess's plans. But if you insist—" He scrawled a few words on the page and then a figure that made Berendts blanch.

Tregier wrenched the book away and whistled. "Cor, he laid down a monkey, And, come, Devlyn, you can't do that. The Field?' What does that mean?"

"In a horse race, if you like none of the leaders, you bet the field, don't you? Well, I'm playing the field. It's generally accounted to be a safe bet when the course is as muddied as this one."

Franklin, whose wisdom was respected now that he had survived a brush with death, leaned back in his chair and sighed sepulchrally. "Put me down for twenty on that field, Berendts. My lad Michael only gambles on a sure thing. And then let's make our toasts, and one of you will have to take me home. For I'm feverish again and need to rest for our march to Ciudad."

His faint words rallied the troops. The betting book was returned to the porter, and fresh glasses were filled and raised to king and country and five different regiments.

"To our fallen comrades," Berendts, usually so unsentimental, offered in a choked voice. They were silent for a moment, each remembering boyhood friends, and comrades-at-arms who had fallen at Vimeira and Talavera and Bussaco.

Then Devlyn, with some reluctance but great sincerity, declared, "To the old Beau, long may he bedevil us and Bonaparte, too."

They all drank deep, and Franklin staggered to his feet, paler than death but determined. "On to Ciudad Rodrigo," he cried, and may God watch o'er us all!"

And clumsily they touched glasses, and then cuffed each other's shoulders, and Ellingham dragged Jamie out from under the table and tossed him over one brawny shoulder. And Devlyn wondered, looking at his friends, how many of them would be alive to toast lost comrades after the march into Spain, and how many would have fallen along the way.

It was only eleven when the party broke up and Devlyn emerged into St. James Street. So much for the promises of the army recruitment officers for fast living with boon companions. His own companions were straggling home with most of the evening remaining.

But Devlyn was too keyed up to adjourn to his bed. The cold air sobered him up quickly, and a glance in a reflective shop window told him he looked none the worse for wear. So he crossed Piccadilly and entered Berkeley Square, where the Oakleys were hosting yet another rout in honor of the Russian princess. He had tossed out his invitation last week, when he was still resolved to let Tatiana make the next move.

Chapter Nineteen

Even so, he was welcomed by his hostess, the doting aunt of an artillery officer, who accepted his excuse of an earlier staff dinner and introduced him to her marriageable daughter. Even as he danced with Lady Juliet, who seemed utterly fascinated with his gold buttons, never actually looking up to his face, Devlyn searched for Tatiana.

Then he saw her, on the little rise across from the orchestra where flowers were banked to conceal the entrance to the kitchens. Her dress was a cascade of silver lace, her curls a burst of color rivaling the roses behind her. She was pensive, listening with tilted head to a group of adoring boys who must have been down from school for the holidays. Her small hand toyed with yet another necklace, this one consisting of fifty or sixty sapphires of graduated sizes in a classical setting of white gold. No wonder the lost kingdom of Saraya Kalin went into bankruptcy, he mused, for the nation's treasury must have gone entirely to Italian jewelers.

Her admirers scattered as Devlyn approached, even her promised dance partner too intimidated by the uniform to do more than sputter "I say—" as the major took Tatiana's hand.

"My dance, I think," Devlyn said as the orchestra struck up, and she let him lead her out, though her mouth turned down and she refused to speak.

The cotillion was the sort of dance that allowed for flirtations both bold and secretive. But neither the princess or Devlyn took advantage of this opportunity. Flirtation—he'd never seen much point to it with any woman, and with Tatiana, it was entirely too late to start such nonsense. And she was so silent tonight. He remembered the lively girl he had traveled with, her green eyes brimming with laughter, that elusive dimple balancing so provocatively on the edge of her smile. He hadn't seen that dimple for so long. Soon, he thought fiercely, wishing he could take her into his arms properly and kiss away all that new sadness. Soon it will be time for us. But he had to speak to the Prince Regent first, before he could elevate Tatiana's fragile hopes.

Devlyn glanced quizzically down at the topknot of curls on her bent head. She was an orphan, too. Surely she knew holidays were always lonely. This one, perhaps, would be the loneliest yet. "The whole staff will be on it, along with a few casks of rum. We'll make merry enough." Neither of them mentioned what she was expected to be doing at Christmastide. But she wouldn't be doing it, not if Devlyn could help it.

"When will you be back?"

Her hesitant question, oddly enough, called up in his mind the map of the Iberian Peninsula Wellington had tacked to his office wall. The fortress cities Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, and Burgos were circled in red, along with other cities between Portugal and the Pyrenees. They had hundreds of miles and thousands of lives to go. "I don't know when next I shall get leave. Six months, a year." Suddenly that seemed an eternity. But they would contrive. They would have each other, even if they weren't together.

Tatiana finally looked up at him, and in her eyes he saw glittering a desperation that frightened him. "Michael," she whispered. 'When you come back—" Then, all in a rush she said, "Lady Sherbourne said all the married ladies here have a special friend—a
cher ami."

A chill settled over him as he heard that pretty mouth speaking such a vulgar term. For a moment he couldn't reply. Her meaning was clear enough; her motive baffled him. Did she want him only as a lover? Or was she telling him they'd have to settle for that? Either way, he was flooded with rage. "Are you speaking hypothetically, or are you measuring me for that position? For I'll tell you right now, Your Highness, I won't play that role with you."

He saw the hot flush of shame on her cheeks and was instantly sorry. But Tatiana was never cowed; she only jutted out her chin and hissed, "I wonder if Lord Harburton is so convinced of your principles on this matter."

He missed a step as she wrenched her hand out of his. But she had finally learned some discretion; she smiled brilliantly up at him for the benefit of their audience. Quietly he said, "Did you ever think that, having sampled that experience once, I might not want to do it again, especially with you?"

His intended meaning was so far from insult that he didn't understand, at first, why she was so angry. "That's not what I meant and you know it," he exclaimed with some exasperation. "I meant—"

Now her great green eyes were veiled, her full mouth trembling a bit. "I know. You told me before, you couldn't bear to see me. I understand. I'm sorry. I shan't plague you again."

"No," he whispered, undone by the terrible sorrow in her eyes. "We must talk alone, Tatiana, tonight."

But she only shook her head blindly. He could hear the click of sapphire against sapphire over the hollow of her throat. "I can't. You must leave me alone. You must—Do you remember that night in France, when we walked through the rain to that farmhouse?" Her hand stole into his as the movement of the dance brought them into touch again. "I dreamt last night that we were walking along that road again, you and I, only it was already dawn, and the sun was rising over the water. For a moment I thought that it was really a miracle. But then you told me this must be a dream because the sun does not rise in the west, and then I realized there were no such things as miracles."

Her voice trailed off as the music ended, and her hand slipped out of his, and she was gone into the crowd before he had time to answer. He started after her, to tell her that he would make the sun rise in the west or the north or the south, if that would make her happy. But there was no sign of her in the great glittering ballroom.

Wellesley, coming up behind him, broke into his troubled thoughts. "So the princess had a dance free for you? Only appropriate, since you were responsible for her safe conveyance to our shores."

It was a moment before Devlyn could turn to him, for he had to erase the frank dislike from his features. Wellesley was only doing his job, after all; he wasn't responsible for Tatiana's sadness. But Devlyn was, or responsible at least for ending it.

"Did Her Highness tell you her happy news?" Wellesley looked pleased out of all reckoning, beaming as if the princess were his protegee. "I wasn't sure the girl would go through with it. Unfortunately, she had to meet Cumberland, there was no way out of it, though I made certain it was only the once. It would have been a disaster, as you can imagine, if she had cried off. She looked to be the romantic sort. You know how these girls are today, prating on about love. And there wasn't much chance she was going to fall in love with Cumberland. But we didn't bring her to England for love, did we?"

Devlyn didn't answer, his eyes scanning the crowd for a flash of silver dress or red-gold hair. Wellesley never noticed his distraction. "And she looked reluctant these last days, as if we were taking her to the gallows instead of the altar rail. So I was anticipating some argument, and I got it." His dissolute mouth tightened almost like a nun's at the memory.

Devlyn stared out at the sea of dancers, wondering where she'd gotten to, wondering if he'd have done better to abduct her and damn the consequences. "But you convinced her."

"Well, Boney did. He's making his plans this very minute, we've learned. Moscow by midsummer, he's bound. That scared her. She might not love Cumberland, but she loves her country, and she knew what she had to do." He shook his head with grudging admiration. "I If she weren't a princess, I'd have her read for the law. Even after I sent her those intelligence reports, she still held out this evening. She wanted a contract—not the one between Prinny and Alexander, but a private one. She wanted a fund set up from the royal family's assets to go to good works, and she was to be in charge. I don't know why that maggot got in her brain. Doesn't she know the princes don't do any good works? Anyway, her list of demands was as long as my arm, but she gave over eventually for only nine-tenths of them. I came away with the shirt on my back, at least. She's a determined little minx, I'll give her that."

This evening. She hadn't trusted him after all. She hadn't even waited a day. He supposed he shouldn't have been so cryptic with her, though she should have known that he would never let her— But she still loved him, that was clear. She'd just made it more complicated. Devlyn felt the deadening shock descend on him, as it had so often in battle. It was a relief, actually, for now he was utterly without fear, and could act with the total rationality he was known for. "So when will the deed be done?"