Anne Barbour

A DEDICATED SCOUNDREL

Anne Barbour

Prologue

Spain, July 1812

Sweet Jesus, he hurt. All over. The pain seemed a living entity, writhing within him, ripping tissue, tearing muscle, and splintering his bones into jagged chunks.

For what seemed like hours, he drifted in and out of consciousness until at last he awoke and cautiously opened his eyes. It was dark. Where the devil was he? Someplace that smelled incredibly foul. He rather thought he must be lying in a pile of excrement—hopefully, not human. He moved his head tentatively, an action that brought a groan to his lips. Almost immediately a smooth hand reached to touch his forehead.

“Be easy,
querida.
You are with Yelena now. All is well.” The whispered words, spoken in a guttural, peasant Spanish flowed over him like the caress of her fingers. Yelena. Did he know a Yelena? Perhaps. Lord, if he could only remember. He struggled to sit up, an action he regretted instantly.

“Who are you?” he gasped, falling back into his filthy mound of straw. “Where am I? Good God, what happened to me?”

The woman’s only reply was a rich chuckle, but when he tried again to lift his head, she said quickly, “No, no. Better to stay as you are. I am Yelena Padilla; you are in my father’s barn. I do not know what happened to you,
senor,
only that I found you here when I came in to see to the animals before bed. Here—” She slipped an arm beneath his head to place a wineskin to his lips. “Can you drink? It will help.”

Greedily, he gulped the grappa. Raw and sharp, it burned all the way down his gullet, but, snorting and coughing, he managed to retain a few drops.

“Gracias.”
God, it even hurt to breathe. His ribs must be broken in a dozen places. Who—what—? Sighing, he nestled into the woman’s generous bosom. Well, every cloud ... he mused muzzily. The next moment, his reverie was broken by a coarse, masculine shout
“Hola!
Yelena! Where are you, you lazy girl? What is this?” The voice lifted in surprise as the toe of a sturdy work boot nudged the injured man ungently.

“A stranger, Jorge. An Englishman, I think. He was here—scarcely alive—sprawled in the cow byre when I came in. He’s been beaten.”

“I can see that. For certain, this uniform is not of the French. Well, he is none of our concern. We had better notify the
alcalde
.”

Mierda!
The injured man lifted a hand to his head. It still felt like a receptacle for discarded musketry, but at the mention of the mayor, alarm bells screamed in his brain. Screwing his features into an expression of piteous supplication, he glanced upward.

Jorge snorted. “Like that, is it? You do not want
soldados
nosing around?”

There was a thoughtful pause, and the farmer bent over the injured man. Calloused fingers rummaged in the pockets of the tattered uniform, eventually drawing forth a pouch that clinked suggestively.

Jorge grunted. “Ah—this will buy you a few hours’ silence,
soldado.
But—” He turned to the woman. “He must be out and away from here by sunrise tomorrow, Yelena. Otherwise, we risk our own necks, and there is not enough gold in here for that.”

Rising, he tucked the pouch into his unsavory shirtfront and brushed his hands together, as though ridding himself of both the dust of the barn and responsibility for his unwanted guest. Turning, he stumped from the primitive little building.

The woman, too, made as though to rise, but the injured man grasped feebly at her hand. “No—my angel, do not leave me.”

Yelena laughed softly. “You have a smooth tongue, English-to go with your pretty face. Do not fear, I shall return—with bandages, and perhaps I shall bring you some of the soup I have simmering on the stove in the house.”

With a rustle of homespun skirts, she was gone, and the Englishman was left to contemplate his situation.

His mind, while still fuzzy with pain, had begun to clear. Lord, he thought he’d made a clean escape from the French encampment. By God, he was sure of it! The attack had come later—much later, and unless he was very much mistaken, it had come from his own side. What the devil was going on? Who had beat him nearly to death and left him broken and bleeding in a water-filled ditch? He should have drowned—it was God’s own luck that he hadn’t. It had taken every ounce of determination in him to make it to this meager shelter.

He turned his thoughts in a more pleasant direction. He was alive—that was the important thing, and he would be spending the evening with Yelena. Not his usual choice of companion, but no doubt a pleasant armful—although he was not sure he could manage even the most minimal dalliance. At any rate, he would recoup for a few hours, and find the strength to make his way back to Salamanca. And then—and then, he would discover the man responsible for his current predicament. A curious emptiness filled him. Dear Lord, could it really be—?

No matter. Whoever was responsible would pay—would pay dearly and long for what he had done.

He turned his face into the dubious comfort of his malodorous bed, and with a sigh, drifted into the healing darkness of sleep.

Chapter One

London, August 1812

“Justin, this is all so incredible, I can hardly take it in.” Charles Rutledge leaned forward, placing his elbows on the massive Kent desk that held pride of position in the center of his study. It was late, and the man who paced the floor opposite him threw grotesque shadows on hangings and walls in the light of the single candle that flickered fitfully on the desk.

“Incredible seems to be the
mot juste,
Charles,” said the man dryly. Lord Justin Belforte flung his not inconsiderable length into a sturdy leather chair, and ran long fingers through hair as black as the night that hung in a thick curtain outside the room’s single window. Justin was not a handsome man, nor was he particularly prepossessing in aspect, yet there was that about him that tended to arrest one’s attention. His features were spare and arranged with precision, but his mouth, oddly, was full and mobile. It was at the moment, curved in a sour smile. “However,” Justin continued, “I hope you have found my story believable.”

Charles lifted his head at the faintly discordant note in Justin’s tone.

“Of
course, I do,” he responded gruffly. “No one who knows you could believe the faradiddles that’ve been brayed to the world in the press over the last few days.”

Justin exhaled a long breath. He had not allowed himself to consider the possibility that Charles would fail him. Someone had done so recently, to be sure, but that was another matter.

“But, who the devil is responsible?” continued Charles. “For it appears there’s no doubt we have a traitor in our ranks.”

‘To say nothing of a would-be murderer.”

“Incredible,” repeated Charles. “And it was such a simple assignment, to begin with.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Justin. “That’s just it. I was commanded to ride to Huerta and order the Spanish officer in charge there to maintain troops on the bridge. Wellington was concerned that the French would use it as an escape route after Salamanca. A small task that should have been accomplished in a couple of days. Instead, I was captured, and someone was sent in my place to order the officer to abandon the bridge. Not only half the remaining French army scuttled to safety, but General Rivenchy escaped as well.”

Charles sighed heavily. “And when you were captured—  You believe that was a personal attempt against you?”

“I can think of no other explanation.” Justin spoke sharply and rose again. “It was all too easy, Charles. The window left ajar—my horse left conveniently saddled in the stable. I was suspicious even at the time, but decided to chance it. I almost made it, too. In another five minutes I would have been in friendly territory. It was no accident that I was set upon just beyond British lines. Those bastards were waiting to ambush me in an area I couldn’t avoid, and at least a couple of them were neither French nor Spanish. I could swear one of them muttered something in English. It was only God’s mercy to the just and pure of heart that I didn’t turn up my toes in that water-filled ditch. Every inch of me was battered to oblivion.”

Charles grimaced.

“And you were attacked again just today? Who knows you are in England?”

“No one. After I contacted you, I crept into a snug little mouse hole in Limehouse. There’s an abbess there who takes very good care of me, and I can depend on her discretion. I’ve spoken to no one else. Yet I was set upon last night on my way home from dinner at a nearby tavern. There were only two of them, luckily, and not very skilled at assassination.”

Charles sighed again. “Perhaps you should not have returned to England.”

“What the devil else could I have done? Wellington’s staff was out for my blood in Salamanca. As far as they were concerned, it was I who was responsible for Rivenchy’s escape. Not that I can blame them for their supposition. The whole scenario was beautifully arranged.” Justin’s eyes, an odd, gun-metal shade of gray, glittered darkly in his white face. “Charles, I have been branded traitor!”

“But, surely, my boy, not for long. Believe me, I will spare no effort in unmasking the real villain in the piece. For,” said Charles heavily, “he must be found. Not only because he’s almost ruined your reputation—”

Justin’s laughter was a mirthless bark. “My God, yes, we can’t have the pristine reputation of Lord Justin Belforte besmirched by such calumny.”

Charles hesitated. “I was sorry to hear about the duke, lad. I wish I could go to him and—

“And what? Tell him he was wrong to suspect his loving son? Lord, do you think he’d believe you? St. John is probably with him as we speak, commiserating with him, hovering at his bedside and telling him, yes, it’s a wise father who knows his own son, and it was inevitable that I’d come to a bad end, and all the rest of the litany. My brother’s perfectly right, of course, as usual. I just never thought I’d come to this particular bad end. Although,” he concluded musingly, “I suppose, if one wants to go out with a flair, dancing at the end of a noose for treason certainly borders on the spectacular.”

“That’s not even remotely humorous, Justin,” said Charles harshly. Justin made no reply beyond a sardonic quirk of his mobile brows. He began to pace the floor once more, and now his shadow leaped across the wall in a sinister fashion.

“Have you heard from Robbie?” he asked, his tone inconsequential. “When I left him in Spain, he said he had a spot of leave coming. Is he—?”

“Never mind Robbie,” Charles spoke sharply. “You must not contact him. You mustn’t speak to anyone.”

“I fear it’s a little late for that. It was Robbie who met me on my return to camp and told me of Rivenchy’s escape—and my supposed part in it. He helped me sneak away from Salamanca and arranged my passage home from Spain.”

Charles swore softly. “He’d have done you a greater service if he’d encouraged you to stay put and face down the accusation. But, what’s done is done. Take yourself out of the city, Justin. Go to earth, and leave this to me.”

Justin stiffened, but a lazy smile curved his lips. “Leave? And miss the fun?”

Charles rose from his desk and walked around to plant himself in front of his friend. “Now, listen to me, you young whelp. I don’t want you galloping off in all directions at once. You’re a wanted man—and when Scovell wants a man as badly as he wants you, he’ll scour Spain to find you.”

Charles referred to George Scovell, the man who had risen from the ranks by sheer wit and grit to become England’s spymaster in the Peninsula. Wellington had often boasted that Napoleon’s army did not make a move without his knowing of it, and Scovell and his men acted as his ears and eyes.

“And when he does find you,” continued Charles, “he’ll turn you over to the people at the Horse Guards. Wilkerson may not give you the opportunity to exonerate yourself. As you say, you’ve been well and truly screwed, my boy. Even should he wish to give you the benefit of the doubt, the fact is now that you have the journalists screaming for your blood, the politicians will not be far behind. After all, the escape of a French general, with the cooperation of a British officer, is bound to attract attention. Wellington may come under a great deal of pressure to hang you from the highest yardarm—at the earliest possible opportunity. In addition”—he hesitated—“I should not be telling you this, but we have reason to believe that a spy has been operating on the Top Floor for some time now.”

“The Top Floor!” This was the designation given to the Depot of Military Intelligence at Whitehall, newly created, and dedicated solely to the gathering of intelligence. “My God! Have you any idea who—? How do you know of this?”

Charles lifted a hand impatiently. “Oh, missing dispatches. Incidents of the French obtaining information on planned attacks, troop movements, et cetera. And no, we have no idea who is behind it. I have been working on almost nothing else for the past several years for he almost cost us our victory at Salamanca. It was the element of surprise, as you know, that swung the tide for Wellington there. I have been virtually glued to my desk, putting off some journeys I should have made some time ago. At any rate, we have theorized that the man has a contact in the Peninsula.”