How to Deceive a Duke (28 page)

Chapter 72

“Y
ou should rest, Meg,” the surgeon said. “You’ve been here all day, and this is only going to get worse. Eat something, come back once you’ve slept.”

Meg ran her hand across her forehead. “I’m fine.”

There was a shout as a soldier threw open the door, letting in long fingers of late afternoon sun. She squinted as he leaped onto an empty table just as a wounded man was lifted off of it. His grin was white, his eyes wild in his battle-blackened face.

“We’ve won!” he yelled. “The Prussians arrived in the nick of time, and by God and Wellington, we’ve won!”

Joy supplanted agony. Anyone with a voice cheered. Meg sagged in relief. She pushed her way through to the soldier.

“The Royal Dragoons? Temberlay?” she asked.

His face fell, and he shook his head. “They charged at midday. I saw them. They were all cut down.”

Meg felt her ears buzz. She stared at the soldier, saw his lips moving, but couldn’t hear. There was no hope in his eyes as he described the desperate charge. Her chest drew tight, squeezing her heart. She couldn’t breathe. His face receded down a long dark tunnel, and then he was gone, and there was only darkness.

Chapter 73

“A
h, good. She’s awake at last. Fetch someone to see to her, please, Captain.” Meg forced her eyes open. A man lay on a cot across the room from her.

“Where am I?”

“I believe it’s a storeroom of some kind,” he said cheerfully. “Shocking, but it was the only quiet place left to put you—and me. We’ve been properly chaperoned, I assure you. A young lady was sitting with you most of the night. Lady Delphine St. James. Forgive me for not getting up. I lost my leg yesterday, you see.”

Meg tried to sit up. The room spun. “Slowly, if you please, Your Grace. I’m in no condition to catch you if you faint. I’m Colonel Melton, by the way.”

A woman bustled in with a soldier. “Ah, madame, here you are at last,” Melton said. “This is the Duchess of Temberlay. I’m sure she could use your assistance. Your Grace, this is our hostess. She owns this tavern we’re resting in.”

The woman appeared to be immune to Colonel Melton’s charms. She poured a cup of water and held it to Meg’s lips without a word or a smile.

“How long have I been here?” Meg asked, but the woman didn’t reply.

“She speaks only French, Your Grace. You’ve been here since last night. I understand you fainted from your rather heroic exertions on behalf of our wounded. The surgeon says you deserve a medal.”

“They don’t give medals to women,” said another soldier, coming into the room. Melton frowned at him.

“This is my aide, the unchivalrous Captain Allen.”

Allen gave her a flaccid smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His uniform was spotless, his boots polished. He looked freshly barbered.

“My husband—” Meg said, and swallowed. “Temberlay—Nicholas Hartley. Did you see him?”

She had asked the same question so many times, it felt like the only thing she knew how to say, the only words she could speak.

Melton frowned slightly. “I’m afraid it was all confusion on a battlefield, Your Grace—nearly impossible to see anyone unless he was standing next to you.”

“Please,” she begged, wanting the truth, bracing for it.

“We lost thousands of men yesterday, my dear duchess. I simply don’t know. There are still wounded awaiting aid on the battlefield.”

Meg forced herself to stand. “Then I must go to the battlefield.” She fought down nausea and dizziness.

“Your Grace—Meg, if I might—the battlefield is no place for a lady. The wounded are being brought to town as quickly as possible. I will have Captain Allen make inquiries.”

“Only the dead are left on the field now,” Allen said. “You should go home to England, wait there for news.”

“I cannot go home, Captain. One way or the other, I must find my husband.” She turned to the landlady. “Is there a cloak I might borrow?”

“Dear lady, is there nothing I can say to dissuade you?” Colonel Melton asked. “A battlefield is a horrific sight.”

“No, Colonel, nothing at all,” Meg said.

“Then I will send Allen with you. I absolutely refuse to allow you to go alone. If I may be quite frank, there are looters after a battle. You will need protection, and I am ordering Captain Allen to return you to Brussels at once if it becomes too dangerous or upsetting.”

Meg straightened her shoulders as she drew the cloak on. “I can bear it.”

Allen’s eyes flicked over her in disdain. She realized that she still wore the ball gown, now stained and dirty. She smoothed a hand over her hair.

Colonel Melton smiled. “You look lovely, Your Grace. I saw you at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball the other night, and considered asking you to waltz. Now my dancing days are over, I wish I had. I sincerely hope you find Temberlay.”

T
he road between Waterloo and Brussels was clogged with a procession of carts, discarded armaments, wounded soldiers, and civilians. There were dead bodies as well, naked white shapes among the trees. Captain Allen pursed his lips. He was missing luncheon for this fool’s errand. He waited for the duchess to faint, or cry, or give the order to turn back, but she sat on the cart beside him, white-lipped, pale, with purple shadows under her eyes, searching every face, every scene of horror.

In his opinion, women belonged at home in England, waiting patiently and decently for news. What kind of Amazon had the gall to take herself out to a field of battle? He supposed if she had not been sullying her hands tending the common wounded yesterday, she would have been loading cannons on the field, bare-breasted and fierce.

He wondered if he’d be expected to offer some kind of comfort if—when—they found Temberlay’s corpse, if they found it all among the thousands of corpses bloating in the June heat. If the man had not returned to Brussels by now, he was most certainly dead. He only hoped that if they found him, that he hadn’t died of horrific wounds as some of these poor bastards had. He was not sure he could bear that himself. His stomach was already roiling at the sights and smells around him, even if hers was not. He fought the urge to turn the cart around, whether the duchess was willing or not.

She called out her husband’s name over and over as blank-eyed men staggered past her, but they were too stunned, too exhausted, to care about the fate of anyone else.

As they drew nearer the battlefield, the smell got worse. Allen mopped his face with a monogrammed handkerchief. “It’s been several hours, Your Grace. I think it would be best if we return to Brussels. I shall have inquiries made for you.”

He shuddered as a wagon moved toward them filled with groaning wretches. He shut his eyes, unable to bear any more broken bodies. He leaned over the edge of the cart and emptied his stomach.

Meg handed the captain her canteen, and her own handkerchief.

“May we put this man on your cart, miss?” a voice asked. Three ragged soldiers blocked their way.

“Of all the insolence! What the devil d’you think—” Allen began, but she laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.

“He’s our sergeant, you see, and he fought bravely yesterday,” the soldier went on, having her attention now. “Have you at least a sip of water to spare?”

“Get out of the way at once!” he roared at them, and the ragged creature turned malevolent eyes on him.

“We asked politely, sir,” the soldier said. “We’ve been walking since morning. We’ve had no food and no water. If you and your ladybird wish to go sightseeing, then perhaps you should be the ones on foot, not us as did the fighting and dying.”

Allen fumbled for his pistol, fear rising in his empty belly, but the duchess was already climbing off the cart.

“You can’t—” he began, but she was reaching for the basket under the seat.

“I have bread and water, a little wine, and bandages.” They fell on the bread and water like starving dogs. “I am looking for Nicholas Hartley, Temberlay. Have you seen him?”

“He’s a Royal Dragoon,” Allen added shortly. “I must insist you get back in the cart, Your Grace.”

M
eg ignored the prissy captain, and kept her eyes on the soldier. The anger in his eyes faded to wary curiosity. “I didn’t see any Dragoons where we were fighting,” he said, his voice gruff, but polite.

“Put your sergeant on the cart—” she said, and waited for his name.

He looked suspiciously at the captain for a moment before replying. “Private Alfred Collins. Fifty-second Foot.”

“You can’t start issuing orders, Your Grace!” Allen said as they hoisted the moaning sergeant onto the cart. Meg shot him a sharp look of disdain as she helped them lift him.

Allen lifted his feet out of the way. “These boots are handmade, and these men are little better than beggars. They were probably thieves before a gentleman put a musket into their filthy hands and gave them some measure of dignity! What if your husband has need of that food, or those bandages?”

“If he were here, I know he’d insist on giving them to these men,” she said. “And as for issuing orders, I outrank you, Captain. Not only socially, but also by the fact that I am here with Colonel Melton’s blessing. You will take these men back to Brussels and straight to the care of Major Ramsey, the surgeon, is that clear? I shall continue my search on foot.”

She watched him pale under her authority, felt her heart sing a little. Private Collins grinned.

“Your Grace, you can’t go alone!” Allen argued, looking less arrogant now.

“I’ll go with her,” Private Collins said.

“You are hardly a proper escort for a duchess,” Allen sniffed.

Meg clenched her fist, ready to plant it in his smug face. “There has been enough blood, and enough fighting. I am tired of people telling me what I can and cannot do! I am going to find my husband, do you hear me, Captain Allen? And when I do, there will be no more deceit, no more revenge or mistrust!” He looked baffled. She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and began walking toward the battlefield.

Private Collins bawled out Nicholas’s name and regiment to each cart they passed, but no one answered.

In the shadows under the trees, shapes darted in and out of the bullet-riddled foliage.

“Peasant women, stripping the bodies,” Collins murmured, stepping closer to her, holding his musket at the ready. He glowered at the scarecrows when they looked up, but did nothing to stop them. They rummaged through packs and pockets boldly, took boots and clothing and weapons, and ignored the curses and threats from the living. They looked suspiciously at Meg as she drew nearer, sat on their haunches to stare, their hands on the body that lay between them like grim undertakers.

As they parted to whisper to each other, Meg saw dark hair spread out across the ground. He lay facedown, his long limbs splayed. His tunic was dark with blood, and the earth under him was soaked with it. Three women were trying to turn him over, strip off his tunic. She saw the blue facings, the gold lace of the Royal Dragoons.

She felt the breath leave her body. “No,” she whispered. Fear gathered into a scream, and tore out of her throat. The women crossed themselves as she rushed toward them, and they tumbled backward over one another like carrion birds to escape. They huddled against a tree and screeched as she fell to her knees beside him.

“Nicholas!” she screamed his name, shook him, but he was cold, all life gone. She felt his limbs, trying to find the wounds, hoping somehow she could stop death, make him whole again. She had bandaged so many others, saw them live, walk away. Surely there was time for one more miracle.

“You cannot die! I love you!” she cried over and over again, her tears spilling onto his hair, sparkling.

But she was too late. He couldn’t hear her. She would never see him smile again, or feel her heart skip a beat because he’d walked into the room. He’d never stroke her hair, love her—

“My lady, he’s gone,” Private Collins said gently, gripping her shoulder, trying to pull her away. The scavengers huddled, waiting to return to their prize. One leaped forward and snatched a gold epaulette away. Meg shook off Collins’s hand and stayed where she was. “No,” she sobbed.

“Why do I find you with another man yet again, Maggie?” asked a tired voice behind her.

Meg spun. Nicholas stood a dozen feet away, mounted on Hannibal. He was filthy, and there was a tattered and grimy bandage wrapped around his head. He was hollow-eyed and exhausted.

She had never seen him look more handsome.

Collins stepped between them, his musket ready. “Are you Temberlay?” he demanded, but Meg hurtled past him to climb the stirrup and throw herself into Nicholas’s arms. He held her close. His body was warm, alive, and she could feel his heart beating against hers. She ran her hands over his back, his shoulders, looking for wounds.

“Meg, what are you doing here?” he asked, pulling her into his lap looking into her eyes. Eyes filled with the kind of love she had always wanted. “Are you real?” He wiped the pads of his thumbs over her cheeks, trying to brush away her tears, but they were falling too fast.

“I love you, Nicholas. I had to tell you that.”

He smiled slowly, an exhausted parody of his devil’s grin. “You walked onto a battlefield to tell me you loved me? Why do you never do things the simple way?” he said, brushing a lock of her hair out of her eyes. “I love you too.”

She felt her heart soar. He kissed her gently.

“Your hair is a mess, Duchess, your face is dirty, and I have no idea what you’ve been doing, but your dress is filthy, and you are still the most beautiful, desirable woman I’ve ever seen.”

“I was afraid you’d be killed.” She looked at the body on the ground. “Had been killed,” she said sadly.

He held her closer, kissed her. “I’m alive, Maggie, and I love you,” he said as if he didn’t quite believe it himself. “When we get home, I will send my grandmother away. I will pay Angelique Encore to leave London and never come back if that’s what you want. I want to take you to Temberlay Castle, fill it with our children and grow old with you. Damn London and damn the gossip.”

“Is this your husband then, my lady?” Collins asked.

Nicholas extended his hand. “Nicholas Hartley,” he said. “Thank you for taking care of my wife.”

“Private Alfred Collins, sir,” the soldier said, taking Nicholas’s hand. “I never shook the hand of an officer before. Or a duke.”

One of the scavengers gave a loud sniff, and snatched the dead man’s handkerchief out of his pocket to mop away her tears. “Such love,” she said in French.

Meg slid out of Nicholas’s arms and stood by the body of the fallen Dragoon. “He’s someone’s husband as well,” she said. “Or son, or brother. Someone loved him, is waiting for him. Did he have a ring? I will return it to his family, so they know what happened to him.”

The woman clutched her bundle close to her chest. “
Non
. My farm is in ruins, and I have little ones to feed!”

Nicholas dismounted and took a few coins out of his pocket. The woman’s eyes lit, and her fingers closed on them. She handed the bundle to Meg and scurried into the trees with her companions.

“Now are you ready to go home?” he asked. He lifted her onto Hannibal’s back.

She patted the horse. “Hannibal, how would you like to meet Arabella? Every lady needs a hero.”

Nicholas looked up at his wife, and the love in her eyes took his breath away. “Including me,” she said. “Forgive me for being too stubborn to see.”