A Most Unsuitable Groom by Kasey Michaels (32 page)

And exactly as he'd supposed, Chance and his mount went flying by a few moments later, just as a group of five uniformed men on horseback cantered toward them from the opposite direction. The man in front was taller than the rest, his uniform the most elaborate. When he held up his gloved hand the men with him immediately reined in their horses and they all watched Jacmel race across the ground, scattering startled workers and kicking up large clumps of dew-wet turf, Chance sitting him low, moving as one with the horse, as if slicing a battlefield in half.

"Ah, brother, I'll say this for you, you do know how to bait your hook," Spencer murmured as the tall man whose distinctive features had been captured in a thousand broadsheets urged his large, full-chested charger to follow where Chance had led. By the time Spencer joined them, it was to be introduced to the Iron Duke, who scarcely seemed to notice him.

"An honor, sir," Spencer said, tipping his hat as he inclined his head in a small bow.

"Yes, yes," Wellington said off-handedly, his eyes still on Jacmel. "Not for sale, you say? Not at any price?"

"No, sir," Chance told him, winking at Spencer before adding, "This horse has no price, even if many men have theirs. If I might have a moment, sir? Forgive me, but I have deliberately set out this morning to speak to you on a matter of grave importance. I have news I feel safe only for your ears, your grace. News that makes me fear for the life of our Prince Regent."

Wellington finally drew his attention away from the horse and up to the face of the man on that horse's back. "You do, do you? So do I, who has to watch him stuff his face with victuals and drink all the night long, until his face is beet red and his eyes all but bulge out of his head. A man can't live long, not if he lives by his stomach. Not that he's a patch on France's new king, who is so rotund he has to be carried everywhere. I don't think the man's seen his own feet in twenty years."

He raised a hand as he added, "Forgive me. My head is splitting, as it does each morning, thanks to the long nights of food and drink and overheated rooms, and then I rise to see this.. .this
debacle
being executed here in my beloved Hyde Park. I'm being indiscreet. But, damn, I'd rather a battle than another state dinner or overblown celebration, gentlemen, I swear it."

Spencer bit his lips together to keep from laughing and calling attention to himself, but it was difficult to look at this straight-backed, slightly hatchet-faced yet handsome man and reconcile the fierce look to the fairly whining complaints coming from his mouth.

Wellington shook his head, clearly a man disgusted. "Louis-Stanislas-Xavier.
Louis le Desiré,
his few fierce friends call him. I call him a perfect walking sore, not a part of his body sound. Even his head lets out a sort of humour. He's a blight on Paris, a blight on France, and Bonaparte—
Napoleon le Grand
to his
Louis le Gros
—must look better to the French with each passing day. Don't travel to Paris, Mr. Becket. It is not a pretty sight."

"Many of our fellow countrymen and women are flocking there," Chance said, allowing the fellow his head, insinuating himself with the great and, apparently, unhappy man.

Wellington smiled, the smile looking more of a gash in his stern face. "Many of our fellow countrymen and women are bloody fools, Mr. Becket. Paris forces its gaiety where it can, but cannot hide that it has the sad appearance now of an old, ravaged woman. Houses in ruins, gutters running with mud and offal. Bonaparte's once-fine army in tatters of both mind and body. Poor bastards, skulking in the streets, muttering that their Emperor will return with the violets in the spring to rid them of the fat, gouty brother of the man they'd sent to the guillotine and to restore France's power across Europe. They were once fine fighting men, worthy enemies—now reduced to the starving dregs of a ruined society."

It was just the sort of opening Chance and Spencer had been hoping for, and Spencer was the first to push his way in. "Yes, sir, poor bastards. Many would be happier to have the Little Corporal back. Many more see their own advantage in having him back and other leaders gone, other revolutions begun elsewhere."

Chance, who had learned how to approach those in power during his time at the War Office, rolled his eyes at Spencer's directness. "Well, brother, that was subtle. Your grace, if I might suggest we three go somewhere quiet to have a private conversation? My brother here would say it is a matter of life and death, your own included, but he's young and still fairly hot-blooded. Unfortunately, I agree with his sentiments."

"Will you sell me the horse?" the duke asked.

"No, sir, I will not," Chance told him, smiling. "But my brother and I might save your life."

"Or take it," Wellington said, looking at Spencer, who knew he was scowling but didn't really care. "No, I think not, gentlemen, although I'll admit the horse was a clever ruse."

"Oh, bloody hell," Spencer said, Fernando sensing his mood and dancing beneath him. "It's not my neck at risk, and nobody much likes the Prince Regent, anyway. Maybe watching them all blow to bits will be just the entertainment the citizens want. Come on, Chance. We can't help someone too stupid to listen."

"Hold where you are, son," Wellington ordered sharply, raising a hand to Spencer, looking at him intensely. "Stupid, is it? Not at all in awe of me, are you, or used to taking commands?"

"I served under Henry Proctor, your grace, at the River Raisin at Moraviantown. Would you be in awe of those in command, sir, were you I?"

Wellington's shoulders stiffened and then he relaxed slightly, shook his head. "Point taken, Mr. Becket. But I'll ask you not to insult me by ranking me with General Proctor or his ilk. I believe I have honorably earned my own reputation."

"Yes, sir, you have," Spencer said, his temper still running high, considerably higher than his awe at being in the great Iron Duke's presence. Chance might think him a hotheaded fool, but he preferred to see himself as someone who did not gladly suffer fools. And time was running short. "They'll build a fine statue or three to you here in London once you're dead and gone. The question is, sir, how soon do you wish them to begin?"

"Jesus, Spence..."

"No," Spencer said, the agitated bay barely under his control. "We don't have time to dance around this, Chance, play the gentlemen. The world could very well go to hell in a handbasket a bloody few days from now, and we've got work of our own to do. He's either with us or he's not."

Mariah lowered her head as she sat at table in the Becket morning room beside her new sister-in-law, Julia, covering her mouth with her hand to hide her smile as Chance told them about Spencer's audacious outburst in front of the important Duke of Wellington. She could have told Chance that her new husband was not the sort to tiptoe about anything nor to pay attention to convention, the niceties of dealing with authority—not when he was in a rush for results.

"I still can't believe you went without me," Rian said, nursing his bruised sensibilities with the help of a heavily buttered scone. "I told you to wake me up in time. The Iron Duke—and I missed him."

"If you wouldn't sleep like the dead, you could have met him," Spencer told him. "Some fine soldier you'd make, snoring through cannon fire."

"I would not. And I can't take it into my head that you actually spoke to Wellington that way. Look at Chance. He's still shaking his own head. You don't talk to a duke that way, Spence, not a hero. As good as calling him stupid, demanding he listen to you."

"At least he didn't knock him down, bloody the man's eagle beak of a nose for him and get you both clapped in irons. You can be grateful for that, Chance," Mariah said after a moment and then laughed when Spencer's cheeks flushed beneath his tanned skin. "And you did say he let you tell him about Edmund Beales."

"Yes," Chance agreed, "and although we had to necessarily be vague, I think he believed us. At least enough to assign more of his most trusted troops to the celebrations, concentrating them near the viewing stands from now until after the Grand Jubilee, as he agrees that would make the best target for an anarchist, as he terms Beales. Of course, there are problems associated with that solution."

Spencer popped a miniature strawberry tart into his mouth and spoke around it. "Our own men will now look damned suspicious if they loiter in the area. But if you're suggesting we all just turn around and go home now, Chance, you already know my answer to that."

"As you know mine, Spence," Chance said, grabbing the last strawberry tart for himself. "But now we're free to spend the next days combing London, watching for Renard or any other familiar face, knowing we've done all we could do to alert Wellington to Beales's possible plan, even if it's too late for him to send a message to Bonaparte's gaoler about the other half of that plan. We can only hope Court and Jacko will soon be making considerable pests of themselves just off the shores of Elba. And that all said, ladies, and with at least a measure of the load shifted off our shoulders, may I suggest that you visit the shops?"

Julia Becket nudged Mariah in the ribs just as she was lifting her teacup to her mouth so that she had to grab the cup with both hands to save her gown. "They're pitiful, aren't they? Trying to make us believe that everything is all just fine now and we should go enjoy ourselves, spend their money—something I'm not entirely opposed to—and not worry our heads about Edmund Beales because, surely, they're not thinking of him at all. Men are so transparent."

"They may be, Julia, but I believe I would very much like to visit Bond Street, as even I've heard how wonderful it is. And my wardrobe is virtually in
shreds."
She turned to grin at Spencer. "Isn't it?"

Spencer choked on the last bit of strawberry tart. "Chance, I've decided that these two shouldn't be together without one of us present. Not ever. And now that I'm considering it, Morgan will not be allowed in the house at all. However, Julia, I believe that last night, in a weak moment I volunteered to take my wife round the shops. If you don't mind?"

"Oh ye of faint heart." Julia was already getting to her feet. "And, no, I don't mind at all, as I have much to occupy myself with here. This house has been closed up for months. Oh, and you'd best not go to Bond Street, as Mariah cannot wait weeks for her new gowns. You can leave Bond Street for after we've saved the world, and take Mariah to visit Oxford Street for her most immediate needs. You'll be unfashionably early but the shops will be less crowded."

Mariah ran upstairs to fetch her bonnet and shawl before Spencer could change his mind and, after a short discussion on the merits of calling for the coach to go a distance of only a few blocks, they walked to Oxford Street.