“No. I’m not riding out. I am to speak with His Grace.”
Richards, well-trained, offered no surprise. But William caught the flicker of something in the man’s gaze—concern, perhaps. Pity.
He descended the stairs with a soldier’s stride. The house was quiet at this hour, save for the faint hum of servants. But the moment he reached the foot, the butler intercepted him.
“My lord,” Mr. Jenkins said with a bow, his expression unusually grave. He stepped aside, offering a sealed document on a silver tray. “An urgent dispatch arrived just before dawn. From Horse Guards. Marked private and immediate.”
William took it without a word, broke the seal with his thumb, and unfolded the heavy vellum. His eyes scanned the contents quickly—then again, slower. His heart sank.
Horse Guards, 6 March 1815
My Lord,
The following intelligence is to be treated with the utmost discretion.
The individual known as Napoleon Bonaparte has escaped from his place of confinement on the island of Elba as of the 26th of February. Intelligence confirms he landed without resistance at Golfe-Juan on the southern coast of France on the 1st of March.
French troops are reportedly rallying to his cause. His present objective is believed to be Paris. The War Office is on high alert. Orders will follow.
In service,
Col. H. Maitland
Horse Guards.
He read it twice. He would answer the call. Of course he would.But Christ. Jane. The child. He hadn’t even married her yet. Hadn’t secured her future. And now Europe threatened to rip itself apart again.
He folded the dispatch, slid it into his inner coat pocket, and straightened his cuffs. He would speak to his father now, before fate galloped further ahead.
He entered the breakfast parlor at the rear of the house. It was a stately room, high-ceilinged, with pale green paneling and a broad window opening onto a walled garden, still bare with winter. Morning light touched the silver tea service and the fine bone china laid neatly along the table’s length. The quiet rustle of newspaper and the occasional clink of spoon against porcelain were the only sounds.
His father sat at the head of the table, in his habitual blue coat and snowy cravat, halfway through a boiled egg and some unpleasant political pamphlet.
The Duke barely glanced up. “You’ve missed the early post. There’s word from Vienna. Castlereagh’s blustering again. He’ll make a mess of things as usual.”
“There’s worse news than Castlereagh,” William said, voice cool. He reached into his coat and drew out the folded dispatch. “This is confidential. It came from Horse Guards at dawn. I trust in your loyalty to the Crown to share it.” A pause. Then, flatly: “Napoleon has escaped.”
That caught him. The Duke set down his egg spoon, hard enough for the silver to ring. “What?”
“On the 26th. He’s landed in France. Horse Guards is moving discreetly, but there will be another campaign. Likely before summer.”
The Duke went pale, then crimson. “Damn him. Damn him and that whole wretched rabble! And now we must march again? When England has barely begun to breathe?” He slammed a hand on the table. “You must marry before you go. Philomena is ready. Get her with child if you can—God knows your grandfather sired half a dozen before he turned thirty, and never once missed a hunting season.”
William let out a quiet, bitter laugh.
The Duke frowned. “Something amusing?”
“Only your priorities.” He turned to the footman pouring coffee. “Leave us.” Then, without looking up: “The rest of you as well.” The servants hesitated.
“Now,” William said, and the young man serving him vanished at his harsh tone.
When the door shut, he smoothed the front of his coat. His voice, when it came, was perfectly even. “If providing an heir is all you care for, Father, you’ll be relieved to know that particular duty is already underway.”
The Duke froze.
“I came to tell you,” William went on, “that I will be marrying Miss Jane Ansley.”
For one long moment, the Duke said nothing at all. Then he began to redden, a slow, apoplectic flush that started in the neck and worked upward like a furnace stoked to life. “You what?”
