Page 65 of Yielding to Love

Chapter Twenty-One

Crispin paced in the receiving room at 54 Rue Royale, the ornate mansion given over to Wellington for his Brussels headquarters. His summons read that the commander wished to see him at once. Apparently “at once” had more than one meaning. He understood Wellington was a busy man, but it nevertheless irked Crispin to be left cooling his heels. For over an hour.

At last, the door swung open, and an aide stepped inside.

“The commander will see you now, Major. Please come with me.”

Crispin nodded and followed.

Wellington’s office was just as one might expect. Cramped but organized. There was a substantial desk and padded chair, but the duke was not seated. Heavy-browed, hook-nosed, sun-browned, he radiated energy.

“Ah, Major Taverston,” he said, then nodded a dismissal to the aide.

Crispin bowed. “Your Grace.”

“You are with the fourth division?”

“Yes.”

“What do you make of the men?”

“Raw.” Crispin had been in Belgium since late April, and it was now early June. His company consisted primarily of new recruits. They were frighteningly ignorant. “But making progress.” Progress that had been interrupted when Crispin was pulled from the field to answer a summons.

“Good.” Wellington paused as if looking him over. “Are you still reliable? You didn’t come to Paris when I asked.”

“I am reliable.” Crispin knew the duke did not like it when men made excuses, so he gave none.

Wellington turned and went to his desk. He didn’t sit, but bent over it to shift a few papers about. Then he straightened. “I’m reassigning your company to Major Lowell. I’d like you to report to Colonel Grant.”

Crispin stiffened. Lieutenant Colonel Colquhoun Grant was the Head of Intelligence. Crispin knew him all too well. “Your Grace, I had hoped to return to the battlefield.”

He grunted. “Major, your hopes are not my concern. Napoleon is. I need information. Reliable information. I need to know his current location and where he means to go next.”

A ridiculously tall order. Yet he nodded. “If that is what you require, Your Grace.” Wellington would approve of the confidence he projected, but while Crispin felt a whirl of emotions, not one of them was confidence. Only pride that the duke had faith in him. Excitement over the challenge. And self-disgust—spying was a filthy business. Once again, he would have to ignore his conscience, ignore that inconvenient part of himself that felt things.

“Good.” Wellington stepped past Crispin and opened the door. “Grant’s office is two offices down. On the left.”

Crispin walked down the hall, knocked, and entered.

“Crispin!” Grant rose and came forward, hand outstretched. They were old friends, of a sort. Since arriving in Brussels, Crispin had made sure to avoid him, hoping that out of sight would be out of mind.

“Colquhoun.” Crispin shook his hand. He found Grant to be a strangely flat-faced man. One with a knobby nose and a wisp of a curl perennially plastered on his forehead. He always appeared to be smirking. Maybe he was. He enjoyed the sport of espionage far too much. “The duke says I am to report to you.”

“Of course.” Grant laughed. “Did you imagine you would get away with teaching green lads how to march and form squares?”

“One can always hope.”

“Listen. Wellington and I have spent the last few weeks sorting through intelligence from sources that contradict each other. We have no idea whether Boney is still in Paris, or at the border, or even already deep inside Belgium. We need you to lay eyes on the man and report back. His last known location was Paris, but that was over a week ago. He had some sort of celebration there on the first. That much has been confirmed. Take a good horse and sweep toward Paris until you find him.”

“I am to cross the border?” He wanted to be sure of his orders. Entering France as a soldier was a provocative move, considering they were not yet officially at war.

The cheer fell from Grant’s face. “If need be.” He cleared his throat. “You know how this works. You’re an officer. In uniform, you will undoubtedly be spotted and taken prisoner. You’ll be well-positioned to learn things, but it may be difficult to escape with the information.” This was Grant’s own modus operandi—one that Crispin disdained.

“Particularly since I will be honor-bound not to.” Those were the rules of a gentleman’s parole. If captured, one agreed to stop taking part. Surrender meant surrender. Unless one was Napoleon.

Grant’s smirk turned into a sneer. “You know there is no honor in war.”

Crispin’s face heated. Grant had assigned him far worse tasks. Moreover, he had no high horse to ride. He’d proved himself dishonorable in peacetime as well.