After stealing all my gear, they’d beaten me for the fun of it, their large sergeant striking my knee repeatedly with his heavy boot. They’d then strung me up by the heels from the nearest tree to bat at me with bayonets and butts of rifles, pushing me from companion to the other.
I’d been left hanging while they consumed the food and drink I’d brought with me, lighting a fire to keep themselves warm while I shivered in the cold, stripped to my small clothes.
Moreau had been there. As I dimly remembered, he’d not participated in the actual beating, but he’d not stopped the men from doing so. He’d shared in my flask of brandy and watched while the soldiers had gone through my coat and thrown my boots into the stream below their makeshift camp.
Once the men had fallen into satisfied slumber, Moreau had cut me down. He’d said not a word, hadn’t offered excuses, apologies, or assistance. He’d dragged me under a stand of scrub, then abandoned me in a heap and disappeared into the night, leaving the soldiers behind.
Where he’d gone, and why, to this day I had no idea.
Not many hours later, a handful of British soldiers had come through the clearing to find the Frenchmen in a drunken stupor. There had been a short, ugly fight that had left the Frenchmen either dead or carried off as prisoners.
The British troops hadn’t seen me shrouded in the bushes, and I’d been too weak to call out. I wasn’t certain they’d have rescued me, in any case—they likely would have mistaken me for another French soldier and run me through to end my misery.
In end, I’d crawled away on my own, retrieving my boots from the river, and somehow got myself to a farm, where I’d been found by the children of the house. There, after I’d disposed of the French deserter who’d more or less taken the family prisoner, I’d convalesced, with the help of the children’s mother, and eventually made my way back to my camp. I’d discovered Brandon’s duplicity, and both of us had been sent back to England, careers over.
Moreau had obviously survived the encounter. He’d been gone when the British soldiers had found and taken his men, but he’d left me to die, regardless.
Now Moreau was in Lyon, where he lived and thrived.
What should I do? Avoid him? Confront him? Scheme to take my vengeance?
I wasn’t certain I had the interest in vengeance anymore. I’d recovered, healed, continued.
Since returning from the Peninsula, I’d married a beautiful if sharp-tongued lady of the aristocracy, cultivated deep friendships, and reconnected with Gabriella. Even Brandon and I had reconciled somewhat, though he still carried the guilt of what he’d done.
Did I truly need to dredge it all up again?
I might not have to worry overmuch. My path and Colonel Moreau’s had crossed by chance this morning, and possibly, they would not cross again. After all, I’d been in Lyon two weeks, and this was the first I’d seen of the man. He lived in the old city, Fernand had told me, and I spent most of my time on the island between rivers or up on this hill.
Eventually, I calmed myself enough to sit and focus on a book Grenville had lent me on the history of ancient Lyon. Then, when the shadows lengthened, I summoned Bartholomew to help me dress for my outing with Donata.
The interesting book, as well as Bartholomew’s good-naturedness, never dimmed, restored me to my usual stoic self. I tucked my memories and my fury away, reminding myself again of my current good fortune.
“Have you heard of Signora Ruggeri, Bartholomew?” I asked while he brushed down my best coat.
Bartholomew had the ability to pick up languages, no matter what country he journeyed with me to, and he got on well with the staff in any house. If there was gossip about a person in this city, he’d already know it.
Bartholomew paused, a brush in each hand. “Oh, aye, there’s lively talk about her. There is even a joke below stairs, when someone gets above himself. You think you’re Signora Ruggeri, do you? they say. I had to ask what it meant.”
“A lady of bold reputation, I take it.”
Bartholomew resumed brushing. “Says she’s from Padua, though no one knows for certain where she sprang from. They admire Comtesse Lejeune, wife of the man this Italian lady is mistress of, but don’t think much of the comte. He’s not from these parts, you see, and most of the lands and money are hers. He owns a few properties around the town, but the old chateau on the hill comes from her family.”
He finished with his usual verve, giving my sleeve a final swipe.
“You are a mine of information, Bartholomew.”
“Never hurts to understand the lay of the land, does it? The staff is already in awe of her ladyship and adore Miss Gabriella.”
Which was usual for whatever house we lived in. “Are they in awe of me?” I asked in curiosity.
A guffaw. “Not so much, sir.”
“Know me for a soft touch, do they? Ah, well. I’d rather that than servants who fear me.”
“That’s not likely, is it?” Bartholomew laid his brushes neatly into their box and closed the lid. “They catch on quickly, they do, as to who they need to obey.”
“My wife,” I said without concern. “As it should be.”
