“Branley,” the man returned with a nod. Then he stood. “I have to prepare for departure,” he said, looking rueful. “I’ve been assigned as the Bourbon king’s nanny.”
Randall laughed and explained to Malcolm, “General Scovell is taking King Louis to a safe place, hopefully in England, along with members of the royal family.”
There was no doubt then — they all believed the emperor would make it back to Paris.
Scovell left with a resigned shake of his head.
“Sit,” Randall invited Malcolm.
He complied, noticing the map of the Continent laid out with markings and circles and some regions crossed out. Regardless of whether it was Napoleon’s fault, his power caused the countries around him to wage war with him and sometimes with each other, destabilizing Europe. And now the great nations of Europe had formed the Seventh Coalition, deciding on their own that the French people did not want the emperor to reign over them once more.
Naturally, their own Prince Regent, like King George before him, wanted Bonaparte squashed before he grew so powerful he tried to launch an attack on British shores. Again!
Malcolm recognized the other man at the table, Jules Versanne, a French royalist. He had earned the trust of Bonaparte until his exile to Elba, nine months prior. Most of the men who’d worked secretly to overthrow the emperor and bring peace to the Continent had been exposed during the emperor’s banishment, and now they were unable to perform the same duty a second time.
“Monsieur Versanne,” Malcolm greeted the somber man, so different from the always sunny Lord Randall. “You look well.”
The Frenchman’s face turned bitter. “Bah!You lie as if I am a lover you are trying to woo into your bed,” Versanne spoke in heavily accented English. “I donotlook well at all,Anglais. And I feel even worse. Idiots!” he raised his voice. “The Fifth Infantry Regiment defected to our little emperor a few days ago and then the Seventh Infantry the following day. It’s insupportable. As if we are starting over, and it is March 1814 instead of 1815.Bah!” He picked up the glass of wine before him and drank it down.
Malcolm locked gazes with Randall and raised an eyebrow.
“Monsieur Versanne brought word the Duke of Angoulême, heading up the royalist army, failed to stop Bonaparte in the southern Rhône River valley,” Randall filled Malcolm in. “And now this latest intelligence bodes poorly for the coalition. So, gentlemen, the eagle is coming.”
Malcolm felt a twist in his gut. He’d known it was inevitable, but the smallest part of him had held a spark of hope the French royalist armies could get the job done without the rest of the world having to get involved.
“Do you have a plan?” Malcolm asked Randall.
The man grinned. “Of course! We even have rumblings the Fox is in the mix helping out our side.”
The French patriot, le Renard, practically a mythological figure!No one knew his identity, but he’d been working to provide intelligence and given a helpful nudge to daily events in one direction or another as far back as the Revolution two decades earlier.
“But there is no stopping Boney reaching the city,” Randall continued. “We can only put people in place and wait for the emperor to get here.”
“Himandhis army,” muttered the Frenchman.
“I cannot blame the army for defecting,” Randall said. “Louis put his officers on half pay and disbanded most of the standing troops.”
“It shall be harder to infiltrate this time,” Malcolm pointed out. “Bonaparte will trust no one who wasn’t exiled along with him or imprisoned by the king.”
“Maybe Boney will accept new converts to his cause,” Randall suggested. “His arrogance is such he’ll believe those who now say they reject the Bourbon king. Let us face the facts, Louis did himself no favors this past year and alienated many who were hoping for a new start. Speaking of such, Talleyrand will not be forgiven by the emperor. He had best remain in Vienna.”
Randall was correct about that. Talleyrand had managed to squeak through the dreadful Revolution without losing his own head. Then he rose to power with Napoleon before seeing how the wind was shifting. With the emperor’s impending loss of power, Talleyrand helped King Louis claim the throne and restore stability. The man was either a traitor many times over or a skilled diplomat, or both.
“Whom does he serve now?” Malcolm asked idly.
Versanne shook his head. “Talleyrand serves France, as he should. Her interests above all. Like Fouché, who is talking out of both sides of his mouth, helping the king’s brother and, by all accounts, already in communication with Bonaparte.”
“What are they saying back in Britain?” asked Randall.
“Rather amusing actually,” Malcolm told him. “The newspaper editors were caught with their pants down, still running pieces celebrating the end of Boney in the morning edition and then swallowing crow to write how he was coming back by the afternoon paper. I think word reached us just about the same time as Dover saw boats full of scared British swarming back across the Channel. So much for London’s quality folk claiming the restaurants and culture of Paris.”
The men chuckled.
“But sadly, our skilled Mr. Gillray can no longer portray the truth in his scathing drawings,” Malcolm told him.
Randall cocked his head. “He didn’t die, did he?”
“Nearly. Our favorite satirist is mad as a march hare,” Malcolm declared. “Thus, no helpful caricatures from him. Having Gillray anger Boney was half the fun.”
