“Good,” his father had quipped.“Then Bonaparte is saving me money.”
“You’re wool-gathering,” Finch accused.
“Perhaps,” Jonathan conceded.“In any case, I’m here on business tonight.Colonel Ashworth asked me to review some survey maps before they’re copied.When he has laid them out in Spencer’s library, he’ll let me know.All the soldiers are welcome to study them.In fact, they’re encouraged to do so.I’ll be interested to examine their accuracy.”
“Maps.”Finch lifted his lip with disgust.“You and your blasted maps.One would think you’d tire of drawing squiggly lines on paper.”
“One would be wrong.”Mapmaking was the only thing that gave his life any purpose at present.Unlike many of his peers, he was not waiting for his father to die so he could move up in rank.Quite the opposite, Jonathan fervently hoped the inevitable event was many, many years away, since running the earldom seemed even more tedious than the life he was currently leading.
It was the tedium, in fact, that had caused him to agree to an assignment in French-occupied northern Europe.Ashworth had asked him personally, although the King himself still had to approve.Thus, he didn’t know for certain if he would be sent, nor when.
Standing in companionable silence, they watched the dancers, with Finch occasionally pointing out a rum doxy for Jonathan’s opinion.
Eventually, his gaze drifted to the adjacent wall, as it had done every few minutes since he’d arrived.A large framed map hung between portraits.This drawing of the Baltic Sea coastline, that covered the territory from Denmark and curving all the way around to Stockholm, was beautifully executed, he’d grant the artist that.It was also woefully inaccurate in several key particulars.
“There’s Lieutenant von Ostenfeld.”Finch’s voice interrupted Jonathan’s maddening desire to correct the map with his own quill and ink.
Knowing the name, having met the personable KGL officer on a few occasions, Jonathan turned as Finch nodded toward the tall man in the distinctive blue and silver of the Dragoons cavalry.
“His family’s from Eutin.Old landed gentry, I understand,” his friend continued, making Jonathan frown.
He couldn’t help looking at Finch.“Why on earth would you be at all interested in an officer of the King’s German Legion?”
Finch grinned.“He has a pretty sister.”
Jonathan laughed.He had not met any of the soldiers’ families during the often-tense meetings with Colonel Ashworth at the Quartermaster-General’s office.He’d all but forgotten that the KGL represented displaced men, their lives disrupted, with so many living in exile.
Turning to observe von Ostenfeld, Jonathan thought the young man had an open, honest face, with the sun-tinged skin of one who spent considerable time outdoors.Not unlike himself.At least the sun-tinged part anyway.
And then he sawher.Von Ostenfeld was laughing at something a fellow solder had said.Beside him stood a young woman in a gown of pale blue silk that caught the candlelight, turning her into the heart of a flame.
Jonathan stood up a little straighter, uncrossing his arms, as the small group moved closer while still talking, not only to one another but to other KGL, who were suddenly ebbing and flowing like the Thames tide.
“His sister, I presume?”Jonathan asked.
“Oh, yes,” Finch said.“What do you think?”
What did he think?He thought her captivating, from her honey-brown hair, styled simply compared to the elaborate coiffure sported by most of the English ladies, down her appealing figure to the tips of her kid leather shoes, dove gray, with heavy embroidery.
Not the silk slippers of an English rose, nor had her shoes been dyed to match her gown as had every other woman’s in the room.
Much closer now, the young woman turned slightly, and Jonathan enjoyed a better view of her face.She was striking rather than conventionally beautiful, with strong features, exceptionally blue eyes, and a bearing that suggested she was utterly unbothered by the well-breeched Londoners around her.
Perhaps she couldn’t conceive of how much blunt was represented in the ballroom or that the majority of British wealth had turned out at Earl Spencer’s invitation.
“Provincial, I’d wager,” Jonathan said, downing his third glass of champagne.“So obviouslynotEnglish, she might as well have strayed from Oberon's wood, following Diana's moon, and fetched up here by mistake.Probably more comfortable among the trees than in a ballroom.A forest-dwelling sprite in borrowed finery.”
He’d meant it as an idle observation, the sort of throwaway comment one made when the champagne was good and the company undemanding, such as a good friend who would laugh.Which Finch did.
Jonathan certainly hadn’t meant for her to hear it.But hear it she did.
The officer’s sister turned, not quickly, not with any visible anger, but with the deliberate precision of someone who knew exactly what they were about.Her vivid blue gaze found his across the intervening space with unnerving accuracy.Then, to his astonishment, she moved, gliding toward him across the few feet with a grace that gave the lie to his careless assessment.
“Bowen,” Finch said, sounding delighted.“I think you may have made a sad blunder.”
“I’m aware,” Jonathan muttered under his breath.
She came to a standstill before him, Lieutenant von Ostenfeld trailing in her wake with an expression of mingled amusement and concern.
