Page 34

"What is to be done when a person talks too much?" Rodrick regarded Louise's lips thoughtfully. "I learned an extraordinarily effective method this afternoon."

Color shot into her face, and silence descended with remarkable efficiency.

Gaetan exhaled. "The worst problem is not loyalty. It's Wellington. In Napoleon's own words, the hardest thing about an engagement is to divine what the enemy will do. Bonaparte has fought every commander in Europe, but not Wellington. What does Wellington do when forced to choose between ground and men? How quickly does he move after contact? What does he protect first?"

Hélène stopped embroidering. "Maggy would know."

Gaetan looked around. "Who?"

Hélène set her embroidery in her lap. "Lady Margareth Thornton. I used to give her ballet lessons in London. Maggy studied all Wellington's campaigns. She used to predict what he would do before I reached the end of the account."

Gaetan gave a dismissive grunt. "A girl studying newspapers in London is hardly military intelligence."

"I remember her. She is the daughter of England's Foreign Office secretary. What if she studied more than war novels?" Rodrick said. "Perhaps she has access to her father's papers."

Gaetan's eyes shifted. Intelligent men often became predictable once presented with a mystery. Gaetan had been the same at sixteen. Give him a locked door, and he forgot entirely why entering the room was a bad idea.

"Well then," Rodrick said. "The matter is settled. To win the war, one merely has to abduct one warrior wallflower."

Hélène laughed.

Louise did not. That imperial stare descended upon him with enough force to bend governments.

Gaetan scoffed. "A French general cannot abduct an English lady. Certainly not the daughter of Britain's Foreign Office minister."

"Of course not. Unless," Rodrick said, "you happened to possess access to a Danish brig with expertise in abducting politically inconvenient women."

Louise's cup struck its saucer. Gaetan's gaze shifted toward him.

Hélène laughed again. "Rodrick, you would make a wonderful novelist."

"Cruel, Hélène. I have committed crimes, but I retain some standards."

Gaetan stopped pacing. The line between his brows vanished, replaced by purpose. The bait had taken so cleanly that Rodrick could almost feel the hook settle. Excellent. The march north no longer occupied Gaetan's mind alone. Rodrick had given it a rival.

Father Matthieu would have been insufferable about this. Rodrick could almost hear the old Jesuit asking whether a virtuous intention absolved manipulation or merely gave sin better tailoring.

Rodrick's thumb worried the rim of the glass. Nonsense. He had diverted Gaetan because the fool intended to ride cheerfully toward a war he might not survive.

Louise was watching him. Her gray eyes had gone quiet, which somehow increased their range tenfold. Perhaps she was inspecting his soul now, or conducting an inventory of what remained.

Naturally, this was her fault.

Before Louise Bonnechoix, Rodrick could manipulate a friend for his own good without summoning theology. Then Napoleon's daughter arrived with her impossible loyalty and made his conscience unbearably industrious. Now he was staring into an empty glass, wondering how many times a man could use people for excellent reasons before the reasons ceased to matter.

***

Rodrick crossed the terrace and took the gravel path toward the lake. Moonlight silvered the water and turned the gravel pale beneath his boots. The moon itself hung indecently large over the trees, bright enough to expose every leaf, every ripple, every stain darkness might have concealed. Rodrick stopped beneath the trellis and looked up.

"Subtle," he murmured.

The moon continued its interrogation, and something beneath Rodrick's ribs answered the summons. The song stirred as though moonlight affected him like a werewolf, except his particular curse involved music rather than excessive hair.

The first note pressed against the back of his throat, asking to be released. Still, he could not open his mouth on the first note. What was he now? Eight again? Waiting in the chapel choir after a particularly devilish prank, hands folded and heart hammering beneath the surplice, convinced that the moment he opened his mouth everyone would hear what Father Matthieu already suspected—there was a small demon in their midst, and he possessed an excellent treble.

Rodrick drew breath, and the first phrase crossed the lake cleanly.

Why still so damn good?