The Soldier's Dark Secret

Wellington turned to Lord and Lady Elmsford. ‘You will know Lieutenant-Colonel Trestain as my code-breaker,’ he said.

‘It is an honour, sir,’ his lordship said, ‘I believe your work has been invaluable to his Grace. He tells me you are much missed.’

Jack’s smile was tight. ‘No one is irreplaceable,’ he said. ‘His Grace excepted, naturally.’

The Duke of Wellington smiled thinly at this sally, though Celeste suspected he was of the opinion that it was true. The man had an ego the size of France. He was also, she reminded herself, a master strategist, and he clearly wanted Jack to return to his service. It hadn’t occurred to her until now that the Duke, if he did grant Jack access to Arthur Derwent’s file, would expect to be paid in kind. Surely Jack was not contemplating a return to the army?

‘A code-breaker! I am very fond of acrostics myself,’ Lady Elmsford was saying to Jack, ‘though no doubt you find such puzzles embarrassingly simple.’

‘You would be surprised to know how many codes are based on similar principles,’ he replied. ‘Unless you wish his Grace to try to recruit you too, I would keep that talent under your hat.’

* * *

Jack had not expected quite so many of his fellow officers to be here. He ought to have checked the guest list with Finlay, but then, if he had, there was a chance it would have discouraged him. Now, smiling and exchanging pleasantries with familiar faces, he was not precisely glad he was here, but he would be when it was over.

Celeste’s grip on his arm was like a vice. His aide-de-camp was much more nervous than she was letting on. In this rather daunting gathering, she was no seasoned trouper, but more akin to a young ensign bravely carrying the colours. He smiled down at her reassuringly, feeling his own spirits rise. He had not had his nightmare since returning from London. He had worked his way through the entire battle of Waterloo, skirmish by skirmish, in the presence of two small boys and his brother, without faltering once. Now here he was, in his regimentals, engaging in reminiscent chat on that same subject, and his palms were not even sweating.

One of the late Lieutenant-General Picton’s men was recounting, for Celeste’s benefit, the legend of the Frenchman, dressed as a English Hussar officer, who descended on a British-occupied village, pretending to be on an information-gathering mission from Lord Uxbridge. She was hanging on his every word, her eyes wide, like a child being told a fairy story. Jack had heard these stories so often, they had ceased to mean anything to him, but now he listened afresh, it really was amusing, for the French spy had been so convincing, he’d actually managed to order the British soldiers about, though he disappeared in jig time when their commanding officer turned up.

Waterloo made its appearance as he had expected, in several more conversations, but each time Jack tensed a little less. Not even four months ago, the battle had taken place, but it seemed a great deal more distant. Listening to the men who had been his friends and comrades for so many years, he felt a detachment he had not expected. Their world was no longer his.

A wave of sadness for what he had lost threatened to envelop him. He reminded himself that it was not lost but voluntarily surrendered. A sharp nip on his arm made him look down at Celeste. The eloquent look she drew him made it obvious that she was in dire need of rescue. The lascivious look on the face of the guards captain entertaining her with tales of his own heroism made it clear what she needed rescuing from. He was not the first to seem smitten with her. Jack hadn’t exactly forgotten how beautiful she was, but he’d forgotten the impact she made when first encountered. Until now, Celeste herself had seemed oblivious of the admiring glances, raised quizzing glasses and downright leers. Or perhaps she was accustomed to it? Jack slipped his hand around her waist and drew her in to his side. She smiled up at him and slipped her hand back through his arm.

* * *