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       ‘Call off the march,’ he demanded. ‘It is too risky now. Stop it before it is too late.’

      Allan turned away to stamp on his boots and don his waistcoat. He thrust his arms through the sleeves of his coat. The emotions between them filled the room like smoke from a blocked chimney.

      Marian’s voice was barely audible. ‘Perhaps you ought not stay for dinner after all.’

      Allan felt sick inside.

      She laughed, but the sound was mournful. ‘And again I free you from your obligation to marry me, Captain. I suspect that a threat to arrest and hang me is an indication we would not suit.’

      ‘Marian,’ he murmured, at a loss to say more.

      She opened a drawer and pulled out a robe, wrapping it around her and walking to the door. ‘Take what time you require to dress and then leave my house.’

      AUTHOR NOTE

      The soldiers’ march depicted in this book is a mere figment of my imagination, although the plight of the soldiers after Waterloo was real enough. The Blanketeers and the Spa Field Riots did occur, and Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, was accused of hiring provocateurs to cause the trouble at Spa Fields. Henry Hunt was a genuine liberal orator, but Mr Yost did not really exist.

      Today we take for granted the freedom to criticise our government and demonstrate for causes, but with the Seditious Meetings Act of 1817 it was illegal for groups of more than fifty people to gather together. It also became illegal to write, print or distribute seditious material. Lord Sidmouth had been a strong advocate of these measures, but they proved to be a blight on Lord Liverpool’s government and ultimately ushered in a more liberal Tory government in 1822.

      Next in my Three Soldiers series is Gabriel Deane’s story. From the moment he, Allan and Jack rescue a Frenchwoman from Edwin Tranville at Badajoz, Gabe is captivated by her. When he meets her again in Brussels they begin a scorching affair, but when Gabe asks her to marry him she refuses.

      Then they meet a third time in London….

       Look for Gabriel’s story. Coming soon

      About the Author

      As a psychiatric social worker, DIANE GASTON spent years helping others create real-life happy endings. Now Diane crafts fictional ones, writing the kind of historical romance she’s always loved to read. The youngest of three daughters of a US Army Colonel, Diane moved frequently during her childhood, even living for a year in Japan. It continues to amaze her that her own son and daughter grew up in one house in Northern Virginia. Diane still lives in that house, with her husband and three very ordinary housecats. Visit Diane’s website at http://dianegaston.com

      To my Uncle Bob, a veteran of World War II, and my cousin Dick, who served in Vietnam. They are heroes still.

       Prologue

       1812—Badajoz, Spain

      The heavy footsteps of the marauding mob were close, so close Lieutenant Allan Landon smelled their sweaty bodies and the blood staining their uniforms. Allan and his captain, Gabriel Deane, hid in the shadows as the mob moved past, intent, no doubt, on more plundering, more rape, more slaying of innocent civilians.

      Was there anything more loathsome than men gone amok, egging each other on to more violence and destruction?

      Fire ravaged a tall stone building and illuminated the rabble from behind. Brandishing clubs and bayonets, they rumbled past Allan, whose muscles were taut with outrage. These were not the enemy, but Allan’s own countrymen, British soldiers, lost to all decency, all morality, in the throes of madness.

      After the bloody siege of Badajoz, leaving thousands of their comrades dead, a rumour swept through the troops that Wellington had authorised three hours of plunder. It had been like a spark to tinder.

      As the marauders disappeared around the corner, Allan and Gabriel Deane stepped back on to the street.

      ‘Wellington should hang them all,’ Allan said.

      Gabe shook his head. ‘Too many of them. We need them to fight the French.’

      The loud crack of a pistol firing made them both jump back, but it was too distant to be a threat.

      Gabe muttered, ‘We’re going to get ourselves killed and all for damned Tranville.’

      Edwin Tranville.

      Edwin’s father, Brigadier General Lionel Tranville, had ordered them into this cauldron of violence. His son, who was also his aide-de-camp, was missing, and Allan and Deane were to find him and return him safely to camp.

      ‘We have our orders.’ Allan’s tone sounded fatalistic even to himself, but, like it or not, his duty was to obey his superior officers. The rioting crowd had forgotten that duty.

      Two men burst from an alleyway and ran past them, their boots beating sharply against the stones.

      From that alleyway came a woman’s cry. ‘Non!’

      Women’s screams had filled their ears all night, cutting through Allan’s gut like a knife, always too distant for Allan and Gabe to aid them. This cry, however, sounded near. They ran towards it, through the alley and into a small courtyard, expecting to rescue a woman in distress.

      Instead the woman held a knife, ready to plunge its blade into the back of a whining and cowering red-coated British soldier.

      Gabe seized the woman from behind and disarmed her. ‘Oh, no, you don’t, señora.’

      The British soldier, bloody hands covering his face, tried to stand. ‘She tried to kill me!’ he wailed before collapsing in an insensible heap on the cobblestones.

      Nearby Allan noticed the body of a French soldier lying in a puddle of blood.

      Deane gripped the woman’s arms. ‘You’ll have to come with us, señora.’

      ‘Captain—’ Allan gestured to the body.

      Another British soldier stepped into the light ‘Wait.’

      Allan whirled, his pistol raised.

      The man held up both hands. ‘I am Ensign Vernon of the East Essex.’ He pointed to the British soldier collapsed face down on the ground. ‘He was trying to kill the boy and rape the woman. I saw it. He and two others. The others ran.’

      ‘What boy? ‘ Gabe glanced around.

      Something moved in the shadows, and Allan turned and almost fired.

      Vernon stopped him. ‘Don’t shoot. It is the boy.’

      Still gripping the woman, Deane dragged her over to the inert figure of the man she’d been ready to kill.

      Deane rolled him over with his foot and looked up at Allan. ‘Good God, Landon, do you see who this is?’

      ‘Edwin Tranville,’ the ensign answered, loathing in his voice. ‘General Tranville’s son.’ Allan grew cold with anger.

      They had found Edwin Tranville, not a victim, but an attempted rapist and possibly a murderer. Allan glanced at Ensign Vernon and saw his own revulsion reflected in the man’s eyes.

      ‘You jest. What the devil is going on here?’ Allan scanned the scene.

      The