Prologue

      Major Jack Clifton dragged one grimy sleeve across his brow. The battle had been raging all day near the little village of Waterloo. The tall fields of rye grass had been trampled into the ground as wave after wave of cavalry charged the British squares between bouts of deadly artillery fire. A smoky grey cloud hung over the battlefield and the bright colours of the uniforms were muted by a thick film of dust and mud.

      ‘Look,’ said his sergeant, pointing to the far ridge. ‘That’s Bonaparte up there!’

      A nervous murmur ran through the square.

      ‘Aye,’ Jack countered cheerfully. ‘And Wellington’s behind us, watching our every move.’

      ‘So ’e is,’ grinned the sergeant. ‘Well, then, let’s show the Duke we ain’t afraid of those Frenchies.’

      Another cavalry charge came thundering towards them, only to fall back in a welter of mud, blood and confusion. Jack rallied his men, knowing that as long as he stayed calm the square would hold. A sudden flurry of activity caught his attention and a party of soldiers approached him, carrying someone in a blanket.

      ‘Lord Allyngham, Major,’ called one of the men as they laid their burden on the ground. ‘Took a cannonball in his shoulder. He was asking for you.’

      The bloodied figure on the blanket raised his hand.

      ‘Clifton. Is he here?’

      Jack dropped on one knee beside him. He averted his eyes from the shattered shoulder.

      ‘I’m here, my lord.’

      ‘Can’t—see—you.’

      Jack took the raised hand.

      ‘I’m here, Tony.’

      His calm words seemed to reassure Lord Allyngham.

      ‘Letters,’ he muttered. ‘In my jacket. Will you see they are sent back to England, Jack? One for my wife, one for Mortimer, my…neighbour. Important…that they get them.’

      ‘Of course. I’ll make sure they are sent tonight with the despatches.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      Jack glanced up at the sergeant.

      ‘Take him back, Robert, and get a surgeon—’

      ‘No.’ The grip on his hand suddenly tightened. ‘No point: I know I’m done for.’

      ‘Nonsense,’ growled Jack. ‘We’ll have the sawbones patch you up—’

      The glazed eyes seemed to clear and gain focus as he looked at Jack.

      ‘Not enough left to patch,’ he gasped. ‘No, Jack, listen to me! One more thing—do I still have my hand?’

      Jack glanced at the mangled mess of blood and bone that was his left side.

      ‘Aye, you do.’

      ‘Good. Can you take my ring? And the locket—on a ribbon about my neck. Take ’em back to my wife, will you? In person, Jack. I’ll not trust these damned carriers with anything so dear. Take ’em now, my friend.’ He gritted his teeth against the pain as he struggled to pull a silk ribbon from beneath his jacket.

      ‘Be assured, Tony, I’ll deliver them in person,’ said Jack quietly, easing the ring from the bloodied little finger.

      Allyngham nodded.

      ‘I’m obliged to you.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Good woman, Eloise. Very loyal. Deserved better. Tell her—’ He broke off, wincing. He clutched at Jack’s hand again. ‘Tell her to be happy.’

      Jack dropped the locket and the ring into his pocket and carefully buttoned the flap.

      ‘I will, you have my word. And if there is anything I can do to help Lady Allyngham, be sure I shall do it.’

      ‘Thank you. Mortimer will look after her while she is in mourning but after that, keep an eye on her for me, Jack. She’s such an innocent little thing.’

      A sudden shout went up. Jack looked up. For the past few moments he had been oblivious of the noise of the battle raging around him. Allyngham opened his eyes.

      ‘What is it, why are they shouting?’

      All around them the men were beginning to cheer.

      ‘The French are in retreat,’ said Jack, his voice not quite steady.

      Allyngham nodded, his cracked lips stretching into a smile.

      ‘Damnation, I knew the Duke would do it.’ He waved his hand. ‘Go now, Major. Go and do your duty. My men will look after me here.’

      An ensign at his side nodded.

      ‘Aye, we’ll take care of him, sir,’ he said, tears in his eyes. ‘You may be sure we won’t leave him.’

      Jack looked down at the pain-racked face. Lord Allyngham gave a strained smile and said, ‘Off you go, my friend.’

      Jack rose and followed his men down the hill in pursuit of the French, who were now in full flight.

      ‘Steady, lads,’ he called, drawing his sword. ‘We’ll chase ’em all the way to Paris!’

      In the drawing room of Allyngham Park, Eloise stood by one of the long windows, gazing out across the park, but the fine view swam before her eyes. There were two sheets of paper clutched in her hand and she glanced down at them before placing them upon the console table beside her. It would be useless to try to read while her eyes were so full of tears. She took out her handkerchief. It was already damp and of little use in drying her cheeks.

      ‘Mr Mortimer, my lady.’

      At the butler’s solemn pronouncement she turned to see Alex Mortimer standing in the doorway. His naturally fair countenance was paler than ever and there was a stricken look in his eyes.

      ‘You have heard?’ She forced the words out.

      ‘Yes.’ He pulled a letter from his pocket. ‘I came over as soon as this arrived. I am so very sorry.’

      With a cry she flew across the room and threw herself upon his chest.

      ‘Oh Alex, he is d-dead,’ she sobbed. ‘What are we going to do?’

      She felt a shudder run through him. For a long while they sat on the sofa with their arms around each other. The shadows lengthened in the room and at last Eloise