There might have been a child of Michael's, who would have been almost five now…
Unable to bear the thought, he gently disengaged his finger and straightened. "Is Nicholas home?"
"No, but he should be back anytime now." Clare's brows drew together. "Has something happened?"
"Napoleon has escaped from Elba and landed in France," Michael said flatly.
Clare's hand went to the crib in an instinctive gesture of protection. From the doorway, there came the sound of a sudden intake of breath. Michael turned to see the Earl of Aberdare, his dark hair beaded with moisture from riding in the mist.
His mobile features uncharacteristically still, Nicholas said, "Any word on how the French people are receiving him?"
"Apparently they are welcoming him back with wild acclaim. There's an excellent chance that within the next fortnight, King Louis will run for his life and Bonaparte will be sitting in Paris and calling himself emperor again. It isn't as if Louis has endeared himself to his subjects." Michael pulled the letter from his pocket. "Lucien sent this."
Nicholas read the letter with a frown. "In a way, it's a surprise. In another way, it seems utterly inevitable."
"That was exactly how I felt," Michael said slowly. "As if I'd been waiting to hear this news, but hadn't known it."
"I don't suppose the allied powers will accept this as a fait accompli and let Napoleon keep the throne."
"I doubt it. The battle must be fought once more." Michael thought of the long years of war that had already passed. "When Boney is defeated this time, I hope to God they have the sense to execute him, or at least exile him a good long way from Europe."
Clare looked up from the letter, her gaze level. "You're going to go back to the army, aren't you?"
Trust Clare to guess a thought that had scarcely formed in Michael's mind. "Probably. I imagine that Wellington will be recalled from the Congress of Vienna and put in charge of the allied forces that will be raised to oppose Napoleon. With so many of his crack Peninsular troops still in America, he's going to need experienced officers."
Clare sighed. "A good thing Kenrick will be christened in two days. It would be a pity to do it without his godfather. You'll be here that long, won't you?"
"I wouldn't miss the christening for anything." Michael smiled teasingly, wanting to remove the concern from her eyes. "I only hope that lightning doesn't strike me dead when I promise to renounce the devil and all his works so I can guide Kenrick's spiritual development."
Nicholas chuckled. "If God was a stickler about such things, every baptismal font in Christendom would be surrounded by charred spots."
Refusing to be distracted, Clare said in a tone that was almost angry, "You're glad to be going to war again, aren't you?"
Michael thought about the tangle of emotions he had felt on reading Lucien's letter. Shock and anger at the French were prominent, but there were also deeper, harder-to-define feelings. The desire to atone for his sins; the intense aliveness experienced when death was imminent; dark excitement at the thought of practicing again the lethal skills at which he excelled. They were not feelings he wanted to discuss, even with Clare and Nicholas. "I've always regretted that I was invalided home and missed the last push from the Peninsula into France. It would give a sense of completion to go against the French one last time."
"That's all very well," Nicholas said dryly. "But do try not to get yourself killed."
"The French didn't manage it before, so I don't suppose they will this time." Michael hesitated, then added, "If anything does happen to me, the lease of the mine will revert to you. I wouldn't want it to fall into the hands of outsiders."
Clare's face tightened at his matter-of-fact reference to possible death. "You needn't worry," he said reassuringly. "The only time I was seriously wounded was when I wasn't carrying my good-luck piece. Believe me, I won't make that mistake again."
Intrigued, she said, "What kind of lucky piece?"
"It's something Lucien designed and built at Oxford. I admired it greatly, so he gave it to me. In fact, I have it here." Michael pulled a silver tube from inside his coat and gave it to Clare. "Lucien coined the word 'kaleidoscope,' using the Greek words for 'beautiful form.' Look in that end and point it toward the light."
She did as he instructed, then gasped. "Good heavens. It's like a brilliantly colored star."
"Turn the tube slowly. The patterns will change."
There was a faint rattle as she obeyed. She sighed with pleasure. "Lovely. How does it work?"
"I believe it's only bits of colored glass and some reflectors. Still, the effect is magical." He smiled as he remembered his sense of wonder the first time he had looked inside. "I've always fancied that the kaleidoscope contains shattered rainbows-if you look at the broken pieces the right way, eventually you'll find a pattern."
She said softly, "So it became a symbol of hope for you."
"I suppose it did." She was right; in the days when his life had seemed to be shattered beyond repair, he had found comfort in studying the exquisite, ever-changing patterns. Out of chaos, order. Out of anguish, hope.
Nicholas took the tube from Clare and gazed inside. "Mmm, wonderful. I'd forgotten this. If Lucien hadn't had the misfortune to be born an earl, he'd have made a first-class engineer."
They all laughed. With laughter, it was easy to ignore what the future might bring.
Chapter 3
Brussels, Belgium
April 1815
The aide-de-camp gestured for Michael to enter the office. Inside he found the Duke of Wellington frowning at a sheaf of papers. The duke glanced up and his expression lightened. "Major Kenyon-glad to see you. It's about time those fools in Horse Guards sent me someone competent instead of boys with nothing but family influence to commend them."
"It was a bit of a struggle sir," Michael replied, "but eventually I convinced them I might be of use."
"Later I'll want you with a regiment, but for the time being, I'm going to keep you for staff work. Matters are in a rare shambles." The duke rose and went to the window so he could scowl at a troop of Dutch-Belgian soldiers marching by. "If I had my Peninsular army here, this would be easy. Instead, too many of the British troops are untested, and the only Dutch-Belgians with experience are those who served under Napoleon's eagles and aren't sure which side they want to win. They'll probably bolt at the first sign of action." He gave a bark of laughter. "I don't know if this army will frighten Bonaparte, but by God, it frightens me."
Michael suppressed a smile. The dry humor proved the duke was unfazed by a situation that would dismay a lesser man.
They talked a few minutes longer about what duties Wellington had in mind. Then he escorted Michael out to the large anteroom. Several aides had been working there, but now they were gathered in a knot at the far end of the room.
The duke asked, "Have you found a billet, Kenyon?"
"No, sir. I came straight here."
"Between the military and the fashionable fribbles, Brussels is bulging at the seams." The duke glanced down the room. When a flash of white muslin showed between the officers, he said, "Here's a possibility. Is that Mrs. Melbourne distracting my aides from their work?"
The group dissolved, and a laughing woman emerged from the center. Michael looked at her, and went rigid from head to foot. The woman was beautiful-heart-stoppingly, mind-druggingly beautiful. As stunning as his mistress, Caroline, had been, and seeing her affected him the same way. He felt like a fish who had just swallowed a lethal hook.