Then the library door was flung open, and Julian St. Simon stepped into the room, Celia's daughter behind him.
“The cretins bungled it,” Viscount Penhallan said wearily. “I might have known they would.” He gestured to the decanters on the sideboard. “Help yourself to a drink.”
“I wouldn't risk it in this house,” Tamsyn said tartly. “Oh, there's no fear with the cognac, or the port,” her uncle said, leaning back in his chair, regarding her through narrowed eyes. “Did you kill them?”
“No.” Julian poured himself a glass of cognac. Tamsyn helped herself to an apple from a fruit bowl. “Not all Penhallans are murderers, uncle.” She scrunched into the apple. “Where's my horse?”
“That magnificent beast is in my stables,” he said. “I congratulate you, he's a superb animal.”
“A present from my father,” she said through a mouthful of apple. “I told you Cecile made a good marriage.”
“So you did.” He turned his head against the cushions and let his gaze rest lazily on St. Simon. “So how can I help you, St. Simon?”
“All in good time,” Julian said calmly, leaning back against the sideboard, long legs stretched in front of him, casually crossed at the ankle. He took a critical sip of his cognac.
“I've decided you can keep the diamonds,” Tamsyn said. ''I'm going to do what my father would have wanted and tell the world every last detail of your infamy… including what you tried to do to me. I couldn't do it before because the colonel didn't know the whole story, but now he does…” She paused, catching Julian's raised eyebrows. “You do agree that I must do this, don't you?”
“Who am I to question the baron's wisdom and wishes?”
“If you really don't wish me to… if it will involve you in scandal, then I won't,” she said slowly. “I'll just settle for the diamonds instead. But that would be blackmail, and I know you don't approve of that.”
“Blackmail?” he queried, his eyebrows disappearing into his scalp.
“Restitution. I forgot that was what we're calling it,” she said lamely.
“And a fine sense of justice, if you recall.” “Yes, that too.”
“So you're going to do what your mother threatened to do twenty years ago?” Cedric held out his empty glass toward Julian, who pushed himself away from the sideboard and brought the decanter over to him. Cedric nodded his thanks. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
Cedric inclined his head and took a deep draft of brandy. “Then if we've concluded our business, perhaps you'd get out of my house.”
“Certainly.” Julian put down his glass and walked to the door. “But just one more thing… a mere formality, but one should observe the proprieties, as I'm sure you'll agree.” His smile was sardonic as he offered his host a small bow. “Since it appears that you're Tamsyn's nearest male relative, however much she might regret that fact, I suppose I must ask your permission to pay my addresses to your niece.”
“So long.as you don't expect me to walk her down the aisle,” Cedric said equably. “You may both go to the devil for all I care.”
“Thank you, sir.” Julian bowed again. “Come, buttercup.” He swept her out of the room ahead of him.
“Do you really wish to marry me?” Tamsyn demanded in a fierce whisper as they crossed the hall.
“Apparently,” he said affably. “Unless it's simply my social conscience that insists I make an honest woman of you… but, then,” he added thoughtfully, “I probably shouldn't set my sights too high.”
“Cur!”
“Brigand!”
Epilogue
Madrid. Christmas 1812
A LIGHT SNOW WAS FALLING, A FINE POWDER SETTLING ON the winding road approaching the city across the plain. The wind sharpened and a gust lifted the carpet of snow, sending it in a rolling drift toward the gates.
The corporal outside the guardhouse shivered and turned up his collar. He stuck his head into the frowsty warmth of the guardroom. “Looks like someone's coming, sir.”
The lieutenant turned from the charcoal brazier where he'd been warming his hands and stepped outside. A small group of horsemen was approaching, white wraithlike figures in the drifting powder.
“Spanish saddles,” the lieutenant said, clapping his hands together. “Looks like the brigadier's lady. I'd know that horse anywhere.”
The four horses surged out of the snow and drew rein at the guard post. Two of the riders were unremarkable, but a third was a giant oak of a man astride a massive, raw-boned stallion. Beside him rode a small figure astride a magnificent milk-white Arabian.
“Good evening, Lieutenant.” The Arabian's rider spoke English in a faintly accented female voice that made the corporal stare.
The lieutenant, however, showed no surprise. “Evening, ma'am. You're just in time for the Christmas ball at the duke's headquarters. Started about an hour ago.”
“Perfect timing.” Tamsyn flashed him a smile. “I hope you're not on duty all evening.”
“I drew the short straw,” he said with a rueful chuckle. “But the lads will bring us some Christmas cheer later.”
“Who was that?” the corporal asked as the four riders rode on into the city.
“The brigadier's lady,” the lieutenant said. “Oh, but of course, you're a Johnny Raw. Only been out here a couple of weeks, I was forgetting.”
He went back into the guardhouse, stamping the snow off his boots. “Lady St. Simon,” he elaborated as the corporal followed him. “She rides with the partisans, acts as liaison between them and the commander. The big chap's her bodyguard, goes by the name of Gabriel. Watch out for him if you catch him in his cups. Mostly he's as gentle as a lamb, but when he's had a few, he's a devil.”
“Brigadier, Lord St. Simon's wife?” the corporal said in astonishment. “A partisan?”
“That's right.” The lieutenant was enjoying the' man's amazement. “Quite the pet of the regiment, she is. Reckon we'll all be glad to see her back.” He chuckled. “She should have reported in four days ago, and the brigadier's been worried sick-makes him a right martinet.”
Brigadier, Lord Julian St. Simon was at this moment trying very hard to be polite to his partner in the quadrille. The ballroom in the large mansion occupied by the Duke of Wellington was hung with greenery wilting in the oppressive heat. The warmth from the fires blazing in massive open hearths at each end of the room was augmented by myriad candles flaring in branched candelabra. The scent of perfume and pomade and ripely overheated flesh was almost overpowering as the officers of the Army of the Peninsular and their ladies forgot the privations of summer campaigning and enjoyed the social pleasures of winter quarters.
Julian, however, was not enjoying himself, despite the fact that his partner was one of the belles of the regiment. The Honorable Miss Beazley, well aware of the reason for her partner's monosyllabic conversation, was understanding and kept up a light flow of undemanding small talk, occasionally reminding the brigadier of a step in the elaborate dance when he became more than ordinarily absentminded.
The clock had just struck nine when the double doors to the ballroom were flung open, letting in a draft of refreshingly cold air from the hall. There was a whirlwind rush of movement as a small figure hurtled across the dance floor.
Brigadier St. Simon dropped his partner's hand as his wife, still in her riding britches, leaped into his arms with a cry of jubilation, her legs curling around his waist, her arms fastening around his neck as she kissed him.
Vaguely Julian was aware of the immodesty of her position, of how clearly her limbs were outlined in the tight britches. His hands cupped her bottom, holding her up against him, her mouth devoured him, and his head spun with the weakness and dizzying joy of relief
“Passionate little filly, isn't she?” Wellington murmured, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Nice lines.”
“I think perhaps I should take Julian's place with Miss Beazley,” Tiro O'Connor said with a grin. “She looks somewhat abandoned.” He strode onto the floor and gracefully swept the brigadier's neglected partner back into the formation.