Charlie swallowed his mouthful and took a gulp of ale. "Not much."
"And how much is not much?" Marcus helped himself to a dish of deviled kidneys.
"Seven hundred guineas," his cousin said with an air of defiance. "I don't consider that beyond my means."
"No," Marcus agreed affably enough. "So long as one doesn't do it every night. Do you play often at his table?"
"That was the first time, I believe." Charlie frowned. "Why do you ask?"
Marcus didn't reply, but continued with his own questions. "Did his sister suggest you play at her brother's table?"
"I don't remember. It's not the kind of thing a fellow does remember." Charlie stared at his cousin in puzzlement and some apprehension. In his experience, Marcus rarely asked pointless questions, and it seemed this series might well be leading up to a stricture on gaming… familiar but nevertheless mortifying.
But Marcus merely shrugged and opened the newspaper. "No, I suppose it's not… By the by…" He folded back the paper and spoke with his eyes on the page. "Don't you think Judith Davenport s a little too rich for your blood?"
Charlie flushed. "What are you trying to say?"
"Nothing much," Marcus replied, glancing briefly over the newspaper. "She's an attractive woman and a practiced flirt."
"She's… she's a wonderful woman," Charlie exclaimed, pushing back his chair, his flush deepening. "You cannot insult her!"
"Now don't fly into the boughs, Charlie. I doubt she'd deny the description herself." Marcus reached for the mustard.
"'Of course she's not a flirt." Charlie glared at his cousin over the stiffly starched folds of his linen cravat.
Marcus sighed. "Well, we won't argue terms, but she's too much for a nineteen-year-old to handle, Charlie. She's no schoolroom chit."
"I don't find schoolroom chits in the least appealing," his cousin announced.
"Well, at your age, you should." He looked across the table and said, not unkindly, "Judith Davenport is a sophisticated woman of the world. She plays a deep game and you're way out of your depth. She eats greenhorns for supper, my dear boy. People are already beginning to talk. You don't want to be the laughingstock of Brussels."
"I think it's most unchivalrous, if not downright dishonorable, of you to insult her when she's not here to defend herself," Charlie declared with passion. "And I take leave to tell you-"
"Please don't," Marcus interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "It's too early in the morning to hear the impassioned rambles of a besotted youth." He forked kidneys into his mouth. "If you want to make a cake of yourself, then you may do so, but do it when I'm not around."
Charlie huffed in speechless indignation, his face burning, then he stormed out of the breakfast parlor.
Marcus winced as the door slammed shut. He wondered if he'd chosen the wrong tactic in this instance. In the past, a cutting comment, a decisively adverse opinion, had been sufficient to bring Charlie back on the right track when he'd been about to stray into some youthful indiscretion. But then Charlie was no longer a schoolboy, and maybe the tactics appropriate for schoolboys wouldn't work with the tender pride of a young man in the throes of first love.
He'd have to try some other approach. His fork paused halfway to his mouth as the approach presented itself, neat and most enticing. What better way to remove Charlie from dangerous proximity to Miss Davenport than to take his place? At present, Marcus had no mistress living under his protection. He had brought his last affaire to an expensive close without regret, before coming to Brussels. Supposing he made Judith Davenport an offer she couldn't refuse? It would most effectively remove her from Charlie's orbit. And just as effectively, it would cure Charlie of his infatuation, when he saw her for what she was. And for himself…
Dear God in heaven. Images of rioting sensuality suddenly filled his head as he found himself mentally stripping her of the elegant gowns, the delicate undergarments, the silken stockings, revealing the lissome slender-ness, the supple limbs, the white fineness of her skin. Would she be a passionate lover or passive… no, definitely not passive… wild and tumbling, with the eager words of hungry need, the tumultuous cries of fulfillment unchecked upon her lips. Impossible to believe she could be otherwise.
Marcus shook his head clear of the images. If they alone could arouse him, what would the reality do? The proposition took concrete shape. Yes, he would make Miss Judith Davenport an offer she couldn't possibly refuse: one beyond the wildest dreams of a woman who earned her bread at the gaming tables.
An hour later, in buckskin britches and a morning coat of olive-green superfine, his top boots catching the sunlight like a polished diamond, his lordship set out in search of Miss Davenport. There was a powerful tension in the Brussels' air, knots of people gathered on street corners, talking and gesticulating excitedly. He discovered the reason in the regimental mess.
"It looks like Boney's going to attack," Peter Wellby told him as he joined the circle of Wellington's staff and advisors deep in an almost frenzied discussion. "He issued a Proclamation a larmee yesterday, and it's just come into our hands." He handed Marcus a document.
"He's reminding his men that it's the anniversary of the battles of Marengo and Friedland. If they've succeeded in deciding the fate of the world twice before on this day, then they'll do it a third time."
Marcus read it. "Mmm. Napoleon's usual style," he commented. "An appeal to past glories to drum up spirit and patriotism."
"But it usually works," Colonel, Lord Francis Tallent observed a touch glumly. "We've been sitting on our backsides waiting to catch him off guard, and the bastard takes the initiative right out from under our noses. We're prepared to attack, not defend."
Marcus nodded. "It would have been worth remerrt bering that Napoleon has never waited to be attacked. His strategy has always been based on a vast and overwhelming offensive."
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Marcus Devlin had been vociferous in this view for the last week, but his had been a lone voice crying in the wilderness. "We did receive a report from our agents that he was taking up the defensive on the Charleroi road," Peter said eventually.
"Agents can be fed mistaken information." Marcus's wry observation generated another silence.
"Marcus, I'm glad to see you, man." Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, came out of a next-door office, a chart in his hand. "You seem to have had the right idea. Now, look at this. He can attack at Ligny, Quatre Bras, or Nivelles. Do you have an opinion?" He laid the chart on a table, jabbing at the three crossroads with a stubby forefinger.
Marcus examined the chart. "Ligny," he said definitely. "It's the weakest point in our line. There's a hole where Bliicher's forces and ours don't meet."
"Bliicher's ordered men up from Namur to reinforce
his troops at Ligny," the duke said. "We'll concentrate our army on the front from Brussels to Nivelles."
"Supposing the French swing round to the north toward Quatre Bras," Marcus pointed out, tracing the line with a fingertip. "He'll separate the two forces and force us to fight on two fronts."
Wellington frowned, stroking his chin. "Can you join me in conference this afternoon?" He rolled up the chart.
"At your service, Duke." Marcus bowed.
His own plans ought to seem less urgent in the face of the present emergency, but for some reason they weren't. He would see Judith tonight, of course, at the Duchess of Richmond's ball, but he was in a fever of impatience, almost as if he were still a green youth pursuing the object of hot and flagrant fantasy. Reasoning that he could be of little use until the afternoon's conference, he decided to continue his search.