A Regency Gentleman's Passion. Diane Gaston

in case you did not know, and I will not have his Grace and other gentlemen distracted by this foolishness.” He emphasized the word gentlemen.

      When General Tranville became Gabe’s superior officer, he had made certain that Gabe did not rise in rank past captain. The general did not believe in field promotions or those based on merit. Gabe had come from the merchant class and only true gentlemen advanced the proper way, by purchasing a higher rank. It was a matter of pride to Gabe that he did not advance through purchase, although his family, and now he, could have afforded it.

      Tranville waved a dismissive hand. “Go see to your men or whatever nonsense you must attend to. You can have no further business here.”

      A string of invectives rushed to the tip of Gabe’s tongue. He clamped his teeth together.

      “Yes, sir!” he responded, bowing and performing a precise about-face.

      Gabe walked away, keeping a slow pace so that Tranville would not suspect he’d been roused to anger.

      As he reached the door to the outside, he heard Edwin drawl, “How very tiresome.”

      Later that evening Gabe learned his information had been accurate and that General Tranville had not passed it on. Wellington heard about Napoleon’s march towards Brussels at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, a good twelve hours after Gabriel reported it to Tranville. Wellington was said to have remarked, “Napoleon has humbugged me, by God. He has gained twenty-four hours’ march on me.”

      Gabe would have saved Wellington half that time.

      The next day Gabe’s regiment, the Royal Scots, joined other Allied forces at Quatre Bras where they met the French. How quickly it all came back, the pounding of cannon, the thundering of horses, battle cries and wounded screams, a terrible, familiar world, more real to Gabe than his idyll at Brussels. The fighting was hard, but almost comforting in its familiarity.

      Musket volleys assaulted Gabe and his men. Six times steel-helmeted cuirassiers charged at them with slashing swords.

      As Gabe yelled to his soldiers to stand fast, he scanned the French cavalry thundering towards them. Was Emmaline’s Claude among them? Would Gabe see her son struck down? Would his own sword be forced to do the deed?

      The weather turned foul. Black storm clouds rolled in and soon thunder and lightning competed with the roar of cannon. Late in the battle Gabe glimpsed the cuirassiers charging upon the 69th Regiment, seizing their colours. Feeling traitorous, Gabe blew out a relieved breath. If the French cuirassiers had been vanquished, Claude would have had a greater chance of being one of the casualties. Gabe prayed Claude had survived.

      For Emmaline’s sake.

      The battle ended in a great deal of mud, with neither side the victor, and both the Allies and the French retreated.

      The following day Gabe’s regiment marched to a location Wellington had chosen to next engage Napoleon, near a village called Waterloo.

      That night the rain continued to fall in thick, unrelenting sheets, soaking the earth into mud. Gabe and Allan Landon, now a captain like himself, were fortunate to share a reasonably dry billet with another officer. After Badajoz, Gabe had become good friends with Landon, although their temperaments and backgrounds were often directly opposed to each other. Landon, with his rigid sense of right and wrong, came from an aristocratic family and had, God help him, political ambitions.

      Gabe would rather impale himself on his sword than deal with politics.

      Good thing he had never told Landon about partaking of the spoils of war. At Vittoria, in Spain, Napoleon’s brother, Joseph Bonaparte, had fled in panic, abandoning his riches, which were scattered across a field, tempting even the most honest of men. Gabe, like countless other soldiers, had filled his pockets. Not Landon, though. Landon had been appalled.

      The shack’s roof pounded with the rain. Gabe and Landon huddled near their small fire that gave them little relief from the chill.

      One of the junior officers, streams of water dripping off the capes of his cloak, appeared in their doorway of their shack. “General Tranville wants to see you, Captains.”

      Gabe groaned. “More nonsense. I’ll make a wager with you.”

      Landon clapped him on the back. “You know I never gamble.”

      They wrapped themselves in their cloaks and dashed through the downpour to the peasant’s hut that Tranville had made his billet.

      “Mind your boots! Mind your boots!” Tranville shouted as they entered. Edwin, a sour look on his scarred face, manned the door.

      They cleaned as much of the mud off as they could, the rain sneaking down the collars of their coats. After closing the door behind them, Edwin took a swig from a flask. Some sort of spirits, Gabe reckoned.

      Tranville barked orders at them, nothing more than mere posturing, however.

      He fixed the men with what he must have thought was a steely glare. “I’ll have no laggardly behaviour, do you hear? You tell your men they are to hop to or they’ll answer to me.”

      “Yes, sir!” chirped a young lieutenant.

      Gabe put on his most bland expression. He could endure Tranville for this brief period, but only because it was warm and dry in the hut.

      “Landon,” Tranville went on, “I want you to find Picton tonight. See if he has any message for me.”

      General Picton was the commander of the 5th Division of which the Royal Scots were a part. Landon’s task was to carry messages for Picton and Tranville during the battle, but it was ridiculous to send Landon out in this weather merely on the off chance Picton might have a message.

      Landon must have had the same reaction. He glanced over to the small window, its wooden shutters clattering from the wind and rain. “Yes, sir.”

      “And stay available to me tomorrow. I may need you during the battle.”

      Landon knew that already, of course. “Yes, sir.”

      Tranville nodded in obvious approval. His gaze drifted to Gabe and his lips pursed, but luckily his glance continued to his son, who was sitting on a stool sneaking sips from his flask.

      There was a knock on the door and Tranville signalled for Edwin to open it. With a desultory expression, Edwin complied.

      “Oh, Good God,” Edwin drawled, stepping aside.

      Jack Vernon, the ensign—now lieutenant—who’d been with them in Badajoz, stood in the doorway.

      Gabe poked Landon to call his attention to Vernon. He noticed that Tranville caught his gesture and quickly erased any expression from his face.

      Vernon slanted a glance at Gabe and Landon before turning back to Tranville and handing him a message.

      Tranville snatched the paper from Vernon’s hand and snapped at him, “You will wait for my reply.”

      Gabe exchanged another glance with Landon. This was not the first time Vernon and Tranville had encountered each other, obviously. Whatever had transpired between them had left them acrimonious.

      Tranville stretched his arm and seemed to be writing as slowly as he could. He dragged out this interaction with Vernon, presuming it would annoy the lieutenant, no doubt. Finally Tranville said, “Leave now.”

      Landon spoke up, “With your permission, I’ll leave now, as well.”

      “Go.” He waved him away.

      Vernon left, Landon right behind him.

      “Do you have further need of me?” asked Gabe.

      “Of course not,” snapped Tranville. “All of you go.”

      Once outside Tranville’s billet, Landon and Gabe pulled Vernon aside. “Do you have time for some tea?” Landon asked.

      Vernon