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W illiam nodded at something Lord Brunswick said, his eyes darting across the palace ballroom. He half-listened to the old officer’s worries about Napoleon’s move on Russia and how this changed the theater of war. William brushed his hand against his coat, trying to ease the tightness in his chest. Though he understood why Helene had not met him this afternoon, an insidious voice inside whispered he had been too distant, too cold. He should have held her and reassured her with his presence instead of leaving a sterile note.

William watched the couples twirling in a waltz, their movements too stiff, lacking grace. Why couldn’t the loveliest dancer in London be in his arms? The impossible thought seized him, and he washed it away with a swallow of port.

As the older man’s voice droned on, William glanced at his pocket watch. Half-past eleven. How much longer would he have to endure this before he could leave? He hoped Baines had taken Helene back to her apartment by now. By coming here, she had exposed herself to scandal. Still, he could not find it in himself to repress her. Her loyalty to her friendships was more noble than many he knew—more noble than he felt at that moment.

A hush fell over the ballroom, the air heavy with anticipation. Among the dancers preparing for the waltz, looking like a fairy queen among coarse mortals, was Helene. His grip tightened around his glass, the cool surface pressing into his palm like a lifeline.

The music began, and she floated across the floor, drawing whispers and admiring glances from onlookers. Helene danced in the arms of an Austrian officer, both clad in white, their forms merging under the glow of the grand chandelier. Her empire-waist gown, simple yet elegant, set her apart from the court’s elaborate attire—a Greek goddess.

Why was she dancing with a foreigner? It should be him feeling her back arch against his palm. It should be him leading the lightness of her steps. It should be him holding her, giving her the certainty that she could spread her wings without fear of losing her ground.

When she laughed at something the officer said, William’s jaw clenched, and he drank from his glass, the liquid coating his tongue with the bitter taste of jealousy.

By sheer willpower, he maintained a bland facade. But inside, he was a storm. Helene danced so close to him—yet out of reach, as intangible as the sprite from his dreams. A cold realization washed over him. That elegant woman waltzing with her head held high, her posture straight, conquering the palace with the same grace she ruled Covent Garden—there was no putting her in a house. No four walls made by man could contain her spirit. If he locked her in Curzon Street, she would wilt or fly out of it.

You cannot hold on to a dream, nor can you control your heart.

The sprite’s singsong voice rang in his head, and he clenched his fists. No! The beast roared in his chest. She was his. He would never let her go.

William left Lord Brunswick talking to himself and set off in her direction.

He had convinced himself to tear her from the Austrian when Cavendish caught his arm.

“We must speak.”

William glared at the hand gripping him. Cavendish had promised to look after Helene, to avoid gossip, but had failed miserably.

“Save your breath for the rumormongers.”

“This is serious. I have news from the front.” Cavendish’s voice was brittle. “Astley is safe, but—”

It was Cavendish’s horrified expression, more than his words, that made William halt.

“What, then?”

Cavendish drank deeply and grimaced as if the wine had turned sour. “The siege is over. The city of Badajoz is in British hands.”

William frowned, his gaze drifting back to the ballroom, searching for Helene among the dancers. “Good news, then.”

Cavendish leaned closer. “There was plunder. Heavy plunder. Wellington wrote a disturbing letter to me.”

A knot formed in William’s gut. He forced himself to turn away from the ballroom and pulled Cavendish into an alcove. “Tell me more.”

Cavendish gazed down at his saber, his expression haunted. “No house escaped the sacking from our troops. It lasted for three days. Three days of debauchery and bloodshed, committed with wanton cruelty. Our soldiers tore the rings from the ears of beautiful women with their teeth. The regiment was so drunk, they behaved like madmen. A nun was dragged into the street by two men, one of whom was disposed to spare her, so the other shot him dead.”

The horrific scene played vividly in William’s mind, his stomach churning with disgust. “Why the hell didn’t the officers stop them? This is unacceptable. I will talk to Liverpool and Devonshire. I will address Wellington himself. This cannot go unpunished.”

The music swelled behind the curtain. Even after the horrible news, William found himself straining to hear Helene’s voice, her laughter. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.

His mind raced—the vote, the budget, the potential fallout. The heinous actions of a battalion consumed by passion could undermine the war effort.

William pressed his temples, trying to clear his head. “How many know of this?”

“At this point? Just me—”

“The war budget will be voted next week. If word gets out, we will lose parliamentary support for the summer campaign.”

Cavendish ran a hand through his hair, the blond curls tangling in his fingers. “But soldiers are bound to write to their families. It is impossible to—”

“I will order the letters from the Peninsula to be confiscated,” William interrupted, his tone decisive, leaving no room for argument. “Word of this must be contained.”