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He was thirty years old. He didn’t need any more adventure. He didn’t need to witness any more death. He didn’t need to kill any more men.

And so, he had decided, finally, to be quit of soldering.

He would sell his commission the next time he returned to London.

He would keep his set at Albany. Join White’s gentlemen’s club and do what he could, short of standing for the Commons, to support Jasper’s political career.

And he would finish refurbishing the cottage so that it would once again be a Taverston retreat.

He hoped to be inundated with nieces and nephews.

He returned Mercury to the stable and found, to his delighted surprise, that Hazard’s coach was being placed in the carriage house. He’d been in Gladnorshire while Alice was in Cambridge. Were they both here now?

Crispin hurried to the house. Stepping inside, he pulled off his gloves and hat and handed them to Peters. “Viscount Haslet has come?”

Peters nodded. “They are in the parlor. I believe they are waiting for you.”

“Very good.” He trotted to the stairs. No doubt Hazard was afraid he’d find Crispin a shriveled wreck sitting on the terrace with a blanket tucked around him. He owed Haz a debt of gratitude. A very large debt.

The parlor door was open. He could hear a hum of conversation, but he was in too much of a hurry to try picking out words.

He sauntered into the room and the talk ceased.

Alice was there too, sitting on the couch beside Olivia—who was definitely increasing.

She had sent back a refusal to his written challenge that morning to race Mercury and Second Place.

He grinned at her, but as she looked up at him, his grin fell away.

She was white-faced. He looked around. They were all white-faced.

“What is it?” His heart dropped into his feet. “Did something happen to Georgiana?”

“No,” Alice said. “Everyone is well.” Her gaze went to Hazard. So Crispin’s did too.

“Haz? What is it?”

He looked grim. Impossibly grim. “I…It was probably absurd of me, of us, to race here. You’ll see it in the newspapers tomorrow, I’m sure.”

Jasper said, “Crispin, why don’t you sit down?”

“I am well enough to stand.”

“Yes, well, Hazard told us all to sit down. You should too.”

His blood was turning to ice. He crossed the floor to his what was once his father’s favorite armchair. One high and deep enough to accommodate his Taverston height. He sank into the cushion. “So?”

“Dispatches have come from France. And from Vienna. Verified dispatches.” Hazard’s voice was hoarse. “Napoleon escaped.”

“My God,” Crispin whispered. It was unbelievable, and yet, all too believable. The man was extraordinary. A snake. A curse. But extraordinary. “Where? Where did he go? America? Not Italy. Please don’t say Italy.”

“Worse,” Jasper said. “He’s gone back to France.”

*

Camellia had been Lady Bodwell for a little over a month and was still adjusting to her strange new circumstance.

She was carrying a child. A much-wanted child.

But it was not her husband’s, and she must pretend that it was.

Moreover, marriage was not at all what she had once dreamed it might be.

She felt less a wife than a companion to two elderly, infirm men.

She had been so concerned with Neville’s physical limitations, that she’d paid no attention to Manfred’s.

What she had mistaken for steadiness was rather a lack of expressiveness.

He could be quite angry—as when Mr. Castor had sneered at them while performing the wedding service, and Manfred gave him quite a set down—but his face did not reflect his fury.

It made her wonder, at times, what he might really be thinking when his countenance was so calm.

She’d known, of course, that his hands trembled when he was quiet and that his posture was stooped and rigid, as if he were a far older man.

He had a strange way of walking—in short, shuffling steps.

But there was a difference between seeing glimpses of this and witnessing these things daily.

And more. He could go up and down stairs, but so slowly it was painful to watch.

His balance was poor. He dropped things and would not pick them up. And he slept badly or not at all.

That last was something he had told her on their wedding night, when he escorted her to her bedchamber, then kissed her at the door.

The kiss startled her. She wasn’t prepared for it— a quick peck on the lips that was over before she realized it was happening.

She was even less prepared for his retreat.

“You must not take this as judgment, my dear, but I won’t lie with you while you are with child. And since I sleep very poorly, it will suit us both better to keep to our separate bedchambers.”

She’d been relieved. If lying together had been disappointing with Major Taverston, she couldn’t imagine how much worse it would be with Manfred. But she felt guilty for her relief.

There were other adjustments. Charingate, the Bodwells’ home, was larger than the Harringtons’ but it felt smaller, more crowded. There was always someone in the same room or just in the next one, ready to do her bidding. And Manfred fussed at her if she tried to do anything for herself.

Still, it was fortunate that Manfred had so many servants because they had not been married a week before it had become necessary to bring Neville to live with them.

The Earl of Iversley appeared in a coach that was even more resplendent than the one the major had borrowed, and haughtily whisked Mr. Diakos away.

He said that his great aunt needed an attendant.

One did not argue with an earl, especially not an earl who looked like Apollo in his chariot.

Iversley was every bit as handsome as Marianne had said. But Camellia found such physical perfection off-putting. She preferred the major’s smile, which was a little bit crooked, and the major’s hair, which was always a little bit tangled.

All that aside, she could not possibly think of Major Taverston with any residual fondness. He had abandoned his own child!

It had to be from sheer spite. He’d been angry when he thought she’d orchestrated her own compromise, yet he still had been prepared to ask for her.

Men understood entrapment. What had evidently confused and infuriated him was that she had not meant to catch him.

She refused him. That must have touched his pride.

And she must stop brooding over it. She was not being fair to Manfred.

There had been no time for renovations to Charingate to accommodate Neville. Rather, two footmen had muscled him up the stairs and ensconced him in a guest chamber. He adapted. Still, it seemed to Camellia that her brother’s world had grown smaller. He was stuck. But so was she. So were they all.

They supped together in an upstairs parlor, a room that was equipped with a round mahogany card table. It was a very masculine room, with heavy, blocky chairs, and musty brown velvet drapes. Camellia found it oppressive.

“Shall we retire to the drawing room?” she said, noticing that Manfred and Neville had both laid down their forks and waved away the footman who would have refilled their wine glasses—Charles, a young man with a pock-marked face.

She had made a point of learning all the servants’ names as quickly as she could.

“Yes, my dear,” Manfred said.

Charles came forward to push Neville’s chair. Camellia stood and waited for Manfred. It was as if he had to summon up the will before he could stand. Yet it annoyed him if she tried to help.

They moved to the drawing room, which clearly reflected the taste of the previous Lady Bodwell.

Two Chesterfield sofas upholstered in pale pink chintz sat catty-cornered to each other, pushed up against the dado rail.

There was one ugly brocade armchair that Manfred always claimed.

Three saber-legged rosewood chairs filled out the room.

Delicate side tables were placed near the sofas and large French windows brought in light.

Manfred had told her she might change anything she wished, but that felt like stepping on the dead woman’s toes.

She’d made so little of an impression while alive; it seemed selfish and unnecessary to erase the few traces she’d left.

When they were all seated, Mary, one of the maids, entered with tea. Edward, an older footman, brought in The Evening Post . He looked strangely agitated as he laid it beside her. Camellia poured tea and passed cups to Manfred and Neville. Then she picked up the newspaper to read aloud.

“Oh, dear God!”

Neville’s head jerked up. Manfred gave her his usual blank stare.

“Napoleon.” Her voice shook. “Napoleon escaped!”

“Escaped? From Elba?” Manfred said. “How the devil did he do that?”

She scanned the column. Disbelieving, she said, “It seems he simply got on a boat and sailed back to France.”

Manfred said, “What colossal gall. The French are beaten. He was beaten. They won’t want him back.”

Neville snorted. “Who knows what they’ll want? King Louis is not a man to inspire loyalty.”

Camellia remembered the major saying that the French were resentful of their conquerors. That they’d felt triumphant under their emperor. “If Napoleon does take charge again?” she asked, heart in her throat.

“Then we will defeat him again,” Neville said, banging his palm on the arm of his chair.

Her hand went automatically to the swell of her belly.

He’ll go back. Mark my words. He is a soldier to the marrow.