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T he Duchess of Richmond was hosting a ball at her husband’s capacious Brussels home in the Rue de la Blanchisserie.

Wellington had ordered his officers to attend.

A ball. Crispin thought the man was either a genius or insane.

While a few days earlier, he would have staked his life upon genius, he was now leaning more toward insane.

He understood that the duke, legendary for his sangfroid, wished to project calm. Normality. The civilians were not to be panicked. War was not imminent. There was nothing afoot. But to command his officers to go dancing?

It had taken Crispin ten hours and three forcibly requisitioned horses to bring his intelligence back to Brussels, only to have it disregarded.

Wellington had already received a similar report from Blücher, who was undermanned and falling back.

Nevertheless, the duke was convinced the French push toward Charleroi was a feint.

The real danger would come from the west, from Mons.

Crispin had had to swallow his fury. Why send him out spying if his findings would not be believed?

Colquhoun softened the blow later by confiding that Wellington did, at least, put his commanders on alert, to be ready to march at a moment’s notice.

Wellington believed a false move would be worse than no move, so he was awaiting a report from his general in Mons.

So here Crispin was. No food. No sleep. But cleaned up and wearing his dress uniform and flimsy shoes, dancing a quadrille with an overly perfumed girl half his age. Ruminating on the absurdity of the world.

How was he to leap the chasm between the cowshed of the previous night and this Brussels ballroom?

Midnight had come and gone, but without checking his fob watch, he wouldn’t have known.

The chandeliers burned so brightly, one could not distinguish night from day.

The room was lavishly decorated, with rose-trellised wallpaper and pillars wrapped in ribbons and garlands of flowers. A far cry from manure and straw.

When the music ended, he escorted the blushing girl back to her mother. The lady was speaking with their hostess, the Duchess of Richmond, who was still a beautiful woman though she was in her middle years and had borne at least a dozen children. This could be Georgiana in another two decades.

“Major Taverston,” the duchess cooed. “How delightful to see you. Tell me, how fares your exquisite brother?”

No . Georgiana would have more sense. Crispin decided to entertain himself. “He is well. His wife was just delivered of their second son. And he has become quite sought after as a speaker after the publication of his translations of…that Greek philosopher—I can never remember his name.”

The duchess stared, befuddled, then understanding dawned and she tapped Crispin’s arm with her fan. “Silly man. I meant the earl.”

“Oh.” Crispin shrugged. “He is also well.”

The duchess launched into some inane story about Jasper.

Plastering an interested look on his face, Crispin surreptitiously took note of the thinned crowd.

It appeared a good number of his compatriots had slipped away.

He should too. He needed to rest. He didn’t like to think that he was still recuperating, but he was.

The last time he’d eaten a fully satisfying meal had been with Camellia.

She’d seduced him first with her understanding.

Then with her body—she was also the last woman he’d lain with.

And he needed to stop thinking about her. She was Lady Bodwell now.

While the duchess was talking, Colquhoun sidled up to their group.

“Your Grace,” Colquhoun interrupted with a bow. “Please excuse me, but may I borrow the major for a moment?”

“Yes, of course, Colonel.” She tapped Crispin with her fan again. “Please give my regards to the earl.”

“I will.” He turned to follow Colquhoun. When they were several steps away, he said, “What is it?”

“Hurry.” Colquhoun picked up his pace. “Word came from Mons over an hour ago. There are no French there. And now Slender Billy has come.”

Prince William of Orange. Commander of Wellington’s first corps. “And?”

“I don’t know yet. He’s with the duke. There.” Colquhoun pointed. Crispin saw the two men. Slender Billy looked excited and Wellington grim.

They approached Wellington’s circle in time to hear him tell the prince, rather loudly, to go get some sleep. “I shall retire as well.” He turned and said something to the Duke of Richmond, who nodded. They broke away from the group.

Colquhoun walked faster, Crispin in tow. They joined Wellington and Richmond as they were exiting the ballroom. Richmond scowled at them, but Wellington gave Colquhoun a nod. “Richmond has a map,” was all he said.

Richmond took them to an upstairs room, a dressing room that was littered with clothing. Evidence of an indecisive man, too concerned with his appearance. More absurdity.

Wellington shut the door. His jaw was tight. Crispin’s heart sank. He’d rather he had been wrong than his commander.

The duke stepped to the desk where Richmond was rolling out a map. They all moved closer. Wellington studied it for a moment, then said, “Napoleon has humbugged me, by God. He has gained twenty-four hours march on me.”

“How so?” asked Colquhoun.

“Prince William reports a large French force at Quatre Bras.”

Quatre Bras. A crossroads just twenty miles or so south of Brussels, along the communication route between Wellington and Blücher. The French must be winged to have come so far so fast.

And damn it. Where were the Prussians? If they’d been defeated…and the French were this close to Brussels…and the British and Belgian-Dutch troops were still splayed across Northwest Belgium…

“What will you do?” Richmond asked.

“I’ll concentrate more men around Quatre Bras, but we won’t stop Napoleon there.” He drew a small circle on the map with his finger. Closer to Brussels. Too close. “We must fight him here. Waterloo.”

*

The duke took Crispin on as another aide-de-camp. Jasper would say he was one of the duke’s errand boys, but he was in good company: Somerset, Freemantle, Gordon, Lennox, Percy. A few more. Good men all.

It was to be a day of hard riding. He had a fine horse, Bolt, a gift from Jasper. Bolt was swift, but for stamina, only Mercury could have outridden Wellington’s Copenhagen—and Crispin had left Mercury at Chaumbers, safe from the folly of men.

They rode first to Quatre Bras, where the duke assessed the situation.

Crispin did too. Bleak. By all accounts, the tiny force assembled there was vastly outnumbered by a wing of Napoleon’s army led by Marshal Ney.

Yet Wellington pronounced himself satisfied.

“We will be well-fortified within the hour. We can hold the position.”

An hour? Given how far afield the various regiments had been cantoned, that seemed doubtful to Crispin. But then, Wellington had beaten Ney before, in Spain, so one must grant he knew whereof he spoke.

Next, they rode to Brye, where Wellington met Blücher for a quick conference. It was now clear that Blücher’s Prussians would soon be attacked by Napoleon’s main force. Wellington promised support, on the condition that he was not attacked himself.

But Crispin knew he would be attacked. Napoleon had succeeded in driving a wedge between the two allies’ armies. How had Wellington let this happen?

By the time they arrived back in Quatre Bras, a battle was underway.

If Crispin’s confidence in his commander had been wavering, it was soon restored.

The man was everywhere. Firing off orders, rallying the troops, seeming somehow to see the whole of the battlefield at once.

Crispin dashed about following commands and sometimes giving them.

Poor flagging Bolt was shot from beneath him and he had to scramble to find another mount.

In the ensuing muddle, he lost his fob watch.

For the remainder of the day, time had no meaning.

Ney launched one assault after another: calvary, artillery, infantry, then repeat.

And each time, Wellington’s men fought them off.

Miraculously, Wellington had not misjudged his own strength.

Reinforcements arrived in waves. Like the tide coming in.

It gave the men confidence to feel their power waxing throughout the day rather than waning.

At some point, Crispin sensed that the advantage had shifted to the British.

And when night fell, and the firing finally ceased, Wellington still held Quatre Bras.

They held the position but at a cost. That night, the duke brought his staff to the Roi d’Espagne Hotel in Genappe, two miles to the north, to await word from Blücher.

Supper and beds were afforded to them, but Crispin doubted anyone slept more than an hour or two.

When word finally arrived, it was catastrophic.

Blücher had fought long and hard at Ligny.

But without reinforcements from the British, he had lost. The Prussians were in full retreat.

Which meant Napoleon could now bring the entire force of his army against Wellington.

Stone-faced, the duke sent Lieutenant Colonel Gordon off to Ligny to see if the report was true. Then he said, “If Blücher has retreated, we must do so too.”

*

Early the next morning, the retreat began.

Retreat was not surrender. Wellington meant to bring his army to fields near Waterloo and stop Napoleon there.

Crispin could not imagine any other commander pulling off so massive a fallback without chaos.

Without alerting the enemy to hound British heels and turn a retreat into a rout.

In a torrential downpour, no less. There had not been such a rain since Noah floated his ark.