The last lingering wisps of the early-morning mist were drifting up from the river to cling to the leafy branches of the ancient elms and chestnuts overhead as two men cantered their highbred horses along the southern boundary of Hyde Park, the thunder of their hooves muffled by the soft surface of the nearly deserted Row. One man was older, in his seventies now, his eyes a deep, piercing blue, his once heavy shock of white hair beginning to thin even as his big barrel-chested body thickened more and more with each passing year.
His companion was younger, in his early thirties, lean and dark haired, his eyes a strange feral yellow, his seat on his elegant black mare that of a cavalry officer accustomed to spending long hours in the saddle. They were known to the world as father and son, although they were not. The events and painful revelations of the last several years had strained their relationship, but they were slowly working their way toward a new understanding. Lately they had taken to meeting frequently for these early-morning rides in the park—although every time they somehow ended up having what was basically the same argument.
“You’re pushing that wounded leg too hard, too fast,” said the elder man, Alistair St. Cyr, the Fifth Earl of Hendon. “And you know it.”
His companion and heir, Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, swallowed the angry retort that rose to his lips and forced himself to keep his voice light. “I didn’t realize you’d taken up medicine in your spare time.”
“I don’t need to be a doctor. I can see it in your face. It hasn’t been three months since you nearly got that leg shot off, and I doubt there’s more than a handful of surgeons in all of England who wouldn’t have insisted on taking it off completely.”
“Then I suppose I’m fortunate to have been shot in Paris,” said Sebastian, and heard the Earl growl in response as they reined their horses in to a walk.
“You’re fortunate Napoléon decided to let you go,” snapped Hendon, “rather than holding you and Hero hostage.”
“He was hoping for peace, remember?”
“So he said. But he’s not getting it, is he?”
“That he’s not.”
They continued along in silence for a time. The air was cool and damp and heavy with the fecund smell of the wet tan mixed with gravel beneath their horses’ hooves, but the sounds of the city stirring awake around them were beginning to intrude on the countryside-like calm of the park. Hendon said, “You do realize that it doesn’t matter how hard you press yourself. You’re never going to get that leg strong enough to rejoin your old regiment and fight Napoléon in July.”
The words caught Sebastian by surprise, for it was the first time either of them had acknowledged precisely why he was pushing himself so hard. He found he had to pause to swallow the bitter taste that rose to his mouth. “I doubt it’ll be July.”
It had been over three months now since Napoléon Bonaparte had sailed away from Elba, the tiny island off the coast of Italy to which he’d been banished after his defeat in the spring of 1814. Landing on the southern coast of France, he’d been welcomed back by his people with joy, while the Bourbon King Louis XVIII—so recently restored by the armies of France’s enemies—simply fled Paris before him in the dark of night.
Installed once more in the Tuileries Palace—without a shot being fired—Napoléon had issued a stream of proclamations, reassuring the people of France and the world that all he wanted was peace. But the bitter, frightened crowned heads of Europe—many of them only recently restored to their wobbly thrones—were determined to crush forever the dangerous philosophies of liberty and equality that the French Revolution had unleashed upon the world. Already gathered in Austria for the Congress of Vienna, the representatives of Russia, Prussia, Austria, and Great Britain had declared Bonaparte an outlaw and signed a series of new treaties in which they pledged to raise an army of six hundred thousand men and not lay down arms again until Napoléon was destroyed. The lesser states of Europe hastily joined them.
“It’s the date Wellington has set for the invasion of France,” said Hendon. “So what are you saying? You don’t think it will happen until August?”
Sebastian shook his head. “We’ve already declared war, so Napoléon knows exactly what’s coming. I can’t see him waiting around for the Seventh Alliance to gather all of its armies and attack him at a time and place of their choosing. If he can’t have peace, then he’s going to need to strike quickly and decisively, and he knows it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s preparing to leave Paris for the frontier as we speak.”
“Good God. You think he’ll march against Wellington in Belgium?”
“Why wouldn’t he? And if Wellington were smart, he’d spend less time in Brussels attending balls and picnics and seducing his officers’ wives and daughters, and pay more attention to getting his troops in order.”
“Then for God’s sake, Devlin, why not give up this brutal regimen you’ve set yourself? If you’re right, you’ll never be fit in time to join the fight.”
Sebastian clenched his jaw and stared off across the misty park to where a small dark-haired figure wearing a tiger’s striped waistcoat and mounted on a familiar gray hack was galloping headlong toward them, heedless of the angry shouts that followed him. It was not the “done thing,” galloping in Hyde Park.
Hendon’s eyes narrowed as he followed Sebastian’s gaze. “Isn’t that the scruffy little pickpocket you insist on employing as your groom?”
“I’ll admit he’s still a bit scruffy and small, but Tom hasn’t been a pickpocket for years,” said Sebastian, and heard Hendon grunt as the boy reined in beside them.
“A message from Paul Gibson,” said Tom, his breath coming hard and fast as he held out a grubby, slightly crumpled sealed missive. “The lad what brought it said it was important, so I figured ye’d want to see it right away.”
“Gibson?” said Hendon, the displeasure in his voice unmistakable as Sebastian broke the seal. “You mean that Tower Hill surgeon?” Sebastian’s involvement in murder investigations had never sat well with the Earl.
“Yes.” Sebastian skimmed through his friend’s message. But it was so cryptically worded and hastily scrawled that he could make out little beyond the words “mutilated corpse” and “Alexi.”
“Something’s come up.” He tucked the note in his pocket and said to Tom, “Go back to Brook Street and get my curricle ready. I’ll be right there.”
Hendon swore softly under his breath as Tom galloped away. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”
“In all likelihood,” said Sebastian, gathering his reins. “One might expect you to be pleased.”
Hendon stared at him. “Pleased? Me? Because you’re off to hunt down another murderer, like some common Bow Street Runner? Why in heaven’s name would I be pleased?”
“Well, I suspect it will keep me out of the saddle so much.”
“What I’d like to see is you resting beside your fire with your wife!”
“If I’m not mistaken, Hero was planning to spend the morning interviewing some wherryman for her new article. Or was it a dung boy?”
“Lord preserve us,” muttered Hendon.
But Sebastian only smiled.