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June 18, 1815
Waterloo
Christian Barnes never meant to assume his half-brother’s identity.
But as he stood over Andrew Bradford’s lifeless body, the battle still raging all around him, the idea entered his brain, making a mad sort of sense.
Having taken some grapeshot to the leg and a saber wound to the shoulder, Christian had been limping toward the rear to receive some medical attention when he’d seen Andrew fall. Though Christian hated the son of a bitch, he felt no satisfaction in his death. Only an emptiness, a regret for the rift their father had driven between them.
Having just turned six and twenty, Christian was older by a year, but Andrew had inherited their father’s title—Viscount Trowbridge. Christian had entered His Majesty’s Service as a mere private, while Andrew had bought his captain’s commission. Their paths had crossed several times while on the Continent, though they’d never actually spoken. Andrew had made it more than clear that he had no interest in getting to know his father’s by-blow.
We could have been twins.
Eerie, really. Like seeing his own death. Both he and Andrew had their father’s inky black hair and piercing green eyes, though Andrew’s now stared unblinkingly at the smoke-filled sky. So many times, people had confused them or commented upon their likeness. He wondered if Andrew had hated it as much as he had.
A musket ball whizzed by his ear, and he started to stumble away, but then his gaze fell upon the epaulets on Andrew’s shoulders, and it occurred to him that he’d get much better accommodations and care as a captain than as a corporal. He didn’t think his wounds were life-threatening, but he knew how quickly they could get infected if he didn’t get proper treatment. He’d like it if the doctor at least thought about it for a moment before cutting off his leg.
Before he could second guess himself, he’d fallen to his knees at Andrew’s side. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, he exchanged Andrew’s coat and papers with his own.
Then he knelt there, head bowed, leg and shoulder throbbing, and stared into his brother’s face. With a shudder, he gently closed Andrew’s eyes. Could it really be that easy? Could he walk away from this spot as Captain Bradford, Viscount Trowbridge?
Quite a gamble. Masquerading as a peer could get him court-martialed or worse. Were the risks worth the reward?
Pushing himself unsteadily to his feet, he decided to find out.