The Duchess of Richmond's ball would become the most famous in history. It would end like none other. But it had begun quite ordinarily. Almost.

The younger members of the Lennox tribe, in total seven boys, seven girls, had been banished to the gardens for the day. The matriarch wanted her carefree children out of the way while she presided over her team of servants. The Duchess was well known as a tyrant to her family circle. Her snobbishness had smashed the pretensions of many suitors to her attractive offspring.

Brussels had burst with balls that summer to entertain its galant soldiery. Matrons had competed to conquer one another in hospitality. Notoriety, the Duchess of Richmond realised, could not simply be gained by the longest guest lists. True, the house her husband had hired could not accommodate a huge gathering. But the reason she had chosen exclusivity over wide welcoming arms was ultimately her superior fashion sense. Or was it?

Despite conjoining two ducal families, the Richmonds had repaired to Belgium to escape the costs fashion incurred in the expensive British capitals. Brussels had offered their only means of living fairly fashionably while debt free. Economy had still to be practiced.The Duchess had backed away from pleas for balls. Then the Duke himself had added to his children's entreaties.

"Our countrymen, our sons, are about to march into battle, maybe to be killed. Unpatriotic not to manage anything."

Patriotic. This had sparked her imagination. A patriotic send off for Wellington's officers would outshine every other event. How could the Duchess inlayer her ball with military meaning? Of course, military musicians must play for the dances. But something else, something special, something truly spectacular was required. Then the solution struck her—simple, easy, effective.

Her father had been the Duke of Gordon, leader of the 'Gordon Highlanders'. The regiment was stationed in Belgium, destined to take part in the invasion of France. Bagpipes would be an exotic novelty to the Belgians attending her ball. Everyone else would enjoy the spectacle. The Duchess had hit on her principle triumph.

The leisure space the family frequented was too small for her lavish schemes. Too modish and big a brood to rent rooms in one of those narrow, many levelled buildings occupied by many tenants, the Lennoxes had acquired a odd establishment on the edge of the city ramparts. The Duke of Wellington had playfully nicknamed it 'The Wash House'. Attached to it was an even more curious construction that presented surprising possibilities. This spacious apartment, once used to hold carriages, now served as a games court. The juvenile contingent would retreat there to play cards, shuttlecock, and tennis, giggling gayly. Large doors led out into pleasant gardens. Inspired, the Duchess of Richmond had set to transforming the derelict shack into a fairyland fit for a ball the fame of which would far exceed her nearsighted aspersions.

The Lennox girls and boys watched on as Belgic servants carried in chairs and tables, plants and festoons, rugs and an enormous dining table to be stored in the main part of the house and then brought out for light supper late in the evening. The guests would be obliged to walk a long way from the ballroom to the supper quarters but it was a necessity they were sure nobody would mind. After all, was the chief object not simply to have a ball?

Beautiful china and cutlery had been hired. They peeped through the windows, between the new curtains just hung up, to see the silver being shined into life. Glasses and decanters were also being polished. The kitchens were coursing with cooks. All foreign, all dark haired peasants, jabbering away in their strange language, but all friendly, ready to give the children a taste of the enticing food stuffs being prepared. Some simmered for hours over pits of glowing coal. Others could only be quickly contrived on the last instant before coming to the table.

The experience of preparation was certainly exciting. Yet the matriarch would inevitably discover them inside the bustle, inevitably under the feet of the staff, talking to those who should be working. Then Mama would rear up like one of Papa's thoroughbred mares and scream in a unladylike fury the polite world would never witness, sending them running in terror to cower in the shrubbery, shrieking and shaking.

The girls had given up before the boys. They idled in the garden, swung on swings, read books, giggled over secret correspondence with suitors Mama had snubbed. Brother March, Papa's eldest son, the heir to the Richmond dukedom, lived in a small lodge in the garden. Sometimes March would be there and they could saunter down for a chat. But mostly the young dashing officer was not. He was on the staff of the Prince of Orange. Of course he was expected to come to the ball. Almost all the officers were expected at the ball. The ball would be in theirs, held in their honour. But he came earlier than anticipated. Usually his appearance sent sunshine through already sunshiny ranks. Today he brought a blight.

"Boney is over the border and has damaged the Prussian defences," March said, straight from dinner with the great duke, comedown to change his travel stained dress in his little lodging.

A shiver shook their muslin covered forms. An icy breeze blew a chill through their beautiful day. Why did it have to be today? Why could Bonaparte not delay one more day before launching his bloody blight into their lives? It wasn't fair.

Brother March had marched off to the Parc de Brussels, where Wellington had decided to go walking, wishing to instruct his officers on their movements. The lovely ball they had looked eagerly toward for so many weeks would be spoiled. Shame on Bonaparte! How could the good duke let this happen?

For a while their day was dashed, a gloom settled over them, untouched by the shameless delight the youngest ranks entertained at the promised fighting. The boys climbed the ramparts near their house, searched the dirt roads for the golden eagles, signs of an approaching French army. "We want to see Bonaparte!" they explained to their tutor.

"Little boys are such monsters," sister Jane lamented.

Then came reassurance in the form of a galant staff officer. Lord Arthur Hill was among Wellington's more garrulous aides-de-camp. The forlorn fair faces filled him with pity. An outpost skirmish, probably died down, no need to frighten these pretty ladies.

"Don't trouble your precious heads over rumours," said Arthur Hill brightly. "Not an ounce of truth in't. The Beau assured us. All a hum."

"Well then, I daresay we can be happy again," Sarah said silkily. "For the Beau, you know, is never wrong!"

The attache went off and the young ladies discussed details of the delights in store, their gowns, their friends, female and male, their possible dance conquests, whose card would fill first. Dusk crept up without detection, servants ceased their scuffle, and their tutor told them the time was approaching to dress for the ball. Squealing, hushing, squealing again, they scrambled to get ready, even the nursery group being permitted to be part of the party. The girls changed into pale satin gowns, wide silk ribbons around their waists, virginal attire, plated or piled up their hair, usually curled, arranged the cluster above the face, and allowed the odd ringlet to escape, dangle out, over the shoulder. Greek women, Greek goddesses, like those marble statues discovered in the ruins of ancient metropolises.

The hoard gathered in the hallway to greet the guests. Giggles from the girls, glares from Mama, smiles from Papa. The first carriages draw up at 9 PM. Torches were set either side of the front door. The Duchess sent Sarah to tell the orchestra to start playing proper. The musicians had arrived earlier and had not done adjusting their strings. The noise had infuriated Mama. Now it must stop. The fury ceased as soon as those finely dressed first guests stepped inside.

About two hundred cards had been dispatched. It was a comparably meagre number for the type of function. The cream of Brussels society had received the gilded invitations. Carriages crowded among the shrubs and trees of the courtyard. The streets congested. Soon a stream of distinguished British, Belgic, Dutch, and even French civilians flowed through the hallway, passed smiling hosts, down the passage, up a step, and into the beautiful ballroom. Bourbon supports as well as secret Bonapartists were among the foreigners. Others included diplomats and aristocratic army officers. But the British officers counted as the highest contingent. And of course, it was their ball.

Perhaps the most evident feature of the arrivals was the majority of men over women. The fact was not necessarily disagreeable. Anyone unwilling to dance could stand out with a clear conscience while the fairer sex would not lack for partners. A result would be many talking, the Duchess reflected.

The soldiers had shined up all their meddles and insignias and donned their most splendid uniforms. Several of the Lennox girls left their parents to wander into the old carriage storeroom. The plain ceiling went unnoticed. It hardly signified that the ceiling did not match the gilded renaissance style of the rest of the ground floor. The sight was still amazing. The walls had been enlivened with a pattern of roses tangling a trellis. Baskets of real roses were set at intermittently beneath, blending with the artificial blooms. Their scent was designed to overpower the strong wax smell. Naturally candles were dotted everywhere to show out the colours. Gowns paled into insignificance contrasted to the startling scarlet coats. Young ladies' eyes glazed at their brilliance.

The Prince of Orange arrived in his British army uniform. Why wear a duller shade when red was all the rage? Lord Arthur Hill returned in his splendour and solicited all the Lennox girls to dance. The first sets of couples formed at ten o'clock. The dancing started off with the wicked waltz. At another time the Duchess might have refused to sanction it. Many still frowned upon the indecent whirling dancing from Germany. But one never knew nowadays when a dance would be the last.

Prancing bodies, closely grouped people, hundreds of wax candles hurling heat onto well dressed forms, all combined to create a stifling climate. George Lennox asked his mother's permission to relieve the conditions. The Duchess consented. George flung wide the windows while his sister Louise draw apart the two sets of doors. Cooler air rushed in, but still sweat streaked faces. But the faces also shone with exuberance. People were enjoying the ball.

The Duchess of Richmond smiled with satisfaction. It was already turning out a success. Let the young people enjoy their dances. They were allowed a few more. But dancing could recommence later. Her Grace wanted to reveal her surprise. The performers had come. The good Scotsmen could not linger outside forever.

March instructed the musicians to delay their next tune. Puzzled couples moved off the dance floor. A blare of pipes startled several people. Then mild laughter rang out as the strange sound formed itself into a tune and through a set of French windows marched in two tartan kilted officers, one playing his bagpipers. Four sergeants bore board swords behind them. The centrepiece of the ball was beginning.

The Highlanders encircled the room, the guests backing against the wall, staring in fascination, several in dismay, disgust, or horror, while others in amusement, enjoyment, or ecstasy. The strange group had halted before their chief. Their colonel, the newly knighted Sir John Cameron, observed them keenly through narrowed eyes. One of the officers, a lieutenant, saluted. Colonel Cameron saluted stiffly back.

The four sergeants crossed their swords. First their feet danced outside their weapons. Then they picked their way across the sharp steal on the points of their toes, careful not to bring bad luck by disturbing the blades. The patchy coloured kilts swung. The pipe-major trilled his peculiar instrument while they pranced to its peculiar sounds.

"I suppose it is meant to be a sort of music?" asked a Belgium aristocrat doubtfully.

Lord George Lennox, whom he addressed, contrived to keep a straight face. "Indeed," he said, "don't you care for it?"

"It reminds me of shrieking cats," the aristocrat replied with evident distaste. "It conjures up images of tormented souls in Hades."

George decided not to recount this reaction to his mother, but he was tempted to tell his sisters, who he thought would derive a deal of amusement from it. Fortunately for the Duchess, others did take well to her surprise entertainment and delighted her with compliments. The audience applauded at close of the sword dance.

"'The Lady Charlotte Gordon's Reel' was composed in my honour," their hostess confided loudly. "Magnificent specimens of the Scotch, ain't they? I love my Highland boys! Cameron paraded his entire regiment for me yesterday. I chose these me . I wanted the very best, of course."

Ladies marvelled at the fine physiques. Confident in their own unique splendour, the scarlet coated among the watchers could admire openly. Less dashing men noted the interest with jealousy. Several posies were tossed to the Highlanders as they paraded out, blushing with glee.

Despite the pleasure everyone was apparently deriving from the evening's entertainments, an undercurrent of anxiety lingered from the afternoon's activities. Rumours rippled gently across the floor.The great duke's absence was noted. Wellington had never missed a social event. He out danced and out feted some young people. Only serious issues would detain him. The anxiety grew as the hour grew late and the principle personage did not pitch up. Laughter and chatted suggested a carefree spirit had prevailed but the tension would manifest itself in an outburst about reports. Their very lack of detail provoked discussion, often leading to profitless speculation. Some people dismissed them outright as false, while others sought for further particulars.

Concern grew as midnight approached. Clusters formed around anyone who might know the truth. The Earl of Uxbridge and Sir Roland Hill were the chief targets. General Hill was reassuring, amiable, could laugh off anything. Uxbridge was as empty of information. Unlike the officers present at headquarters during the day, both were out of the loop. Nor did either generally hold the Duke's confidence. The Peer was not in the habit of passing word onto his commanders under for their simple interest. His generals were obliged (as everyone else) just to wait and see. As second in command, Uxbridge grated the most at Wellington's lack of trust. The Earl concealed the irritation under his debonair manner. However, both generals were certain that for the moment nothing else was to be known.

Someone straying out of Brussels in the afternoon had heard firing far off. Who was firing on whom and from which direction did it derive was a mystery. Only one instance was known while its source was yet unknown.

"Don't listen to such stuff," Uxbridge advised. "By Jupiter, the Peer never does! Old Nosy sniffs out such nonsense a mile off."

"I trust his Grace will sniff out the enemy, too," Katherine Arden said. "More than a mile off! And then beat him off."

"No need to fear failure there!" Uxbridge said, a bit bombastic. "The Duke is without fault. Never lost a battle, you know!"

"I trust him to keep that record," Katherine said.

Seeing Lady Georgiana Lennox join Clara, from whom Uxbridge's presence had snatched her attention, Katherine returned in an instant to her friend, abandoning the Earl to another enquirer. Despite the rumours, Georgiana was joyful.

"I hope we aren't considered heartless for proceeding with our ball as if all were normal. Mama did offer to cancel it, but the Duke insisted it should go forward. I daresay we would be disobeying his orders if we had refused, which is against army regulations, a very serious crime!"

"Moping at home would have worsened tensions," Clara agreed. "Coming altogether was the best thing."

"Uxbridge is at perfect ease," Katherine confided. "All of the officials defy anyone frightening them, despite our disposition for alarm."

"I will ask the Duke when he comes," Georgiana said decisively. "I'm sure Lord Wellington will tell us we are all wet geese to worry."

"I'm not worried," Katherine said, unfurling her fan. "Brussels was sleeping soundly as we came. Look at my card, I've never had so many dances promised! I feel as if I am the belle of the ball."

"Mine is also full," Clara said, somewhat less delighted. "There must be thrice the amount of gentlemen. I don't like dancing the entire evening. I lose my breath. I can decline because if decline one I must decline all. So stupid. In London, I sat out most because nobody approached me. Now I'm solicited from all sides. I feel quite inadequate."

"Nonsense, your gown suits you very well," Georgiana declared, pulling out the train.

"How exquisite! Does Lady Ashton, your cousin, take you to her dressmaker?"

Clara blushed. "Indeed, she does! I'm bound from refusing. I feel so bad at such undeserved generosity."

Georgiana laughed. "Hush, stop discrediting yourself! I'll think you're guilty of false modesty. Your hair is also done very nicely. I daresay it partly accounts for all your suitors."

"I only have a few gentleman friends."

"Who would be very happy were you to own them as more—something much more! Naïveté can be harmful or hurtful."

"I don't wish to own them as anything else."

"As you choose! I know well how detestable an unwanted suitor can make himself. I'm so grateful to Mama for not inviting that hateful Hotham tonight."

Clara smiled. "Lord Hotham of the Guards has twenty thousand pounds a year: so suitable!"

Georgiana groaned. "As I'm too well aware! Misguided Mama is convinced Hotham would be the perfect partner for the rest of my life. What Mama won't take into account is he is a frightful clinch fist. So I would be as wealthy as Solomon without permission to spend a penny!"

"How horrible!" Katherine exclaimed. "I'd prefer poverty."

"Atop which," Georgiana added, "Hotham is hideously ugly."

At that point, Miss Arden's partner for the next quadrille claimed her and the other two ladies were left alone.

"There is another sorry affair," Georgiana sighed. "I mean, of course, my cousin, Lord Apsley, who is besotted with my sister Sarah, who will have none of him. The poor fellow stands beside his brother, Seymour Bathurst. Look how Apsley ogles her! Seymour has gone to his extremity to cure him. Look at how he blushes!"

"At least war descending on us will occupy our men's minds with meaningful matters."

"I hope not! We shall matter to them more."

The Prince of Orange approached Georgiana. "So here you're hiding! You should standout where you can be discovered. Our dance has gone on for five minutes. Do you harbour a grudge for my scheme to invade France while we were poorly equipped?"

"No, no, your Royal Highness, I'm sure you've grown too wise to now consider such a stupid thing," Georgiana simpered.

Aware she was also neglecting her word, Clara went in search of her partner. Major Keegan took her hand without a word of reproach. His efforts at dancing were somewhat clumsy, draw a smile to her lips, she tried to keep in check, but was thankful he was trained and tested enough not to standout. Unfortunately, Keegan interpreted her thoughtful expression for disapproval. Losing his nerve, his grace grew worse. Clara was too absorbed in her own thoughts to notice. At last she relieved his feelings without guessing them.

"What is your view of today's news?"

"What news?"

"The French fighting the Prussians."

"Are they? I had not heard!"

"With a hundred and twenty thousand soldiers." Clara was surprised at his total ignorance. "The chief military minds consider it a diversion before his main attack is launched through Mons."

"Good heavens, not if that number is correct." Keegan parted from her but went on when they reunited. "l'm strongly suspicious of our intelligence sources. I'm sure Boney has deceived us. Perhaps our spies were intended to learn certain things or he has concentrated his troops in a way to misguide our impressions."

"I find a general disinclination here to believe anything!"

"Stupidity. Obviously we are on the brink of war. Boney may not be about to take Brussels but if he has broken the border defences—"

Keegan was interrupted.

"Look, they have arrived!" Clara cried, glancing excitedly at the entrance. "Oh, I beg your pardon. I mean, the party from headquarters. The Peer! Wellington!"

"It's almost midnight," Keegan noted. "Late! Late for him."

Lady Georgiana Lennox also saw the Duke and instantly broke from the Prince of Orange, midway through the dance, without explanation. If a word was to be gained, she must reach the great man before the inevitable swarm. Orange slowly went after her. Other witnesses joined the drift in his direction. Georgiana was among the first. He had greeted Richmond, his hostess, warmly clasped the hand of his ex-attache, Lord Billy Lennox, whose arm was still suspended in a cotton sling.Then he turned to his favourite of the family.

"Good evening, dear Georgy."

"Dear duke, I must know! Is it true? Is Boney in Belgium? Are you to join him in battle? Has war begun?"

His jocularity receded. For a moment his fine face looked pale. For a long moment, he stared silently at her, then darted a look at the gathering group, his smile returning, indulgent, tender, and Wellington said: "Yes, it is true. We are off tomorrow. We march in three hours."

"Oh, heavens help us," Georgiana gasped. "My brothers!"

The response rippled through room. The Duke was swamped and unable to speak further to her. Georgiana fell away before the besiegers. Orange bobbed up in front. Wellington gave him the latest news. Uxbridge was closing in, too, Hill not far behind. Major Keegan led Clara toward the excitement.

Tears wetted Georgiana's cheek. "It's true, the army marches in three hours," she told them. "Who of those here will in a few days still be alive?"

"Thinking such thing won't do any good," Clara responded. "Our men must not remember us weeping."

The words had effect. Georgiana pulled herself up. "You're right. Miss Fitzpatrick, we must face the future with courage."

Major Keegan grinned.

Clara said: "Good girl!"

Wellington had walked over to General Roland Hill. "So Lord Hill, our Prussian friends have suffered severely this evening. The Belgian outposts can see the enemy. Even now they could be engaged. The Second Corps under your command must at once prepare to join our other corps as quickly as possible. You shall soon receive your note of my instructions."

Lord Hill suppressed the thrill, masking it with grim obeisance, nodded his head, frowned. His young staff members showed their delight. Some officers were too impatient for the campaign to delay longer at the ball and soon were slipping out into the night. Many mainly saw an end to their inactivity, boredom, the tedious wait. In their gold lace and embroidery, they dug their heels into their horses' flanks and dashed to their regiments.

Word had spread quickly. The ballroom buzzed. Even the music failed to drown the din. A hive had been kicked over and the bees flew into every recess. Dancers passed on the tidings from couple to couple. When the dance ended, its exponents were pounced upon. Unbelievers had to believe, the Duke himself had confirmed the rumours. All eyes and ears were tilted toward the familiar figure, the centre of the commotion. Across the crowd came the horselike laugh. Faces exchanged glances.

"Well, when Wellington expresses improper emotion, I suppose the crisis would need to be the end of the world," said the dowager Lady Alvanley.

"His colour is a trifle paler than customary," Fanny Arden said. "Perhaps this truly is the end of the world, mama?"

In another quarter of the salon, Viscomtesse d'Rougier was vociferous. "Well, this is the news Brussels, Europe, the world have eagerly awaited. Why so great a surprise?"

"Wellington is a fool," spoke her nephew sourly. Comte de St Pierre had returned from Ghent. Madame d'Rougier had sent him a letter. His fiancé was under siege. "Did Nosy really think the ogre would wait for the Allies to trap him in his lair? Napoleon won't make the same mistakes as last year."

The aides-de-camp had dispersed throughout the ballroom, distributing small cards detailing instructions for the officers attendant. Sir William de Lancey's team had spent hours penning them earlier in the evening. Wellington was addressing his audience. His cheerful mask was at its most uncrackable. They had cleared a small space before him. He was visible.

"Now is not the time to panic, gentleman. Perhaps Bonaparte has deceived us. Only time can tell. For now, our army must concentrate on Neville. The order cards detail each officer his part in the campaign. Don't rush off. Finish your dance if you're billeted far away. Stay for supper if you are nearby. Your men are already in movement. You can catch them up. At present, enjoy the ball!"

The female contingent had clustered out on the edge of the officers. As the Duke moved through the men, the women wound ways to his side. He was going out to meet them, to sooth anxieties, smooth away fears, just as he had done every evening since his arrival in Brussels two months earlier. His manner was ever cheerful. As if to conquer all doubt, any fear he was not in control, he had enough reason to be calm and celebrate, enjoy the ball to the limit, Wellington swung Lady Sarah Lennox into the dance. The two laughed uproariously, their amazed watchers cheered, chuckled at the Duke's courage, cheerfulness in the face of such odds. By Jove, nothing could overwhelm Wellington. The army, Brussels, Britain, Europe, the world, history could not be in safer hands.

Even as some guests ordered their horses, others dismounted and scrolled in, naive as to the cause of the commotion. Despite the day's rumours, Lieutenant Tilden had not at first altered his plans. After dining late, he had set out for the ball but been persuaded by the gathering troops in the park to change course and instead pay a call.

Nicholas wanted to speak to Evangeline alone before the campaign commenced. Death was unlikely but who knew what would happen. Nobody answered his knock. The landlord to her lodgings eventually appeared and said his tenants had gone out.

The clutter of carriages was so close he could not proceed far on horseback. Dismounting, he thrust the reins into the first lackey he saw. The front door appeared permanently open to omit a trickle of departing officers. Their haste was too great for him to question them. A moment later he was standing in the doorway surveying the glittering anti chamber when the Earl of Uxbridge approached him. The chief cavalry commander was sweating profusely. A hussar stepped up behind him and Nicholas gave way.

"You gentlemen who have engaged partners had better finish your dance and get to your quarters as soon as you can," Uxbridge said.

Nicholas stared at the retreating Earl. The truth dawned on him. Glancing around, he discovered the object of his mission.

"Fashionably late as usual," Evangeline said, smoothing her glove. "You missed the Gordon bagpipes, raucous things, muscular men. St Pierre is back."

"Is that all?"

"No, the rumours are true. The Duke has verified them. You march at dawn."

Nicholas sucked in his breath. "Evangeline, pray let me—"

"Not now, not here, where we can be disturbed. Let us dance."

He smiled and took her hand, thrilling to touch her again, even though her glove separated him from her skin. Although he knew her physique was fitter than that of some men, he enjoyed guiding her gently to the ballroom. The dance was half done and he was expected to soon take his leave. No time must be lost.

"Does the Comte suspect anything?"

"Of course. Why else would he abandon his beloved king? St Pierre was suspicious at my refusal to join him even for a short time."

"Have your feelings for him altered in the least degree?"

"No," her voice sounded hard and he smiled happily. "In fact," she went on, "I begin to despise him."

"Excellent," Nicholas breathed.

"However, my resolution to make an end with him does not necessarily throw me into your arms."

He leaned nearer her, arching over her for an instant. "Evangeline, I might never see you again. Tonight might be our last meeting. I could be killed." His throat was sight.

"I know," her voice also sounded thick now.

"I have considered that."

"Won't you promise to marry me?"

The dance had ended and they stood facing each other as many other couples were doing. This was an evening of goodbyes. He tried to discern what was going on behind her eyes. But failed to read anything but perhaps a spark of tenderness.

She grasped his hand. "Can I kiss you instead?"

The stark night air was bliss after the hot inside atmosphere. They tried not to stick out, tried to appear as if they were going for a brief turn about in sight of other guests. But soon they slipped into the shadows. Then he leaned fully forward, tilted her chin up to him, and gave her the kiss.

"You do love me still, don't you?" he asked, nuzzling her cheek, her familiar, copper curls tickling his nose.

Evangeline lifted her hand and stroke his hair. The other she rubbed his shoulder. "Oh, yes," she said confidently, "oh, certainly, I do love you, Nicholas."

"Then that is all that matters," Lieutenant Tilden said and kissed her again. Their tongues touched.

"Will you dance with me before supper?" Alvanley was trying to separate Clara from her other admirer, but Major Keegan was not easily deterred.

"We ought to finish the dance you broke off when Wellington walked in," Keegan protested.

Alvanley was annoyed with this nobody of a major who had pitched up pretending to have claims on the prize Alvanley had long ago destined for himself. Just who did Keegan think he was?

He tried to steady his rapid breathing. "Would you step aside for a moment with me, sir?" he said.

"I hope this is not on my account!" Clara asked, finding the contest too absurd to see seriously. "What has got into your blood, Alvanley? I'm not worth all this fuss, so I presume you have other differences with the Major, which you may conclude out of my hearing."

One scowling, the other curious, the two gentlemen walked off and entered an alcove. Alvanley struck a righteous pose and faced around to confront Keegan.

"What are your intentions toward Miss Fitzpatrick?"

The Major crossed his arms. "I wish to make her my wife."

Alvanley blinked, astonished at the direct answer. His emotions boiled up. "What gives you the right to such damn impertinence?" he demanded. "Miss Fitzpatrick is the niece of Lord Tilden and is currently under the protection of his son-in-law, the Marquess of Ashton! You're a penniless, self made nobody!"

"I don't need you to inform me of what I already know," Keegan replied crisply. "Perhaps you should learn that Lord Tilden has granted me his permission to pursue Miss Fitzpatrick for marriage a full year ago. Now kindly mind your own business and allow me to claim my dance before the gong goes."

Alvanley was left opened mouthed as the Major went off on his mission. Desirous to distance herself from whatever was on hand, Clara had threaded through the throng, observing the increase in anxiety. Tears appeared on pink cheeks as brothers, sons, fathers, husbands, lovers, suitors, friends and acquaintances took their leave.

A fear crept into her of someone dear to her going without bidding goodbye. Perhaps she should not have let Alvanley take Keegan away. Unfair to deprive the Major of the last moments before battle with the only girl he had loved. Clara breathed in deeply and tried to trust away these gloomy reflections. Likely he had loved before her and would again. She was not so indispensable.

Clara recognised the youthful ensign who had won the race a few days ago. She admired his full dress uniform, which looked very grand, red pollisse, silk hose, and silver buckles. His name escaped. An officer in the First Foot Guards? The girl he was talking to Clara did remember and even caught her answering words.

Lady Maria Capel tapped his shoulder with her fan. "Now, Lord Hay, you won't forget your promise!"

Oh, yes, Ensign Lord Hay, son of the Earl of Errol.

"By Jove, not likely!" he grinned. "This is my first campaign. Should I fall in action and still have breath enough in my body to speak, my mare will be yours to keep."

"It was the condition on which I forgave you for calling the mare Muzzy." Lady Maria turned to Lady Georgiana Lennox, who had just joined them. "My family call me Muzzy, begun by Mama. Hay assures me, it is a compliment! Yet I'm doubtful."

Maria Capel went off giggling, leaving the two staring after her. Ready enough to exchange one dazzler for another, Lord Hay turned his shining eyes on Georgiana. Ignorant of her disapproval, the seventeen-year-old officer eagerly expressed his enthusiasm at the notion of fighting enemy and the glory and honours to be won by besting him. He was dumbfounded when pausing his companion released a tirade of abuse on his head for vain ambition.

Deposited her outrage at such improper sentiments, Georgiana fled crying to Clara, who guided her to a seat and stroked her shoulder.

"I like Lord Hay very well, he is merry enough, but so full of military ardour, as if no dangers were involved, I was provoked to quite unmaidenly anger," she sobbed.

"You should apologise before he goes," Clara suggested.

"Yes, yes, you are right," Georgiana sniffed, drying her eyes. "When will this all be over?"

"I'm afraid," sighed Clara, "it is just beginning."

Observing Georgiana's distress, Miss Arden came up on the arm of Lord Jasper Courtney, with whom she had just stepped out of the ballroom.

"Even my spirits are being affected by this melancholy," Katherine confessed. "I am so thankful dear Dicky is far away and none of my brothers are among those about to fight. Still we must say adieu to so many friends."

"Will you dance with me?"

Clara stretched out to give her hand Lord Jasper, but it was seized by another. Major Keegan had returned. "I am sorry," he said, "this one she owes to me."

Reluctantly, she conceded, but as the Major took her up into the ballroom, she cast a glance over her shoulder and saw Jasper staring after her. The expression of his eyes most struck her. Instead of plunging into the sets of couples, Keegan veered around their edge toward the fresh air entering by the French windows. Her wits were so slow that before she could check they had passed out into the garden. Behaviour that verged on impropriety was very natural. She decided not to enquire into his reasons. Only when he had halted a short distance from the other outdoor strollers did she guess. Then, it was too late.

"Miss Fitzpatrick," he said in a tight voice, then broke off, let a long silence ensure, which gave her to wonder if he was waiting for a sign from her, but he actually used to summon his courage before he resumed: "Miss Fitzpatrick, about a twelvemonth ago I paid you addresses. About a twelvemonth ago you accepted me on the understanding you did not yet care for me as strongly as I cared for you. I released you from such a sacrifice in the hope your feelings for me would develop. Then I believe you were attached to your cousin, Nicholas Tilden? Has that attachment faded? Has your feelings for me strengthened? Has another gentleman supplanted him in your affections?"

"I no longer think of my cousin in the foolish way I did in my youth," Clara responded carefully. "I do feel for you more than I did a year ago and nobody else has replaced him."

Major Keegan's chest was rising and falling in excitement, reminiscent of that occasion one twelvemonth previous when Lieutenant Tilden had interrupted them. He struggled to speak. He braced himself for the final words. This would be his last offer. It was now or never.

"Then may I renew my offer for your hand in marriage?"

There was a deathly silence, in which he could hardly breath. He hastened to break it. He moved closer to her. Clara did not recoil from him. In fact, her eyes seemed to glitter invitingly. Dare he?

"Dearest Clara," the boldness pumping in his vanes bolstered him to brashness, "will you do me the honour of becoming my wife tonight?"

Now she did jolt back, but just in surprise. "Why such haste?" she gasped. "Tonight!"

But even as she spoke she saw why he wished for tonight and her eyes filled with tears at his desire to possess her.

"You can refuse. We can still marry after the war. But it may be a while. I might be killed in action. It is a great demand, I'm aware, but pray, let me be your husband before I march out! Be the wife for return to."

Her mind was a wheel. "Can such a thing be contrived? A priest, bands, a license!"

"I brought a special license with me from England."

This was impressive. Those were expensive. So he had premeditated this happening! She knew not what to think or feel, tonight was so unreal. A strange exciting sense of romance stole up on her. It was very tempting. She would never have the man she loved best in the world. She would have be satisfied with the offeror who best suited her. After all, she would far rather accept him than Lord Alvanley. At least marriage to Major Keegan would sort out that and many other problems. He would provide her security, a degree of freedom, and an interesting life.

Clara grabbed his hands. "So be it! I will do all you wish of me. Marry me tonight!"

Filling with joy, he embraced her offer by quite literally embracing her, so enthusiastically she squealed in protest, lifting her up off her feet for an instant and after dropping her to earth giving her their first shared kiss.

A minute later, after smoothing creases out of gown and coat, they had started off sauntering back to the house when they encountered another couple of lovers in the shadows.

"Good gracious, mind where you walk!" exclaimed a familiar voice. "Good gracious," it exclaimed in a different tone, "what the devil are you doing here?"

Lady Evangeline Burton burst into laughter. "Don't provoke them, Nicholas! They may ask the same of us. I'm afraid I would be quite undone. Dear Major, if you forget I was here and whom I was with, I shall return the favour."

"No need," Keegan stuck out his jaw, "our purpose is perfectly honourable. I needed a secluded spot in which to ask Miss Fitzpatrick to be my wife. She has consented and we are going to be married tonight. Good evening, my lady."

The Major would have swept her on had Clara not restrained him. "Pray tell Sophia if you see her!" she begged her cousin. "In any event, make sure she knows. We have not the time."

Nicholas was chuckling too. "Good gracious, good going, both of you! I give my heartiest blessing. I hope you will both be very happy. Well done!"

Clara gave him a grateful smile. "Thank you, I hope so too."

Unfortunately their only pathway was through all the overflowing apartments. Keegan impatiently jostled through the French windows, the most packer part of the ballroom. Almost at once he had to endure another difficulty. Lady Georgiana Lennox had also just entered from outside. She had accompanied her eldest brother to the bottom of their garden to help pack his luggage. The work had not improved her spirits, though her tears had ceased to fall. Now she pounced on Clara again to commiserate. Her stoic humour had clearly worn off.

"Look at how some go on dancing merrily!" Georgiana cried in horror. "How can some people be so little affected?"

"Heartless," the Earl of March agreed. "Heartless baggages. Will you excuse me, Georgy? I must find Slender Billy—I mean, the Prince of Orange!"

"Two brothers will be engaged in battle," Georgiana sniffed. "Thank heavens Billy broke his arm! I hope he stays away. Who knows what foolish fancy that boy might take into his head to endanger his life!"

"Thank you for a lovely fete," Clara said, quickly squeezing her hand warmly. "A pity Boney blighted it."

"No, no, don't go!" Georgiana said. "We are about to go up to supper."

"Unavoidable, I fear," Clara said happily. "You see, this man and I are on our way to be married. How mad are we exactly, do you think?"

Georgiana's jaw dropped. Clara was a trifle disconcerted at all this amazement. She had supposed the opening of hostilities would make her little affair commonplace. Perhaps it was rather rash. Perhaps she was being a fool. Perhaps she would regret tonight's work.

However, crying off now was not an option. That would be too beastly. So she kept smiling, confessed herself equally as surprised, and gratefully accepted her friends congratulations when they poured out.

Georgiana escorted them to the entrance room, where the couple retrieved their raps. "Let me kiss you good night, Miss Fitzpatrick!" she said and kissed both Clara's cheeks. "Next time, I shall call you, Mrs Keegan." Half shutting the door, Georgiana added to their retreating forms: "At least one piece of good fortune has come from this sorry business."

In the anti chamber, Lady Georgiana encountered the Duke of Brunswick, looking very pale. "Yes, I must go, Lady Georgiana! I truly apologise for my rudeness. I should not have come. I must be with my men. Thank you for smiling on them at the review last month in Vildvorde. I assure you, their repayment shall be distinguishing themselves in the coming on conflict. Now where is your honourable mother?"

Georgiana lifted her hand for His Royal Highness to kiss. "Your Brunswickers are sure to do both of us proud!" she said and directed him to her parents.

The Duchess of Richmond was barricading the archway, imploring her guests not to desert before supper. Her lovely ball, which had begun as a triumph, was fast disintegrating around her. Left and right, officers were slipping passed her slim form. Not even the entreaties of her daughters helped.

"Not you too!" she gasped as another apologising potential dance partner took his leave. "Another hour, another dance. Come, sir, one more. Look how you alarm my girls!"

The buzz beginning an hour and a half ago at the Duke of Wellington's arrival had risen into a roar of excitement. The dancing had finally faded out completely in the ballroom. Partners had better business. Decorum had lapsed. Ladies were weeping unashamedly. Even the Duke of Wellington had lost his assumed gaiety. Despite still striving to keep up spirits, his manner and his face showed constant concern.

While sitting beside Lady Dalrymple-Hamilton, his attempt at calming her fears was nullified as he often abruptly broke off to issue some urgent order to the Prince of Orange, Roland Lord Hill and the Earl of Uxbridge, or any of his numerous attaches.

"I fear I'm not good company tonight," Wellington apologised.

This was a disaster. Her chief strength was failing her. Something had to be done. The Duchess of Richmond marched out to save her ball. First she commanded the orchestra remove upstairs to the dining parlour. Then she nodded to a footman. A moment later, the gong rang out.

The Prince of Orange headed the procession to the dining room, the Duchess upon his arm. The Duke of Wellington escorted Lady Charlotte Greville. Her laugh rekindled his strange neigh. The company breathed easier at hearing that absurd sound. His focus was so fixed he failed to notice the muddy figure of a fresh staff officer emerge as if from nowhere and stumble up the stairs after the Prince of Orange.

His Royal Highness turned, at once recognised a member of his own staff at Braine-le-Comte, and froze in his stride. The sweaty aide-de-camp thrust him a packet and stepped back. Orange glanced at it, saw his chief of staff's scrawl, pondered an instant, then held it out to the Duke of Wellington, who had paused at the foot of the staircase.

"Captain Henry Webster has just brought this in from General Baron de Constant von Rebecque," the Prince murmured. "I guess its contents is for your eyes above all, even mine."

Without a word, Wellington took the dispatch and stuffed it into a coat pocket before continuing upstairs. Orange called down: "Don't alarm anyone by following us," and disappeared.

Captain Webster slipped into a recess, grimly watched the guests file passed him, oblivious to his presence, crossed his arms, and waited. While the company were finding their name tags at the large tables, Wellington subtly unsealed and inspected the message from the Dutch chief of staff. His lips tightened, his brows draw together, and before anyone had detected what he was doing, the Duke had got up and dashed downstairs.

He beckoned to Webster and handed over the empty envelop, the arrival time confirmed in pencil. "Good man, pray have His Royal Highness's four horses attached to his carriage and driven around to the front door," he whispered. "The Prince of Orange is about to depart."

Wellington went up with the stragglers to the dining room, where he made straight for the Prince of Orange. "I advice you, sir, to get an early night," he smiled, letting his voice carry. Then he dropped his head and voice to level with the prince's ear. "The French have forced the Prussians out of Fleurus."

Orange gasped and glanced up at his chief. "So fast, so soon," he breathed. "I expect my foremost piquet could br falling back by now. I had better rejoin my men, make sure the roads to Brussels are secure. I mean," he raised his tone, "my bed, yes, good idea that. Long day. Long day tomorrow, too."

Wellington walked back to the chair on which he had been placed. He smiled at the two female favourites seated at each side of him. Lady Frances Webster simpered back at him from under her hallow of daffodil coloured curls.

"Fresh shocks about the French?" she purred.

The Duke coughed. "Nothing to worry your pretty head about, Fanny. Old Blucher just needs our help at handling Boney. We will beat him well tomorrow, you will see!"

Concern returned to his face when, a few minutes later, the Prince of Orange re-entered and came toward him. Wellington grunted, got up, and met the prince a pace apart from his seat.

"Well?"

Orange was obviously excited but doing his utmost to keep his composure like his chief. "A French column is nearing the hamlet at Quatre Bras," he said simply. "Apparently your 'after orders' directed the crossroads to be abandoned... leaving exposed the road to Brussels and our communication line to the Prussians."

"What?"

The explosion had been impulsive and the Duke immediately regretted it, however uncharacteristic was such a show of emotion. Wellington flinched and glanced at the table, where some of the diners had stopped to stare at their conference in interest. He ground his teeth and returned to the prince.

"Well, I wanted all our troops near Nivelles!" Wellington faced the wall and let out a gentle groan. "So is that how it stands at present? Did nobody in authority on the spot dare to countermand my instructions? Must I think of everything? I can't be everywhere at once!"

"Of course, sir, of course not, sir!" Orange muttered. "Constant-Rebecque ignored your second set of dispatches, knowing you were ignorant of the extent of the progress of the French, and actually reinforced Quatre Bras. General Perponcher is concentrating his entire division."

"Then thank goodness for your alert chief of staff," the Duke grimaced. "Thank you, your Highness. Tell Constant-Rebecque I'm obliged to him. This is most serious. Any indication of the size of the French force approaching the intersection?"

The Prince of Orange shook his head. "None, sir."

"Ah, well, more reason for you to return to your headquarters," Wellington barked. "I have no further orders. The clock shows two minutes past the one. So it's a new day. Yes, time for your bed, I think," he bent a mocking bow. "Sleep well, Royal Highness."

Seething slightly at the crusty irony and without anticipating any pleasure from a night spent entirely on rutted roads, the prince quietly withdrew and repaired to his swift carriage.

Lady Frances Webster was disappointed the Duke talked to his other companion. "I have a gift for you." Wellington fumbled in his coat pocket before bringing out a miniature portrait of himself. "Something for an old friend by which to remember an old friend. A Belgic artist painted it."

"It is lovely," Georgiana murmured, a lump forming in her throat. "Thank you, dear friend."

Some twenty minutes later, the Duke cupped his mouth to yawn. "By Jove, long day," he said loudly. "So sleepy, suddenly. I think I shall follow the Prince of Orange's example. I'll retire to bed likewise."

Wellington rose from his chair and walked over to his host. Richmond tilted his head up to catch Wellington's words.

"Have you a good map?"

"Aye, I have the very thing!"

The two dukes disappeared from the dining room. Downstairs, Richmond led Wellington to his dressing room, where he took the map out of a cabinet and unrolled it on a table. Wellington shut the door and joined his host at the map.

"Napoleon has humbugged me, by Jove!" the commander in chief confided. "He has gained twenty four hours march on me. The army is ordered to Quatre Bras. But I doubt we will stop him there. In that case we must fight him here."

Richmond leaned in to see the name on which Wellington's thumbnail was pressing: Waterloo.

A sharp rap sounded on the door. Wellington called permission to enter. His staff of aides rushed in and formed around his flanks. The Duke still stared at the map, undeterred by the intrusion.

"Sir!" Fremantle spoke up. "I hear Marshal Ney is before Quatre Bras!"

Wellington traced the roadway from the border up to the crossroads, proceeded to Waterloo and Brussels, then returned to Quatre Bras and Charleroi.

"Ten miles nearer than I anticipated," the Duke muttered, shaking his head. "Ten miles too near."

"Ziethen was meant to maintain a line from Gosselies to Gilly!" Fremantle objected.

"Has the general failed you?"

"His Prussian troops failed him," the Peer corrected. "Napoleon has out marched us. I thought it was a feint. But this is no feint. Humbugged me, Gentleman, that is what Bonaparte has done. He has humbugged me."

"Humbugged us all," Lord Fitzroy Somerset said, sliding to his shoulder passed Fremantle. "Incredible. I really find it difficult to believe, sir. If the French have truly pushed so far north, they've made an extraordinary advance on the first day of their campaign."

"Which has gained them a significant strategic advantage, too," inserted Sir Alexander Gordon in his Scottish bray. "Those crossroads protect our connection to the Prussians."

"His Grace is aware of their importance, Alex!" Fitzroy barked. "We might have been hoodwinked, but the game is not yet played out. Has the situation has been remedied, sir?"

"We are much obliged to Rebecque," Wellington said, tapping a tattoo on the table. "Much obliged to you, too, Richmond, and your dear wife. A charming evening. I beg your pardon for its breakup."

"You are not accountable for Bonaparte!" the Duke of Richmond chuckled. "I'm glad the oncoming campaign did not prevent your coming. Your presence meant a great deal, you know."

The Duke of Wellington stopped to smiled and bow and bay good nights to the guests going through from the dining room back to the ballroom. Several of the Lennox girls had started slipping off to bed; their hero had shown signs of going. Lady Georgiana lingered a moment longer to wave him off, but realised Lady Frances Webster would not this time release her hold on him till the bitter end. So Georgiana sauntered to the staircase, then stopped to persuade another sister to accompany them to sleep.

Lady Jane refused. "The night is scarcely half over!"

Georgiana grimaced. "For myself, it is over. The strain has drained me. I doubt many will linger after Lord Wellington has left."

"You fret yourself into a fever," Jane scoffed. "Suit yourself. But I'm going back to dance!"

Scarcely noticing the deserters drifting passed her in the passageway, Jane produced and perused her card of promised partners. Her gleeful gaze glanced up as she flitted back into the ballroom; her wild delight dwindled.

"Where are the men?"

The contrast of earlier in the evening had changed to the contrary case. Now the white muslins far outnumbered the red uniforms. Where were all the officers to whom she was engaged?

"Returned to their regiments," her brother George replied. "Goodbye, Jane, I must be off too. Pray don't make a fuss! Leaving in this fashion is disagreeable enough without our women weeping."

George Lennox kissed his sister's cheek and sprinted out to the street, where in obedience to a command he ordered out his chief's horse. Jane wandered wistfully around searching for any of her remaining claimants for her dances. George then thrust a foot into the stirrup of his own steed. Hoofbeats halted him. He sighed. A cheerful group of late comers obliged him to put off his own departure. He let go off his horse's reins and approached the cheerful officers.

"The ball has broken up. Bonaparte is a few miles off. Back to your regiments, gentlemen!"

The officers turned various shades of colour, red, white, yellow, green, and showed the same variety of sensations, dependent on their personal viewpoints. Lennox turned his back to them, tired of these reactions to the news. He just wanted to be gone. He peered inside. The Duke was nearing the entrance.

"Let us just step in," one soldier suggested.

"I would like to be able to say I was present at the Duchess of Richmond's ball."

Lady Frances Webster was at last dragged off by her husband. Wellington looked around for his other female friend. But Lady Charlotte Greville was not to be found. Gone home, he supposed. His aides-de-camp had crowded the courtyard. Their impatient stares lightened the concern on his countenance. The Peer minced toward the street door, where the Duchess of Richmond was once more trying to quell deserters.

"I suppose all entreaty will be lost on you, duke."

Wellington lifted her hand to his lips. "I must lose it in order not to lose Brussels, duchess."

He felt her freeze. "So it is truly that serious," she said softly. "Well then, I won't detain you. Go, lead your army into battle, defeat your monster, and when you return in triumph, pray convey me a cuirassier's helmet. I don't fear blood. Not French blood. It is different to English. I want it for a work basket, to contain crochet hooks."

Wellington released her hand. His staff were busy mounting their horses, bringing up his own, waiting to help him up.

"I'm sure such a thing can be contrived," he smiled and turned to leave.

On impulse, the Duchess darted forward, touched his arm, was detaining him again, drawing sighs from his aides. "Pray protect my boys," she pleaded. They're all so young. My heart would break were—"

Wellington interrupted. "As would break thousands mothers' hearts to lose their sons," his voice, a moment ago warm, was cold. "All of whom wish to beg me to spare their sons. It is commission impossible for me to grant."

The Duchess drew back her hand, alarmed at her friend's iciness, then was humiliated at her weakness, noticing the tenderness in his eyes.

"I beg your pardon, duke. I was wrong. Only one part I do ask. Ensure my Billy doesn't run into danger. I'll try to prevent him riding out but I'm sure I'll fail against his headstrongness. My other boys must play their parts in this fight. Pray just protect my Billy."

Wellington smiled. "Certainly, my dear duchess," he said, exiting her house. "I'll do my best."

"Oh, one final request!" his hostess called out the door. "Give my regards to Napoleon!"

"To where, your Grace?" Jasper asked cheerfully, the little cavalcade trotting out of de la Blanchisserie. "Quatre Bras?"

The Duke laughed. "No, no, don't be absurd. We go to our beds."

"Did you not hear him declare he was following the Prince of Orange's example?" jeered Fremantle.

"Yes, to be sure," Jasper admitted. "But I didn't for a moment think him sincere. I thought he was merely not alarming the ladies."

Wellington turned slightly in his stirrups. "Dear sir, I am always sincere when I can help it. You would be ill advised to embark on campaign without the least sleep. I may be about to fight Napoleon Bonaparte, but I am not a madman. We shall head to headquarters, where we will enjoy three hours' rest before breakfasting and riding out behind our troops."