Teresa Grant Read online

  Also by Teresa Grant

  Vienna Waltz

  Imperial Scandal

  TERESAGRANT

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE - *indicates real historical figures

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

  A READING GROUP GUIDE - IMPERIAL SCANDAL

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  Copyright Page

  For Jennifer, with thanks

  . . . war and lechery confound all!

  —Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, Act II, scene iii

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, any errors of research or plotting are entirely my responsibility, but I am grateful to a number of people for assistance, support, and inspiration in the writing of this book.

  My editor, Audrey LaFehr, and my agent, Nancy Yost, offered invaluable support, advice, insight, and friendship and helped make this book what it is. I could not have done it without them. Thanks as well to Natanya Wheeler of Nancy Yost Literary Agency and Martin Biro of Kensington Books for answering questions, sending out ARCs and coverflats, and generally helping make a writer’s life easier. To Paula Reedy for shepherding the book through copyedits and galleys with an eagle eye for detail. To Barbara Wild for the careful copyediting. To Kristine Mills-Noble and Judy York for another sumptuous cover that evokes the hectic glamour of pre-Waterloo Brussels and once again really looks like Suzanne. To Alexandra Nicolajsen for the superlative social media support. And to everyone at Kensington Books and the Nancy Yost Literary Agency for their support throughout the publication process.

  Thank you to Gregory Paris and jim saliba for creating and updating my Web site. To Raphael Coffey for the best author event photos a writer could have. To Bernard Cornwell for answering my query about his research on the Duchess of Richmond’s ball for his magnificent novel Waterloo. To Robert Sicular for a fabulous custom album of Brussels pictures that was the next best thing to actually going there myself. To Jayne Davis for the grammar advice. To Patrick Wilken for recordings of Korngold’s “Pierrot’s Lied,” which to my mind achingly evokes Harry’s feelings about Cordelia.

  To Jami Alden, Bella Andre, Catherine Coulter, Barbara Freethy, Carol Grace, Anne Mallory, Monica McCarty, Penelope Williamson, and Veronica Wolff for writer lunches and e-mail brainstorming, and always being there to share the fun and headaches of a writer’s life. And to Monica for introducing me to Scrivener, which made the writing of this book inestimably easier. To Veronica for wonderful writing dates during which much of Imperial Scandal was written and revised (and during which many words of encouragement were exchanged). To Penny for always being there to talk through book issues and for being the most supportive friend imaginable. And to Kate Perry for suggesting (during a writing date with Veronica) that a brothel would be a good location for an action scene.

  To Lauren Willig, wonderful friend and equally wonderful fellow writer of Napoleonic spies, who understands plot and research issues I can’t explain to anyone else. To Kalen Hughes for answering questions on the intricacies of early nineteenth-century clothing, and to Candice Hern for the wonderful fashion plates on her Web site, which inspired the gowns worn by Suzanne, Cordelia, and the other female characters. To the History Hoydens for insights, fun, and being a font of information on period detail. To Tasha Alexander, Deborah Crombie, Catherine Duthie, C. S. Harris, and Deanna Raybourn for their support and the inspiration I find in their own writing.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  *indicates real historical figures

  Allied and Prussian Commanders

  *Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, commander of the British and Dutch-Belgian Allied army

  *Marshal Blücher, commander of the Prussian army

  *William, Prince of Orange, commander of the I corps of the Allied army

  *Henry Paget, Earl of Uxbridge, cavalry commander

  *General Peregrine Maitland

  French Commanders

  *Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of France

  *Marshal Ney, commander of the left wing of the French army

  *Marshal Grouchy, commander of the right wing of the French army

  *General d’Erlon, commander of the I corps of the French army

  *General Flahaut, aide-de-camp to Napoleon

  *General de la Bédoyère, aide-de-camp to Napoleon

  The Rannoch Family

  Malcolm Rannoch, British attaché

  Suzanne Rannoch, his wife

  Colin Rannoch, their son

  Addison, Malcolm’s valet

  Blanca, Suzanne’s maid and companion

  Valentin, their footman

  Brigitte, their housemaid

  Aline Blackwell, Malcolm’s cousin

  Dr. Geoffrey Blackwell, her husband

  Edgar Rannoch, light dragoons, Malcolm’s brother

  The Davenport Family

  Lady Cordelia Davenport

  Colonel Harry Davenport, intelligence officer and aide-de-camp to

  Wellington; Cordelia’s husband

  Livia Davenport, their daughter

  *Lady Caroline Lamb, Cordelia’s childhood friend

  The Ashton Family

  Lady Julia Ashton, Cordelia’s sister

  Captain John Ashton, British Life Guards, her husband

  Robbie Ashton, their son

  The Chase Family

  Major George Chase, aide-de-camp to Lord Uxbridge

  Annabel Chase, his wife

  Captain Anthony Chase, 95th rifles, George’s brother

  Jane Chase, his wife

  Violet Chase, George and Anthony’s sister

  Watkins, George’s batman

  Allied Staff Officers and Family

  *Lord Fitzroy Somerset, military secretary to Wellington

  *Emily Harriet Somerset, his wife

  *Sir Alexander Gordon, aide-de-camp to Wellington

  *Colonel Canning, aide-de-camp to Wellington

  *Baron Jean de Constant Rebecque, chief of staff to the Prince of Orange

  *Sir William De Lancey, quartermaster general to the Allied army

  The Richmond Family

  *Duke of Richmond, commander of the reserves in Brussels

  *Charlotte, Duchess of Richmond, his wife

  *Lord March, their son, aide-de-camp to the Prince of Orange

  *Lady Sarah Lennox, their daughter

  *Lady Georgiana Lennox, their daughter

  *Lord George Lennox, their son, aide-de-camp to Wellington

  *Lieutenant Lord Wi
lliam Lennox, their son

  Others

  Raoul O’Roarke, guerrillero leader from the Peninsular War

  Lord Carfax, head of British intelligence

  David Mallinson, Viscount Worsley, his son

  Simon Tanner, David’s lover

  *Sir Colquhoun Grant, head of British military intelligence

  *Sir Charles Stuart, British ambassador to the Hague

  *Baron Müffling, Blücher’s liaison officer with Wellington’s Headquarters

  Jean La Fleur, French soldier and British agent

  *Mr. Creevey, British expatriate

  *The Misses Ord, his stepdaughters

  *Lady Charlotte Greville, British expatriate

  Comte de Vedrin, Belgian aristocrat

  Captain Dumont, Dutch-Belgian army

  Henri, Vicomte de Rivaux, lieutenant in the Dutch-Belgian army

  *Comtesse de Ribaucourt, Belgian aristocrat

  Rachel Garnier, prostitute at Le Paon d’Or

  Colonel Mortimer, 95th rifles

  Pierre, son of one of the women at Le Paon d’Or

  Madame Longé, dressmaker

  Lucille, her assistant

  Captain William Flemming

  Major Hamish MacDermid

  Philippe Valery, French agent

  1

  Outside Brussels, Belgium

  Wednesday, 14 June 1815, 1 :00 am

  Malcolm Rannoch swung down from his horse in the moonlit courtyard. His kid-soled dress shoes made a soft thud on the flagstones. He patted his horse’s sweat-dampened neck. It had been a hard half-hour ride from Brussels. A mere half hour. Odd to think that little more than thirty minutes ago he had been holding his wife in his arms, waltzing in the British ambassador’s candlelit ballroom. Odder still to think that he had been waltzing at all, rather than hiding out in the library behind the fortifications of a book or newspaper. The past six months had changed him a great deal. Or perhaps the change was owed to his wife.

  He slid his hand beneath the Bath superfine of his evening coat and drew out his pistol. The man he was meeting was a friend. In theory. But with the Allied army headquartered round Brussels, and the French army under the recently restored Napoleon Bonaparte in Paris, only a few days’ march away, one never knew.

  He drew his mare, Perdita, into the shadows of the gatehouse and gave one last pat to her forehead. She nuzzled his hand in response. No need to worry she wouldn’t stay where bidden.

  The moonlight threw a blue-black sheen on the flagstones and showed the outline of the old iron gate. He turned the handle and eased the gate open. The loamy scent of earth damp and the fragrance of roses and violets greeted him. He paused for a moment to get his bearings, to pick out the dark lines that delineated hedges and benches and statuary. The solid dark blur to his right was the château itself. He could see the lacy filigree of a balcony railing against the lighter stone of the walls.

  He stepped forward along the pale line of a gravel path and gave a low sound close enough to the call of a thrush to fool all but the most adept ornithologist. No answering call greeted him. Well, though there wasn’t enough light to see his pocket watch, he was probably a bit early. Wellington had been most insistent when he gave him the message, and he’d ridden hard.

  He leaned against the trunk of what he thought was a lime tree, secure in the shadows. A gust of wind rippled through the trees. An owl hooted. A real owl? No way to be certain.

  Ten minutes had passed if he counted correctly. He reached beneath his coat and unhooked the watch his wife had given him their second Christmas together. As he snapped it open, his thumb slid over the quote from Romeo & Juliet inscribed on the inside cover. He peered at the dial, his eyes now more accustomed to the moonlight. Nearly one-fifteen. La Fleur was almost a quarter hour late. Anyone could be delayed, especially these days. But in the two months he had been giving intelligence to the British, La Fleur had been almost painfully punctual.

  A faint creak sounded from the shadows, followed by three thrush calls in quick succession. Malcolm stepped away from the tree.

  “Sorry. Had to reconnoiter.” Jean La Fleur, for the past two months one of their best sources of intelligence within the French army, stepped into the garden. He moved without haste, his pale hair gleaming in the moonlight. A few feet off, he stopped and scanned Malcolm in the shadows, taking in the evening coat and white net pantaloons and silver-buckled shoes.

  “Dancing?” La Fleur’s voice had the ironic lift of a soldier addressing a civilian.

  “All in a day’s work. Where else does one collect intelligence?”

  “I could name you some possibilities. More interesting than a ballroom.” La Fleur leaned his arm against a stone statue that looked to be some sort of Greek goddess and cast a glance at the house. “What is this place anyway? Something Wellington keeps for assignations?”

  “The property of one of our Belgian allies. Conveniently empty and conveniently close to Brussels.” Malcolm studied La Fleur in the shadows. The negligent line of his arm, the self-assured tilt of his shoulders. In all their months of dealings, of passing papers and money back and forth, Malcolm had never asked the Frenchman what drove him to betray his comrades. The thought left a faint tang of distaste in Malcolm’s mouth. Which was absurd. What was intelligence if not betrayal, often of multiple people at once? “La Fleur? What’s happened? Wellington said you indicated it was urgent.”

  La Fleur shook his head. “Sounds like a cliché, doesn’t it, but for once I don’t think I’m exaggerating. Listen, Rannoch—”

  Malcolm grabbed La Fleur’s arm and went still, senses keyed to every creak and vibration in the garden. Then he heard the sound again. A faint scrape and stir. Not an animal. Boot steps. In the garden of the supposedly empty château.

  Malcolm leveled his pistol.

  Suzanne Rannoch stirred the heavy perfumed air with her silk-painted fan. The youth and beauty of the Allied army swirled on the dance floor before her. Hussars, dragoons, Horse Guards, and Life Guards in brilliant crimson or blue and gold or silver lace, staff officers in dark blue coats, riflemen in dark green, Dutch-Belgians in green or blue, and a host of other uniforms. The soldiers circled the floor with girls in gauzy frocks of white and pink, primrose and forget-me-not, champagne and ivory. The candlelight glanced off gold and silver braid, gleaming medals and decorations, pearl necklaces, diamond eardrops, silver thread embroidered on sleeves and hems.

  It might have been any ball in any elegant house. Save for the profusion of military brilliance and the dearth of sober dark civilian coats. This waltz had been a favorite at the Congress of Vienna, where Suzanne and her husband had spent the fall and winter. But even in Vienna military uniforms had not so predominated. The threat of war had hung over the Congress, but as a consequence of council chamber quarrels, a constant ripple beneath the surface of balls and masquerades and champagne-filled salons. Then Napoleon Bonaparte had escaped his exile on the island of Elba and returned to power in France and everything had changed.

  The British, the Dutch-Belgians, and the Prussians were spread out along the border between Belgium (now part of the Netherlands) and France, the British and their Dutch-Belgian allies to the west of the old Roman road from Bavay to Maastricht, the Prussians to the east. Eventually, when their Austrian allies were ready, they would move into France. But if Napoleon, as seemed likely, crossed the border first they would close in and trap him. At least that was the plan. It was a long border and there were any number of ways the master strategist Napoleon Bonaparte could move. Together, the Allies and the Prussians outnumbered the French. But if he could separate them, Napoleon would have the advantage.

  Suzanne’s fingers tightened round her fan. Whatever the outcome of the confrontation between the Allies and Napoleon, it was sure to shake her to the core and test the limits of everything she was. And it could not leave her unchanged. Or her marriage.

  “Standing about?” Sir Charles Stuart, Britain’s ambassador to the Hague
and the evening’s host, put a glass of champagne into her hand. “We can’t have that. Where’s your husband got to?”

  Suzanne took a sip of champagne and gave Stuart her most dazzling smile. “Surely you don’t believe my husband and I spend the evening in each other’s pockets, sir? Have I learned nothing in two and a half years as a diplomatic wife?”

  “Off on an errand, is he?” Stuart gave her a lazy grin. “Wonder who sent him.”

  “It wasn’t you?”

  “In the middle of my own ball? No, ten to one he’s been seconded by the military.”

  Malcolm had met her gaze across the ballroom an hour since, raised his champagne glass to her, and then slipped between two stands of candles and melted away through one of the French windows. Even she didn’t know where he had gone. Malcolm had come to trust her a great deal in the two and a half years since they had entered into their oddly begun marriage of convenience, but there were some secrets a good intelligence agent didn’t share, even with a spouse. She understood that better than anyone.

  Stuart put a familiar arm round her and squeezed her shoulders, left fashionably bare by the ruffled neck of her gown of pomegranate gauze over a slip of pale pink satin. “You’re a damned fine hostess, Suzanne. Couldn’t have pulled the party off without you.”

  “Nonsense. You were an excellent host long before I met you.”

  “Lisbon was different from Brussels.” Stuart kissed her cheek, managing at once to be flirtatious and brotherly. “He’ll be safely back before dawn, never fear. We’re weeks away from fighting.”

  “Weeks?” Even were Napoleon really still in Paris, he was only a short march from Brussels.