Page 5 of The Captive Duke
“Suspiciously unusual,” Easterbrook allowed, though Christian had been lucky from the cradle, and protocol regarding prisoners was often honored in the breach. “Word of the letter disappeared into diplomatic channels, but spies were sent out who apparently reported to Wellington that they found nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing.”
Thank God.
“And yet, you began to hope?”
“Hope for what? By that time it had been months. Mercia was raised with every privilege and wasn’t shy about indulging himself. Even in the officers’ internment up in Verdun, he would have fared badly. How would a man like that cope with torture? How wouldany man? And after that much time, one had to wonder if Mercia would even want rescuing.”
St. Just studied his drink, when most officers would have long since tossed it back and helped themselves to a refill.
“His Grace had a wife and son. Why wouldn’t he want rescuing?”
“Cleaning up after Soult, we’ve freed some prisoners of war, and they did not fare well in the hands of the French.”
“The French themselves did not fare well,” St. Just countered, peering at the label on the brandy bottle as if actually reading what was written there—in French, of course. “One doesn’t expect prisoners to enjoy full rations, regardless of whose care they’re in.”
“The deprivation is only part of it.” Easterbrook used the oil lantern on the table to light his cheroot, then poured himself more brandy and cast around for a change of topic. “Is there any pleasure more gratifying than decent libation, a lusty whore, and a good smoke?”
“A lasting and fair peace,” St. Just said, his gaze off to the northwest, in the direction of merry olde England, no less. “But you were telling me about your cousin.”
The colonel would rather discuss a missing duke than naughty women. War did strange things to some men.
“The lost duke, whom I believe to be with his Maker as we speak. When Toulouse fell a few weeks ago, some half-soused Paddy of questionable loyalties let slip thata titled English officer had been held in some crumbling château in the foothills of the mountains. Seems the place was built on the site of a medieval castle, complete with dungeons. He said the prisoner was freed when the castle was abandoned by the gallant French.”
“They’re the defeated French now.”
“So they are.” Easterbrook lifted his glass in salute and took a drag of pungent tobacco.
And made another effort to change the damned topic. “You shipping out for Canada with everybody else?”
“I have family obligations, though I doubt I’ll sell out. You’ve concluded this Irishman was lying?”
This was the same tenacity that ensured orders entrusted to St. Just reached their destination, no matter what. Easterbrook was beginning to hate his guest nearly as much as he respected him.
“The Irishman was…” Easterbrook paused as the acrid smoke curled toward the tent’s ceiling. What to say? To crave a wealthy dukedom wasn’t a sin, was it? “The Irishman was none too sober, and his motives were questionable. What was he doing inside that château, hmm? And where is this lost duke now, when every soul knows the Emperor has abdicated.”
St. Just twitched the tent flap, as if to let in a bit more light, though Easterbrook took small satisfaction from the smoke bothering his guest.
“If Mercia was tortured at length, his mental faculties might not be at their sharpest,” St. Just said. “Andwhat would he gain by marching even this far north, as opposed to making his way directly home from the coast?”
“How could he afford passage home? How could a man subjected to deprivation and torture for that long travel any distance on foot? Assuming he’s alive—which I have not for months—he’s a bloody hero. As for those impersonating Mercia and claiming to be the lost duke, we give them a hot meal and nominal courtesy, until I can assure the generals we’ve another charlatan on our hands. Then the mountebank is run off to make shift with some other scheme.”
And still the damned man merely sat back, folded his arms over a broad chest, and watched the smoke curling upward.
“For a French physician to put something in writing like that… He’d have been shot as a traitor to theRepubliqueif the letter had fallen into the wrong hands.”
Tobacco was said to calm the nerves. Easterbrook inhaled deeply, until the tip of his cheroot flared bright red, then let the smoke ease out through his nose.
“Mercia might have been taken prisoner, but what are the chances the French would capture a man naked from his bath, deny him the chance to get into uniform, realize he’s a bloody duke, and continue to hold him for interrogation against all policy to the contrary? That would exceedbad formconsiderably.
“Besides,” Easterbrook rose as he went on, because it was time to run his guest off, “we suffered no lapses ofintelligence that suggest this prisoner might have been Mercia. Mercia was in on all the meetings, consulted on strategy, had even scouted some of the passes. He’s a canny devil—wasa canny devil, for all his arrogance—and the French would have been well served if they’d laid their hands on him.”
“If he broke.”
Easterbrook tipped the bottle to his lips, because it would somehow be empty when he returned to his tent, victory and graciousness notwithstanding.
“I’d break,” Easterbrook said quietly. Perhaps he’d had too much brandy, or perhaps he’d spent too much time in the company of Colonel Paragon St. Just. “I’d try to hold out, but one hears stories, and I’m sorry, St. Just, one officer to another, I’d break.”
“You don’t know that.” St. Just rose too easily for a man who’d ridden the distance from Paris. “My thanks for the hospitality, for the meal, the drink, and your company. I’m off to check on my horse.”
