Page 10 of The Duke's Impetuous Darling
"Not bad. Pauline Bonaparte had good taste," he murmured to himself as he admired the pristine decor and the entrance up to the Grand Salon. The subaltern had told him as they waited for Griffith to send word down he'd receive him, that Napoleon's licentious sister had owned the house until the Government bought it last year for the Duke of Wellington.
"Captain Lord Lowell?" Griffithrushed over the threshold of the Salon. A grin burst over his craggy features as he strode forward to catch him close. "By God, Alastair, it is you!"
"None other!" Relief washed through him like a soft spring rain. To see a friend when he'd spent weeks, months, wondering if he'd ever know even himself again went far to restore his confidence.
"Come in. Dear god, youarewounded. What a sight you are, you old dog! Let me help you." Griff, the same height and broad build as Alastair, wrapped an arm around his back and lent him his support. "You may return to your post, Subaltern."
"If I were more stable, I'd show you who's the old dog." Alastair chided his childhood friend, rejoicing at the sight of one pal who had survived the carnage in Belgium.
"Save your breath, man." Griff led him forward. "Christ's bones, I never thought to see you again." His words were laced with unshed tears.
They matched Alastair's. "I'd say the same, but I'm too damn tired from climbing those steps."
Griff wiggled his brows. "I have a reward for you."
"It better be brandy."
Griff snorted in laughter. "Very stong. Very old."
They limped along the balcony together toward the Salon. Inside amid the multitude handling the details of the British Army's occupation of her former enemy, Alastair saw numerous chairs, generously upholstered. "I'll gladly sit in this first one, Colonel."
"Lieutenant!" Griff shouted to a soldier working at a broad gilt desk. "Bring that cognac here. The cheese and bread too."
"You look like hell," Griff said with a scowl as he helped Alastair sink into the chair.
"Why, thank you, Colonel," Alastair said with a feigned smile.
The young officer appeared before them with a tray laden with the refreshments.
"Thank you, Lieutenant." Griff stepped back to look Alastair over. Hands to his hips, he blanched. His large blue eyes took in each miserable detail. The slice to Alastair's left cheek. His left arm in a sling. His ginger movement to ease the discomfort that still plagued him from what the surgeon had told him appeared to be a French cuirassier's sabre cut to his ribs. "Glad as hell you're here."
"That's two of us," Alastair said as he hoisted the brandy in salute. "Pardon me while I savor this, will you?"
"Drink the whole damn flask." Griff pushed it closer, then pulled a chair over to sit facing him. "How did you get here? Know I was here in Paris?"
"Everyone knows where Wellington sleeps." He savored the liquor, his throat parched from his wanderings in the city to find this house.
"I'm certain. But how did you get here?"
"Mostly? I walked. Got a ride with a troop wagon coming south from Charleroi."
"Dear god," Griff said simply, his word explaining how stunned he was.
"I was in hospital there for...well, I'm not certain how long. Since I fell, I suppose. I told the surgeon I needed to go to Paris. I said I had a friend here who could recognize me, finally, and give me papers for home."
"And all this time? Where have you been? How have you lived?"
Alastair took a satisfying drink of the brandy. "As near as I can figure out, someone—perhaps one of my own men—found me on the field after the guns went silent. He told others in the hospital that he shoved me into a wagon and I went in a tumbril to a field hospital. Dozens of other poor creatures and I were piled on top of each other like bread from the oven."
Griff cursed. "It was a nightmare to pick up the wounded and care for them."
Alastair winced. "No need to tell me. I lived it. Badly." He indicated his injured arm.
"What happened to your arm? Your face?"
"Broken arm. Must've fallen on it. As for the face? Who knows what caused it. I have no memory of the battle. Damn glad we won, though." He lifted his glass in a toast and took another swig.
"Any idea why you wear a foot soldier’s uniform?"
