Page 131 of The Duke's Dream
Cavendish leaned closer. “There was plunder. Heavy plunder. Wellington wrote a disturbing letter to me.”
A knot formed in William’s gut. He forced himself to turn away from the ballroom and pulled Cavendish into an alcove. “Tell me more.”
Cavendish gazed down at his saber, his expression haunted. “No house escaped the sacking from our troops. It lasted for three days. Three days of debauchery and bloodshed, committed with wanton cruelty. Our soldiers tore the rings from the ears of beautiful women with their teeth. The regiment was so drunk, they behaved like madmen. A nun was dragged into the street by two men, one of whom was disposed to spare her, so the other shot him dead.”
The horrific scene played vividly in William’s mind, his stomach churning with disgust. “Why the hell didn’t the officers stop them? This is unacceptable. I will talk to Liverpool and Devonshire. I will address Wellington himself. This cannot go unpunished.”
The music swelled behind the curtain. Even after the horrible news, William found himself straining to hear Helene’s voice, her laughter. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.
His mind raced—the vote, the budget, the potential fallout. The heinous actions of a battalion consumed by passion could undermine the war effort.
William pressed his temples, trying to clear his head. “How many know of this?”
“At this point? Just me—”
“The war budget will be voted next week. If word gets out, we will lose parliamentary support for the summer campaign.”
Cavendish ran a hand through his hair, the blond curls tangling in his fingers. “But soldiers are bound to write to their families. It is impossible to—”
“I will order the letters from the Peninsula to be confiscated,” William interrupted, his tone decisive, leaving no room for argument. “Word of this must be contained.”
Helenelefttheballroomand hastened back to the gallery. Separated for over twelve years, and her brother was still the same—willful, arrogant, and impossible. Flee to France tonight? A criminal leaving everything behind? Her steps echoed down the empty corridor, each seconded by a frantic heartbeat. How could she leave her friends? Her chest tightened with the thought. She couldn’t abandon William. Their dance couldn’t end like that.
Why did men think themselves entitled to alter the course of her life? William, Verón, and now her brother. She was tired of it. Tired of being a pawn in their games. She would go back to her apartment and lock the door until she was old and white, and nobody cared about her anymore.
As she stepped into a narrow corridor, a shadow materialized in front of her.
Helene halted, her breath catching in her throat. Dressed all in black, Viscount Montfort loomed before her, blocking her path.
“Leaving the party early? I thought the French were more lively.” A dark edge sharpened his caressing voice, and his eyes glittered with amusement.
This was not good. Not good at all. Did he know about her brother? Was he here to arrest them? She had to get away from him. She glanced beyond his shoulder toward the exit, so tantalizingly close.
“I find I tire easily of British entertainments.” Helene stepped to the side, attempting to circle him.
His gloved hand clasped around her arm.
Her heart pounded like a war drum. “Release me now.”
Rodrick’s grip was unyielding. “I cannot allow you to leave, Miss Beaumont.”
Ice coursed through her veins. She was lost. He would lock her in the tower, and she would face the gibbet.
“Once and for all, I am no spy.” Her voice trembled, rising higher than she intended. “You will make a grave mistake if you arrest me.”
A sardonic smile tugged at his lips, a predator playing with his prey. “Who said I will arrest you? Perhaps I only enjoy your company.”
Helene struggled against his grip, but his hand did not budge. Panic flared, and she jerked with all her force, desperation giving her strength.
Footsteps sounded behind them. Her brother!
“Gaetan!”
Montfort whirled. Heart stampeding, Helene seized on his distraction to break free.
Gasping, Helene retreated until her back pressed against the wall, her eyes fixed on the two men as they closed in on each other, like two carriages hurtling toward a devastating collision. What relief she had felt from her brother’s appearance vanished as a wave of leg-numbing fear paralyzed her. Her brother had the build of a grenadier, and no doubt knew how to use the impressive sword strapped to his waist, but he was a gentleman. Montfort was a savage. He would kill Gaetan.
When her brother lifted his arm, Helene’s breath caught in her throat. Was he about to unsheathe his sword? If they fought, what could she do to stop them? The strains of the orchestra rose, galloping towards the coda. How could people be dancing a few yards away when she was about to witness violence?
