Page 81 of Ashes and Understanding
“Did he work for you?”
He nodded, inhaling deeply. “But before we discuss Smithson, you need to understand some of the history. What do you know of the war with France?”
“I know that hostilities resumed in 1803 after the Peace of Amiens collapsed,” Elizabeth said, with a hint of pride in her voice. “Napoleon crowned himself Emperor in 1804. There were naval battles—Trafalgar was in 1805, I believe—and of course, the fighting in Spain these past years, particularly since 1808.”
The colonel cast a glance at Darcy, who nodded slightly in approval. “Impressive.”
“I have read theGazette, and theTimes,” Elizabeth said sharply. “I may be a woman, Colonel, but I am not an ignorant one.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam held up his hands in surrender. “I did not mean to imply otherwise. In fact, I am rather impressed. Most young ladies I meet only know which colors the regiments wear, not why the regiments march.”
Elizabeth tilted her chin. “I prefer substance to uniforms.”
Darcy, beside her, did not speak, but she saw it—the tiniest quirk at the corner of his mouth, gone as soon as it came. Whateverwarmth might’ve followed was instantly doused by the tension still hanging between them.
Colonel Fitzwilliam regarded her steadily. “Then here is the substance. While the official war rages abroad—in Spain, in Portugal, in the Baltic and beyond—there is another war being fought within our own borders. One of information. Of secrets. And occasionally… of betrayal.”
“And this is somehow connected to the fire in London.” Her voice was calm, but inside, her thoughts twisted. I knew it.I knew something was not right.
He hesitated, then nodded once. “Yes. Very much so. You see, we need to go back to before 1803—before Napoleon crowned himself Emperor, before Trafalgar. Back to the revolution itself.”
Elizabeth said nothing, but inwardly, her skepticism only deepened.Is this truly what they had led me outside to say?Still, she gestured lightly for him to continue.
“At the end of the last century, when the French Revolution swept across France, the people did not just depose their king. They destroyed an entire class. Nobles, aristocrats—whole families were slaughtered. Even children. The very idea of royal blood was seen as a threat. If you were born into a noble house, that was enough to condemn you.”
“I know,” Elizabeth said quietly. “The Reign of Terror.”
She could not help the flicker of pride in her voice. It was not often she got to display the contents of her mind in mixed company. She expected surprise, perhaps condescension, but Darcy only nodded in quiet approval, and the colonel’s eyebrows rose in apparent surprise.
“Exactly,” the colonel said. “Some managed to escape, of course. Many came to England. But not all. Some went into hiding in France itself. One such family was related to the Bourbon line—distant cousins of the king. They vanished during the purges, and it was assumed the entire line had been extinguished.”
“But it was not?” she prompted, her heart beginning to thud uneasily.
His mouth twisted slightly. “No. Earlier this year, word reached certain French revolutionaries that one child survived. A boy—the son of a nobleman whose bloodline tied him—however distantly—to the old crown.”
“And they went after him, I assume,” Elizabeth said.
“You assume correctly. By this point, the lad was now a man. He had married, and his wife had recently given birth to their own son. A band of militants formed together and tracked the family down.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught, and she pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Among their number was a young woman name Denisse. Her parents were farmers who had participated in the initial revolution, and she was raised with the same fire in her blood.” The wind ruffled the colonel’s coat, and for a moment, he looked truly troubled. “As her compatriots ravaged the home and slaughtered the inhabitants, she made her way to the nursery, following the sounds of crying.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She pressed a hand to her chest, a chill sweeping through her that had nothing to do with the weather. “And?” she urged when the colonel remained silent.What are you getting at, Colonel? What happened?
“For a brief moment, Denisse was exactly what the revolution had made her: an assassin poised to wipe away a bloodline. But then…” His voice softened. “…then the baby opened his eyes and looked at her, and she was a girl once again. Her heart opened, and she saw him for what he was—a baby only a few days old. Innocent. Helpless.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, her eyes stinging. For the first time, she truly pictured it—some poor girl, barely more than a child herself, standing in a smoke-filled nursery with the blood of a noble house on her hands and a baby in her arms.
She brushed the tears that had begun to stream down her cheeks. Darcy reached into his pocket and removed a handkerchief, which he offered to her. “Here.”
Accepting it wordlessly, she turned her gaze back to the colonel, her eyes pleading with him to continue.
“She took him. Ran with him. She knew her companions would have killed him had they known. So, she pretended to carry out the act, but instead… she fled. Headed west, toward Spain.”
Darcy added quietly, “Colonel Fitzwilliam was stationed on the Spanish-French border. On orders from a general at Cadiz.”
“I found Denisse nearly dead,” the colonel said. “Starving, terrified, carrying a crying bundle she had wrapped in rags and hidden beneath her coat. She thought I would shoot her, but when she learned I was English… she told me the truth. Told me who he was.”
