Shattered Rainbows: Book 5 in the Fallen Angels Series Read online

  Having stripped the meat from the drumstick, Colin tossed the bone out the tent flap. "We went after the Frenchies, but no luck. One of those damned Spanish generals disobeyed Old Hookey's order to set a garrison at the river, then didn't have the courage to admit his error."

  Catherine ignored the profanity; it was impossible to shield a child who lived in the midst of an army from strong language. "One can see the general's point. I shouldn't like to confess a mistake like that to Lord Wellington."

  "Very true." Colin peeled off his dusty jacket. "What else is there to eat? I could down one of the dead French horses if it were roasted properly."

  Amy gave him a reproachful look. "Mama needs to rest. She was at the hospital almost all night."

  "And your father fought a battle yesterday," Catherine said mildly. "I'll make breakfast."

  She moved past her husband to go outside. Under the odors of horse and mud was the musky scent of perfume. After the pursuit of the French was called off, Colin must have visited his current lady friend, a lusty widow in Salamanca.

  Her maid-of-all-work was the wife of a sergeant in Colin's company and would not arrive for at least an hour, so Catherine knelt by the fire herself. She laid twigs on the embers, wearily thinking how her life had turned out so differently from her dreams. When she'd married Colin at the age of sixteen, she'd believed in romantic love and high adventure. Instead she had found loneliness and dying boys like Jem.

  Impatiently she got to her feet and hung the kettle over the fire. There was no place in her life for self-pity. If there was sorrow in her nursing work, there was also the satisfaction of knowing she was doing something that truly mattered. Though she didn't have the marriage she had hoped for, she and Colin had learned to rub along tolerably well. As for love—well, she had Amy. A pity she would never have any other children.

  Mouth tight, she told herself what a lucky woman she was.

  Chapter 2

  Penreith, Wales March 1815

  Michael Kenyon neatly ticked off the last item on his list. The new mining machinery was working well, his recently hired estate manager was doing an excellent job, and his other businesses were running smoothly.

  Since he had accomplished his other goals, it was time to look for a wife.

  He rose from his desk and went to gaze at the mist-shrouded landscape. He had loved this dramatically beautiful valley and weathered stone manor from the moment he had seen them. Still, there was no denying that Wales in winter could be a lonely place, even for a man who was finally at peace with himself.

  It had been more than five years since he had been involved with a woman. Five long, difficult years since the sick obsession that had destroyed every claim he had to honor and dignity. The madness had been useful during his warrior years, but it had warped his soul. Sanity had returned only after he had come perilously close to committing a deed that would have been truly unforgivable.

  His mind sheered away, for it was painful to remember how he had betrayed his deepest beliefs. But the people he had wronged had forgiven him freely. It was time to stop flagellating himself and look to the future.

  Which brought him back to the subject of a wife. His expectations were not unrealistic. While he was no paragon, he was presentable, well-born, and had a more than adequate fortune. He also had enough shortcomings that any self-respecting female would itch to improve him.

  He wasn't looking for a grand passion. What he'd thought was a grand passion had been a warped, pathetic obsession. Instead of seeking romance, he would look for a woman of warmth and intelligence who would be a good companion. Someone with experience of life.

  Though she must be attractive enough to be beddable, great beauty was not necessary. In fact, based on his experience, stunning looks were a liability. Thank God he was past first youth and the idiotic susceptibility that went with it.

  Personality and appearance were easy to assess. More difficult, but more vital, she must be honest and unflinchingly loyal. He had learned the hard way that without honesty, there was nothing.

  Since this corner of Wales had few eligible females, he must go to London for the Season. It would be pleasant to spend a few months with no goal but pleasure. With luck, he would find a comfortable woman to share his life. If not, there would be other Seasons.

  His reverie was interrupted by a knock. When he called permission to enter, his butler entered with a travel-stained pouch. "A message has arrived for you from London, my lord."

  Michael opened the pouch to find a letter sealed with the signet of the Earl of Strathmore. He broke the wax with anticipation. The last time Lucien had sent such an urgent message, it had been a summons to join an intriguing rescue mission. Perhaps Luce had come up with something equally amusing to liven the late winter months.

  Levity vanished when he scanned the terse lines of the message. He read it twice, then got to his feet. "Make sure Strathmore's messenger is properly taken care of, and tell the cook I might not be back for dinner. I'm going to Aberdare."

  "Yes, my lord." Unable to restrain his curiosity, the butler asked, "Is there bad news?"

  Michael smiled without humor. "Europe's worst nightmare has just come true."

  * * *

  His mind was so full of the news that Michael scarcely noticed the chilly mist as he rode across the valley to the grand mansion that housed the Earls of Aberdare. When he reached his destination, he dismounted and tossed his reins to a groom, then entered the house two steps at a time. As always when he visited Aberdare, he felt a sense of wonder that once again he could breeze into Nicholas's home as casually as when they had been schoolboys at Eton. Three or four years earlier, such ease had been as unthinkable as the sun rising in the west.

  Since Michael was virtually a member of the family, the butler sent him directly to the morning room. He entered to find Lady Aberdare sitting beside a magnificently carved crib that held her infant son, Kenrick.

  Michael smiled at the countess. "Good day, Clare. I gather that you can't bear to let Viscount Tregar out of your sight."

  "Hello, Michael." Her eyes twinkled as she extended her hand. "It's very lowering—I feel exactly like a mother cat standing guard over her kittens. My friend Marged assures me that in another month or two, I shall become more sensible."

  "You're always sensible." He kissed her cheek with deep affection. By her mere existence, Clare was an example of all that was good and true about womankind. Releasing her hand, he glanced into the crib. "Incredible how tiny fingers can be."

  "Yet he has an amazing grip," she said proudly. "Give him a chance to demonstrate it."

  Michael leaned over the crib and gingerly touched the baby's hand. Kenrick gurgled and locked his miniature fist forcefully around Michael's fingertip. Michael found himself unexpectedly moved. This minute scrap of humanity was living proof of Clare and Nicholas's love, with his father's wickedly charming smile and his mother's vivid blue eyes. Named for his paternal grandfather, Kenrick was a bridge from past to future.

  There might have been a child of Michael's, who would have been almost five now....

  Unable to bear the thought, he gently disengaged his finger and straightened. "Is Nicholas home?"

  "No, but he should be back anytime now." Clare's brows drew together. "Has something happened?"

  "Napoleon has escaped from Elba and landed in France," Michael said flatly.

  Clare's hand went to the crib in an instinctive gesture of protection. From the doorway, there came the sound of a sudden intake of breath. Michael turned to see the Earl of Aberdare, his dark hair beaded with moisture from riding in the mist.

  His mobile features uncharacteristically still, Nicholas said, "Any word on how the French people are receiving him?"

  "Apparently they are welcoming him back with wild acclaim. There's an excellent chance that within the next fortnight, King Louis will run for his life and Bonaparte will be sitting in Paris and calling himself emperor again. It isn't as if Louis has endeared him
self to his subjects." Michael pulled the letter from his pocket. "Lucien sent this."

  Nicholas read the letter with a frown. "In a way, it's a surprise. In another way, it seems utterly inevitable."

  "That was exactly how I felt," Michael said slowly. "As if I'd been waiting to hear this news, but hadn't known it."

  "I don't suppose the allied powers will accept this as a fait accompli and let Napoleon keep the throne."

  "I doubt it. The battle must be fought once more." Michael thought of the long years of war that had already passed. "When Boney is defeated this time, I hope to God they have the sense to execute him, or at least exile him a good long way from Europe."

  Clare looked up from the letter, her gaze level. "You're going to go back to the army, aren't you?"

  Trust Clare to guess a thought that had scarcely formed in Michael's mind. "Probably. I imagine that Wellington will be recalled from the Congress of Vienna and put in charge of the allied forces that will be raised to oppose Napoleon. With so many of his crack Peninsular troops still in America, he's going to need experienced officers."

  Clare sighed. "A good thing Kenrick will be christened in two days. It would be a pity to do it without his godfather. You'll be here that long, won't you?"

  "I wouldn't miss the christening for anything." Michael smiled teasingly, wanting to remove the concern from her eyes. "I only hope that lightning doesn't strike me dead when I promise to renounce the devil and all his works so I can guide Kenrick's spiritual development."

  Nicholas chuckled. "If God was a stickler about such things, every baptismal font in Christendom would be surrounded by charred spots."

  Refusing to be distracted, Clare said in a tone that was almost angry, "You're glad to be going to war again, aren't you?"

  Michael thought about the tangle of emotions he had felt on reading Lucien's letter. Shock and anger at the French were prominent, but there were also deeper, harder-to-define feelings. The desire to atone for his sins; the intense aliveness experienced when death was imminent; dark excitement at the thought of practicing again the lethal skills at which he excelled. They were not feelings he wanted to discuss, even with Clare and Nicholas. "I've always regretted that I was invalided home and missed the last push from the Peninsula into France. It would give a sense of completion to go against the French one last time."

  "That's all very well," Nicholas said dryly. "But do try not to get yourself killed."

  "The French didn't manage it before, so I don't suppose they will this time." Michael hesitated, then added, "If anything does happen to me, the lease of the mine will revert to you. I wouldn't want it to fall into the hands of outsiders."

  Clare's face tightened at his matter-of-fact reference to possible death. "You needn't worry," he said reassuringly. "The only time I was seriously wounded was when I wasn't carrying my good-luck piece. Believe me, I won't make that mistake again."

  Intrigued, she said, "What kind of lucky piece?"

  "It's something Lucien designed and built at Oxford. I admired it greatly, so he gave it to me. In fact, I have it here." Michael pulled a silver tube from inside his coat and gave it to Clare. "Lucien coined the word 'kaleidoscope,' using the Greek words for 'beautiful form.' Look in that end and point it toward the light."

  She did as he instructed, then gasped. "Good heavens. It's like a brilliantly colored star."

  "Turn the tube slowly. The patterns will change."

  There was a faint rattle as she obeyed. She sighed with pleasure. "Lovely. How does it work?"

  "I believe it's only bits of colored glass and some reflectors. Still, the effect is magical." He smiled as he remembered his sense of wonder the first time he had looked inside. "I've always fancied that the kaleidoscope contains shattered rainbows—if you look at the broken pieces the right way, eventually you'll find a pattern."

  She said softly, "So it became a symbol of hope for you."

  "I suppose it did." She was right; in the days when his life had seemed to be shattered beyond repair, he had found comfort in studying the exquisite, ever-changing patterns. Out of chaos, order. Out of anguish, hope.

  Nicholas took the tube from Clare and gazed inside. "Mmm, wonderful. I'd forgotten this. If Lucien hadn't had the misfortune to be born an earl, he'd have made a first-class engineer."

  They all laughed. With laughter, it was easy to ignore what the future might bring.

  Chapter 3

  Brussels, Belgium

  April 1815

  The aide-de-camp gestured for Michael to enter the office. Inside he found the Duke of Wellington frowning at a sheaf of papers. The duke glanced up and his expression lightened. "Major Kenyon—glad to see you. It's about time those fools in Horse Guards sent me someone competent instead of boys with nothing but family influence to commend them."

  "It was a bit of a struggle, sir," Michael replied, "but eventually I convinced them I might be of use."

  "Later I'll want you with a regiment, but for the time being, I'm going to keep you for staff work. Matters are in a rare shambles." The duke rose and went to the window so he could scowl at a troop of Dutch-Belgian soldiers marching by. "If I had my Peninsular army here, this would be easy. Instead, too many of the British troops are untested, and the only Dutch-Belgians with experience are those who served under Napoleon's eagles and aren't sure which side they want to win. They'll probably bolt at the first sign of action." He gave a bark of laughter. "I don't know if this army will frighten Bonaparte, but by God, it frightens me."

  Michael suppressed a smile. The dry humor proved the duke was unfazed by a situation that would dismay a lesser man.

  They talked a few minutes longer about what duties Wellington had in mind. Then he escorted Michael out to the large anteroom. Several aides had been working there, but now they were gathered in a knot at the far end of the room.

  The duke asked, "Have you found a billet, Kenyon?"

  "No, sir. I came straight here."

  "Between the military and the fashionable fribbles, Brussels is bulging at the seams." The duke glanced down the room. When a flash of white muslin showed between the officers, he said, "Here's a possibility. Is that Mrs. Melbourne distracting my aides from their work?"

  The group dissolved, and a laughing woman emerged from the center. Michael looked at her, and went rigid from head to foot. The woman was beautiful—heart-stoppingly, mind-druggingly beautiful. As stunning as his mistress, Caroline, had been, and seeing her affected him the same way. He felt like a fish who had just swallowed a lethal hook.

  As the lady approached and gave the duke her hand, Michael reminded himself that he was thirty-three years old, well past the age of instant infatuation with a pretty face. Yet the woman was lovely enough to cause a riot in a monastery. Her sleek dark hair was pulled back with a simplicity that emphasized the classic perfection of her features, and her graceful figure had a sensual lushness that would haunt any man's dreams.

  To Wellington, she said drolly, "I'm sorry to have disturbed your officers. I merely stopped by to deliver a message to Colonel Gordon. But I shall leave directly, before you have me imprisoned for aiding and abetting the enemy!"

  "Never that," Wellington said gallantly. "Kenyon, did you ever meet Mrs. Melbourne on the Peninsula? Her husband is a captain in the 3rd Dragoons."

  Amazed at how calm his voice was, Michael replied, "I'm afraid I've never had the pleasure. The cavalry and the infantry don't always have much to say to one another."

  The duke chuckled. "True, but Mrs. Melbourne was also known as Saint Catherine for her work nursing the wounded. Mrs. Melbourne, Major Lord Michael Kenyon."

  She turned to Michael. Something flickered in her eyes, then vanished as she gave him her hand and a friendly smile. Her eyes were as striking as the rest of her, a shade of light, clear aqua unlike any he had ever seen.

  "Mrs. Melbourne." As he bowed over her hand, the duke's words snapped a fragment of memory into place. Good God, could this elegant, frivolous fe
male be the woman he had seen in the hospital after Salamanca? It was hard to believe.

  As he straightened, the duke said, "Major Kenyon has just arrived in Brussels and is in need of a billet. Do you and Mrs. Mowbry have room in your ménage for another officer?"

  "Yes, we have space." She made a comically rueful face. "That is, if you can bear living in close quarters with three children and a variable number of pets. Besides my husband and Captain Mowbry, we have another bachelor, Captain Wilding."

  This time he recognized the low, soothing voice that had crooned a dying boy to his final rest. This sleek creature really was the lady of Salamanca. Remarkable.

  The duke remarked, "Wilding is a friend of yours, isn't he?"

  A warning sounded in Michael's head, saying he would be a damned fool to stay under the same roof with a woman who affected him like this one did. Yet he found himself saying, "Yes, and I rather like pets and children as well."

  "Then you're welcome to join us," she said warmly. "The way the city is filling up, we'll have to take in someone else sooner or later, so it might as well be now."

  Before Michael had a chance for second thoughts or polite refusal, Wellington said, "It's settled, then. I'll expect you here in the morning, Kenyon. Mrs. Melbourne, I hope to see you next week at a small entertainment I shall be holding."

  She smiled. "It will be my pleasure."

  As the duke returned to his office, Mrs. Melbourne said, "I'm on my way home now, Major. Shall I take you to the house? It's on the Rue de la Reine, not far from the Namur Gate."

  They came out the front of the building. Neither carriage nor maid waited for her. He said, "Surely you're not walking alone?"

  "Of course I am," she said mildly. "I enjoy walking."

  He supposed that to a woman who had followed the drum, Brussels seemed very tame, but no woman so lovely should walk alone in a town full of soldiers. "Then let me escort you."