Chapter 36
The smell of brandy still lingered. Not enough to draw comment—his valet had worked swiftly with crisp linen and lime-scented water—but it clung beneath the starch and polish.
William stood before the mirror as his cravat was fastened with impeccable precision, the gold pin set just off-center as he preferred it.
He looked every inch the Duke’s heir: cold, composed, untouchable.
“Thank you, Mr. Richards,” he said briskly.
“Shall I summon the carriage, my lord?”
“No. I’m not riding out. I am to speak with His Grace.”
Richards, well-trained, offered no surprise. But William caught the flicker of something in the man’s gaze—concern, perhaps. Pity.
He descended the stairs with a soldier’s stride. The house was quiet at this hour, save for the faint hum of servants. But the moment he reached the foot, the butler intercepted him.
“My lord,” Mr. Jenkins said with a bow, his expression unusually grave. He stepped aside, offering a sealed document on a silver tray. “An urgent dispatch arrived just before dawn. From Horse Guards. Marked private and immediate.”
William took it without a word, broke the seal with his thumb, and unfolded the heavy vellum. His eyes scanned the contents quickly—then again, slower. His heart sank.
Horse Guards, 6 March 1815
My Lord,
The following intelligence is to be treated with the utmost discretion.
The individual known as Napoleon Bonaparte has escaped from his place of confinement on the island of Elba as of the 26th of February. Intelligence confirms he landed without resistance at Golfe-Juan on the southern coast of France on the 1st of March.
French troops are reportedly rallying to his cause. His present objective is believed to be Paris. The War Office is on high alert. Orders will follow.
In service,
Col. H. Maitland
Horse Guards.
He read it twice. He would answer the call. Of course he would. But Christ. Jane. The child. He hadn’t even married her yet. Hadn’t secured her future. And now Europe threatened to rip itself apart again.
He folded the dispatch, slid it into his inner coat pocket, and straightened his cuffs. He would speak to his father now, before fate galloped further ahead.
He entered the breakfast parlor at the rear of the house.
It was a stately room, high-ceilinged, with pale green paneling and a broad window opening onto a walled garden, still bare with winter.
Morning light touched the silver tea service and the fine bone china laid neatly along the table’s length.
The quiet rustle of newspaper and the occasional clink of spoon against porcelain were the only sounds.
His father sat at the head of the table, in his habitual blue coat and snowy cravat, halfway through a boiled egg and some unpleasant political pamphlet.
The Duke barely glanced up. “You’ve missed the early post. There’s word from Vienna. Castlereagh’s blustering again. He’ll make a mess of things as usual.”
“There’s worse news than Castlereagh,” William said, voice cool. He reached into his coat and drew out the folded dispatch. “This is confidential. It came from Horse Guards at dawn. I trust in your loyalty to the Crown to share it.” A pause. Then, flatly: “Napoleon has escaped.”
That caught him. The Duke set down his egg spoon, hard enough for the silver to ring. “What?”
“On the 26th. He’s landed in France. Horse Guards is moving discreetly, but there will be another campaign. Likely before summer.”
The Duke went pale, then crimson. “Damn him. Damn him and that whole wretched rabble! And now we must march again? When England has barely begun to breathe?” He slammed a hand on the table.
“You must marry before you go. Philomena is ready. Get her with child if you can—God knows your grandfather sired half a dozen before he turned thirty, and never once missed a hunting season.”
William let out a quiet, bitter laugh.
The Duke frowned. “Something amusing?”
“Only your priorities.” He turned to the footman pouring coffee. “Leave us.” Then, without looking up: “The rest of you as well.” The servants hesitated.
“Now,” William said, and the young man serving him vanished at his harsh tone.
When the door shut, he smoothed the front of his coat. His voice, when it came, was perfectly even. “If providing an heir is all you care for, Father, you’ll be relieved to know that particular duty is already underway.”
The Duke froze.
“I came to tell you,” William went on, “that I will be marrying Miss Jane Ansley.”
For one long moment, the Duke said nothing at all. Then he began to redden, a slow, apoplectic flush that started in the neck and worked upward like a furnace stoked to life. “You what?”
“Marrying her,” William repeated. “I’ll send for a special license. The wedding will be private, discreet, and soon.”
His father made a sound—half a choked sputter, half a curse. “Secret? A secret wedding? To a bloody governess?”
Charlotte swept into the room like a breeze. “What is all this racket? And what an impressive red you’ve managed, Father. Are you practicing for the House of Lords?”
“Get out,” the Duke snapped.
But William’s voice overrode him, calm and cutting. “You might as well stay. I meant to have this conversation in a more civilized hour, after I’d had my toast, but this is as good as any.”
He turned back to his father. “Miss Ansley and I have been lovers for some time. She is carrying my child. She may give birth before I’m called to the field again.”
The Duke stared at him like he’d been struck. “You don’t have to marry her,” he hissed. “You can keep her. Set her up quietly. But don’t disgrace the family.”
“It will be handled with care. I’ll see to that,” William replied coldly. “She can be moved to a townhouse in Bloomsbury. She’ll have everything she needs. And once I return, I’ll handle the public announcement on my terms.”
“The scandal—”
“Can be managed. The wedding will come first. That’s what matters.”
Charlotte spoke up, tone mild. “Her paternal grandfather was a viscount.”
“And her other grandfather,” the Duke thundered, “was a port merchant! You’ll never lack for a decent bottle on the table, I suppose, but that’s hardly a reason to marry the woman. The ridicule—our place at Court—”
William didn’t flinch. “It is not negotiable. I’m afraid, Your Grace.”
The Duke sputtered—then fell into a furious silence.
After a beat, he said, “Well, if you insist on this idiocy—a marriage, secret or not—then make it worth it. This is a love match, is it not? I expect heirs. Plural.”
William’s lips curled into a wry smile. “Of course, Your Grace. A baby a year, like a fishwife. I’ll not shirk that particular duty.”
Charlotte made a faint sound—somewhere between a laugh and a groan. The Duke flung his napkin down and stood, storming from the room while muttering about disgrace and dragging a governess into the family line.
Only once he was gone did William let out a long, exhausted breath. Charlotte stepped beside him and rested her hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing, you know.”
He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the sunlight dancing on the silver teapot. “Yes,” he said finally. “But God help me—I don’t know what it will cost.”
* * *
Jane had not seen him in weeks. She heard his steps before she saw him, that familiar tread across the corridor. Her heart leapt—and then settled, heavy as stone. She remained seated at her desk by the window, the surface strewn with papers, her inkwell nearly dry.
The door opened. William stood there, freshly shaven, perfectly dressed, not a crease in sight. The very look of him almost undid her.
“Good morning,” he said, as though it were a matter of no importance. “I won’t take much of your time.”
She rose carefully. The round swell beneath her gown was now impossible to disguise. She made no attempt. He saw it at once. His eyes darted to it and then back to her face, almost too quickly.
“You are to be moved,” he said. “This arrangement—your confinement here—is no longer sufficient. The household is beginning to wonder.”
A pause. His manner was even, efficient. “I’ll go out this morning to find a suitable house. Somewhere respectable. It will be yours entirely. Worry not.”
She said nothing. Her hands were folded over her stomach, her back straight, her face calm.
“Your household will be small, a maid and a cook,” he went on. “Keep Mary, if you wish. She’s discreet and knows of your needs.”
Still, she remained silent.
He frowned. “You can imagine, I do not wish to expose you to disgrace, or… ridicule.”
Jane’s voice was quiet. “I see. You mean to keep me.”
His jaw clenched. “I mean to marry you.”
At that, her breath caught. Her eyes flickered, but she did not speak.
“A special license has been requested. The ceremony will be private. Swift. And entirely secret.”
She stared at him. “For how long? This sort of thing can’t be hushed forever.”
He exhaled. “For as long as I deem necessary.”
Her lips parted, but then she swayed. He caught her before she could fall, hands steadying her by the arms. “Jane—”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, breath short.
He helped her to sit back down, then stood over her. His tone gentled. “You must understand. I am soon to leave for the Continent.”
She turned to the window. “There are always wars.”
“This one is different. Napoleon escaped Elba.”
Her head snapped to him. A faint gasp left her lips, and her hands moved instinctively over her belly.
“I’ll have orders soon,” he said. “And I won’t have time to settle matters properly before I go. But even if there were no campaign, even if peace reigned, the secrecy would still be necessary. For your sake as much as mine.”
“I see,” she said softly. Her expression was unreadable. Only the paleness in her cheeks betrayed her.
William glanced away—then looked at her again, properly.
For the first time in weeks. She was radiant.
Tired, yes. Sad. Resigned. But something about her struck him hard in the chest. The curve of her body, the elegant tilt of her head.
The way she held herself, proud despite everything. His child beneath her heart.
He could not help it. His eyes dropped again to her stomach. He looked back up at her face. She was watching him.
He cleared his throat. “The ceremony can be conducted at the new house. Quietly. No one need attend apart from the witnesses.”
Jane gave a small nod. Her voice, when it came, was neutral. “As you wish, my lord.”
And that was worse than shouting. Worse than accusation. She had withdrawn into perfect, icy courtesy.
William felt the words he might have said catch uselessly on his tongue. Instead, he stepped back, his hand falling away from her arm. “You’ll be moved within the week.”
She inclined her head. He turned and left. And behind him, Jane remained seated, her hand pressed firmly over the child he had just made her hide.