The Duke was offering bland reassurance about the scanty news of the day’s skirmishes. Brussels was full of rumours about a French attack, rumours that the Duke was scarcely able to correct or deny. He knew there had been fighting about Charleroi, and he had heard of some skirmishes being fought in the villages south of the Prince of Orange’s headquarters, but whether the French had invaded in force, or whether there was an attack coming in the direction of Mons, the Duke still did not know. Some of his staff had urged that he abandon the Duchess’s ball, but such an act, he knew, would only have offered encouragement to the Emperor’s many supporters in Brussels and could even have prompted the wholesale desertion of Belgian troops. The Duke had to appear confident of victory or else every waverer in his army would run to be with the Emperor and the winning side.
“Is Orange here?” the Duke asked an aide.
“No, sir.”
“Let’s hope he brings news. My dear Lady Mary, how very good to see you.” He bowed over her hand, then dismissed her fears of an imminent French invasion. Gently disengaging himself he walked on and saw Lord John Rossendale waiting to present himself and, with him, a young, pretty and under-dressed girl who somehow looked familiar.
“Who in God’s name brought Rossendale here?” the Duke angrily asked an aide.
“He’s been appointed to Uxbridge’s staff, sir.”
“Damn Harry. Haven’t we enough bloody fools in the cavalry already?” Harry Paget, Earl of Uxbridge and commander of the British cavalry, was second in command to the Duke. Uxbridge had eloped with the wife of the Duke’s younger brother, which did not precisely endear him to the Duke. “Is Harry here?” the Duke now asked.
“No, Your Grace.”
“He’s sent Rossendale as deputy adulterer instead, eh?” The Duke’s jest was grim, then his face froze into a chill smile as Rossendale ushered Jane forward.
“Your Grace.” Lord John bowed. “May I name Miss Jane Gibbons for you?” He deliberately used Jane’s maiden name.
“Miss Gibbons.” The Duke found himself staring down her powdered cleavage as she curtseyed. “Have we not met, Miss Gibbons?”
“Briefly, Your Grace. In southern France.”
He had her now. Good God! Wellington stiffened, remembering the details of the gossip. This was Sharpe’s wife! What in hell’s name did Rossendale think he was doing? The Duke, realizing that the introduction had been made in order to give the adulterous liaison the appearance of his approval, icily turned away without another word. It was not the adultery that offended him, but the stupidity of Lord John Rossendale risking a duel with Sharpe.
The Duke turned abruptly back, intending to inform his lordship that he did not permit duelling among his officers, but Rossendale and Jane had been swallowed up in the crowd.
The Duke forced a smile and airily denied to a lady that he had any fear of an imminent French attack. “It takes longer to push an army up a road than you might think. It’s not like herding cows, madam. We’ll have good warning when Bonaparte marches, I do assure you.”
Another burst of applause announced the arrival of the Prince of Orange, who had come with a handful of staff officers. The Young Frog waved happily to the dancers and, ignoring his hostess, made straight for the Duke. “I knew you wouldn’t cancel the ball.”
“Should I have done?” the Duke asked tartly.
“There have been rumours,” the Prince said airily, “nothing but rumours. Isn’t this splendid?” He stared eagerly about the room in search of the prettiest faces, but instead caught sight of Lieutenant Harry Webster, one of his own British aides, who was hurrying across the dance floor. Webster offered the Prince a perfunctory bow, then offered him a despatch.
Most of the ballroom saw the despatch being given, and could tell from Webster’s dust-stained boots that he must have ridden hard to bring the paper to Brussels, but the Prince merely thrust the despatch into a pocket of his coat and went back to his scrutiny of the younger women. Webster’s face showed alarm. The Duke, catching the expression, smiled thinly at the Prince. “Might I know the contents of the despatch, Your Highness?”