Chapter One

M ajor Nathaniel Treloar, late of the 18th King’s Irish Regiment of Light Dragoons, known nowadays as the 18th Hussars, stepped out of the coach that had brought him up to London from Canterbury and stared around himself at Fetter Lane. He’d been away for over a year and a half, seen a war fought and won, and, somehow, he’d expected London to have something to show for it. But there was nothing. All seemed just as he’d left it in January 1813, when his regiment had taken ship for Lisbon and rejoined the Peninsular War.

His fellow passengers, a bluff gentleman with thick gray hair and whiskers and his stout wife, descended from the coach as well, although unlike Nat, they seemed to know where they were going.

The guard threw down the luggage from the top of the coach with scant respect for whether it might contain anything breakable. Nat picked up his own valise before any of the loitering riffraff could attempt to grab it, and turned toward the hostelry the coach had delivered him to. Large lettering across the smart brick fa?ade above the windows declared it to be the White Horse Tavern and Family Hotel, an establishment recommended by his friend Captain Ned Cavendish. It possessed an added advantage to Ned’s recommendation in that it was only a short walk from the Saracen’s Head in Snow Hill, from which Nat had to catch the coach to the West Country first thing in the morning.

Slinging the heavy bag over his shoulder, he pushed open the door and entered the hostelry. He found himself in a long room with a counter running all the way down one side. At this time of day, a few men of somewhat dubious appearance were already sitting around playing cards, tankards of ale gripped in their hands. They looked him up and down, no doubt assessing whether he could be gulled into playing a losing hand with them, and stayed put.

Nat approached the aproned man who seemed to be serving.

This worthy, a long, skinny drink of water with heavily hooded eyes and a burgeoning bald spot, wiped his hands on his wrap-around apron and tugged the scant remains of his forelock in respect. He probably recognized in Nat the gait and bearing of a soldier, despite his civilian dress of blue frock coat and breeches. The long scar on the right side of Nat’s face must have reinforced his guess, and might also have had something to do with the card sharps’ reluctance to engage him. Nat still hadn’t become accustomed to the way people stared at his disfigurement. This man, though, made a creditable effort not to. “Good evening to you, fine sir. And what can I do for you?”

Already the blaring of a horn and the clatter of a second coach arriving at the inn sounded outside on the cobbles. Nat, cocking an ear for the noise of fresh passengers in search of overnight accommodation, was seized by the urgency of the situation. “I should like to procure a room for the night, my good man. The best you have at your disposal.”

The barkeeper tugged his forelock again. “If you’d like to foller me, sir, I’ll take you up right now. The boss keeps only the best for officers like yourself. Overlooks the street, so you’ll not be bothered by the comings and goings of the stableyard too much.” His eyes slid sideways toward the scar before he dragged them back again. “This way.”

The room, which was of more generous proportions than Nat had expected, did indeed look out over the street, from which the second coach had now vanished, presumably into the stableyard for the horses to be unhitched. “I’ll take it,” Nat said. “And a roast chicken for my dinner, along with a flagon of good claret and a bottle of brandy, here in my room.”

When the barkeeper had departed, Nat checked the bed. He’d had more than his fill of bad beds in Spain and Southern France, and there could be a lot of things amiss with a bed in a public inn, even in England. The feather mattress didn’t feel too lumpy, the sheets seemed clean and well aired, and he couldn’t spy any bedbugs or other small visitors. He took off his coat and flung it over the bed’s foot, then lay down, still in his dusty boots, and put his hands behind his head. As he stood a little over six feet tall, his feet touched the solid oak foot, and he was reminded of the story of Procrustes and how he would either stretch longer, or cut bits off his visitors in order to make them fit in his bed, until Theseus came along and sorted him out.

Well, what a turn up for the books this was. Only a few short weeks ago he’d been with the army in the South of France, at Bordeaux to be precise, and now look where he found himself. No longer a soldier at all. He glanced down at his long body, virtually untouched by war if he hid the missing fingers on his right hand. His civilian clothes made quite a change from the brocade festooned uniform he’d been wearing as a Hussar, but he liked it. He’d had his fill of fighting, an unsurprising feeling considering how much of the Peninsular War he’d seen and taken part in. Too much. He touched his fingers to his cheek, feeling the raised and thickened flesh. A man could have more than enough of violence.

His grandfather, Sir Hugh Treloar, had bought him a commission as soon as he left Harrow, and a few years later, in July of 1808, he’d been sent as a captain with his regiment to Portugal at the start of the Peninsular campaign.

After Julia.

He’d enjoyed it at first, if that was how he could have described it. Perhaps at best it had been a much-needed distraction from his sorrows. Soldiering had always been something he’d felt he was born for, and he’d sunk into this particular posting like a welcome comforting blanket. For the last six years, he’d allowed soldiering to blot out all else.

Not now though. Not after… No, he wouldn’t think about it. If he did, he’d never muster an appetite for his dinner, which must surely be coming up soon. But what to think of instead? He ran his fingers through his unruly hair, a little too long at the moment and much in need of a trim. Rather than let the regimental barber in the Canterbury barracks hack away at it, he’d decided to wait until his return. He’d never been a stickler for following fashion. What soldier ever was? Any of those who did so were rarely good soldiers.

Home. That was it. He’d think of home. Only it hadn’t been home now for eleven long years. In all that time he’d only been back to Cornwall once, and that just a flying visit for the funeral of his Aunt Endelyn’s husband, John Polmear. Even before he’d taken up his commission, he’d been away at school for six years and glad to be so. Yet, in his heart, it remained his home, as much as any soldier, with his nomadic existence, could call anywhere home.

If he’d been inclined to self-analysis, he’d perhaps have reasoned that he needed its gentle balm, in contrast to the frantic furor of the recent war. As it was, his mind wandered unbidden down winding, flower-strewn lanes to leafy green Cornwall, such a contrast to the stony aridity of Northern Spain and Southern France. How hard it was to conjure up an image of Roskilly House as he remembered it. All he could make out in his mind’s eye was a vague shape, devoid even of windows, the gardens remaining invisible. Had he been gone so long it had all but faded from his memory?

His sister Hetty must be all grown up by now. Sixteen? Seventeen? Ready to make her debut in society, such as it was that far down England’s long westward stretching toe. Ready, perhaps, to attend local balls and soirées. Having left so young, he’d never tasted the joys of these parties and balls, save the few he remembered peering over the banisters to watch as a small boy at Roskilly, before his father died.

Would it have changed?

So much had happened in his absence. Uncle Robert’s wife, a sad shadow of a woman with a mouth downturned by constant disappointment, had finally produced an heir and promptly died, to be shortly followed by Uncle Robert himself, hot on the heels of Nat’s own father. Another door in his mind closed: he wouldn’t think about how that had happened. He’d think of Uncle Robert instead. Was his orphaned child still living? He had a vague feeling that three years ago when he’d come down for the funeral, his mother had described the boy as sickly. Although, when he’d glimpsed the child playing in the gardens with his little dog, he’d seemed robust enough, despite his slender frame. An imp with the same sea blue, Treloar eyes he and Hetty possessed. His grandfather’s eyes.

He doubted if he would see his female cousins, the offspring of his two paternal aunts. The oldest, Eliza, had married an architect and moved to Bath before he’d left Harrow, but she had a brother only a year or two older than Nat, who might be good to look up. Instead of a native returning home, he couldn’t shake off the feeling of being a foreigner heading to a land no longer his.

But yes, it might be good to see his cousins if they were around, and young Hetty. He’d like the opportunity to get to know his little sister better. She’d been only six or so when he’d taken up his commission.

But above all, how good it would be to rest his war-torn soul a little and allow the quiet that was Cornwall to cast its spell over him. His eyelids drooped. It had been a long journey.

A knock on the door disturbed him.

He sat up and removed his booted feet from the bedcovers in haste. “Come in.”

A maid had brought his dinner.

*

The following morning, on a day that even that early seemed set to prove a warm one for once, Nat paid his dues to the inn’s chamberlain after an early breakfast, shouldered his valise again, and, turning down bogus offers to find him transport, or carry his bag for him, set off along the narrow, crowded London streets to find the Saracen’s Head at Snow Hill. It lay barely a few hundred yards from the White Horse, but the route was not a straight one, the streets being as tortuous as a labyrinth and packed with dangers. However, he found it easily, with its two distinctive Saracen busts outside the entrance, and, with his ticket to Penzance purchased from the busy ticketing office, he handed up his valise to the guard, and climbed aboard the stagecoach. He’d chosen this slower mode of transport above traveling by mail coach, which stopped for no man and was anything but restful for its passengers.

After a quick survey of his fellow travelers—a man of business in a somber black suit, a matron in a generously decorated floral bonnet, and a man whose rough hands betrayed him as some kind of gentleman farmer, perhaps, Nat closed his eyes and prepared to ignore their unavoidable stares for his disfigurement and at least feign sleep. He was growing used to the reactions his scarred face provoked, ranging from open horror to pity, and hadn’t yet made up his mind which was worse. Best, on the whole, to avoid seeing the looks of strangers.

“Room for two more,” called the guard and the door was flung open again. Drat it. The coach was meant for six, but four would have made the journey far more comfortable. Nat leaned into his corner, prepared to stand his ground against all comers for this coveted position, watching from behind half-closed eyes.

To his surprise, the newcomers were a pair of young officers, smart in their brightly colored uniforms and a little the worse for what must have been a long night of drinking and probably gambling as well. He recognized one of them as young Captain Lockhart, whom he’d met on board ship on the journey from Bordeaux.

“Treloar!” Lockhart, who’d acclimatized to Nat’s facial disfigurement on the long voyage, exclaimed, as he settled himself into the seat between the man of business and the farmer. “Didn’t think to see you here! Where are you bound for?”

The man of business gave him a cold glare.

“Cornwall,” Nat muttered, his heart sinking. The last thing he wanted to have to do was to engage in conversation with anyone. That was the worst thing about public transport—being cooped up for hours on end with people you wouldn’t normally give the time of day to but who thought you were their new best friend.

The other officer, a baby-faced young man, squeezed his sturdy body between Nat and the bonneted lady, disentangling himself from a sword that seemed intent on tripping him up. “You fellows know each other?” His gaze had fixed on the scar. Being on Nat’s right, he could hardly have avoided it.

“Major Treloar of the 18th Hussars,” Lockhart said. “Fought at Vitoria and Toulouse.”

Nat nodded. “We met on the ship back from France.”

Lockhart set his hands on his knees. “I see you’re out of uniform. Bought yourself out, have you?”

Nat shifted, irritated by their bonhomie. He gave a curt nod. “Relinquished my commission.”

“Oh,” Lockhart said, waving a hand at his companion. “I did wonder about doing that m’self, only I don’t know what I’d do instead. And you never know with Old Boney. I hear he’s been dispatched off to Elba, but allowed to govern it like his own little empire. Not far enough if you ask me. I’d have clapped him in irons if it had been up to me. He’ll be back, I’m certain, but we’ll be ready for him. Just a bit of furlough for us two at the moment.”

He leaned forward and slapped his young friend’s knee. “Allow me to introduce my friend and traveling companion, Lieutenant Talbot. We’ve been up here in Town a week or so now, since our regiment returned, but we’ve run a bit low on the readies, so I had the idea to pop off down to Whitchurch where my pater lives. Attending all the celebration balls and soirées can be a terrible drain on one’s resources, especially if one has a liking for the card tables. Although all those lovely girls can be quite distracting. We both lost rather too heavily last night in the taproom.”

Nat suppressed a smile. No doubt the card sharps had seen these two coming.

“Excuse me, sir,” the farmer ventured, his accent broad and rural, saving Nat from having to answer. “Am I to understand that you three gentlemen are all of you freshly returned from the continent? From thrashing Bonaparte?”

“We are indeed,” Lockhart said, beaming proudly. “Although we were down in Spain and the South of France, alongside the Spaniards and the Portuguese, and Boney made his surrender in the North. We didn’t receive the news down there for several days, but when we did, Soult agreed to an armistice pretty damn sharp.”

Talbot nodded. “He’d already abandoned Toulouse and nearly two thousand of his wounded to Wellington. We just marched in and took it over.” He stretched out his legs as the coach rumbled out of the inn yard. “We made a fine job of it. And that was that. War over. Boney in chains.”

“For now,” Lockhart added. “And not actually in chains, remember.”

“I hope for good,” put in the man of business, a long-faced fellow with heavy bags under his bloodshot eyes. “It’s high time we had peaceful dealings across the channel. This has been very bad for commerce.”

“Commerce?” Lockhart cried. “Why, it’s been bad for everything. But particularly bad if you were a French aristo, I should say!”

“Very true,” the matron in the bonnet put in. “I should not like to be a French lady, even now. In fact, I should not at all like to be French. So frightening. Although I did hear they’re planning on restoring their monarchy.”

“Louis XVIII,” the man of business said. “Brother of the one whose head they chopped off with the guillotine. Dreadful business. Dreadful. Let’s hope he’s a step up on his brother and wants to improve relations with us British. It’ll be good for trade.”

“Is that all you can think of?” Lockhart asked, his voice rising. “Venal trade?”

The farmer blustered. “For the likes of us, sir, that’s mighty important, even if it’s not for gentlemen like you who can go home to your fathers and ask for more money whenever you need it. Most of us have to earn our own livelihood.”

Things were hotting up. “Are you saying we soldiers have not been earning our own livelihoods?” Lockhart almost shouted. “Fighting on the Peninsula and in France and Belgium? Prepared to give our lives for our country?”

Time to intervene. Nat held his hands up. “Enough. I may have resigned my commission, but I’m still a major, and as such I outrank both of you two young hotheads. We’ve a long journey ahead of us, although I don’t know how far the rest of you are going.” He nodded to the three civilians. “But I’m with this coach nearly all the way to Penzance, and I don’t fancy sitting here listening to arguments from dawn till dusk. Let us agree to differ and pass the journey in peace. I’ve had more than enough of fighting on the continent and don’t intend to witness it now I’m back in England.”

Lockhart’s eyes blazed, but he bowed his head. “Yes, Major.”

Young Talbot nodded. “I apologize to the company.”

Nat shot Lockhart a hard look. “And you?”

“I apologize as well.”

“Thank you.”

Nat sat back in his seat, with a sigh, and resumed his attempts to fall asleep.