LITMIR.BIZ

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right!” Darby yelled at Gabriel. They threw off their cumbersome greatcoats and shouldered their packs as they headed down the hill toward the thin line of trees standing between them and the snakelike line of tents along the river, the camp that now seemed so far away.

      There were no English soldiers marching toward them to give them cover until they could reach their own lines. No Sergeant Major Ames, no Russian troops falling into formation in front of their tents, weapons at the ready. And no Myles Neville to be seen anywhere. Only the smoke from thousands of small cooking fires rose up to meet them, that and the smell of borscht.

      Behind them and closing rapidly came the sound of thundering hooves and shouting Frenchmen.

      * * *

      WOULD AN EARLIER warning have altered the outcome that day? Probably not. Napoleon knew he badly needed a victory to rally the French people, and although not all his infantry might be well trained or even well armed, they did outnumber the Allied troops nearly four to one.

      In less than an hour, the easy triumph of La Rothière became the embarrassing debacle at Champaubert, with morale swinging back in Napoleon’s favor, giving him the will to fight on. After all, he’d lost only two hundred of his men, while the Allies’ casualties numbered over four thousand, with many more taken prisoner, including Olssufiev.

      By some miracle, Gabriel and his friends survived the rout, but not without consequences. Cooper Townsend had taken a ball in his side, and Jeremiah Rigby was occupied guiding Darby Travers along the rough track that ran beside the roadway; the man’s eyes were covered with bandages.

      “Move aside! Move aside!”

      The command, issued in guttural French, warned the seemingly endless line of prisoners to stumble into the slush and mud at either side of the roadway as yet another equipage rolled by.

      Gabriel looked up in time to see the Russian general and several of his senior staff being driven past the long line of marching prisoners in a horse-drawn wagon. Rank had its privileges, even in defeat.

      “Where’s Broxley’s brat?” he shouted, knowing the man couldn’t understand a word of English but not really caring at the moment. He chased after the wagon, hauling Cooper along with him.

      “I can’t go on, Gabe,” Cooper gasped out as exhaustion stopped their pursuit. “Did you see him? I didn’t see him.”

      “I saw him. Perched right up next to Olssufiev. Somebody stuck him in a Russian officer’s uniform.”

      “So now he’s under the general’s protection. Politics, that’s all it is, Gabe. Money and politics. Let it go.”

      But Gabriel was incensed, nearly out of his mind with rage and with no clear direction to focus it. Coop could be dying. Darby had probably lost vision in at least one of his eyes. Many of their men were still sprawled on the muddy ground, left there for their bodies to rot as the French stripped them of boots and weapons, food and ammunition, before abandoning the battlefield.

      “When you see your papa,” he shouted as the wagon kept moving, “tell him I damn his eyes for what happened here today—and damn you for a bloody coward!”

      He didn’t feel the butt of the French rifle slam into the side of his head, although when he woke, lying half in an icy puddle, it was with a headache that would come back to plague him for nearly a year.

      * * *

      NOT QUITE TWO months after what would be his last real victory, Napoleon was finally forced to abdicate, and at last everyone could go home. Indeed, Gabriel Sinclair and his friends Jeremiah Rigby and Cooper Townsend were relaxing at White’s, sipping wine and shelling walnuts when the last of their quartet, Darby Travers, arrived to join them. He tossed a folded newspaper onto the table before dropping into a chair, his face dark with disgust.

      “Read that, my friends. Myles Neville has just been honored by the Russians for indispensable services to General Olssufiev, Mother Russia and all God’s fair creatures, I imagine. It says there that they gave him a party and a bloody medal in Paris. Can you believe it? Not content to get his son back alive, that damned Earl of Broxley has somehow managed to turn piss-pants into a hero.”

      Copyright © 2015 by Kathryn Seidick

       Those Scandalous Ravenhursts

       The Notorious Mr Hurst

       Disrobed and Dishonored

       The Piratical Miss Ravenhurst

       Louise Allen

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

       The Notorious Mr Hurst

      Louise Allen

      LOUISE ALLEN loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or travelling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk, @LouiseRegency and janeaustenslondon.com

       Author Note

      Lady Maude Templeton believes in love, as I discovered during the course of THE SHOCKING LORD STANDON, when she refused to marry the hero on the grounds that she just knew the right man was out there waiting for her somewhere.

      And then she found him and fell in love instantly with Mr Eden Hurst, who is not only resoundingly ineligible for the daughter of an earl, but as a man who most definitely does not believe in love.

      Maude sets out to convince Eden not only that love exists but that she is the woman he needs in his life. It seems a hopeless task, but Maude can be quite as shocking as any of her Ravenhurst friends when she puts her mind to it and Eden Hurst soon finds that doing the right thing is harder than he can ever have imagined. If only he can work out what the right thing is…

       Chapter One

       February 1817

      ‘And so, my false love—I die!’ The maiden sank to the ground, a dagger in her bosom, her white arm outflung.

      The audience went wild. They applauded, whistled, stamped and, those members of it who were not weeping into their handkerchiefs, leapt to their feet with cries of ‘More! More!’

      The dark-haired lady in the expensive box close to the stage gripped the velvet-upholstered rim and held her breath. For the audience who had flocked to see the final performance of The Sicilian Seducer, or Innocence Betrayed, the tension was over and they could relax into their appreciation of the melodrama. For Lady Maude Templeton, the climax of the evening was about to occur and, she was determined, it would change her life for ever.

      ‘You would never guess it, but she must be forty if she’s a day,’ Lady Standon remarked, lowering her opera glass from a careful study of the corpse who was just being helped to her feet by her leading man.

      ‘One is given to understand that La Belle Marguerite

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