Betrayal

His eyes searched her face, bringing a blush of awareness as his attention lingered on her mouth before sliding down to where her breasts would be if she had not bound them.

Pippa pushed him gently down on the pillows. “Calm yourself,” she murmured. “’Tis only me, Pip—Pippen.” She had almost said her own name, she was sure because of his blatant regard.

Dev’s eyes lost their startled look and his gaze fell away from her face. “For a moment I thought you were someone else. A…a woman.”

“What would a woman be doing in here?”

Betrayal

Harlequin® Historical

GEORGINA DEVON

has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Social Sciences with a concentration in History. Her interest in England began when she lived in East Anglia as a child and later as an adult. She met her husband in England, and her wedding ring set is from Bath. She has many romantic and happy memories of the land. Today she lives in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband, two dogs, an inherited cat and a cockatiel. Her daughter has left the nest and does Web site design, including Georgina’s. Contact her at www.georginadevon.com.

GEORGINA DEVON

Betrayal

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Waterloo, 1815

War is hell.

Major Lord Deverell St Simon ran his hand over his face, smearing rain water and mud across his nose and jaw. It was hot and muggy, and he hated Napoleon Bonaparte’s guts. His troops were demoralized and he was close behind.

Damn Napoleon. Damn him to hell for starting this war with his plans of world rule. Damn him.

If it were not for Napoleon’s escape from Elba, they would not be here. But the Little Emperor never quit.

Even now, there were occasions when Dev could see Napoleon just over the next hillock as the bastard urged his troops to victory. Because of him, Britain’s finest were ready to give up their lives. He was the reason they had been fighting for four days, and the massive losses on both sides were devastating.

Smoke lay like fog over the churned, bloody dirt. Death was a miasma Dev waded through while stifling the urge to vomit. Bodies, human and equine, littered the ground, grotesque in their death dance.

The rain started. Again.

Still, Dev made himself grin at his fellow officer and friend, Captain Patrick Shaunessey. ‘We are almost through this, Pat. Don’t give up now.’ The words were for himself as much as for his comrade, and he was honest enough to realize it.

Pat grimaced, his carrot-colored hair sweat stained. ‘Never say die,’ he said, bitterness tingeing the words.

Dev shrugged and shook his head like a dog, sending drops spattering out from his light brown hair. ‘You’d say the same, Pat, except you are more tired than I.’

For the first time that day, a smile quirked up one corner of Pat’s mouth. ‘And I didn’t stay at the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball until there was no time to change into my uniform.’ His blue eyes gleamed as he looked pointedly at Deverell’s gunpowder-stained evening shirt.

Dev grinned, knowing his friend needed the bantering to ease the strain of battle and death. He needed it too. ‘They don’t call me Devil for nothing. I had no intention of leaving the Duchess’s ball early and cutting short my pleasure.’ His teeth formed a white slash in his exhaustion-lined face. ‘There were any number of ladies ready to console a man about to face war.’

The Captain’s snort of amusement was lost in the roar of wind ripping through the poplars. Rain pelted down, turning the already muddy ground into a morass that would impede anything that tried to move. The artillery, with their heavy guns, would have a devil of a time.

Glancing behind and to the right, Dev caught sight of the Duke of Wellington. The Duke was mounted on Copenhagen, his chestnut gelding, and wearing his familiar dark blue coat, white breeches, white cravat and cocked hat.

‘Wonder what the Iron Duke wants?’ Pat muttered, raising up just enough to see over the ridgeline of Mont Saint Jean, the place Wellington had chosen for his final stand against Napoleon.

‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Dev said.

The sun broke through the clouds, turning the damp ground into a mist-shrouded enigma. Dev considered taking off his black jacket, but thought better of it. White made as good a target as the typical British red uniform coat.

‘Dev, Pat,’ Lieutenant Colonel Sir James Macdonell yelled, ‘come here. We have orders.’ Both men exchanged a telling glance as they rose.

Macdonell was a large Highlander, with a reputation for accomplishing what no one else could. His mouth was grimly tight. ‘Wellington has ordered us to hold the Château de Hougoumont.’

‘With what?’ Dev asked, realizing that the château’s open position made it a hard place to defend.

‘He has given me command of the Scots and Coldstream Guards, the best we have. The château occupies a strategically important place. As long as we hold it, Napoleon must split his forces in order to get to Mont Saint Jean.’ Macdonell made eye contact with each man. ‘It’s our best chance to defeat Napoleon. We must hold it or die trying.’

A frisson of excitement ran up Dev’s spine. He had never been one to ignore a challenge, not even one such as this. ‘Then we will do it.’

‘I knew I could count on you,’ Macdonell said. ‘See to your men and supplies. We have to be in place before Napoleon realizes what is happening.’

After Macdonell left, Dev turned and winked at Pat. ‘This is it, old friend. We are about to earn our place in the history books.’

Pat’s face was pale but determined, his blue eyes clear. ‘You always were one for action. I hope this isn’t your last.’

Dev clapped Pat on the back, ignoring the uneasiness his friend’s words created. ‘I’ll stand you to a bottle of Brooks’s finest port when we’re through this.’

‘And I’ll hold you to that,’ Pat said.

Dev sobered as he saw the fear return to his friend’s face. Dev knew his eyes mirrored Pat’s. ‘Good luck and God go with you,’ he said quietly before turning away.

Dev made haste to round up his troops and get them positioned. Coming from the east, they passed through an orchard before entering the walled portion of the property where the château, a chapel, and a barn stood. In reality, Hougoumont was barely more than a farmhouse, its grey stone walls bleak under a sky that had suddenly turned leaden.

The men broke loopholes into the buildings and walls for their Brown Besses to shoot through and then set about cleaning the rifles. Next, they built small fires in an attempt to dry their clothes, which were soaked from the earlier rains.

Dev made his rounds, uncomfortable in his wet jacket and breeches, but unwilling to stop long enough to dry them. Macdonell counted on him, and he would not let the man down. They would be prepared for Napoleon’s onslaught.

Once, he passed Patrick and grinned. Pat gave him a brief salute and continued his preparations.

It was after eleven in the morning when they saw the French. The enemy stormed through a hedge and into the fifty feet of barren ground that stood between them and the château. Dev ordered his men to fire. The French dropped, good British lead in their chests.

Time was a blur to Deverell. His men loaded and fired, loaded and fired. Dev paced amongst them, shouting encouragement, giving direction.

Without warning, a group of Frenchmen reached the gate of the château. A gigantic French lieutenant swung a sapper’s axe at the gate. The gate splintered.

Dev rushed forward, knowing that if the French breached the gate the battle was lost. He swung his sword in sweeping arches, using it like a machete. Around him other British soldiers did the same.

From the corner of his eye, Dev saw Colonel Macdonell put his shoulder to the gate and begin to push it closed. Dev followed suit. Men leaped to help.

Somehow the gate was closed. Dev only knew his existence had become a red haze of death and blood and survival.

The French trapped inside Hougoumont were killed or taken prisoner, the château secured once more.

The excitement that had held Dev drained away. He moved toward the grey stone wall with the intention of resting.

’Merci.’ A weak voice caught his attention. It belonged to a French drummer boy. He had been slashed in the arm and blood ran in a red rivulet down his sleeve. He was only a child.

Dev yanked the cravat from his neck and tied it securely around the boy’s arm, then yelled for one of his men. ‘See that this soldier is kept alive.’

The British ensign who took the prisoner was not much older than the Frenchman. Dev shook his head in resignation. Death and dying.

The day wore on. The French artillery pounded the château. Afternoon was well progressed. Ammunition was low.

Dev wiped sweat from his brow and prepared to exhort his men further, when smoke arose from the building behind him. The French artillery had hit a haystack. The flames spread to the barn where the wounded lay. Horses ran into the flames. Men and animals screamed.

Dev felt hot, then cold. ‘Pat,’ he yelled to his comrade, ‘see to our men. I must help those poor devils.’

Dev ran toward the fire. Another man joined him.

Dev plunged into the barn, grabbing the first person he reached. The man’s moans were pitiful, but Dev ignored them. Better to cause him pain than to lose him to the fire. He deposited him outside and went back.

Where was the French drummer? He had been near the door.

‘Boy?’ Dev yelled in French.

The answer was a ragged cough, but it was enough. Dev turned left. A figure staggered toward him, and Dev caught the slight youth. Smoke curled around them and burned Dev’s lungs as he sped toward the door.

Overhead the timbers crackled. A large snap reverberated through the murky air. A hand grabbed Dev’s leg. He slung the drummer boy over his shoulders and gripped the fingers still clinging to his leg. With a grunt, Dev pulled the other man to his feet and propelled the lumbering figure forward.

Noise reverberated through the building.

A large overhead timber gave way, crashing to the floor, bringing a curtain of fire with it. Dev threw the youth forward at the same time he shoved the older soldier toward the doorway.

Pain ripped through Dev. His right leg gave way and he tumbled to the ground. Smoke filled his mouth and burned his lungs.

His last conscious thought was: this is hell!

Chapter One

Pippa’s gaze darted around Brussels’s crowded, stinking streets. Wounded men lay everywhere. She could only be glad she was here. The times she had helped the local midwife and the county surgeon had given her skills which might save lives, or at least ease the passing.

Her twin might even be here. Wellington’s letter saying Philip was dead had been sent from here. Philip might be amongst the British fighting Napoleon, and Wellington might not even know.

Her mouth twisted. It was a far-fetched idea. The note was dated weeks ago, and everything pointed to her twin being dead. But she knew her twin was alive, she felt it, and this was the only place she had to start.

A cry of pain caught her attention. It was from a man, his head wrapped in bandages turned brown by dried blood. Flies buzzed around him. His cracked lips opened, and his tongue ran over them, searching for moisture that was not there.

Pippa rushed to him. Kneeling, she felt the heat of fever emanating from him. She took a dipper of tepid water from a nearby bucket and, supporting the soldier’s head with one arm, tipped the liquid into his mouth. He gulped greedily.

‘Thank ye, lad,’ the man said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“Twas nothing,’ Pippa murmured, for the first time regretting her decision to disguise herself as a youth. She had done so because young men were allowed in many places where women were barred, places where there might be people with information regarding her brother. Nothing mattered more than finding Philip.

Yet, if she wore skirts, she could tear off her petticoats and make a new bandage for the man’s wound. As it was, she wore a pair of Philip’s old pantaloons and one of his shirts, her breasts bound by linen to give her the appearance of a man. She had nothing she could take off without exposing herself.

‘Blast,’ she muttered, putting aside her wish for petticoats. Steeling herself, she made the decision to remove the filthy bandage. The man would be no worse without it, and probably better.

‘Hey! Boy! What do you think you are doing?’

Pippa heard the voice as background noise. She was still too new at her masquerade to realize she was the ‘boy’.

‘You, boy,’ the gruff voice said angrily as a beefy hand gripped her shoulder and swung her around so she landed on her knees.

Pippa did not like being touched. She liked even less being interrupted when she was with a patient.

‘Unhand me,’ she said, lowly and furiously.

‘Touchy for a mite of a lad,’ the man accosting her said, dropping his hand.

Scowling, Pippa stood and dusted the dirt from the knees of her buff pantaloons.

The officer looming over her—and she was not small—was a bull of a man, with a scowl the equal of hers. A shock of dark brown hair fell over equally dark eyes.

His frown deepened. ‘Leave the men alone. We have enough problems without your meddling.’ He squatted by the soldier. ‘And this one is sorely hurt.’

Pippa’s anger seeped away as she watched the surgeon gently tend to the man’s wound. ‘I can help, sir. I’ve trained with our county surgeon and know many of the local midwife’s pain remedies.’

Disregarding her, the surgeon soaked the bandage with water from the nearby bucket and then carefully unwrapped it. ‘He would be better off without this.’ Dismay moved across his craggy features, followed quickly by stoic acceptance.

The surgeon took off his coat and made it into a pillow, which he carefully laid the soldier’s head on. Next, he washed his bloody hands in the water and dried them. Only then did he deign to give Pippa a critical once-over.

‘You are naught but a boy, dressed in his older brother’s clothes. I’d sooner trust yon private—’ he jerked his head in the direction of a man who was going around giving the hurt soldiers water ‘—with an amputation before I’d let you treat these injured men.’

His callous words bit into Pippa, but she held herself straighter and met the other’s hard gaze with one of her own. ‘I know enough to realize you have ruined the drinking water by washing your hands in it. Now you must send someone to fetch a fresh bucket.’

‘Any fool knows that.’

‘You should also consider giving him a tincture of henbane to ease the pain and promote relaxation and sleep. You could do the same with opium or laudanum, but I doubt there is enough of either to go around.’

The surgeon’s eyes narrowed. ‘How old are you, boy?’

The barked question took her by surprise. It should not have. Only very young boys have downy cheeks and slim shoulders. She had tried to pad her shoulders, she could do nothing about her cheeks.

Going on the offensive, a trick her twin had taught her early in life, she met the surgeon’s eyes boldly. ‘Old enough to be here.’

For an instant the man’s wide mouth quirked up. ‘Plenty of spunk.’

Two moans pierced the air, each from opposite sides of the street. The surgeon glanced from one wounded man to the other, his face torn by indecision. The hook of his nose seemed to turn down.

‘All right, boy. This is your chance. I cannot tend both men simultaneously.’

Anticipation made Pippa’s hands shake. She looked from man to man and found her attention drawn to a bright brown thatch of hair. Her twin had hair that color, not black as her own because they weren’t identical. Could it be Philip?

She took a step toward the man, saying over her shoulder, ‘Yes, sir.’

The surgeon didn’t stop her. ‘Mind you don’t do anything that will harm the bloke,’ he stated, his dark eyes boring into her back. He raised his voice. ‘Or I shall have you thrown out of the city on your arse.’

‘Ingrate,’ Pippa muttered under her breath as she hastened to the patient who might be her twin.

She knelt beside the man, disappointment clenching her hands. He wasn’t Philip. But he was sorely injured.

The man’s moans increased in volume, and his arms and legs thrashed about, throwing off a dirty blanket that had been draped over him. His right calf was a mass of torn muscles and protruding bone. If she did not act quickly, putrefaction would set in and he would lose the limb. The moans stopped the first time she probed the wound.

She glanced at his face to see him watching her with pain-racked hazel eyes. Rivulets of sweat poured from his high brow. He was more handsome than she had ever imagined a man could be. Pain twisted his features and furrows creased his forehead and carved brackets around his mouth, a mouth that might have been wide and sharply defined if it were not flattened by agony. His jaw was square and clenched. His cheekbones were high and flushed with fever. Perspiration slicked his hair.

‘Don’t cut it off,’ he said, his voice a deep, dry rasp that made her fingers shake even more.

In some ways he reminded her of her brother; strong and clean of limb, with the exception of his right leg, and similar in colouring. But the feelings this man aroused in her, in spite of his helplessness, weren’t sisterly. Nor were they welcome under any circumstances, much less these.

Forcing her attention back to his wound, she saw that amputating the limb was his best chance, and yet she found herself agreeing with his command not to remove it. This man had a fierce light in his eyes and a muscular wiriness that spoke of activity. He would not appreciate living without his leg.

By the time she pulled the last fragment of bone and the final piece of torn cloth from the wound, perspiration drenched her shirt. His piercing gaze bent on her face as she worked did not help. Never had a man stared at her so intently, and never had a man’s attention affected her so completely.

She dared glance at him again, only to wish she had not. His face was creased in agony, and she knew it had been a supreme effort of will that had kept him conscious during the cleaning.

‘That leg will have to come off,’ the surgeon said in a gruff voice.

Pippa had not heard him approach. Starting, she twisted around in her squatting position and looked up at him. ‘I think I can save it.’

The surgeon shook his head. ‘If we were in a small town or he was the only patient, I might agree. But ‘tis not so, lad. If the leg stays, it will fester and kill him. Better he lose a limb than lose his life.’

Pippa frowned. She had heard the surgeon at home say similar words, but…

Perhaps the surgeon was right.

The man’s broad shoulders shook and the leg beneath Pippa’s fingers twitched. His eyelids fluttered, their thick sandy eyelashes creating a sharp shadow against his pale skin. His eyes caught and held her attention, commanding her.

‘Don’t let him take my leg,’ the man whispered, his voice coming hoarse through cracked lips. His hand gripped her wrist and squeezed to emphasize his order. ‘I would rather die.’

Even as he said the words, his eyes closed and Pippa realized he was trusting her to do as he ordered. He did not have the energy to fight the surgeon. It was up to her to save his limb.

Her twin came instantly to mind. Philip would not want to lose his leg. He would call himself half a man. This man would do the same. She knew it with a certainty she did not want to question for fear that she would find herself gone insane; that she would find herself more involved with this man than she had any reason to be.

Chewing her bottom lip, Pippa stood and faced the surgeon. ‘You heard him. He would rather die.’

‘You would risk his life on a whim?’ The surgeon’s bushy brown eyebrows formed a bar across his wide face. ‘I was right not to entrust anyone’s care to you.’

Pippa flushed, half-embarrassed at her statement and half-angry at the surgeon for doubting her skills. ‘The way a man feels about his life is as important as whether he has one.’

The surgeon’s scowl deepened, his attention going to the patient. ‘You did a thorough job of cleaning the flesh. Can you set the bone?’

Pippa nodded, sensing that she had won.

‘You,’ the surgeon bellowed to a nearby soldier, ‘bring an eighteen-tail bandage and splint.’ Turning his frown back on Pippa, he said, ‘If this man dies, you will have to live with your conscience. Now, show me what you can do.’

Pippa bit her bottom lip and studied the surgeon. He met her gaze squarely. He was laying a heavy burden on her, but one doctors and healers faced every day of their lives. She could and would accept that burden.