Son of a rogue and a gypsy, Hero Fiennes Tiffin was a notorious rake until a shattering betrayal left him alone and embittered in the Welsh countryside. Desperation drives quiet schoolteacher Josephine Langford to ask Hero Fiennes Tiffin to help sav...
Still beaming, Lucien said, "With luck, I'll never have to do a blessed useful thing in my life."
Hero laughed. "After all you've done for your country the last few years, you're entitled to spend the rest of your life lying around like a turnip."
Similar scenes of exultation surrounded them. Nearby stood an older man in a Guard's uniform with an empty sleeve. His remaining arm circled his wife while both of them wept unashamedly. Even the "statues" abandoned their roles and jumped to the floor to join in the celebration. A cheer went up for Wellington, then for his troops.
Hero glanced up at the musicians' gallery again, then stiffened. "Isn't that Michael up there talking to Rafe?"
Lucien peered upward. "So it is. Probably wanted to learn if Rafe has any details. God knows that from the look of him, Michael has paid a higher price for victory than most."
"With luck, the announcement has put him in a good mood.
Josephine
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Taking Josephine's hand, Hero threaded his way through the rapturous crowd, Lucien right behind them. Josephine almost had to run to keep up. They climbed the entry hall staircase, then turned left into a long, dimly lit corridor that must parallel the upper wall of the two-story ballroom.
At the far end of the corridor, the duke and a tall, rangy man emerged from a door that led to the musicians' gallery. Behind them the orchestra struck up a triumphal march that was muted when the duke closed the door.
As the duke and his companion came down the corridor, talking earnestly, Josephine studied Major Lord Michael Kenyon. Lucien had described him as lean and wolflike, and it was true that his recent illness had left him thin almost to gauntness. Yet the strong bones of his face were still ruggedly handsome, and he moved with an athlete's sureness. He seemed like a worthy addition to the Fallen Angels. Especially, she thought with amusement, since his glossy chestnut hair fitted nicely between the black or blond extremes of the other members.
With his quarry in sight, Hero slowed his pace. "Congratulations, Michael. As one of the men who fought for this victory, you have more reason to celebrate than most."
Lord Michael froze, the animation in his face dying as he swung about. His eyes were a dark, haunted green. "Trust you to ruin a happy moment, Westgate," he said harshly. "Under the circumstances, I'll forget what I swore I'd do if I ever saw you again, but get the hell out of my sight before I change my mind."
Hero still held Josephine's hand, and she felt his fingers chill. She realized, with painful empathy, that in spite of Lucien's warning, Hero had not truly believed that his old friend had become an enemy.
Even now he must not believe it, for he said mildly, "That's an odd greeting after years of separation. Shall we try again?" He stepped forward and offered his hand. "It's been too long, Michael. I'm glad to see that you've survived the Peninsula."
