She sniffed hungrily at the rich aromas coming from the kitchen and ran downstairs.

The senhora had prepared a hearty soup of cabbage, potatoes, and spicy sausage and watched with satisfied nods as her lodger consumed two large bowls and several thick hunks of crusty bread. Then, feeling ready for anything, Tamsyn went to fetch Cesar and rode out to the encampment in search of the colonel.

But as it happened, while Tamsyn was in the encampment, the colonel was in Wellington's headquarters, obeying an urgent summons that had taken him from his hospital visiting back into Elvas.

It was clear to Julian that the commander in chief was in a strange mood. His satisfaction in his victory was tainted by the loss of so many thousands of his best men, and his ruthless decision to give the survivors the run of Badajos did little to comfort him for that loss. Like St. Simon, he believed that if he'd made an example of the garrison at Ciudad Rodrigo in January, the garrison at Badajos would have yielded in a timely fashion and spared both sides indescribable agony. But public opinion would not have supported the uncivilized slaughter of a surrendered garrison, though it would turn a blind eye to the hideous sack and rape of the now-defenseless town.

“Julian, this business of La Violette.” He came straight to the point as the colonel entered. “Have you thought any more about it?”

“There's hardly been time,” Julian pointed out. “But my answer must be the same, sir. I can't possibly agree to such a thing.”

Wellington frowned and began to pace the room, hands clasped at his back. “We need her information, Julian. I'm going to drive the French out of Spain this summer and march into France by autumn. I need to know about those passes, and I need to have more freedom of movement where the partisans are concerned. Violette can make that possible.”

“I don't deny it.” Julian was beginning to feel he had a desperate rear-guard action on his hands. “But I also believe she'll sell the information for something other than my soul,” he added caustically.

“Oh, come now, man, don't exaggerate!” the duke chided. “Six months of your time, that's all.” His eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Forgive me for saying so-she must feel she has some grounds for believing you might agree to such a proposal.”

“She has no grounds,” Julian stated flatly. “No claims on me whatsoever.”

“I see.” Wellington scratched his nose. “Well, she is a most unusual young woman.”

“A manipulative, thieving mercenary,” the colonel declared as ?lady as before. “I will not be a party to her games. I'll lay odds, if you offer sufficient money, she'll spill her guts without blinking an eye.”

“Possibly, but I doubt it… Claret?” The duke strolled to the decanters on the table.

“Thank you.” Julian waited, knowing the battle was far from won. He took the glass offered him with a nod of thanks.

“I doubt it,” the duke continued as if there'd been no break in the conversation. “I have the unmistakable conviction that she knows her price and won't budge. She wants only one thing… and, Lord in heaven, I can't fault her for it. The poor little creature's all alone in the world; she can't be more than nineteen. What kind of a future is there for her here with neither friends nor family?”

Julian sipped his wine and didn't reply, remembering the girl's anguish and desolation. Despite that, he was convinced that “poor little creature” was not an accurate description of the orphaned daughter of El Baron and his English mate.

''I'm sure she'll be able to locate her mother's family,” the duke continued pensively. “But it would be better for her to present a more orthodox appearance. More convincing… more appealing, don't you think?”

“Perhaps,” Julian agreed dryly, not giving an inch. Wellington glanced up at him thoughtfully. “Well, if you won't, you won't. But there is something else I want to discuss with you.”

Julian waited during a lengthening silence, unconvinced that his commander in chief had given up.

“I don't need to tell you how skeptical the government is about this campaign,” Wellington said at last. “They say we exaggerate the importance of the victories that we win them at too great an expense of men and money. God knows, they'll have fodder enough for plaint when the casualties from this filthy business appear in the Gazette.”

Julian nodded. Everyone knew the opposition Wellington encountered from the English government and how near impossible it was for him to get the financial and material support he needed for the Peninsular campaign.

“I need someone to go and present our case at Westminster,” the duke said. “Someone reliable, someone the government will respect, who'll give a firsthand account of the campaign. Dispatches don't present the case adequately, and civilian observers are the very devil! They haven't the faintest notion of what's going on even when it's under their noses.”

“And you're fingering me for the task,” Julian said without inflection. He refilled the commander's glass and then his own.

“You're the perfect emissary,” Wellington said.

“You're the youngest colonel in my army, you've had a brilliant career thus far and are clearly headed for a general's baton in a year or two. You've been mentioned countless times in dispatches, so your name's well-known in government circles. They'll give credence to what you say.”

Julian again made no immediate response, and the commander regarded him with the same shrewd look as before. What Wellington didn't mention, because it went without saying, was that Colonel, Lord Julian St. Simon's title was one of the oldest in the land. His fortune was beyond the dreams of avarice, and his estates, not including Tregarthan, covered entire counties. Such a position and influence made him an even more powerful spokesman to the lords of Westminster.

Julian walked to the window and stood frowning down into the street. “You're asking me to leave the army just as the summer's campaigning is to begin,” he said finally. “To abandon my brigade when they're going to be facing months of marching and fighting.”

“I deem this mission to London to be of vital importance, St. Simon.” Wellington spoke now in the clipped tones of the commander in chief, the note of intimacy vanished. “I've colonels aplenty to take over your brigade, but I've no one better suited than you to undertake this diplomatic business. If you wish, I'll give O'Connor field rank as colonel in your absence. I understand his wound isn't going to send him home.” He paused, then said deliberately, “You'll have regimental rank as brigadier immediately on your return.”

Julian's heart jumped. From brigadier to general was a small step, and he'd promised himself he'd carry a general's baton by the time he was thirty. But he thought he'd achieve it through fighting… leading his men to victory… not by smooth talk and careful politics in the corridors of Westminster.

“Am I to understand you're ordering me to London, sir?”

“Precisely, Colonel.”

Julian turned from the window. “And this other business?”

“Oh, come now, Julian.” Wellington was smiling now. “You could surely shepherd her to England, help her make contact with her mother's family. You're going there, anyway.”

“Oh, escort duty would be simple enough,” Julian said aridly. “But that isn't what Violette is demanding. She wants a schoolmaster, if you recall.”

Wellington chuckled. “Nervy little thing, isn't she?” Julian sighed. “I wouldn't disagree with that, sir.” “So you'll do it?”

“Supposing I arrange to hire a suitable house and a governess for her?” the colonel suggested, his back now to the wall. “I'll escort her to England and leave the tutoring to some respectable female. Then I can be back here in a couple of months.”

Wellington shrugged. “We'll put it to Violette. If she accepts that price, then it's fine by me. I only want her information. “

“I'll send Sanderson to fetch her.” Julian went to the door and gave the order to the brigade-major, then returned to the room. The commander was standing at the open window now, listening to the confused riot of noise coming from Badajos.

“I'll give them until tomorrow; then, if we can't get them out of there, we'll erect a gallows in the square,” he said evenly. “Hang a couple of looters that should bring them to their senses.”

“They'll be in bad shape, sir.”

“Oh, I know. Demoralized, hung over, ashamed.

Sieges are filthy work, Julian.”

“None worse,” Julian agreed somberly, sipping his wine.

Sanderson returned in five minutes with the information that La Violette was not in her lodgings and had taken her horse from the stables.

“Left us?” Wellington raised an eyebrow at the colonel.

Julian shook his head. “No, she doesn't give up that easily. Besides, I heard her promise that giant bodyguard that she'd wait for him in Elvas.” He put down his glass. “I'll go and look for her.”

He left, trying to disguise his alarm at the thought that she might have returned to Badajos. He couldn't imagine that she'd do anything so foolhardy, but Violette was a law unto herself, beyond the fathoming of any ordinary man. He couldn't understand why he was worried about her; it was the most annoying aspect of the whole business. She'd thrown his life and career into chaos, manipulated his emotions as easily as she manipulated his physical responses, and yet he needed to know she was safe.

He found her sitting amid a circle of his officers outside his tent, Cesar idly cropping the sparse grass beside her.

“Oh, there you are, milord colonel.” She offered him a sunny smile as he rode up. “I have a small favor to ask, so I was looking for you and met your staff. And Dobbin very kindly made me some tea.” She indicated the enamel mug in her hand.

“How pleasant,” he said aridly. “Gentlemen, have we nothing better to do this morning than lounge around over the teacups?”

“We were talking of the situation in Badajos,” Tamsyn said swiftly as her companions rose to their feet in one collective movement. “Captain Frobisher was telling me what he'd done with the girl I rescued this morning. And these other officers were explaining how they'd managed to secure the doors of a convent as a safe house. They've been conducting parties of women there and are just returned from the town for some rest. “

Julian regretted his sarcasm as he looked at the exhausted faces of his officers. “My apologies,” he said readily, with his quick, irresistible smile that had earned him pardon since childhood. ''I'm out of sorts. I didn't mean to snap.”

“Oh, we're all out of sorts,” Frank said with a weary answering smile. “We were wondering whether we could round up our own men from the streets if we headed up a sizable party of non-commissioned officers.”

“Get some rest first. We'll try this evening. They might be so insensible by then they'll come quietly.” He turned back to Tamsyn. “Wellington wishes to talk to you, Violette. If you'd come with me now.”

It didn't sound much like a request to Tamsyn, but she merely smiled and said mischievously, “I'd be delighted to come with you, milord colonel. As I've made clear on many occasions.”

Julian's lips almost disappeared and the bright-blue eyes shot sparks as the other men suppressed their grins.

“Allow me to assist you to mount, ma'am?” Frank offered before Julian's temper could find voice. He cupped his palms for her foot, and she sprang up into the saddle with a word of thanks.

Gathering the reins together, she raised an eyebrow at the still-fulminating colonel and said, “I'm ready to accompany you, sir.”

Julian turned his horse without a word and moved off down the narrow aisle between the rows of tents. Tamsyn waved a cheery hand in farewell to her companions and followed.

They rode in single file over the pontoon bridge into Elvas and into the stable yard at headquarters. Still in silence, Julian strode ahead of her up the stairs and into the building. “Is his lordship alone, Sanderson?”

“Yes, sir. Lord March left a few minutes ago.” “Good.” He knocked and opened the door, gesturing brusquely to Tamsyn that she should precede him into the sanctum.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she greeted the commander in chief politely. “May I congratulate you on such a splendid victory.” There was no mistaking the note of bitter irony beneath the apparent courtesy, and Wellington looked at her sharply, frowning.

“My men fought like tigers,” he stated. “And they died like heroes.”