“Believe me, nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won.”

Kit let the slow drip, drip, drip lull him, as a puddle formed near his head. Sleep was his top priority tonight, even while battle plans crowded his brain. The rain continued its patter against the tent walls. A thin sheen of moisture seeped through the rough material. He rolled onto his side, his bed at home once again a prized possession compared to the lumpy mattress that provided scant protection from the cold, damp ground. The stale straw and mold would soon be replaced by the sickening sweet smell of blood.

They would fight the French tomorrow. Again. Men would die. Would he be among them? Was this the cause of his anxiety? Fear had never afflicted him before a battle. Now a colonel with years of experience behind him, engaging the enemy still brought on thoughts of mortality but never this eerie foreboding. Fingers of dread scratched up his spine; the knot in his belly pulled tight.

Bonaparte had escaped Elba and retaken Paris. As the new French army multiplied, British Field Marshall, the Duke of Wellington, ordered troops back to Belgium. While waiting in Brussels, the lovely Duchess of Richmond had asked her husband to host a ball as a distraction from the upcoming conflict. Wellington agreed it would be good for morale, and the officers cheerfully attended. The event was a success until a messenger brought news the French had crossed the border and were making their way to Brussels. Kit had heard the duke ask his host for a good map and knew the evening would not end well.

Pandemonium ensued when orders were given for all officers to join their regiment and be prepared to march by three in the morning. Women wailed while husbands, fathers, and sons tried to soothe them. Younger men chattered in excitement with military ardor; orders were shouted above the uproar. The affair had gone from a delightful dance to an utter state of chaos. Kit grimaced, remembering the courageous wives and mistresses who accompanied their beloved. Did they not realize? Cannon and musket fire did not discriminate between male and female.

Then another strange emotion gripped him. Would someone ever love him so much? He focused once again on the rain and drifted toward slumber, but his dreams refused to let him rest.

The smoke wafted around his ankles, glimpses of red appearing in the gray wisps then vanishing. The loud suction of boots pulling from the muck created an eerie rhythm in the foggy surroundings. Screams pierced the air as frequently as musket fire, and moans drifted up from the muddy ground. The whinny of a horse. Gruff commands barked from the saddle.

He squinted at the movement in front of him. A French soldier ran forward, bayonet pointed at Kit’s belly. He dodged, missing the thrust, and brought the back of his rifle down on the man’s head before running him through the back. Two more emerged. He put a bullet in one man’s head and sliced the throat of the other with his saber. Panting, he looked around for his men and found he was alone.

A white horse appeared above him, rearing on its powerful hindquarters. A shrill cry rang out, followed by a loud thud as its front hooves came down and pawed at the sludge, sending a spray of filth across Kit’s skin. As he wiped it off with his coat sleeve, it turned red then dripped onto the gold bars of his uniform. He rubbed furiously with his gloved fingers but the color only deepened to a scarlet and then poured onto his black boots.

“It’s coming from me,” a familiar voice yelled over the din, a smirk on his face. “Sorry about the mess.”

He looked up and saw his own face looking down at him. Blood gushed from the soldier’s chest. His head sat at an odd angle and bobbled as the horse pranced. Kit reached up to help his brother off the horse.

“It’s too late for me. It’s your turn now,” came the voice again, sorrow now lacing his tone. “It always should have been, you know.”

Grabbing the man’s boot, he tried again to pull the soldier down. Instead, a boot kicked him in the face and sent him sprawling backwards. Hot pain ripped across his back and radiated up his neck as he hit the ground. The huge beast, now riderless, reared again, showering his face with mud.

“No! No! Let me help you,” Kit pleaded as he spit mud from his mouth, arms flailing against wet sludge scattering over his head. “Please…”

Kit cried out, his arms thrashing at the air. His face scrunched up at a bead of water that plunked onto his cheek. Struggling to pull air into his lungs, his mind groped for rational thought. He rubbed the back of his aching neck, stretched the stiff muscles, and peered at the dark stain above him. The rain had wormed its way through a patch of the canvas above his head. The drips of blood, he thought as he wiped the cold sweat from his face. He hated bad dreams.

A weak light filtered through a crack in the tent opening. It was almost dawn. Muffled voices and the clang of metal announced a new day.

“Colonel Roker, sir?” A shadow appeared on the other side of the flap. “I have a message from Brussels.”

“Yes, enter.” He cleared his throat of the gravel that had lodged there overnight. With a heavy sigh, Kit pulled on his leather boots and stood up. His shoulders throbbed as if he had been thrown from the stallion in his dream. A chill passed over him, surreal images flashing through his mind again. The same foreboding from the previous night returned along with the knot in his stomach. Perhaps it was age. He and Carson had celebrated thirty-two years on their last birthday. Right now, those years seemed to weigh on him.

“The French defeated the Prussians at Ligny, my lord. But the field marshal has rounded up the remaining troops and is marching as we speak.” The soldier stood erect, waiting for a reply or orders.

“At ease.” Kit held out his hand for the orders. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the thick parchment.

Scouts report Bonaparte has not inspected the troops or been on the field today. Possibly due to bad weather. Better footing for cannon. If delay continues, von Bluche may have enough time to reach us from Ligny. Collect your troops and stand ready.

“Spread the word to assemble, Captain. I heard the women up earlier. Make sure you get some tack and ale. We will need our strength today to put this devil in his place.”

“Yes, sir.” With a salute and slight bow, the soldier exited the tent.

Kit dressed slowly, his thoughts entirely on the men in his regiment. The dream vanished from his consciousness, replaced with duty and the responsibility of hundreds of men under his charge. He prayed most of them would be standing at the end of the day but doubted it.

* * *

Bodies lay mangled and bent. There was not a clearing large enough for a medical tent without removing corpses from the field. Kit couldn’t begin to tally the fallen. But the Allies were victorious. Waterloo had been the end of Napoleon Bonaparte. Good riddance.

A sergeant chased off one of the local women, hacking at a dead man’s finger for his ring. The spoils were part of the incentive of the winning side, plus the prize money from the crown would be sizeable. Kit should receive at least 400 pounds. More villagers bent over the dead with pliers, pulling teeth. These were sold to make dentures and turned a nice profit for anyone who had the stomach for the work. Kit shivered in the warm evening air. Life was hard for many of these peasants, and he was not one to judge. Who knew what callouses had been scoured onto their hearts. But he knew one thing for certain. This would be Christopher Roker’s last war.

Home. The word had been ringing in his head since the first battle cry. He’d be back in London in less than a month. His father’s scowling face and his mother’s hovering image suddenly seemed like a warm blanket he wanted to wrap around himself, and thaw out the ice that filled his bones in the middle of June. Normalcy, that’s what his soul craved. To wake up and not have lives hanging in the balance. To watch over his brother and scold him when he overdrank or gambled too much. To have the most difficult decision of the day be a ride in Hyde Park or a boxing match at Jackson’s.

Good God, what sentimental hullabaloo filled his head these past few hours. Next, he’d be in a rocker with a blanket warming his knees.

A day later, a courier arrived from London as he prepared to leave Brussels. He had procured lodgings in a hotel and just finished breakfast. When Kit saw the Marquess of Falsbury’s seal and his father’s handwriting on the envelope, his stomach clenched. Their family did not write socially. Something was amiss, and the nightmare he’d had just before Waterloo dashed through his mind. He cursed his fumbling fingers and broke the wax.

17 June 1805

Dear Christopher,

Your mother is too distraught to compose a letter, so the task falls to me. Carson had a terrible accident last night. It seems he was in his usual state after the clubs, and decided to race our fastest stallion at dawn. The beast stumbled, and C. fell to his death. His neck was broken. I do not think he suffered. My only blessing in this dark time.

You must come home immediately. I understand you were brilliant against the French and hope you’ve had your fill of the military life. You are now the Earl of Sunderland and heir to Falsbury. I desperately need help with the two hysterical females on my hands. Hurry. It’s a damnable day when a man has to bury his son.

Falsbury

His lungs froze. His limbs turned to lead. He couldn’t pry his fingers from the paper or his eyes from the ink. The words swam before him.

“Are you all right, my lord?” asked the courier. “I am to take a reply back to the marquess.”

Air finally seeped into Kit’s chest, and he drew a long, deep breath then let it out slowly. His military training would be sorely needed now. “Go down to the pub and get me a bottle of their best brandy. I will have a response when you return.” He tossed the man a coin and waited for the door to close. With a reserve he didn’t know he possessed, Kit walked slowly to the writing desk, sat down, and opened the bottle of ink. Write the letter, and then I will drink until I’m numb. Chin up. Chin up.

He composed a short note, telling his father of his shock and concern for the family and that he would depart immediately. When the messenger returned, Kit traded the letter for the bottle and bid the man good day. He removed his uniform and exchanged it for civilian clothes, leaving the linen shirt open and boots off. Then he waited for the darkness to descend.

“Carson, here’s to your freedom.” The amber liquid scalded his throat, and he welcomed it.

“And here’s to finally getting your way.” The next glass didn’t burn as badly so he measured out a third. “You finally won your battle, big brother.”

His resolve ebbed, and he sank into a chair in front of the window. A carriage drove by, people hurried down the street, a dog barked at a nervous horse. The grief was building. It had begun in his stomach and now rose to his throat, expanding and making it difficult to swallow. His jaw clenched, trying to push the pain back down. But the misery would not be ignored. It entered his head, a pounding that forced his eyes closed. Blindly, he threw back another glass of the brandy.

“Work, damn you. I can still feel.” The stinging behind his lids brought forth more cursing. “Why? WHY?” A tear escaped, sending him into a rage.

He threw the glass across the room with all the fury of the past week. The snifter hit the mantel and shattered into tiny shards like his composure. Rays of light poured in from the windows, the slivers of crystal winking and sparkling against the deep green carpet. Kit looked accusingly at the bright day, as if the sun had no right to shine.

Conversations whispered in his ear. Schemes to trade places, switch roles. You be the earl. No one will ever know. You’re so much better suited to a title. What if they had gone through with it? Would Carson still be alive? Or would he have joined the army and gotten himself killed? He might have tried law. Kit snorted, remembering his brother’s expert flummery. Yes, a barrister would have suited him. The anger resurfaced.

“How in bloody hell do I live without my other half? Can you tell me that, you selfish bastard?” He picked up the decanter and took a long draw from the bottle then chuckled without mirth.

“You thought I was the strongest. Always the one to bail you out of trouble, smooth things over with our father.” His voice broke. “Well, I’m in over my head now.”

The decanter dropped from his fingers with a thud, the golden liquid seeping into the carpet as the lifeblood had seeped from his brother. The nightmare had been Carson, trying to explain what had happened. His funny, sweet, reckless brother, looking out for him in his own inept way.

Kit clutched at his chest, at the gash in his heart. Twins were known to have an uncanny bond, and they had been no different. A part of him was dead, along with his brother. It was a grief he knew would never leave him. So he gave into the pain and let it wash over his body. “Damn you, Carson. Damn you.”