Page 95 of The Spy’s Song

So this was Lord Uxbridge, Wellington's cavalry commander.

"That means I can restore it—your rank, your command, even advance you, if that is what it takes. Your name can be put back where it belongs."

Louise covered her mouth to stifle her gasp. Rodrick deserved that. Now that he'd found his sister, nothing held him back.

Rodrick held Uxbridge's gaze. "And what do you expect in exchange for this sudden generosity?"

Uxbridge drew a heavy breath. "The battle is all but finished. Wellington managed to stand, which was no small feat, and Blücher has finally come up with the Prussians. Bonaparte will be forced off the field."

Rodrick's brow shifted. "Then the war is over."

Louise leaned against the wall. Her weight sagged into it, and she closed her eyes.

It was over.

She had slept, and the world had finished without her. Her father's army had broken, and she had spent the night in the rose room, hand curling around a spy's hair, promising him to stay. A spy who didn't demand loyalty, who asked for it. She had given him that and more, and the giving had not emptied her.

"Over?" The older man stepped nearer, lowering his voice. "Montfort, Bonaparte is fighting today with an army he assembled in barely three months—raw conscripts, half-trained officers, supply lines that should have collapsed under their own weight—and he nearly broke the coalition."

Rodrick said nothing.

"That was not his strength," the man continued. "That was what he could gather in haste. He still has depots in France, reserves not yet called, men who have not even been marched. Give him time, and he will raise another hundred and fifty thousand."

Rodrick's jaw tightened. "So you require another army."

"No." The man's gaze fixed on him. "I require you."

Louise opened her eyes. Breathing shallowly, she leaned closer to the door.

"What exactly do you propose?" Rodrick asked.

"The Emperor will take the road back through Genappe and Charleroi as being the shortest to the frontier. We can imagine that his horses will be fleet, and that the fugitives will make way for him. Our cavalry will follow the rear of the beaten army, but the Emperor will be far ahead of the throng. You can pick the best riders, fast horses. A squadron. You ride within the hour. Napoleon will make for France—he has no other choice. You cut across his line of retreat, and reach him before he can disappear behind his own borders. You cannot mistake the Imperial carriage, nor can you fail to recognize the figure of the Emperor."

Louise's hand slipped from the wall. The cannon outside seemed to recede, the voices in the room narrowing to a single point.

Rodrick's voice lowered. "You want me to intercept him."

"I want you to kill Napoleon Bonaparte."

***

Louise climbed the stairs with her heart beating hard enough to make each landing seem farther away than the last.

I want you to kill Napoleon Bonaparte.

She reached the rose room. The bed stood exactly as she had left it, sheets tangled where two bodies had slept through the last hours of a battle.

Louise sat on the edge of the mattress. There was a man downstairs who wanted Rodrick to kill her father. Cannon fire reached the house through the walls, fainter now, each report separated by enough silence for her to hear the blood beating in her ears. She pressed her palms against her thighs to stop her fingers from shaking.

Uxbridge had offered Rodrick his commission. And in exchange—Louise bent forward until her elbows rested against her knees.

No.

Rodrick had carried her across England. Smuggled her into France. Taught her to ride with cavalry. Watched her father's army assemble around her and never once asked her to choose him instead. He had also lied for twenty years.

Changed masters.

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