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He wondered if he’d chosen the wrong tactic in this instance. In the past, a cutting comment, a decisively adverse opinion, had been sufficient to bring Charlie back on the right track when he’d been about to stray into some youthful indiscretion. But then Charlie was no longer a schoolboy, and maybe the tactics appropriate for schoolboys wouldn’t work with the tender pride of a young man in the throes of first love.
    He’d have to try some other approach. His fork paused halfway to his mouth as the approach presented itself, neat and most enticing. What better way to remove Charlie from dangerous proximity to Miss Davenport than to take his place? At present, Marcus had no mistressliving under his protection. He had brought his last
affaire
to an expensive close without regret, before coming to Brussels. Supposing he made Judith Davenport an offer she couldn’t refuse? It would most effectively remove her from Charlie’s orbit. And just as effectively, it would cure Charlie of his infatuation, when he saw her for what she was. And for himself …
    Dear God in heaven.
Images of rioting sensuality suddenly filled his head as he found himself mentally stripping her of the elegant gowns, the delicate undergarments, the silken stockings, revealing the lissome slenderness, the supple limbs, the white fineness of her skin. Would she be a passionate lover or passive … no, definitely not passive … wild and tumbling, with the eager words of hungry need, the tumultuous cries of fulfillment unchecked upon her lips. Impossible to believe she could be otherwise.
    Marcus shook his head clear of the images. If they alone could arouse him, what would the reality do? The proposition took concrete shape. Yes, he would make Miss Judith Davenport an offer she couldn’t possibly refuse: one beyond the wildest dreams of a woman who earned her bread at the gaming tables.
    An hour later, in buckskin britches and a morning coat of olive-green superfine, his top boots catching the sunlight like a polished diamond, his lordship set out in search of Miss Davenport. There was a powerful tension in the Brussels’ air, knots of people gathered on street corners, talking and gesticulating excitedly. He discovered the reason in the regimental mess.
    “It looks like Boney’s going to attack,” Peter Wellby told him as he joined the circle of Wellington’s staff and advisors deep in an almost frenzied discussion. “He issued a
Proclamation à l’armee
yesterday, and it’s just come into our hands.” He handed Marcus a document.“He’s reminding his men that it’s the anniversary of the battles of Marengo and Friedland. If they’ve succeeded in deciding the fate of the world twice before on this day, then they’ll do it a third time.”
    Marcus read it. “Mmm. Napoleon’s usual style,” he commented. “An appeal to past glories to drum up spirit and patriotism.”
    “But it usually works,” Colonel, Lord Francis Tallent observed a touch glumly. “We’ve been sitting on our backsides waiting to catch him off guard, and the bastard takes the initiative right out from under our noses. We’re prepared to attack, not defend.”
    Marcus nodded. “It would have been worth remembering that Napoleon has never waited to be attacked. His strategy has always been based on a vast and overwhelming offensive.”
    There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Marcus Devlin had been vociferous in this view for the last week, but his had been a lone voice crying in the wilderness. “We did receive a report from our agents that he was taking up the defensive on the Charleroi road,” Peter said eventually.
    “Agents can be fed mistaken information.” Marcus’s wry observation generated another silence.
    “Marcus, I’m glad to see you, man.” Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, came out of a next-door office, a chart in his hand. “You seem to have had the right idea. Now, look at this. He can attack at Ligny, Quatre Bras, or