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officially there was still peace, no one doubted that as soon as Bonaparte had consolidated his position in Paris, he would march against the allies.
    Michael returned to his new billet late and let himself in quietly. Candles had been left in the foyer and the upstairs hall. Catherine and Anne definitely ran a fine boarding-house.
    A crack of light showed below the door opposite his, so he knocked there instead of entering his own room. Kenneth Wilding's familiar baritone told him to enter.
    Michael did, and found his friend busy with a sketch pad. Kenneth was a first-rate caricaturist and draftsman, a skill which had aided his work as a reconnaissance officer in Spain.
    Kenneth's eyes widened when he looked up from his drawing. "Good God, where did you spring from?"
    Michael chuckled. "Didn't our lovely landladies tell you that I'm now occupying the room opposite yours?"
    "No, I only got home a short time ago and everyone had already gone to bed." Kenneth rose and took Michael's hand. "Damn, but it's good to see you."
    Dark, broadly built, and craggy, Kenneth Wilding looked more like a laborer than an officer and gentleman. He was one of .the rare officers who had been promoted from the ranks, an honor generally reserved for acts of suicidal bravery. While still a sergeant, he had kept Michael out of trouble when Michael had been a very green subaltern with his first command. Friendship had grown from mutual respect.
    Michael studied his friend's face as they shook hands, glad to see that some of the terrible tension left by the Peninsular campaign had faded. "I've some whiskey across the hall. Shall I bring it over?"
    "I haven't had any of that rotgot since you left Spain," Kenneth said, humor lurking in his gray eyes. "I've rather missed it. Whiskey makes brandy seem overcivilized."
    Michael went for the bottle, almost tripping over Louis the Lazy, who was sprawled in front of his door. When he returned to Kenneth's room, the dog followed, flopping so that his jaw rested on Michael's boot. He studied Louis with amusement. "Does this beast welcome all newcomers this way, or am I just unlucky?"
    Kenneth produced two glasses and poured each of them a drink. "Consider yourself blessed. With Louis on guard, any potential assailant will die laughing."
    After they had exchanged news, Michael said, "Are Catherine and Anne real, or products of my fevered imagination?" '
    "Aren't they amazing? I had the luck to share a chateau with them in Toulouse. When I found they were in Brussels, I came on bended knee to ask if there was room for a Rifleman. They are experts in the art of keeping men warm, well fed, and happy."
    Knowing he shouldn't be so interested, Michael asked, "What are their fortunate husbands like?"
    Kenneth swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. "You'll like Charles Mowbry. Quiet, but very capable and with a droll sense of humor."
    "What about Melbourne?"
    Kenneth hesitated until Michael remarked, "There is something ominous in your silence."
    His friend studied his whiskey glass. "I don't know Melbourne well. He's a bluff cavalryman to the core. You know the sort—not unintelligent, but sees no reason to use his mind. Still, he's a good officer, from what I hear. Quite fearless."
    "In the cavalry, courage is common. It's judgment that's rare. Is he worthy of the admirable Catherine?"
    "I'm not in a position to say." Kenneth leaned over-and scratched behind Louis's floppy ears.She obviously thinks so. In Spain, she acquired the nickname Saint Catherine as much because of her virtue as for the nursing work she did. Half the men she meets fall in love with her, but she's never so much as looked at anyone other than her husband."
    That put Michael in his place; he was merely one of a large crowd. Still, he was glad to hear that she was as good as she was beautiful. Once he had not believed such women existed.
    He wondered what Kenneth wasn't saying, but enough questions had been asked. He lifted his friend's sketchbook from the