An Infamous Army Read online

  Copyright © 2007 by Georgette Heyer

  Cover and internal design © 2007 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover photo © Bridgeman

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Originally published in the United Kingdom in 1937 by William Heinemann.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Heyer, Georgette, 1902–1974.

  An Infamous Army: A Novel of Wellington, Waterloo, Love and War / Georgette Heyer.

  p. cm.

  Includes bibliographical references and index.

  ISBN-13: 978–1-4022–1007–5 (trade pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Waterloo, Battle of, Waterloo, Belgium, 1815—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6015.E795I64 2007

  823.’912—dc22

  2007018647

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Short Bibliography

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  ‘I have got an infamous army;

  Very weak and ill-equipped,

  And a very inexperienced staff.’

  Wellington to Lt Gen Lord Stewart, G.C.B.

  8th May, 1815

  Author’s Note

  In writing this story I have realized an ambition which, though I fear it may have been presumptuous, I could not resist attempting. Apart from the epic nature of the subject, the spectre of Thackeray must loom over anyone wishing to tackle the battle of Waterloo. It would not allow me to set pen to paper until I banished it, at last, with the reflection that no one, after all, would judge a minor poet by Shakespeare’s standard of excellence. I should add, perhaps, that it is many years since I read Vanity Fair; and although I have encroached on Thackeray’s preserves, at least I have stolen nothing from him.

  With regard to the Bibliography published at the end of this book, to obviate the necessity of appending a somewhat tedious list of Authorities, I have limited it to those works which, in writing a Novel, and not a History, I have found most useful. Works dealing with the purely tactical aspect of the Campaign have been omitted; so too have many minor accounts; and a host of Biographies, Memoirs, and Periodicals which, though not primarily concerned with any of the personages figuring in this story, contained, here and there, stray items of information about them. It will further be seen that, with the exception of Houssaye, no French Authorities have been given: the French point of view was not relevant to my purpose. On the other hand, certain works have been included which, though they do not deal with the Waterloo Campaign, were invaluable for the light they throw on Wellington’s character, and the customs obtaining in his army.

  Wherever possible, I have allowed the Duke to speak for himself, borrowing freely from the twelve volumes of his Despatches. If it should be objected that I should not have made him say in 1815 what he wrote in 1808, or said many years after Waterloo, I can only hope that, since his own words, whether spoken or written, were so infinitely superior to any which I could have put into his mouth, I may be pardoned for the occasional chronological inexactitudes thus entailed.

  GEORGETTE HEYER

  One

  The youthful gentleman in the scarlet coat with blue facings and gold lace, who was seated in the window of Lady Worth’s drawing-room, idly looking down into the street, ceased for a moment to pay any attention to the conversation that was in progress. Among the passers-by, a Bruxelloise in a black mantilla had caught his eye. She was lovely enough to be watched the whole way down the street. Besides, the conversation in the salon was very dull: just the same stuff that was being said all over Brussels.

  ‘I own, one can be more comfortable now that Lord Hill is here, but I wish the Duke would come!’

  The Bruxelloise had cast a roguish dark eye up at the window as she passed; the gentleman in scarlet did not even hear this remark, delivered by Lady Worth in an anxious tone which made her morning visitors look grave for a minute.

  The Earl of Worth said dryly: ‘To be sure, my love: so do we all.’

  Georgiana Lennox, who was seated on the sofa with her hands clasped on top of her muff, subscribed to her hostess’s sentiments with a sigh, but smiled at the Earl’s words, and reminded him that there was one person at least in Brussels who did not wish for the Duke’s arrival. ‘My dear sir, the Prince is in the most dreadful huff! No other word for it! Only fancy! He scolded me for wanting the Duke to make haste—as though I could not trust him to account for Bonaparte, if you please!’

  ‘How awkward for you!’ said Lady Worth. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Oh, I said nothing that was not true, I assure you! I like the Prince very well, but it is a little too much to suppose that a mere boy is capable of taking the field against Bonaparte. Why, what experience has he had? I might as well consider my brother March a fit commander. Indeed, he was on the Duke’s Staff for longer than the Prince.’

  ‘Is it true that the Prince and his father don’t agree?’ asked Sir Peregrine Taverner, a fair young man in a blue coat with very large silver buttons. ‘I heard—’

  A plump gentleman of cheerful and inquisitive mien broke into the conversation with all the air of an incorrigible gossipmonger. ‘Quite true! The Prince is all for the English, of course, and that don’t suit Frog’s notions at all. Frog, you know, is what I call the King. I believe it to be a fact that the Prince is much easier in English or French than he is in Dutch! I heard that there was a capital quarrel the other day, which ended with the Prince telling Frog in good round terms that if he hadn’t wished him to make his friends among the English he shouldn’t have had him reared in England, or have sent him out to learn his soldiering in the Peninsula. Off he went, leaving Papa and Brother Fred without a word to say, and of course poured out the whole story to Colborne. I daresay Colborne don’t care how soon he goes back to his regiment. I would not be Orange’s military secretary for something!’

  The Bruxelloise had passed from Lord Hay’s range of vision; there was nothing left to look at but the pointed gables and nankeen-yellow front of a house on the opposite side of the street. Lord Hay, overhearing the last remark, turned his head, and asked innocently: ‘Oh, did Sir John tell you so, Mr Creevey?’

  An involuntary smile flickered on Judith Worth’s lips; the curled ostrich plumes in Lady Georgiana’s h