From London With Love. Sarah Mallory

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       Prologue

      Major Jack Clifton dragged one grimy sleeve across his brow. The battle had been raging all day near the little village of Waterloo. The tall fields of rye grass had been trampled into the ground as wave after wave of cavalry charged the British squares between bouts of deadly artillery fire. A smoky grey cloud hung over the battlefield and the bright colours of the uniforms were muted by a thick film of dust and mud.

      ‘Look,’ said his sergeant, pointing to the far ridge. ‘That’s Bonaparte up there!’

      A nervous murmur ran through the square.

      ‘Aye,’ Jack countered cheerfully. ‘And Wellington’s behind us, watching our every move.’

      ‘So ’e is,’ grinned the sergeant. ‘Well, then, let’s show the Duke we ain’t afraid of those Frenchies.’

      Another cavalry charge came thundering towards them, only to fall back in a welter of mud, blood and confusion. Jack rallied his men, knowing that as long as he stayed calm the square would hold. A sudden flurry of activity caught his attention and a party of soldiers approached him, carrying someone in a blanket.

      ‘Lord Allyngham, Major,’ called one of the men as they laid their burden on the ground. ‘Took a cannonball in his shoulder. He was asking for you.’

      The bloodied figure on the blanket raised his hand.

      ‘Clifton. Is he here?’

      Jack dropped on one knee beside him. He averted his eyes from the shattered shoulder.

      ‘I’m here, my lord.’

      ‘Can’t—see—you.’

      Jack took the raised hand.

      ‘I’m here, Tony.’

      His calm words seemed to reassure Lord Allyngham.

      ‘Letters,’ he muttered. ‘In my jacket. Will you see they are sent back to England, Jack? One for my wife, one for Mortimer, my…neighbour. Important…that they get them.’

      ‘Of course. I’ll make sure they are sent tonight with the despatches.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      Jack glanced up at the sergeant.

      ‘Take him back, Robert, and get a surgeon—’

      ‘No.’ The grip on his hand suddenly tightened. ‘No point: I know I’m done for.’

      ‘Nonsense,’ growled Jack. ‘We’ll have the sawbones patch you up—’

      The glazed eyes seemed to clear and gain focus as he looked at Jack.

      ‘Not enough left to patch,’ he gasped. ‘No, Jack, listen to me! One more thing—do I still have my hand?’

      Jack glanced at the mangled mess of blood and bone that was his left side.

      ‘Aye, you do.’

      ‘Good. Can you take my ring? And the locket—on a ribbon about СКАЧАТЬ