Julian stood to one side, morosely sipping sherry, watching as the men in the room clustered around the small figure. La Violette certainly knew how to be the center of attention. Despite her masculine attire and the short, shining cap of hair, she was exuding feminine charm… female wiles, he amended. What the hell was she after? She'd come there to sell something, not reduce the entire high command of the English army to a state resembling Circe's fools.

A servant came in bearing a baron of beef on a wooden board. He placed it on the table set for dinner before the fire. “Sir, dinner is served.”

“Good.” Wellington rubbed his hands together in hearty anticipation. “Come and sit beside me, my dear.” He swept Tamsyn into a chair on his right and took his place at the head. He raised his eyeglass and examined the offering on the table as servants unloaded steaming platters from their trays.

“Now, what have we here? A dish of mutton chops, I do believe. Do let me help you… Tell me, must I call you Violette, or do you have another name?” He placed a chop on her plate together with several thick slices of beef

“My given name is Tamsyn,” she said, hungrily helping herself to a dish of roast potatoes. “Violette… Violeta-they're the names by which I'm known among the partisans.”

“Do the partisans all have code names?” the brigadier asked, filling her wineglass.

Tamsyn flashed him a smile as she picked up a mutton chop with her fingers. “Maybe.”

Julian watched as she tore at the flesh with her sharp white teeth, holding the chop between finger and thumb. When every last morsel of meat was off the bone, she licked her fingers, picked up her fork, and speared a potato. She ate with the natural efficiency of a hungry animal, using her fingers if they were more suitable to the task, or deftly filleting a brook trout with a couple of strokes of her knife. There was nothing distasteful about her table manners, but neither was there any formality. Food was to be enjoyed, an appetite both sensual and necessary.

He noticed that while she drank several glasses of water, she merely took occasional sips of the wine in her glass.

Casually, he turned his chair sideways to the table, resting his forearm on the white starched cloth, his fingers caressing the stem of his wineglass. “You don't care for the wine, Violette?”

She looked up swiftly, and her eyes were sharp as they met his across the table. “On the contrary, milord colonel, in the right place and time I enjoy a good rioja as much as anyone. But I have to be careful, it tends to go to my head.” She smiled. “Cecile had the same difficulty.”

“Cecile?” Major Carson queried, carrying a forkful of mushroom compote to his lips.

“My mother, sir. I inherited her small stature. The baron maintained we had too little height and weight to absorb much wine.” She bit into an almond pastry. “It seemed as good an explanation as any.”

“St. Simon tells us that your mother was English,” the brigadier said, taking his nose out of his wineglass.

“Yes,” Tamsyn agreed. She brushed crumbs off her fingers and played with the locket at her throat. “This belonged to my mother. It belonged to her mother, I believe.”

“But how did she find herself in Spain?” Major Carson asked.

“She was paying a visit to some family friends… an ambassador or some such in Madrid. She disappeared into the arms of my father at some point in the journey.” Tamsyn smiled as she helped herself to another sweetmeat from the basket in front of her. “And had no desire to leave them… until she died.”

The shadow that passed across her face was gone before anyone but Julian caught it. But a hardness lingered in her face and eyes, although she continued to smile and nibble her pastry. It was as if she'd thrown up shutters to her innermost feelings, he thought. As if something too deep and too precious had come dangerously close to the surface.

The conversation became general until the covers were removed and the port decanter appeared. Chairs were pushed back from the table, cigars were lit, the decanter circulated, and it clearly didn't occur to anyone that La Violette was in the least out of place. Least of all did it occur to the bandit, Julian reflected caustically, regarding her from beneath his heavy eyelids as she joked and flirted quite openly with Wellington.

When she accepted a peeled grape from between the duke's fingers, Julian decided he'd had as much as he could take of this charade. His men were in the trenches and he had work to do. Pushing back his chair, he stood up.

“You'll excuse me, gentlemen, but I've pickets to post. I must return to my brigade.”

“The men are in a filthy temper,” Colonel Webster observed, suddenly somber. “They're swearing at the Spaniards in Badajos for yielding the city to the French without a fight, and they're swearing blue bloody murder at the French for holding out when they know they haven't got a chance.”

“There'll be bloody work once we get into the city, you mark my words,” Brigadier Cornwallis agreed in curiously detached accents as he refilled his port glass.

“Yes, we'll have the devil's own task to keep a rein on them,” Julian said. “Well, I bid you good night, gentlemen.” He glanced at Tamsyn and was shocked at her white set face, wiped clean of all playfulness. Again she seemed to be looking on some grim internal landscape. “Farewell, Violette,” he said deliberately. “I trust your business here prospers.”

Tamsyn snapped back to the present. The colonel sounded as if they were not to meet again. “I trust so, too, milord colonel. I'll see you in the morning, I daresay.”

“I fear not,” he said. “My work doesn't bring me into Elvas.” He bowed to the commander in chief and left the cozy fire lit room for the chill of his tent in the encampment and the whine of shell and thud of mortar. But he thought he would sleep well for the first time since he'd laid eyes on La Violette. Now his part in her life was done.

Tamsyn regarded the closed door with a quizzically raised eyebrow. His work didn't bring him into Elvas? He would find he was mistaken. Colonel, Lord Julian St. Simon most certainly had work to do at headquarters.

“So, Tamsyn, can we get down to business?” Wellington was suddenly all briskness, the bonhomie of a generous host vanished beneath the incisive manner bf the commander in chief. “You have information to sell? What is your price?”

Tamsyn shook her head and her tone now matched his. “I'll tell you that, sir, when you've told me exactly what you wish to buy.”

Wellington listed his requirements. The code names and passwords of the partisan bands in the area. Their location and composition, so he could make contact with them without waiting to be contacted. A detailed map of the mountain passes known only to the partisans. The extent of the partisan armories and what if anything they lacked that could be supplied by the armies of the Peninsular.

Tamsyn listened intently. Then she said, “That's quite a shopping list, sir. You'll understand that I need to sleep on it.”

“Of course. But I trust not too long.”

“No. But I'm not going to sell you anything that might jeopardize the integrity of the partisans.”

“Oh?” Wellington frowned and pulled his chin. “I hadn't thought you so nice in your dealings, Violette.”

Her eyes flashed. “I don't sell my friends, sir.”

“No, of course not,” he said soothingly. “But you surely understand the difference between giving such information to us rather than to the French. I would use it to assist your friends, not to injure them.”

“That may be so, sir, but my friends are jealous of their independence, and they're not always ready to accept help from anyone.” She stood up, her chair scrapping on the wooden floor. “Thank you for your hospitality. I'll be at your disposal in the morning.”