Viva Jacquelina! Read Free Page B

centuries of ancestors using the same in putting underlings in their place. “That’s
Lord
Richard Allen.”
    The composure of the very junior officer crumples under that gaze and he retreats into the interior of the building.
    Presently, he comes back out and, with a bow, ushers us in.
    It is a large room, and at the far end is a long table at which are seated a number of men. In the center of them is a man who, given the deference shown him by the others, must be Sir Arthur Wellesley.
    We advance to the table. General Wellesley, not waiting for explanation, asks with a certain amount of irritation in his voice, “And what is this, then?”
    Richard Allen steps forward, bows, and says, “General Wellesley, I am Captain Lord Allen, Twentieth Light Dragoons, at your service, Sir. May I present Miss J. M. Faber? She has been sent from Naval Intelligence to aid you in the way of Spanish, French, and Portuguese language translations. Miss Faber, General Sir Arthur Wellesley.”
    I curtsy, but he does not bow—nor does he rise from his chair.
    Wellesley’s cold gray eyes travel over the both of us. Then he looks down what does prove to be a very long, thin nose and speaks.
    â€œFrom Intelligence, eh? Sent to spy upon me, no doubt. How jolly.”
    Richard was right. This man does not mince words, and he does not seem very jolly when he says that. In fact, I suspect the man is seldom jolly.
    â€œI am very pleased to meet you, Sir,” I say, all respectful. “But spying on my fellow countrymen is not my field of endeavor, Sir, nor is it part of my orders.” It is, of course,
exactly
why I was sent here. To be a fly on the wall, as it were. “My orders are to come here and to assist you in any way I can, mainly as a translator of the local tongues.”
    That gets me a short snort through that very long nose.
    â€œI already know how to speak French, girl. There are many with me who can help me with the Spanish and Portuguese.” He gestures to the men who sit by him, two on each side. “I do not think I need you hanging about.”
    â€œVery good, Sir. I am glad to hear that you are so very well served. If you have no need of my services, then perhaps I might be allowed to return to England?”
    Hooray! If I am able to get back, I’ll be able to book passage to Rangoon and find out what’s up with Jaimy! Oh, please, let me go!
    â€œBy all means, go. Get out of my sight.”
    Fuming at being treated such, but relieved by the turn of events, I go to turn on my heel and head for the exit.
Hooray! Come on, Richard, let’s get out of here!
    But I don’t turn on my heel, nor do we get to the exit.
    The man to the right of the general says, “Wait, Miss. Please, Sir. Take a look at this.” And he hands him a paper.
    Uh-oh
. . .
    The Wellesley eyes scan the paper and then he looks up at me.
    â€œNapoleon himself?”
    â€œBy that do you mean, ‘Have I met him?’ Then, yes, Sir, I have.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œAt the Battle of Jena. I stood by his side as the fog lifted.”
    â€œAnd just what were you doing there?”
    â€œHe and I were having breakfast.”
    â€œDon’t be cute. I repeat: What were you doing there?”
    â€œWhile under the orders of British Intelligence, I had gained a commission as a second lieutenant in the Grand Army of the Republic. I was assigned as a messenger to
l’Empereur
’s staff.”
    â€œHmmm . . .” Another paper is passed and read. He looks up at me again.
    â€œI see you wear that medal,” he says. “Where did you get it? In a pawnshop?”
    I ignore his sneer and reply, “I was at Trafalgar, Sir.”
    â€œOh, you were? And what was your rating? Trollop? Ship’s Pump? Gunner’s Wife?” There are snickers from the toadies at the great man’s table.
    â€œSir, I must protest!” says Richard Allen, close by