Clash of Empires by Brian Falkner Page B

walk, Willem says quietly to Frost, “I did not get the chance to ask the duke about Héloïse.”
    â€œFor the best, I think,” Frost says. “However, the earl also is a man of great influence. We will ask him.”
    The smoking lounge is a plush room that reeks of cigars. Arbuckle closes the door and stands in front of it. He is more than an aide, Willem thinks. He is a protector, a guardian. Arbuckle is a dangerous-looking man. One of his sleeves rides up a little as he folds his arms across his chest, and he smooths it back down, but not before Willem has seen the hilt of a weapon, probably a small dagger, strapped to his wrist.
    The earl settles himself into an armchair and produces a box of snuff. He takes a pinch and discards it before speaking, dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief.
    â€œMy son,” he says. “I was blessed with only one. Therefore you speak of Dylan.”
    â€œWe do, my lord,” Frost says.
    The earl lifts his head, as if raising himself above such conversation.
    â€œLost at Waterloo,” he says. “His body was not found, therefore I still hold hope for his return. Unless of course he was eaten by one of Napoléon’s monsters.”
    â€œYour son survived the battle,” Frost says.
    â€œHe was not eaten,” Willem adds.
    The earl sits forward suddenly in his armchair. “You know this for a fact?”
    â€œThe British Army set up a field hospital in my village,” Willem says. “It was there I met Lieutenant Frost. Your son was there, also.”
    â€œSo you saw him, Lieutenant?” the earl asks.
    â€œMy eyes were lost before I arrived at the hospital,” Frost says. “I did not see him, but I spoke to him.”
    â€œThen what became of him?” the earl asks. “Is he held prisoner by the French? There has been no ransom demand.”
    â€œHe aided us in our flight from the village,” Willem says. “But he had been wounded and was near death, even then.”
    There is a silence.
    â€œYou are sure this was the earl’s son?” Arbuckle asks. His voice rasps like rough stones.
    â€œI am an officer and a gentleman,” Frost says. “You have no need to doubt my word.”
    â€œYou were blinded,” Arbuckle says. “And dependent on the word of the man you met. And I mean no disrespect, but you are still a child.”
    â€œAs was Dylan when he was wounded in battle,” Willem says. “And as he was also when he helped us escape, at risk of his own life.”
    â€œIf it was my son,” the earl says.
    â€œHe gave me this,” Willem says, taking a leather cord from around his neck. On it is a ring, with a crown below a lion. “He asked me to return it to you.”
    The earl, who has opened his mouth to speak, now closes it. He reaches out and takes the ring, turning it over and over in his hands. His shoulders crumple and the whole man seems to deflate. Eventually he slips the ring onto one of his fingers.
    â€œYou really believe him to be dead?” he asks softly. “I have long suspected, but still, in my vanity, have held on to the idea that he hides somewhere in Europe, banded together with other survivors, or perhaps taken in by the Prussians.”
    â€œThe amputation was a high one,” Willem says.
    He does not have to explain what that means. Dylan had little chance of survival.
    â€œThere was little life left in his body when we bade him farewell,” Frost says. “I feel he used his last breaths to buy us time to escape.”
    â€œWhich would explain why there has been no contact, no ransom demand,” the earl says. He bows his head, all trace of arrogance now gone. A father grieving over a lost son. No longer a nobleman, just a man, suddenly old.
    â€œYour son was a hero, my lord,” Frost says. “Without him, we would not be here, and our army would not have the benefit of Willem’s knowledge. Thanks