Devon clasped his hands behind his back, stepping closer to the wall to avoid the rush to form up the next set. Two matrons standing nearby eyed him hungrily, the stouter one inclining her head at her daughter in the hopes that the Hero of Hougoumont might ask her to dance. Thankfully, an older gentleman approached the homely young lady, sparing Devon the awkwardness of pretending he hadn’t seen the obvious invitation. Why did I bother coming tonight? Deep laughter drew his attention to a nearby group of young lords who were the worse for wine and boredom. Devon knew the men intimately—at least he had in the days before Waterloo. They’d all been at Oxford together before a certain restlessness drove Devon to purchase a commission. He remembered the night before he’d left for France, when they’d feted him at White’s. Through glass after glass of wine they’d spun tales of glory and bravery on the battlefield, joking and laughing until dawn.
