Free Wiles of a Stranger by Joan Smith

then turned his attention back to Beaudel. “It was, of course, Sacheverel who told me about the jewel collection. As I am interested in adding to my own few pieces, he suggested I speak to you. Are you, in fact, selling off the collection?”
    “Not in the least. I can’t think how these rumors get started. It is only a few odd stones that are for sale, Major. I hope you have not come far out of your way on the hope that anything in the nature of the rose Jaipur is for sale.”
    “No, actually it is the Italian pieces of the sixteenth century that interest me most. Sacheverel told me Sir Giles was keen on the same period, and had some few items.”
    “They are not actively on the market,” Beaudel told him, “but the right price will always be given consideration. As my wife is always telling me, cash will accumulate interest, while the jewels do not. There is something to be said for selling. If you care to make an offer after you have seen them, we can discuss it at greater length. Well, Major, as you are out of uniform, would it be more proper to call you Mr. Morrison?”
    “I have the local militia group at home under my command, and am still called Major there,” he replied, preening his beard in a pompous fashion. He liked his Army trappings too well to part with them, was my own feeling. I made sure we would be hearing tales of his heroism, without too much prompting.
    “Is that so? The local militia have disbanded, since Bonaparte is rid of, once and for all.”
    “There is no hurry to be rid of it,” he said quickly. “No hurry at all. There is no saying Boney won’t escape again, as he did from Elba.”      
    Beaudel was too polite to dispute this statement, but of course everyone knew a rocky island off the coast of Africa was a far different story from Elba, where Bonaparte was not even held prisoner or anything of the sort.
    “Were you ever engaged in battle against Napoleon yourself, Major?” Mrs. Beaudel asked, to give him an opportunity to brag. She knew how to play up to a man.
    “I was at Waterloo,” he answered briefly. I expected more details of his prowess.
    “A stunning victory for Wellington,” Beaudel said, mouthing the gospel on every Englishman’s lips. “I expect most of your career was spent in the Peninsula.”
    “Quite, quite. Vitoria, Talavera, Salamanca, Burgos—I was at them all. I was an aide-de-camp to the Iron Duke,” he said, in a dismissing way.
    “Indeed!” Beaudel exclaimed, sitting up, impressed with this story. We all like to meet one who has actually been on intimate terms with the mighty. “What sort of a man is he?” 
    While the guest went on with some details of the general’s personality and behavior, I regarded him closely. With a brother who had been in the Peninsula, I had followed the campaign more closely than most. When returned soldiers, of whom I had met more than a few, spoke of the Peninsular battles, it was more common to name them in the order in which they had occurred. Talavera, Salamanca, Vitoria—as they worked their way up from the border of Portugal to France. The haphazard arrangement jarred on my ear. Worse, to have thrown in the defeat of Burgos with the victories was such a questionable thing that I began to wonder if Major Morrison had ever been in the Peninsula at all, or whether he were not a stay-at-home major who paraded his farm hands up and down the village green, playing at war.
    I decided to test him, which meant putting myself forward more than a governess might politely do. Our role was to sit back and listen, speaking only if our charge got out of hand. My test must pose a question whose reply required some close knowledge of the Peninsular was. Burgos seemed a likely subject for the test question. When he began on some talk of taking French prisoners, leaked innocently, “Would you have taken a great many prisoners after a battle such as Burgos?”
    “Hundreds of them,” he said, waving a hand