Gypsy Jewel by Patricia McAllister Read Free Book Online

He found stupid, pretty women exasperating, and bookish females usually had faces and figures to match. Somewhere, someday, he hoped to find a lady who could outshine them all. And, if she also had an adventurous spirit to equal his own, he would count himself then among the luckiest of men.
     
    B Y MID- O CTOBER, THE Russian commander Prince Alexsandr Menshikov had pulled back to regroup, but still clung stubbornly to Bakhchisarai. Meanwhile, French Marshal Saint-Arnaud finally succumbed to the cholera that had plagued him since the onset of the war. His funeral was hasty and grim, as there was no time to waste on formalities during war.
    At the dismal field quarters at Balaklava, Damien grew increasingly bitter. He could hardly blame his men for not wanting to follow in the footsteps of fallen comrades. It was all he could do himself to pick up a gun and slog through the stinking red snow, never knowing what waited ahead.
    Eventually it occurred to him that a quicker solution might be found if only they could read the czar’s mind, but of course that was impossible. The combined efforts of France and England to insinuate spies in the Russian court had only met with disastrous results.
    If only they had a better, less obvious way to tap the secret rivers of information. Damien had mentioned this once to his comrade in arms, Lord Raglan, who had led the British army in the initial attack on Sevastopol. Often the two men met to pass the time and discuss different strategies.
    To Damien’s surprise, Lord Raglan reminded him of his idea when next they happened to share a rare moment of peace in the officers’ quarters on the field.
    “I’ve been thinking of your remark since last we met, about how we might ford the shield around Nicholas and get an insight into his next move,” James began as he carefully poured steaming tea into a set of mismatched, chipped cups for Damien and himself.
    Though he had lost his right arm at the age of twenty-seven at Waterloo, Fitzroy James Henry Raglan, the Earl of Somerset, had used the ensuing years to master the most intricate tasks with ease. Given his peerage late in life, Lord Raglan was the epitome of British nobility.
    Raglan thought a moment before proceeding with his discourse. Not a man given to quick passions, he had proven his careful style often on the battlefield. And he had watched Damien Cross closely over the past month, both in amazement and admiration at the way the younger earl maintained optimism in the ranks at the worst odds.
    “As you know,” Raglan said at last, “Nicholas has set his sights on reclaiming Constantinople, and he’s apparently determined enough to keep up this bloody war for years, if need be.”
    Damien nodded as he sipped his tea. “I can’t see how the czar can afford to lose as many men as he has. Only a madman would keep going under these circumstances.”
    Lord Raglan chuckled and leaned back in his collapsible canvas chair. “I suppose the same could be said for us. But who can say what a madman will do next? The queen’s most brilliant advisers are unable to predict his next move. At Pembroke Lodge they all huddle and murmur like a pack of old women, but only a man on the front can reasonably predict the enemy’s next move.”
    “Which still does not give us one whit of insight into Nicholas’s master plan,” Damien pointed out.
    “Precisely. That is why it occurred to me, after our last visit, that your idea about a different kind of infiltration makes perfect sense. The Russians clearly expected spies in St. Petersburg, and took severe steps to silence our internal networks. I don’t need to tell you how many have been caught and killed, but suffice it to say that we are badly crippled at this point as far as news from the north goes.”
    “Which suggests to me not only a different strategy, but a different course entirely,” Damien said.
    “Yes. It’s amazing how much more successful a plan might become with only a