Joanna Maitland - His Cavalry Lady

The Aikenhead Honours Three gentlemen spies: bound by duty, undone by women!

Introducing three of England’s

most eligible bachelors:

Dominic, Leo and Jack

code-named Ace, King, Knave

Together they are

The Aikenhead Honours A government-sponsored spying ring, they risk their lives, and hearts, to keep Regency England safe!

Follow these three brothers on a dazzling

journey through Europe and beyond as they

serve their country and meet their brides, in

often very surprising circumstances!

Meet the ‘Ace’, Dominic Aikenhead,

Duke of Calder, in

HIS CAVALRY LADY

Meet the ‘King’ and renowned rake,

Lord Leo Aikenhead, in

HIS RELUCTANT MISTRESS

Meet the ‘Knave’ and incorrigible playboy,

Lord Jack Aikenhead, in

HIS FORBIDDEN LIAISON

Joanna Maitlandwas born and educated in Scotland, though she has spent most of her adult life in England or abroad. She has been a systems analyst, an accountant, a civil servant, and director of a charity. Now that her two children have left home, she and her husband have moved from Hampshire to the Welsh Marches, where she is revelling in the more rugged country and the wealth of medieval locations. When she is not writing, or climbing through ruined castles, she devotes her time to trying to tame her house and garden, both of which are determined to resist any suggestion of order. Readers are invited to visit Joanna’s website at www.joannamaitland.com

Recent novels by the same author:

A POOR RELATION

A PENNILESS PROSPECT

MARRYING THE MAJOR

RAKE’S REWARD

MY LADY ANGEL

AN UNCOMMON ABIGAIL

(in A Regency Invitation anthology) BRIDE OF THE SOLWAY

Joanna Maitland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my editor, Jo Carr.

St Petersburg, 1812

The third door led into yet another magnificent room. Empty, just as the previous ones had been. There was nothing for it but to go on.

Adopting a brave posture—there could be no enemy here, could there?—the young cavalry trooper strode across to the door on the far side. There he hesitated, for just a second or two. Then, with a tiny shake of the head, as if telling himself to face his demons, he put his hand to the latch and opened it.

‘Ah, Trooper Borisov. At last.’ The speaker was a portly gentleman dressed in court uniform. He was smiling, but he did not bow or offer any other salute. ‘I am Prince Volkonsky, Court Minister to his Imperial Majesty.’

The trooper came sharply to attention. ‘Sir. I…’ He faltered. His unease had been increasing with every one of those empty antechambers.

The Minister’s smile broadened. ‘His Majesty is waiting to meet you, young man. He has heard much of your exploits. And of your exemplary courage. Would that we had ten thousand more like you. We would have rid the world of the French scourge long ago.’

Borisov could feel his face reddening. He cursed silently. Why did he always have to react so? Only girls blushed. Not battle-hardened cavalrymen.

The Minister was waiting for an answer.

‘Thank you, sir. You are most generous. But there are many brave men in the ranks of his Majesty’s army and—’

‘Indeed there are. But few as young as you, Borisov, or with such a record.’

Borisov said nothing more. Any response would sound like bragging.

‘Now, if you will take a seat, my boy, I will tell his Majesty that you have arrived. He is occupied at present, but I am sure you will be admitted soon.’ Without giving Borisov any time to respond, the Minister tapped gently on the further door and entered the room beyond, closing the door softly behind him.

Tsar Alexander himself is behind that door . The thought shivered through Borisov’s mind. The Tsar himself, the Little Father. And I am to meet him. This very day. The Tsar himself .

Borisov began to pace. He needed to be moving. As just before a battle, he could not be still. For this meeting was as momentous as any battle he had fought.

It was only as the connecting door reopened that Borisov began to wonder what he should say to the Tsar. What if he asked—?

‘Trooper Borisov, his Majesty will receive you now.’

Borisov swallowed hard, forced his body into his best military posture and strode through that terrifying door.

It was a huge room, hung with paintings and mirrors, but almost empty of furniture. In the far corner, under the tall windows, stood an ornate gilded desk with a single chair behind it. A distant part of Borisov’s mind registered that visitors to this room were not permitted to sit.

The figure behind the desk rose and came round into the centre of the room. Borisov remained rooted to the spot by the door. He knew, without looking, that it had been closed behind him. He was alone. With the Emperor himself.

‘Borisov. Come forward. Let me look at you in the light.’

Borisov bowed and obeyed.

The Tsar was the taller of the two. Unlike Borisov, he had a fine set of side-whiskers. He stood erect and imposing in his military uniform, looking his visitor over with bright, intelligent eyes. Assessing eyes.

He will spot where my jacket was mended for that sabre cut, Borisov thought suddenly, wishing he had been able to afford a new one.

‘We have heard much about your courageous exploits during the wars. How many times did you take part in those cavalry charges? Five?’

Borisov’s throat was too dry to speak. He nodded, blushing yet again.

‘Your commanders report that you are totally fearless, throwing yourself into every skirmish. Even when it is not your squadron that is charged with the attack.’ The Tsar smiled down at him, encouragingly.

Borisov swallowed. ‘That was a…a mistake, your Majesty,’ he croaked.

The Emperor raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

‘I… It was my first battle, your Majesty. No one had told me that charges were by squadron. When I returned from the first one, I just… I assumed that I was to continue as before.’

‘I see. But you stopped eventually?’

‘Yes, your Majesty. The sergeant-major told me to remain with my own squadron and to charge only with them.’

The Emperor’s eyes were dancing with good humour. ‘But you continued to throw yourself into every battle? And you saved the life of an officer at Borodino.’

Borisov took a deep breath. ‘He was wounded, your Majesty. I merely chased off the enemy. They ran as soon as they saw an unwounded trooper bearing down on them with a lance.’

‘And you gave him your horse.’

‘I…yes, I did.’ Borisov did not add that, by the time the horse was eventually recovered, all the kit it carried had been stolen. And that, as a result, Borisov himself had almost frozen to death for want of a greatcoat.

‘Saving an officer’s life is a meritorious act, Borisov. That is why you have been summoned here to receive the Cross of St George. And…’ the Tsar turned back to his desk and picked up a paper ‘…and for another reason.’

Borisov swayed a little on his feet. Please, no!

‘I have here a plea from a distraught father, Count Ivan Kuralkin, who begs for help to locate his beloved child. This child ran away from home to join the cavalry and has been missing now for more than two years, serving under an assumed name. The father begs that the child, the comfort of his old age, will be found and returned to him. Do you think I should grant his request, Borisov?’ He dropped the paper back on the desk.