SEBASTIAN’S WATERLOO

(Prequel to Lord Somerton’s Heir*)

Alison Stuart

Before Lord Somerton, he was just plain Captain Sebastian Alder, a penniless career officer in Wellington’s army.

As Napoleon makes his last great bid for power, he will meet an Iron Duke and an indomitable force of English and allied troops in the fields just south of a little village called Waterloo.

The events of June 18, 1815 will change the tide of world events and Sebastian Alder’s life forever...

(*LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR is available on Amazon)

Sebastian’s Waterloo

by

Alison Stuart

Copyright © July 2015, Alison Stuart

Oportet Publishing July 2015

Cover Design:  Alison Stuart

Cover photograph:  Purchased with Licence from www.canstockphoto.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Discover other titles by Alison Stuart at

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Contents

SEBASTIAN’S WATERLOO

Sebastian’s Waterloo

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

About the author

OTHER TITLES by Alison Stuart

LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR

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Chapter 1

The village of Waterloo, Belgium 17 June 1815

'Are you married?'

Sebastian jerked his head up at the unexpected question. He looked across at his commanding officer and stuttered. 'No.'

He had been married once... briefly... and in a way he still thought of himself as a married man, despite the six long years that had passed since Inez’s death.

Major Arthur Heyland put his pen down on his writing box and smiled but even in the dim light of the lantern, there was no humour in his smile. 'Consider yourself fortunate, Alder.'

'You, sir?'

Heyland nodded. 'Married twelve years.'

'Children?' Sebastian prompted, not from any great interest but conversation of any kind helped pass the time.

This time there was humour in the smile, a genuine warmth he hadn't seen in the man who had been his commanding officer only two short weeks.

'Six... and one due any day,' Heyland replied.

Sebastian did the mental calculation. Quick work in only twelve years of marriage, most of which, he gathered had been spent on active service.

As if sensing his unspoken question, Heyland said. 'Mary followed the drum and it broke my heart to leave her in Wales, but she’s... well she could hardly follow in her condition. She's a capital girl, my Mary.’ He sat back and scratched his nose with the end of his pen. ‘You know the life she has led, Alder, all without complaint. She has borne me four boys and two girls...’ he paused, the corners of his mouth turning down, ‘and the one I may never meet.'

There was no answer to the last. Both men lapsed into silence, unbroken but for the steady lashing of rain on the window of their billet.

'This rain will be the very devil on the morrow,' Heyland said, changing the subject.

‘If it is for us, then the French will have it just as bad,' Sebastian responded.

Heyland looked down at the letter he had been writing. 'I’d been given permission to retire on half pay,' he said without looking up. 'We have enough to live comfortably. Mary and I...' he broke off with a shuddering breath.

Sebastian said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He had been a soldier as long as this man, they had both seen service on the Peninsula, both been wounded several times. The prospect of battle held no illusions of grandeur or glory. If Heyland had some premonition that tomorrow would be his last day on earth, then Sebastian had seen it before and he had no comfort, no platitudes to offer. 

Death came at its own behest and even as he had charged the walls at Talavera, crying its name, death had laughed in his face. Now... he took a deep shuddering breath... the thought of death terrified him. He had not seen serious action since Talavera and in that time his life has changed.

‘I have a younger brother and sister,’ Sebastian volunteered. ‘Orphaned...’  He made a pretence of inspecting his sword for rust, conscious that Heyland gave him a long, lingering glance of complete understanding.

If Heyland had been about to say something, a knock on the door interrupted him. A small man in the uniform of Sebastian’s original regiment, the 22nd Regiment of Foot, entered, carrying two pannikins.

‘That smells like real food,’ Heyland remarked taking the pannikin.

'Chicken,' Corporal Bennet announced with a degree of pride in his voice.

'Where did you steal it, Bennet?' Sebastian asked.

He took the pannikin but in truth had little appetite. Only common sense told him he needed to eat.

His orderly looked offended. 'Didn't steal 'nuffin, sir and I resents the implication. This came for you, Major Heyland, sir.' Bennet handed a folded and sealed paper to Heyland.

As Sebastian hastily consumed the gelatinous mess Bennet had produced, without tasting it, Heyland broke the seal and scanned the contents, waiting until Bennet had left the room before he said. 'Our orders for tomorrow, Alder. We are to be held in the reserve under Lambert and be in place at the farm Mont St. Jean by 9 in the morning.'

Sebastian nodded and rose to his feet. 'I'll pass the orders on,' he said, 'and make sure the men are rested.'

Heyland ran a hand over his eyes. 'God knows they must be exhausted after that march from Ghent. I know I am and I had a horse.'

Sebastian left his commanding officer to finish his letter to his wife in private and went in search of the rest of the officers of the 40th Regiment of Foot. Some were already asleep and he apologised for rousing them but they had the responsibility to ensure their men were settled for the night, had eaten, cleaned their muskets and would be ready to march at seven.

'In this weather?' one of the younger officers complained, glancing at the open door and the pouring rain.

'Count yourself lucky you have a dry bed and a meal in your belly,' Sebastian snapped. 'I am betting there are men out there who have neither. See to your men... now!'

Chapter 2

Sunday June 18th 1815 – 9.00am

'Dear God!' The exclamation issued from the tight lips of Major Heyland as he and Sebastian rode forward to view the field of battle. 'I thought the waiting was bad enough, but this...'

The 40th had been with Wellington’s reserve at Mont St. Jean since nine in the morning. Now at three in the afternoon the reserve had been pulled forward to defend the Brussels road just north of the farm of La Haye Sainte at the centre of the allied line. They knew from the steady stream of casualties that had passed by, that the fighting had been fierce but even battle hardened soldiers such as Sebastian and Heyland could not fail to be horrified by what lay over the ridge. 

They had both taken the time to do an extended reconnaissance before hostilities had commenced at eleven in the morning. The rain had ceased, leaving the roads and fields a sodden mess but in the calm before the storm the corn still stood bowed but unbroken by the force of nature, waving in the gentle breeze. Across the narrow valley, the blue uniformed French had been jostling into position, even as the red coated British and their allies, the Belgium, Dutch and German troops did the same.  Two farm houses occupied strategic positions, Hougemont to the right flank and La Haye Sainte to the left.

'Lose those and we lose the battle,' Heyland remarked, lowering his spy glass.

'I am sure the Duke is aware of that,' Sebastian said.  He glanced behind him at the allied forces deploying on and behind the ridge line. 'Wellington’s chosen well. This ridge gives us a good rear slope defence,' he said. 'He's a cunning fox, the Duke. Unless the French have eyes in the sky, they won't know what to expect.'

'But we still need the Prussians,' Heyland said.

They had turned their horses and returned to the rear to wait in frustrated ignorance while hell was unleashed on the peaceful fields.

Now, four hours into the battle and a pall of acrid gun smoke hung over the churned and muddy fields.  Around the blackened and smoking farm buildings of La Haye Sainte, the carnage of the previous hours lay in plain sight, bodies of men and horses piled on top of each other. From this distance the cries of wounded men and beasts came borne on the wind as a soft moan, only to be drowned out by the thunder of the massive guns favoured by Napoleon.

Even as they watched, an eerie silence descended on the field and out of the smoke, a dark line appeared moving forward with such grace that they could have been carried on the wind.

Sebastian put the glass to his eye. His stomach lurched, his mouth suddenly dry.

'Cavalry,' he said.

'How many?'

Sebastian swallowed. 'Thousands... more than I have ever seen in my lifetime and they are heading straight for us, sir.'

There would be no time for a leisurely perusal of the field, Heyland and Sebastian turned their horses back to the battalion.

'Form square!' Heyland yelled. 'Cavalry advancing.'

The five hundred men of the Fighting Fortieth moved smoothly into position enveloping the two officers and their horses within the square. Four men deep in a tight packed square that measured barely thirty yards on each side and at its centre, the colours, held by a young ensign.

Sebastian dismounted and looping the reins over his arm, walked across to the young man.

‘First action?’

The young man nodded. ‘Joined the regiment when it landed, sir. Father bought my commission. Thought it would be a lark. Never thought it would be...’ he glanced around the tightly packed square, ‘...like this.’

Sebastian had no words of encouragement. In truth his own stomach roiled at the thought of what they were about to face. In this situation, full knowledge of what was about to hit them, was probably worse than this boy’s ignorance.

He clapped the boy on the shoulder and forced a reassuring smile he did not feel.

‘You’re with good men, lad, and they are relying on you to hold the colours true.’

The boy nodded, his Adams apple moving as he swallowed.  

He mounted and rejoined Heyland, who looked him up and down, a smile twisting his mouth.

'Damn it, Alder, have I mentioned that your uniform is a disgrace?' Heyland said in a casual tone. 'You could at least have taken the trouble to be fitted for the correct regimentals.’

Taking the Major’s words as an excuse to lighten the moment, Sebastian ostentatiously tugged at the frayed cuff of his uniform jacket - the uniform of the 22nd Regiment of Foot, not the 40th.

'There was no time,' he responded in a similar tone. 'I will see to it as soon as we return to London,’ adding with an answering smile, ‘sir.’

‘See that you do,’ Heyland responded. He rose in his stirrups. ‘They’re coming... Wait for it lads...Wait... Now. Fire on the horses.’

The French cavalry coming over the rise were met with a fusillade of disciplined musket fire from the front ranks of the square, to be taken up by the second, third and fourth ranks in quick succession. Screaming horses went down, taking their riders with them.

'No supporting artillery,' Heyland said, turning to Sebastian.

'A mistake?' Sebastian suggested.

'Napoleon doesn't make mistakes, but he might.’ Heyland pointed at a bare headed man in a magnificent uniform, that even from the distance, gleamed with gold embroidery. The man stood in his stirrups screaming orders, his red hair sticking up on end.

‘Ney,’ Sebastian murmured.

Heyland nodded. ‘Mad, impetuous bastard.’ He ducked as a pistol ball fired over the heads of the English soldiers took off his cap.

‘Damn, that was close,’ Heyland remarked straightening in his saddle and adjusting his collar.

The French cuirassiers, their breast plates gleaming, the plumes of horse hair waving from their high helmets, circled the impenetrable squares of English and allied soldiers, firing their pistols, making impotent attempts at trying to cut the corners of the squares, slashing with their heavy sabres. Bayonets held them at bay, musket fire took out man and horse and through it all the Frenchman bared their teeth, uttering unintelligible war cries.

‘Go on lads,’ the Battalion Sergeant Major yelled, ‘You make faces right back at ‘em and then shoot ‘em dead.’

But the ranks of the 40th were thinning. As each man fell, one of the reserves kept, was sent forward to fill the gap and the lines reclosed. The dead were cast aside, the wounded dragged into the centre of the square. Medical orderlies did what they could to ease the suffering men but with the circling cavalry there was no chance of getting the men back behind the lines.

In the space of an hour the square had halved in size, Ney's men had pulled back, but Sebastian was under no illusion that it was retreat, they were regrouping for another attack. Napoleon wanted La Haye Sainte and he wanted it badly.

Chapter 3

Sunday June 18th 1815 – 7.00 pm

After the cavalry, the infantry came in waves.  Of the five hundred men who had marched out of Mont St. Jean only a few hours before, nearly half were dead or injured. When the line threatened to waver, Heyland himself rode up and down with exhortations to 'Stand firm, reinforcements are coming boys.'

'Reinforcements?' Sebastian looked at his commanding officer. 'We both know the only hope we've got now are the bloody Prussians.'

Heyland ran a hand through his hair and glanced to the left flank, the direction from which the Prussians would come... if they came at all.

'Sir, look...' the young ensign pointed in the direction of La Haye Sainte. A French flag fluttered from a shattered chimney. The Germans had defended it well but it had fallen, the German defenders tumbling out of a side gate and northwards to the comparative safety of the allied lines.

The French had achieved one of the key positions on the Brussels road.  Now all Napoleon had to do was push through past the farm before the Prussians joined forces without the outnumbered allies.  Standing in the way of Napoleon’s ambitions was the 40th Regiment of Foot.

'Something of a dilemma, gentlemen.'

The voice came from behind them and both Sebastian and Heyland turned in their saddles at the sound of the familiar voice.

The Duke of Wellington, impeccably dressed in a well cut blue frock coat, surveyed them from under the brim of his familiar bi-corn hat that emphasised the beak of his nose. His gaze flicked from one to the other.

'Always good to see Peninsula men,' the Duke said as calmly as if they had encountered him in a park. 'Alder, we need some of that dash you showed at Talavera.'

Talavera? Sebastian shuddered. That had not been 'dash'. That day he had been bound for hell, determined to die, instead he had earned himself a crippling wound and a field promotion.

The Duke gestured with a gloved hand at the farmhouse. 'So what are we to do about our friends?'

'They're bringing guns up to the farm,' Heyland said.

The Duke's mouth tightened. ‘I know but I've got sharp shooters in the sandpit on the left. God willing they will be able to pick off the gun crews. How fares the 40th, Heyland?'

Heyland's gaze scanned the lines of men. 'We've lost nearly half our number.'

'And you may yet lose your other half,' the Duke said, and gestured toward the French line. 'See that, gentlemen?'

A wall of men had begun to advance across the valley, moving in steady cadence to the beat of the drum.

'The Imperial Guard,' Sebastian said in an exhalation of breath. ‘The Old Guard.’

'Bonaparte's finest, but also his reserve,' responded the Duke. 'He is desperate to break us before the Prussians join the field but we'll be ready for them. Heyland, I want all your men to lie down, only to rise on my order, understood?'

Heyland glanced at Sebastian and Sebastian saw the light of understanding in Heyland's eye. The old fox, he thought.

'Lure the guard over the crest of the ridge in the belief the allies are in retreat?'

The Duke allowed himself a smile. 'Exactly. When they’re in range, give ‘em a surprise and when they’re on the run, your object, gentlemen, will be La Haye Sainte.’

One had to admire the Duke’s optimism, Sebastian thought. The Old Guard had never once in its entire history, turned and run.

The Duke, with his unnerving ability to read minds, turned his sharp gazed on Sebastian. ‘I have some good news. The Prussians have arrived and they are quite content to harass Napoleon's right flank as we deal with the Guard. Drive back the Old Guard and he is done for. Does that suit you?'

'Of course, sir.'

'Excellent.' The Duke turned his horse to face the men of the 40th. 'You've done well, my lads,' he said, rising in his stirrups. 'But we've had enough of sitting up here, waiting for the worst Boney can throw at us. See that farm house?' He gestured at La Haye Sainte. 'I want the men of the 40th to clear it of the French rabble. Are you up for it, boys?"

A spontaneous cheer went up from the depleted ranks. Shakos were tossed in the air and every last man of the 40th, exhausted, dirty, wounded... drew themselves up a little taller.

The Duke surveyed the men with a cold eye. 'No cheering, my lads, but go on and complete your victory.'

Wellington turned back to the two senior officers. 'Good luck,' he said. 'I know you'll do it.'

Both men saluted and watched as the Duke and his attendant staff cantered away. Sebastian watched him go and wiped a hand across his dry mouth. Drive off the Old Guard... that sounded such a simple task but as the air filled with the tramp of feet and the sonorous cry of 'Vive L'Empereur', his own courage failed. He had survived the worst of it so far, with nothing more than a scratch on his arm from a glancing pistol ball, but now, dark premonition descended on him like a carrion bird.

Above the howl of the allied artillery as it rained fire and brimstone, in the form of balls and canister shot down on the French troops, he became aware that Heyland was trying to get his attention.

Sebastian apologised and Heyland nodded. ‘This is it, Alder,’ he said, fumbling in his jacket. He pulled out the letter he had written the night before and held it out.

'Take this. I want you to see it is delivered to Mary.'

Sebastian hesitated for a moment. He wanted to protest that Heyland himself would be delivering it in person but he knew the odds of both of them surviving what was to come were stacked against them.  He nodded and accepted the package. If Heyland lived and he died then the letter became irrelevant. If he lived and Heyland died... then the letter would be delivered. If they both died, the letter may be found and delivered or it may not. It no longer mattered.

Despite the murderous fire power raining down on the, from the lighter guns of the well disciplined English artillery, the Imperial Guard came on.  Those that made it to the top of the ridge were met by a wall of red coated infantry rising out of the corn to bring volleys of musket fire on Napoleon's finest. Men were mown down like the summer harvest beneath the scythe of musket balls. The drum beat hesitated and was lost and in what seemed like a heartbeat, Napoleon’s unbeatable force, wavered, taking uncertain steps backwards down the punishing slope up which they had just marched.

'They're breaking,' Heyland said. 'We did it. By God, we did it! 40th forward...'

And as the Imperial Guard broke, retreating in confusion back down the forward slope into the muddy depths of the valley, for the first time all day the allied forces moved forward.

The remnants 40th Regiment of Foot formed a column. They had their orders, from the Iron Duke himself... they would take back the battered remnants of the La Haye Sainte farm house.

~*~

Only a fool would have expected the Old Guard to just turn and run. Even disordered and in retreat, they turned to face their foe. As the 40th crested the ridge, they in turn came under musket fire from both the farm house and a detachment of the Guard who stood between the battalion and its objective.

As the English had done earlier in the day, the French targeted the horses.

Sebastian's horse faltered, going down on its knees with a scream of pain. Sebastian kicked himself free of the stirrups and rolled clear of the dying animal. Only a few yards away, Heyland's horse reared and Heyland hit the ground with an audible thud. Keeping low, Sebastian ran to his commander's side and found the Major winded but unhurt. He helped him to his feet as behind them the 40th faltered.

Heyland cast around for his sword but it had broken in the fall and he kicked the useless weapon. Turning to his men, his eyes bright with battle fever he yelled. 'On my brave boys. We ...'

His words were stopped by a musket ball. A spurt of blood jetted from his neck and he went down on his knees. Sebastian leaped to his side, gentling the wounded man into a lying position, trying ineffectually to staunch the bright arterial blood with his sash.

Heyland's face registered only surprise. He looked up at Sebastian, his mouth working. He managed to utter 'My Mary...' before his life ended in a gurgle of bright blood at the corners of his mouth.

Sebastian closed his commander's eyes. He had no time to stop and mourn. Their advance had been checked, the men dropping flat on the ground as the French continued to rain fire down on them.

‘What now, sir?’

Sebastian looked up at the Battalion Sergeant Major. What now? He held seniority of rank, the command of the 40th was his. He had responsibility for the lives of three hundred men and never had he felt more inadequate for a task.

'Up!' Sebastian commanded, on his feet once more. 'Up and let's finish this job.'

He raised his sword and seized up the pathetic ribbons that had once been the Battalion Colours as they fell from the Ensign's dead hand. Another death he would mourn tomorrow but not now.

He had lost his own cap in the fall from his horse and bareheaded, with the colours in his left hand and his sword in the right, he ran forward, straight at the line of French Guardsmen, the remnants of the 40th beside him. 

Later, Sebastian couldn't say when he was hit. In the heat of the battle and with the objective so close, he had been gripped with an almost maniacal need to see the task complete. The fierce hand to hand fighting as the guards put up their last resistance, the French troops on the walls of the farm house pouring musket fire down on them merged into a blur of heat and blood, overlaid with the acrid smell of powder.

They were through the gates, fending off French infantry to the right and left.

Only when it was over and the last Frenchman lay dead on the cobble stones of the yard, did he feel the pain beneath his ribs. He put his hand to his side, noting with surprise that his fingers were sticky with blood.

‘You’re hit, sir!’ The Battalion Sergeant Major was by his side, prying the remnants of the 40th’s colours from Sebastian’s grip.

Got to stay upright. Can’t let them see me fall.

‘Secure the buildings and get that damn flag down,’ Sebastian ordered, gesturing at the tattered French flag that still fluttered from the chimney. ‘Got to let the Duke know we’ve...achieved...’ His words were slurring and the Sergeant Major’s face going in and out of focus.

‘Sir... you need...’

‘I need you to obey your orders... Get to it. I might just sit down for a moment...’ He staggered back against a mounting block, the faces of his brother and sister rising into his vision.

‘I’ve failed you...’ he murmured as the world roared in his ears and he knew nothing more.

Chapter 4

Monday June 19th 1815 – 2.00am

Stars, bright and timeless, pierced the terrible blackness of the night. Sebastian lay very still, counting them. So many stars. He wondered if anyone had ever actually counted them all. The night air brushed his face with icy fingers and unidentifiable cries and moans drifted around him. He wondered vaguely what was making that terrible sound.

Someone was tugging at his belt but he lacked the strength to resist or even raise his head to see who it was.

A bright flash of light and a loud, 'Get away from him, you bastard,' uttered in a strident cockney voice, but he could see nothing. Someone swore followed by the sound of fist on bone. More swearing, this time in guttural French, and then silence.

He turned his head away from the light of a lantern swung in his direction and drew a deep, shuddering breath, aware now of terrible pain beneath his right ribs. A face came into view, shadowed for a moment and then illuminated with startling clarity. A familiar face grinned down at him.

'Strange place to have a lie down, Capn'.'

'Bennet,' Sebastian managed. 'Did we do it?'

'Aye, sir. We did it. Boneys on the run back to Paris with them Prussian bastards hard on his heels.'

'Heyland's dead.'

'Aye, sir. S'arnt Major reckons as how we've lost nearly two hundred men and officers. Thought we'd lost you too, but here you are. Taken me a little while to find you but now we'll get you back to the saw bones.'

'Who was that...' Sebastian began but could not finish. ‘Did you hit him, Bennet?’

'Not ‘ard enough. That was a damned looter, sir. They're all over the field. Anything of value, they'll take and if the cove ain't dead and puts up a fight, they'll just finish the job and have the teeth out of your head.'

Sebastian fumbled in his jacket, finding Heyland's letter. He pulled it out and held it up to Bennet.

'Whatever happens to me, Bennet, see that Major Heyland's widow gets this.'

Bennet took the letter, stowing it in his own jacket. 'Nuffin's going to happen to you, sir.' He rose to his feet and addressed someone out of Sebastian's line of sight. 'You there, bring that stretcher over 'ere. Got a wounded officer.'

His corporal hunkered down again. Sebastian raised his right hand, reassured when Bennet clasped it in his own.

‘Connie and Matt,’ he said. ‘Can you tell them I did my best?’

Bennet squeezed his hand so hard, the bones crunched. ‘Yer not going to die, Alder,’ he said. ‘Not while I has any say in it.’

‘I’m...’ He wanted to say scared. ‘I don’t want to leave them alone, Bennet. They have no one else.’

‘I know that, sir.’ Bennet laid Sebastian’s hand down across his chest. 'Bin quite a day, sir. Not one I want to go through again. I thought we was a goner this time. When those French horses came over the ridge and then that bloody Old Guard...but here we are, sir. You and I. Wonder what tomorrow will bring?'

Sebastian closed his eyes. He would think about tomorrow... tomorrow.

Historical notes

The sharp eyed among you (who may have read LORD SOMERTON'S HEIR) might have noticed that I created a problem for myself. Sebastian Alder's regiment, the 22nd Regiment of Foot (the Cheshire Regiment) was not at Waterloo. In fact it was thousands of miles away - in Mauritius.

Fortunately, officers moved fairly easily between regiments wherever vacancies occurred, although the usual practice was to buy into the vacancy. Sebastian, as a penniless captain with a field promotion following his 'heroic' actions at Talavera had no money to buy commissions so I assigned him from a staff job to the adjutancy of the 40th Regiment of Foot (the Somerset Regiment), the Fighting Fortieth.

In researching the role the 40th played on the field of Waterloo, it is hard to go past the story of its commander, Major Arthur Heyland, who fell in the last hour of the battle, as described in the story. The letter Heyland wrote on the eve of Waterloo sent goosebumps down my spine as the man foreshadowed his death the following day. The full text of the letter is reproduced HERE

For more detail on the life and death of Major Heyland, I am indebted to the following source: http://british-cemetery-elvas.org/heyland.html
I would also like to acknowledge the following sources in my research:
http://www.lancashireinfantrymuseum.org.uk/waterloo/
http://www.nam.ac.uk/research/famous-units/40th-2nd-somersetshire-regiment-foot
Wikipedia - various articles.

An excerpt from LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR follows…

CLICK HERE TO SUBSCRIBE….

About the author

Award winning Australian author, Alison Stuart learned her passion from history from her father. She has been writing stories since her teenage years but it was not until 2007 that her first full length novel was published. A past president of the Romance Writers of Australia, Alison has now published seven full length historical romances and a collection of her short stories.  Many of her stories have been shortlisted for international awards and BY THE SWORD won the 2008 EPIC Award for Best Historical Romance. 

Her inclination for writing about soldier heroes may come from her varied career as a lawyer in the military and fire services. These days when she is not writing she is travelling and routinely drags her long suffering husband around battlefields and castles.

Readers can connect with Alison at her website, Facebook, Twitter and Goodreads.

OTHER TITLES by Alison Stuart

Historical Romance

Her Rebel Heart

Lord Somerton’s Heir

The Guardians of the Crown Series

By The Sword (Book 1)

The King’s Man (Book 2)

Exiles’ Return (Book 3)

Paranormal Historical Romance

Gather The Bones

Secrets In Time

If you enjoyed this short ‘prequel’ story, you may enjoy reading LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR to find out what adventures awaited Sebastian in the days after Waterloo.

LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR

Alison Stuart

From the battlefield of Waterloo to the drawing rooms of Brantstone Hall, Sebastian Alder’s elevation from penniless army captain to Viscount Somerton is the stuff of dreams. But the cold reality of an inherited estate in wretched condition, and the suspicious circumstances surrounding his cousin’s death, provide Sebastian with no time for dreams, only a mystery to solve and a murderer to bring to justice.

Isabel, widow of the late Lord Somerton, is desperate to bury the memory of her unhappy marriage by founding the charity school she has always dreamed of. But, her dreams are shattered, as she is taunted from the grave, discovering not only has she been left penniless, but she is once more bound to the whims of a Somerton.

But this Somerton is unlike any man she has met. Can the loveof an honourable man heal her broken heart or will suspicion tear them apart?

LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR is available from Amazon – just click HERE.

In the meantime, please enjoy the first chapter of LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR....

Chapter 1

London

June 28, 1815

‘Are you certain he’s here?’ Isabel — Lady Somerton — asked, her voice muffled by the lavender scented kerchief she had pressed to her nose and mouth.

The pathetic piece of muslin did little to conceal the stench of unwashed bodies, blood, corrupted wounds and worse that pervaded the makeshift hospital. The price Wellington had paid for the victory lay crowded on filthy straw mattresses on the makeshift hospital floor of an old warehouse in Battersea.

Everywhere she turned the wounded had been crowded together, so many of them that only a curtain separated the officers from the other ranks. Pushing aside the curtain, the conditions for the officers was little better. At least they had cots, not straw-filled bags, but those who had survived the rapid evacuation to England were in a poor state. Most still wore the tattered remnants of the uniform they had worn in battle over ten days ago and it looked to Isabel as if the rough bandages over their wounds had not been changed in days.

A young boy, hardly older than Peter Thompson, the stable boy at Brantstone, screamed for his mother. Her heart stopped at the heartrending sound and she turned and knelt down beside him, smoothing the hair back from his burning forehead. He clutched her hand, looking at her with unseeing eyes.

She murmured to him, the sort of platitudes she imagined a mother would use with an ailing child and his breathing steadied and then stilled; the hand clutching hers fell away.

Her companion, Bragge, the Somerton man of business, touched her shoulder.

‘Come away, my lady.’

She stared down at the child on the cot. ‘But...’

‘He’s dead, my lady.’

Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it down. She could not show weakness, not now. She needed all her strength.

She rose slowly to her feet and cast the dead boy one last look, her lips moving in silent prayer for his soul and the mother who would grieve for her son.

‘The orderly over there said he’s in that corner, Lady Somerton.’ Bragge’s voice carried no conviction and he looked as green and sickly as she felt.

He held the lantern higher to illuminate the man they had sought for so many months. He lay on his left side with his back to them. A torn and stained scarlet jacket with a Captain’s epaulettes had been thrown across his shoulders and a ragged blanket covered his torso and legs. All Isabel could see of the man was dark matted hair.

Isabel held back for a moment, wondering what she would say. She had rehearsed a pretty little speech in the coach but now as she looked down at the man known to the world as Sebastian Alder, the words deserted her. How would he take the news? It could not be every day that the humble son of a country parson found himself elevated to the peerage. Would he rejoice or rail against his mother who had kept the secret of his parentage from him?

Doubt seized her. What manner of man would he turn out to be? Surely a parson’s son would have some education, but would he be capable of running the Somerton estates? For the first time since hearing the news that they had found an heir to the Somerton estates, a niggling doubt caught her.

‘My lady?’ Bragge’s voice broke through her musing and she took a deep breath.

Steeling her nerves, she reached out a gloved hand, touching the man on the shoulder.

‘Captain Alder?’ she ventured in an uncertain voice.

When he did not stir, she looked up at Bragge, her heart sinking.

‘Are we too late?’ she ventured.

‘Try again, my lady.’

She bent down and closed her fingers on his shoulder, shaking him.

With a speed that took her completely by surprise, a hand grasped her wrist as the man rolled onto his back, hot, angry, feverish eyes seeking out the person who had disturbed him.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.

Isabel gasped, taking a step back, but he did not release her wrist. ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you...or hurt you,’ she added, seeing pain in the tightened lips and sunken eyes.

Slow comprehension softened the unshaven face and he released her wrist. His eyes closed and he let out a softly aspirated breath.

‘My apologies to you, lady. I did not mean to scare you. Just a soldier’s instincts,’ he said.

Rubbing her wrist, she looked down at the man and caught her breath. There could be no denying he was a Somerton. He had his cousin’s finely chiselled cheekbones and well-shaped mouth, but his jaw had a strength to it that Anthony had lacked.

‘Are you...’ she ventured. ‘Are you Captain Sebastian Alder, son of the late Marjory Alder of Little Benning in Cheshire?’

His eyes opened again but all the fight had gone from him. Beneath the stubble on his chin, his face looked grey, the eyes feverish and sunken in his skull.

‘My mother is eighteen years in the grave. Why do you want to know about her?’ The man frowned as if he were trying to bring them both into focus. ‘Who are you?’ His voice rasped with the effort of speech.

‘I am the dowager Viscountess Somerton and this is my late husband’s man of business, Bragge. We have been looking for you for over six months now.’

He frowned. ‘Looking for me? What do you mean? What is your business with me?’

‘We’ve come to take you home,’ Isabel said.

His mouth quirked into a humourless smile. ‘Well that is a nice sentiment, Lady Somerton, but I very much doubt I would survive such a trip. It’s nigh on two hundred miles to Cheshire.’

‘Oh, not to Cheshire. We are taking you to your new home: Somerton House in Hanover Square.’

The man ran a hand across his eyes. ‘This is a jest or some strange fever dream that I’m going to wake from. Lady Somerton, or whoever you are, I do not live in Hanover Square. I told you, my home is in Cheshire.’

‘It’s no jest, Captain Alder. You are now the Viscount Somerton of Brantstone, first cousin to my late husband and as such, the heir to his estates.’

To her surprise, Alder covered his face with his hands and laughed.

Ignoring him, she continued, ‘The doctors said you would be all right to be moved such a short distance and I have arranged the best doctor to see to you.’ She glanced at Bragge. ‘Bragge, go and fetch the coachmen.’

Bragge inclined his head and scurried out, leaving Isabel alone with the new Lord Somerton.

Alder removed his hands from his face and watched her with puzzlement in his eyes — brown eyes, she noted, a soft, warm brown, not the cold grey of Anthony’s.

She looked around the ward and shuddered. ‘This is a terrible place,’ she said, more to herself than to him. ‘I’m surprised anyone survives it.’

‘They don’t.’ The man on the pallet tried to sit up, falling back with a groan.

‘’Ere! Who are you then?’ A strident cockney voice caused Isabel to turn on her heel to be confronted by a soldier of Alder’s regiment, judging by the yellow facings of his jacket. He carried a bowl of water and some cloths, and he looked at Isabel as if she were some ill-intentioned assassin.

Isabel straightened. ‘I’m Lady Somerton. Who are you?’

‘I’m Bennet, Corporal Obadiah Bennet and you ain’t got no business with my captain. He ain’t strong enough for visitors.’

Alder’s hand clutched at his corporal’s jacket. ‘Lady Somerton is just leaving, Bennet,’ he croaked.

Isabel glanced down at the sick man. He had to come with her. Without him she would be lost. It was not his choice. He had obligations and responsibilities to assume. Didn’t he understand that?

‘Why do you want to take him away? I can take perfectly good care of him ‘ere,’ Bennet said.

Isabel looked around the stinking ward. The dead boy still lay unregarded on his mattress, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.

‘No! I cannot leave without him.’ She heard the rising hysteria in her voice. ‘He will die here. At Somerton House we can look after you properly. I can get the best doctors... A nurse...’

‘And why would a grand lady like you want to do that?’ Bennet sounded derisive.

‘Because,’ she lowered her voice, aware that their little contretemps was attracting attention, ‘your captain is the new Lord Somerton and he should be taken home where he can be looked after properly.’

‘What?’ Corporal Bennet stared at her and then down at his officer. ‘Is this lady stark, staring mad? I’ve known you since you was sixteen years old and you may be many things, but you ain’t no lord.’

Alder waved a hand. ‘Explain it to him, or I’ll have no peace.’

Isabel looked down at the wounded man. ‘It’s true. Your father was James Kingsley, my late husband’s uncle.’

Bennet scoffed. ‘’is father was the Reverend Alder of Little Benning in Cheshire and a right decent gentleman too.’

Isabel glared at the little man, tempted to rebuke him for his insolence.

‘The Reverend Alder was his stepfather.’ She looked down at Sebastian Alder. His eyes were open but unfocussed and she wondered if he could even hear what she was saying. ‘According to my information, Captain Alder, your mother married him when you were two years old. How many times must I repeat it? You are Lord Somerton’s heir.’

Alder frowned as if trying to reconcile what she was saying. He raised a hand and ran it across his eyes. ‘It sounds an incredible tale but, Lady Somerton, I don’t have the strength to argue with you. If it means that you are intent on removing me to somewhere more pleasant than this charnel house, I can do no more than be much obliged.’

She crouched down beside him, instinctively straightening the blanket and the ruined jacket. ‘I know this is a shock. I meant to break it to you when you were in a better state to receive the news.’

Sebastian Alder laid a grimy hand on her arm. ‘Do whatever you want with me, Lady Somerton. I am yours to command’

She managed what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘I promise you the full story when you are stronger. For now we must get you away from this place.’

‘What about me?’ Bennet protested.

‘Bennet comes too.’ Alder’s fingers closed on her sleeve, his voice now so weak she had to bend to hear him. ‘He’s been my batman for fifteen years now. I’m not leaving him.’

‘Of course.’ Isabel glanced at the little corporal. ‘Bennet comes too.’

She smiled at the new Lord Somerton and put her hand over his, gently laying it back on his chest. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep or unconscious. Rising to her feet, she beckoned Bragge and the coachmen who had pushed past the curtains, one carrying a stretcher. She prayed they were not too late. Even the most innocuous of wounds could kill if not treated properly.

(End Exerpt)

BUY… LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR