Then the Reserve Army began the downward journey, even more difficult than the ascent.

On May 14, Beau was at General Ott's forward headquarters at Rivarolo di Sopra. He was renewing his acquaintances with the Austrian staff officers he'd met at Vienna last fall during negotiations for a Second Coalition against France. No one expected Massena to hold out much longer. The Austrians had cut the Due Fratelli aqueduct, which supplied waterpower for the flour mills in the city the end of April. Admiral Keith's ships stood in every night and bombarded Genoa at close range.

In desperation, Massena had attempted a breakout on May 11, but his troops were too physically exhausted to fight, and with Massena himself covering their retreat, they'd been forced back into the besieged city.

The Austrians had no word of Napoleon, but they were of the opinion the French would move to defend Provence against a threat of invasion, once Genoa fell ... which surely it would. In the meantime, the Austrians were distracted by the siege.

Leaving Rivarolo the following day, Beau and Berry rode north to reconnoiter around Alessandria with plans to move on to Pavia and Milan next. If no rumors of French troops were heard and no indication of their presence could be found in the environs of the Alpine passes into France, perhaps Germany would be the site of Napoleon's summer campaign after all.

On the sixteenth, Napoleon's Reserve Army's advance guard descending the pass reached Aosta and captured it; the following day Lannes routed 1,500 more Austrians at Chatillon. But he ran into trouble on the nineteenth when he reached the Fort of Bard, a formidable obstacle in their path. A small fortress perched on top of a precipitous rock controlled the single road through the narrow valley.

By the twenty-first, the Austrians had been driven out of the village of Bard but the 400 soldiers in the fort garrison with their twenty-six cannon had been able to hold off Lannes's desperate assaults.

The fort commander had immediately sent word to General Melas in Turin of the French invasion; if the general acted quickly, he could block the French advance.

Beau and Berry met Commander Bernkopf's messenger from Bard riding hell-bent for Austrian headquarters with news of the French invasion. Napoleon had done the impossible if he'd brought his entire army over the snow-covered pass, and attaching a note of his own relaying the startling information to Admiral Keith, Beau and his captain made for Bard. They'd need numbers to assess the strength of Napoleon's advance. Was this a feint through the St. Bernard or was an entire army advancing on Genoa? Melas would need to know.

As they approached the fort two days later, the sound of cannons rumbled in the distance and when they came within visual range, they could see the entire village was invested with French troops. But estimating the strength of the enemy after more calculation, they realized the assault wasn't manned by an army of any magnitude.

They spent the remainder of the day scouting the surrounding countryside and late that afternoon, they discovered two footpaths that bypassed the fort farther to the west. Sitting silently on their mounts they gazed at the stark evidence of a large force having passed through the narrow defile.

"They're heading east," Berry said.

"He's fallen like a thunderbolt," Beau murmured, frowning at the trampled ground over which thousands of soldiers had passed. "How many and where are they bound?" he quietly went on, half musing, his mind already sifting through possibilities.

"Not to Genoa I'd bet," Berry said. "And where's his artillery?"

"On the far side of the fort, I'd say. Those footpaths wouldn't allow them to bring the artillery. But we need to find the army before we report back to Melas."

By evening, they were overlooking Ivrea, which had the look of a center of operations. They didn't know that Napoleon was in bed at the time, sleeping peacefully with the knowledge that the enemy was still completely baffled as to his whereabouts.

Beau and Berry slept in the hills that night, needing daylight to better survey the army's strength. At dawn the French army broke camp and continued east.

"Jesus, there's at least fourteen or fifteen divisions." With his field glass raised to his eye, Beau scanned the troops strung out for miles on the road below. "And they're marching on Milan, I'd guess. Bonaparte's going to leave Massena to perish."

"Bonaparte needs artillery to fight a war."

"And the Austrian arsenal is only ninety miles away at Milan. Merde," Beau swore.

They rode the forty miles to Turin in record time, stopping frequently to buy fresh mounts. But when they reached Melas's headquarters, the seventy-year old commander-in-chief dithered for two frustrating days, still not entirely convinced that an army of that size had moved into the Po valley.

Shocked at the irksome, plodding mechanisms of authority in the Austrian chain of command-it could hardly move without orders from the Aulic Council in Vienna-Beau talked to anyone who would listen, exhorting them to speed. But not until the morning of June 1, when two of Melas's commanders relayed news of French attacks, did the commander-in-chief send orders to Ott to lift the siege of Genoa immediately and march northward to join him. He finally had to act with the French approaching Milan and Turin.

At Genoa, Ott had just received word that Massena would consider terms of capitulation. He put Melas's order in his pocket and ignored it. After eight weeks, he had no intention of lifting the siege hours short of victory. He would have Massena's capitulation. But Massena procrastinated with the negotiations, allowing Napoleon the time he'd said he needed until June 4. The final terms of surrender were signed that day.

By then Napoleon had entered Milan and now stood squarely in the line of Austrian retreat.

When Beau heard of Milan's fall a moment of panic assailed him. Full-scale war would soon spread over all of northern Italy. And Serena was in Florence, perhaps not in the first line of attack, but certainly in danger.

During the days he and Berry had ridden in search of the enemy, he'd considered the threat of invasion to Florence, the thought a small, persistently suppressed rumination. Perhaps the campaign could be contained in the rich valleys of the Po, Venice and the Cisalpine regions that offered bounty and riches to the conquerors. But when Milan fell so quickly, all of Italy could soon be overrun.

How deeply was he concerned ... or responsible for Serena's safety? Was he in even the remotest sense her keeper?

He'd done what he'd come here to do-warn Admiral Keith and Charles Lock, he reflected, punctilious, exact in gauging his liability. The rest was out of his hands. He was under no obligation to save Serena Blythe.

After making his farewells to the admiral, Beau set sail for Palermo and from there, with a brief detour to Di Cavalli for his horses, the Siren would chart course for England. But as the Siren cruised nearer to Leghorn, Beau grew increasingly restless. He paced the deck, silent, high-strung. Berry noticed but kept his counsel, knowing his comments wouldn't be appreciated.

They passed the harbor, the city only a distant prospect on the port side, the sea lanes busy as they approached the hub of English commerce in Italy.

Beau abruptly went below.

Stalking into his cabin, he made straight for his liquor cabinet, his hand shaking slightly as he poured himself a drink. In the past weeks he'd not allowed himself to dwell on his personal feelings. He and Berry had been constantly on the move in any event and while he'd thought occasionally of Serena, any opportunities for lengthy reflection had been curtailed by more immediate problems of staying alive.

And he'd neatly reconciled his sense of obligation in the last few days; he had none.

But as Leghorn became visible, he found himself obsessing again. And no matter how he forced away the images from his mind, they returned lush and provocative, demanding. He had no explanation for their intensity; he'd thought them gone after Di Cavalli. He'd thought himself restored to his familiar habits, his casual ease, his undemanding assessment of himself and his world.

Even if on impulse he gave into his obsession, he mused, staring into his brandy, and suddenly appeared at Serena's door, what would he say?

Just thinking about it sent a chill down his spine as if he were committing himself to some unknown, unwanted, unacknowledged feeling he'd always instinctively resisted.

Emptying his glass, the liquor burning his throat, he quickly poured himself another drink. Consuming the brandy with brusque outrage, tumult boiling in his brain, he sat slouched in his chair, regarding the bed where he'd first made love to Serena. And he wanted her again, now-more with each passing moment.

Her image lured him like a Lorelei-an enchanting apparition, her seductive witchery amplified with each glass of brandy consumed. He imagined meeting her again and when she saw him standing on her threshold, he would simply say, "Be my mistress. I'll give you anything ... and safety from the French." Or perhaps, he cynically thought, bitter and disgruntled at his hungry need, reality shredding away the veil of illusion, he could more practically say, "I can't marry you, Miss Blythe, but whatever else you want is yours. A house, an estate, a ransom in jewels, entry into the Royal Society." In the mercenary world of the ton, nothing more had ever been required of him. And if some ladies wished for his title, they'd always settled for his wealth in the end.

But not Serena, he thought with a discontented grunt.

She wasn't for sale.

An unpalatable, stinging concept.

Damn her. He opened a second bottle.

Not till he'd broached his third bottle did he rise from his chair, hie himself up to the sun and breeze above, and lazily stroll across the deck with that careful, inebriated walk of a man well into his cups. "Where are we?" he drawled, standing beside his captain, scanning the distant shore with a distracted gaze.

"Nearing Piombino, sir."

"New shipping orders, Berry," Beau said with a smile, although his eyes were flint hard. "We're back for Leghorn."

20.

The Castellis had returned to Florence a month ago and Serena was now enrolled in two ateliers: the studio of a fashionable portrait painter and that of a landscape painter of note. She was intensely busy, arriving at the studios very early in the morning and, once her workday was over, often painting at home again in the evening.

She'd discovered her rent had been paid for the entire year when she went to tell the landlady she was moving at the Castellis return. So she'd stayed in her own apartment rather than impose on her friends. It was a kindness she much appreciated and her eyes had filled with tears at Beau's thoughtfulness. She might despise him for his selfishness, for not caring enough, but his generosity couldn't be faulted.

Julia and Professor Castelli had introduced her to all their friends in the course of the past month, their weekly salons filled with intellectuals, with lifelong friends, with cousins and relatives of all descriptions. And Serena had been besieged by suitors. A young lawyer had been paying assiduous court since she first met him, and Julia's cousin Sandro, a celebrated sculptor, had offered his heart should she want it, he'd said with his glorious smile. Two younger sons of a local count, splendid in their Austrian uniforms, were faithful in their attendance at the Castelli salon and in their attentions to Serena. The local prefect sent her flowers daily and a young priest was struggling with his conscience over Signorina Serena. So she wasn't without entertainments or friends and she partook of the festive amusements with good grace. But she never offered more than light flirtations to her many suitors. None had captured her heart like Beau.

She still cried over him on occasion, but there were fewer days now that she fell melancholy over her unrequited love. Each week hastened the task of forgetting or made her loss less devastating. Or perhaps she kept herself too busy to notice that Beau St. Jules was missing from her life.

Reports of Napoleon's triumphant entry into Milan reached Florence shortly after the event and the utter defeat of the Austrians at Marengo twelve days later meant France was once again in control of Italy. And those Florentine citizens with something to fear from the French began packing or hiding their valuables. The Austrian Grand Duke's household, for instance, installed in the Pitti Palace, and those local officials under the hegemony of the Austrian government left the city.

Julia explained the history of the French investiture of Florence in 1799, and after warning Serena of the possibility of mob violence that could be avoided by staying in at night, she noted that the routine of life for ordinary people was generally unchanged.

Lulled into a sense of security with no French army marching through the gates of Florence and the war far to the north, Serena was shocked by the sudden appearance of a troop of French soldiers in the Tribuna of the Uffizi one afternoon in mid-June.

She was copying Bronzino's Mannerist depiction of Lucrezia Panciatichi along with several other students as an exercise for her portrait class, her easel set up in the Tribuna.

The officers in the forefront were splendidly dressed hussars, their leopardskin pelisses slung over their shoulders, fur caps embellished with plaited cords and tassels set at a jaunty angle on their heads, their richly embroidered dolman jackets resplendent as a sultan's garb, their swords and sword belts chased in gold.

The small troop moved swiftly into the octagonal room, taking no notice of the students' astonished glances. The senior officer pointed at one of the paintings on the wall and then another, a clerk beside him writing rapidly on a small pad while soldiers lifted the selected paintings from the wall and carried them out.

The party paused briefly beside the Lucrezia Panciatichi, admiring Bronzino's loving depiction of the elegant beauty.

"That one too," Serena heard the officer say to the clerk at his side. And when he turned away from the painting, he saw Serena.

He stopped, put a hand out to stay the men behind him, then half turned his head to murmur something to his colleagues.

All the magnificent hussars stared at her.

And then the young officer in charge walked up to Serena, his spurs clinking delicately in the sudden quiet. "Bonjour, mademoiselle." He bowed gracefully. "You look very much like someone I've met before."

"You must be mistaken, sir," she politely said, answering him in French, trying to present a calm facade, setting her brush down so he wouldn't see her hand shaking.

"You speak French?" His statement was in the form of a question.

"It's the language of Europe, sir," she neutrally replied, hoping he wouldn't ask her more, desperately hoping he would turn and leave as abruptly as he'd appeared.

"General Massena will like that you speak French. She speaks French," he repeated, turning to his fellow officers. "We'll take her too," he briskly said to the clerk.

"No!" Serena cried.

"No one will hurt you, mademoiselle," he gently declared, his gaze swiveling back to her. "General Massena likes blond women." He didn't say she looked the twin of Countess Gonchanka, who'd given the general such pleasure in Zurich last year. In the pillage of Europe, all beauty was fair game. He nodded to the soldiers to seize her.

"Where are you taking me?" Serena's voice was trembling, the soldiers holding her arms guiding her toward the door.

"To the general," the officer mildly replied.

"I have to tell my family." She tried to keep the hysteria from her voice. "Let me at least send a note."

"Of course, mademoiselle." She could have been asking for the use of his handkerchief, so bland was his tone. "Tell Francois here what you wish. He'll see that they receive your message."

She was taken away then, half in shock, she and her escort moving in the wake of the plundering troop that was plucking the treasures of the Uffizi from the walls as if they were produce in a market. And in the piazza below, she saw dozens of covered wagons being loaded with the artwork. Before she was lifted into a carriage, the clerk came running up and she was allowed to dictate a brief message. "I'm being taken to General Massena," she wrote to her friends. "Please help me."

The note Julia received several hours later only said, "I'm going to see General Messena." The signature wasn't Serena's.

And no amount of pleading with the local authorities to help in the search met with any aid. The advance guard of General Massena, newly appointed commander-in-chief of the Army of Italy, was beyond the authority of local government.

When Beau appeared at Serena's apartment later that week, the landlady fell into his arms with sobs for salvation. "She's gone, taken by the French. God help us, you came-I prayed, I prayed you'd come."

Beau gently moved her away, her words frightening, thinking he must have misheard her. Holding her at arm's length, beating down his alarm, he said, "Speak very slowly."

She told him what she'd heard, answering his curt, sharp questions, repeating all she knew a dozen times.

Minutes later he was pounding at the Castellis' door and Julia recognized Beau immediately as the subject of the numerous paintings in Serena's apartment. Serena had confided little to her but she'd surmised an affair had ensued during the journey from England. He was brutally handsome; she could see why Serena had fallen under his spell.

When Beau introduced himself as a friend of Serena's, the Castellis invited him in. Apologizing for his abruptness, he immediately asked for any information they might have concerning Serena's capture.

He listened to their brief explanation of the bare facts, his brow furrowed, then scrutinized the note and silently cursed himself for not coming sooner. When he discovered Serena had been in the enemy's power for four days already, his stomach constricted, knowing full well how pillaging troops took their pleasures.

Julia was speaking in a low, quiet voice, describing all the people they'd conversed with: the students who'd seen Serena taken; the workmen who'd helped load the wagons; the young boy who'd delivered the note for the clerk. And in the course of her calm narration Beau put aside futile anxiety and planned his pursuit.

When he briefly outlined his purposeful journey a short time later, Julia offered their assistance. "Let us help; we'll go with you."

"General Massena's headquarters are in Milan," Professor Castelli added. "We have friends there who could be useful."

"I appreciate your offer," Beau politely replied, "but I can travel faster alone." They'd be in the way.

"With the British at war with France, you'd be in less danger traveling with us," Julia pointed out.

"We often journey to Milan to authenticate paintings." Professor Castelli was a small man, not much taller than his daughter. "I can shoot straight and handle a sword, milord," he went on, drawing himself up to his full height. "I'd be honored to assist you."

"Thank you, but a swift passage is less difficult with fewer people. And if Serena should somehow return in my absence," Beau dissimulated, knowing she wouldn't be kindly returned, "I'd feel more comfortable if you were here. I will need to see a banker before I go, if you could arrange it," he went on, rapidly assessing all he'd require for his trip to Milan, hoping Massena's chief of staff was still avaricious. "Someone who could advance a large sum on letters of credit." Solignac's greed was common knowledge; some said Massena too had a penchant for ducats. Beau was depending on it.

While the Castellis weren't wealthy, they knew merchants who were, and before the day was over, Beau had enough gold in his luggage to buy a dozen women from the general. And papers from the banker that legitimized him as a representative of the banking firm Allori and Sons.

Beau rode through the night, the moon full and bright, a raiding moon they called it in Yorkshire, he grimly mused, the concept appropriate to his intentions. He planned on raiding the general of one of his coquettes-for a considerable price if possible, if not, with violence.

Whatever it took, he'd have her back, he vowed. Regardless whether she wished it or not.

He didn't question how he'd accomplish the task. He was a master of opportunity, his skills honed in his role as liaison for Pitt.

Most of his assignments were those lesser men would decline. Danger exhilarated him, his detractors said, as if he were heedless beyond the need for excitement. Those who knew him better recognized a man equal to immense tasks.

On their journey to Milan, delayed by frequent stops at wealthy monasteries and convents where Colonel Solignac, Massena's chief of staff, would obtain a "donation," Serena was treated with courtesy. She had her own room at night wherever they stopped, the colonel had his orderly personally serve her her meals, additions to her wardrobe had appeared with steaming bathwater the first morning after her abduction, and Solignac had sent a kind note by his adjunct along with several books to ease the boredom of her journey.

She felt very much like the goose being fattened for Christmas dinner and while she was relieved she'd not been molested by any of the hussars, she understood that as Massena's prospective property she was protected.

She tried not to dwell on the outcome of their journey, refusing to give in to her fear until absolutely necessary, thinking instead of possible means to extricate herself from her dilemma. Surely in the apparently wholesale plundering of the subjugated territories, some other of Massena's subordinates might well have found a woman who would appeal to the general more than she. Perhaps that lady was already cozily installed in the general's apartments and she'd be superfluous.

A not altogether pleasant thought, she suddenly realized, with the full array of junior officers no doubt similarly in need of females. Perhaps she should count her blessings, she decided, Massena as protector no doubt superior to her other alternatives.