by Jayne Davis
Playing with Fire
Jayne Davis
Copyright © 2020 by Jayne Davis
All rights reserved.
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Manuscript Development: Antonia Maguire
Copyediting & proofreading: Sue Davison
Cover design: Spiffing Covers & P Johnson
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my critique partners on Scribophile for comments and suggestions, particularly Alex, Adam, David, Daphne, Jean, Jim, Thomas, and Violetta.
Thanks also to Beta readers Tina, Cilla, Dawn, Doris, Helen, Kristen, Leigh, Mary, Sue, and Wendy.
Contents
Maps
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Epilogue
Historical note
Afterword
The Marstone Series
Also by Jayne Davis
About the Author
Maps
France and southern England
Some places in France and southern England mentioned in the text. Fictional places are underlined.
Places in the Mediterranean
Chapter 1
France, 5th February, 1793
“We will stop here,” the Comtesse de Calvac declared. She sat back against the velvet squabs, straightening her redingote and tucking her hands into her fur muff as the coach jolted round a corner.
Phoebe, sitting across from her aunt, twisted round to look out of the window. A fine drizzle misted the flat landscape and the bare trees. She could just make out an inn ahead, with houses lining the road either side of it.
Phoebe curled her fingers, nails digging into her palms. “It’s still daylight, Aunt,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “We could get beyond the next town before we need to stop. We only travelled thirty miles yesterday.” Now France had declared war on Britain, they needed to reach the coast as quickly as they could and find a boat to take them to England.
“Oh, don’t be silly, Phoebe,” Cousin Hélène said. “I’m hungry, and I’m tired of being bumped and jolted.”
“We are stopping,” the comtesse repeated. “See to it, Anson.”
The steward lolled at the other end of the rearward facing seat, his eyes closed, lines of strain on his face even in sleep. Phoebe leaned over and shook his shoulder.
“Anson!” The comtesse’s voice was shrill. The steward awoke with a start.
“I want a rest from this infernal jolting,” the comtesse said. “See to it.”
“But Aunt,” Phoebe tried again, “if we stop now, the journey to the coast will take even longer. It isn’t safe.” The innkeeper last night had taken too close an interest in their papers for her peace of mind. Only the sight of extra coins had distracted him from scrutinising their travel documents.
“Don’t argue with me, Phoebe. I’ve had enough of you and your opinions these last few days. Remember your place.”
“But Madame—” Anson began.
“We are stopping!”
The steward’s shoulders sagged. He took up the stick from the seat next to him and banged it on the roof of the coach. As he pulled the glass down to call to the driver, an icy blast of air made Phoebe shiver. By the time he had refastened the window, the vehicle was pulling into the inn yard.
Anson picked up the small strong-box resting near his feet and climbed out of the coach. Phoebe clutched her cloak around her and followed him into the building. As they entered the taproom, the innkeeper came out from behind the bar and Anson asked for rooms in his halting French.
“Combien de chambres?” the innkeeper asked impatiently.
Anson glanced at Phoebe and shrugged.
“A room for three,” Phoebe said in French. She didn’t want to share a room with her aunt and cousin, but it was the safest option. She asked for a separate room for Anson and a bed somewhere for her aunt’s maid. Masson and Dupois, the driver and guard, would sleep over the stables.
The innkeeper sniffed at Phoebe’s shabby gown and cloak before leading the way upstairs. The large double bed took up over half the floor in the room he showed them, leaving little space for the truckle bed that Phoebe would be forced to use.
“Is this the best room you have?” she asked.
The man shrugged. “Take it or leave it. The servants can sleep in the attic rooms.”
“We’ll take it,” she said, her heart sinking. Her aunt would not like it. It would be Phoebe’s fault, or Anson’s. It usually was.
They went back downstairs to find the comtesse inspecting the dingy hallway with downturned mouth. The maid, Jeanne, trailed in, her face pinched with cold from travelling outside. She carried the comtesse’s jewel box and Hélène’s book.
“Jeanne, see that those men take the trunks to the correct room,” the comtesse said, “and make sure there’s a fire.” She had, at least, remembered to speak French. The maid bobbed a curtsey and followed Anson up the stairs.
“Send chocolate to the parlour,” the comtesse ordered. The innkeeper nodded and retreated.
“Oh, yes, Mama, that will be lovely,” Hélène said. “I’m glad we stopped. The jolting in the coach was horrid.”
Despite the fire, the air in the parlour was chilly. The comtesse crossed the room, deposited her muff on a table, and held her hands out to the flames, shielding what warmth there was from everyone else. Phoebe frowned as she took in the four oak tables with chairs, and two benches by the fire. She had assumed this was a private room, but it looked as though it might be the main dining room. Her aunt would not be happy if the inn was too small to have another room downstairs.
“If we had outriders, they could have made sure everything was ready for us,” the comtesse complained. “It was much more comfortable when we came over from England last month. I am not used to travelling like this. Monsieur de Calvac will have something to say to Anson about this when we get to London.”
“Tante, it is not wise to draw attention to ourselves,” Phoebe said, as she had many times before. And with as little expec
tation of being heeded.
“Nonsense! Why do you always think you know best, Phoebe? It is not a pleasant characteristic. No wonder you are still unwed at twenty.”
Phoebe kept her expression blank. After four years of living with her aunt, it was getting a little easier to ignore the constant disparaging remarks. She took the comtesse’s cloak when it was held out to her, draping it over the back of a nearby chair.
Her aunt sat down at a table close to the fire, smoothing her skirts. “Sit here, Hélène. Make sure you are not sitting in a draught—you do not want to catch cold. A red nose is not attractive, and we don’t want anything to impede you making a splendid match this year.”
“Yes, Mama.” Hélène draped her cloak over the back of another chair. “I hope the dinner will be better tonight.” She wrinkled her nose. “It was not very nice yesterday.”
Phoebe had enjoyed the roasted capon the previous evening, but perhaps Hélène was bemoaning the lack of pastries and fruit. No doubt the absent outriders would have chosen a larger inn.
Half an hour later the room was pleasantly warm, the hot chocolate had arrived and been drunk, and the other two had gone upstairs to change. Phoebe moved closer to the fire, although the chill within her was due to apprehension.
Travelling alone, as her uncle had instructed, Anson would have retrieved the estate papers he’d been sent for and been safely back in England by now. Instead, while the comte was away from London on business, her aunt had insisted on accompanying the steward. Hélène had wanted to see her old home at Calvac again, and Phoebe had been brought along too—to help Anson translate, she suspected. Her aunt had said she wanted to retrieve some jewellery that had been left at Calvac when they all moved to England over a year ago, but Phoebe wasn’t sure she believed her. Her uncle would not be pleased to find all three of them absent when he returned to London.
Tension behind her eyes signalled an impending headache, and she massaged her temples. If she was lucky, it would take Jeanne at least an hour to help the comtesse change and re-powder her hair, and then assist Hélène. Phoebe couldn’t understand why her aunt thought it so important to put on an evening gown to dine in a roadside inn with no-one to see except her steward. Besides, it seemed particularly ill-advised to flaunt wealth in these revolutionary times.
Phoebe leaned her head against the rear of the chair and closed her eyes, but she could not relax. The knot of tension in her middle was still there, as it had been for the last fortnight.
The news of the king’s execution had reached them shortly after they’d crossed the Channel, when they were only two days into their journey to Calvac. Protests from both Phoebe and Anson against continuing the journey had fallen on deaf ears. The comtesse had insisted she was an English aristocrat by birth, and their travel papers were in order, so they would continue. Only when word reached Calvac that Britain and France were at war were they able to persuade the comtesse that they should return to England as soon as possible.
The coach was a worry, too, emphasising the wealth within. Her aunt had decided to use the coach kept at the château rather than hiring one. Phoebe had persuaded Anson to get the crest on the doors painted out, to much complaint from her aunt, but Anson’s apology and explanation that the paint could not be removed had finally silenced her.
The gentle crackling from the fire soothed Phoebe’s aching head, almost drowning out the muffled noise from the taproom beyond the closed door. Dozing, she started as something touched her ankle, then smiled at the sight of a black cat curling up by the fire.
Phoebe pulled her sketchbook out of the pockets she wore beneath her gown and made a quick drawing, using short strokes of her pencil to give it texture. Then, longing for the happiness and security of the home she’d had to leave four years ago, she tried to draw what she could remember of Beech House. She added her father setting off in his gig to see a patient, and her mother cutting flowers in the garden.
Her uncle had shown no sign of resenting the need to support his wife’s sixteen-year-old niece after Phoebe’s parents died, but he left her to her aunt’s supervision. The comtesse thought that her niece should be grateful to be living in luxury with her titled relatives. Phoebe would have traded it all for the chance to turn the clock back, to have her parents still alive.
Turning the pages, she paused at the watercolours of Caribbean islands she’d painted based on the descriptions in Joe’s letters, wondering if her images looked anything like the real places her brother mentioned. She wasn’t likely to get the chance to see for herself.
The next drawings were of Georges, Hélène’s young brother, gawping at spears and shrunken heads in the museum on a trip with his governess. Miss Bryant was a friend, and Phoebe enjoyed accompanying the two of them to see the sights in London.
She smiled at the caricature of her aunt on the packet boat crossing the Channel, her face tinted a pale green. The remaining sketches were scenes of the countryside near Calvac, done to distract herself from worries about their safety.
Putting the sketchbook away, she closed her eyes until she heard her aunt’s voice in the hallway—finding fault as usual. If she went upstairs to freshen up now, she might get another half hour of peace before dinner.
Chapter 2
Lights glimmered in the distance, and Alex sighed with relief as an inn sign came into view. It had been dark for an hour, and the earlier drizzle had turned to sleet. The tired horses clattered over the cobbled yard to the stables, and Alex dismounted stiffly. Although bone-weary, he volunteered to get the horses stabled while Hugo de Brevare enquired about rooms.
A pile of hay in the stable loft would be fine, he thought, as he unsaddled the animals and rubbed them down with a cloth thrown to him by a stable boy. Anywhere would do, as long as he could lie down and rest. Various parts of his anatomy were reminding him that he hadn’t ridden for months, let alone on such a sorry, jolting nag. He muttered a curse at himself as he stretched stiff muscles. Why in heaven’s name had he allowed Brevare to buy the horses?
The activity was encouraging the blood to move in his hands and feet, helped by the comforting, if pungent, warmth coming off the horses. He threw his sodden greatcoat over a wooden partition, resisting the impulse to finger the lining again.
The place seemed in good repair. Several other horses were munching hay or dozing, and a coach stood in the yard. The light from the stable lanterns showed a deeply padded interior.
“Who does that belong to?” he asked the stable boy.
The lad shrugged, not looking away from the horse he was brushing. “Don’t know. Their money’s as good as anyone else’s.”
Alex raised an eyebrow—it wasn’t the best of times to flaunt wealth across the countryside. When he’d finished with the horses, he crossed the yard to the inn. The taproom was warm, but crowded and noisy with voices. Brevare had a mug of ale waiting for him, having already downed most of his own.
“We’ve got a room each,” Brevare said. “In the attics, and tiny, but they’ll do.”
Alex didn’t mind; having a separate room would let him lock the door, and perhaps he might sleep instead of wondering what Brevare really wanted and what he might do. A few mouthfuls of ale revived him a little, and he glanced around, eyeing half a dozen new customers crowding into the room.
He attracted the attention of one of the serving women. “Busy tonight?” he asked, taking care to keep his accent close to the local one.
“Yes,” the woman grimaced. “Apothecary’s getting married.” She pointed at a middle-aged man in the corner, better dressed than the rest. “He’s treating all his customers on his last night of freedom. If you want a meal, citoyen, you’d best have it soon.”
Alex drank more ale, wincing at a loud burst of laughter and the beginnings of an out-of-tune song. “Is there somewhere quieter? We’ll have today’s ordinary.”
“Through there,” the woman said, tilting her head to a door on the other side of the room. “I’ll get it sent
in.”
The dining room was across a dim, stone-flagged passageway. Alex and Brevare entered behind two young serving women carrying platters of meat, cheese and pastries, and a bowl of stew. Alex’s stomach rumbled as he breathed the rich smell of beef and vegetables. The two men put their bags on the floor by the door and draped their wet greatcoats over chairs.
The serving women went over to the table nearest the fire and began to transfer the dishes. An older woman gave sharp instructions about where to place them and how to move the chairs. Her hair was heavily powdered, dressed high on her head, and her embroidered gown had rather too much lace and too many knots of ribbon for dining in a wayside inn such as this. The carriage in the yard must belong to her. She appeared to be in her late thirties, but it was difficult to tell in the dim light. Her face, still almost unlined, would have been attractive without the downward droop of her lips that gave her a discontented expression.
A younger woman sat beside her, eyeing the dishes as they were set out. One corner of Alex’s mouth turned up in appreciation. She had unpowdered golden hair, dressed loosely to frame her delicate heart-shaped face, and her pale blue gown curved nicely round a generous bosom. A daughter, from the facial resemblance.
