by Jayne Davis
The comtesse was tapping her foot impatiently when she returned. She wiped her mouth with her handkerchief.
“Sorry, Aunt. I feel better now. I was—”
“Spare us the details, for goodness’ sake! Anson, tell them to drive on!”
Phoebe and Anson had agreed that they should not halt before evening, but as they passed through the narrow streets of a village, the comtesse insisted they stop.
“It is too early, Aunt,” Phoebe protested. “We could get much furth—”
“I’m cold. I want something hot to eat, and more hot bricks.”
Beside the comtesse, Hélène murmured a word of agreement.
Anson exchanged a quick glance with Phoebe. “Madame, we—”
“Anson, see to it!”
With an audible sigh, the steward banged on the roof of the coach, and let the glass down to shout an instruction to the driver.
The Auberge du Cygne was much bigger than last night’s inn, a three storey building surrounding a stable yard bustling with activity. Phoebe and the steward picked their way between men unloading barrels from a cart and entered the inn. In the passageway, Phoebe stopped a serving woman with a loaded tray and asked for a private parlour.
“It’s being used,” the woman said. “Eat in there.” She jerked her head towards a door, then pushed past them.
Phoebe and Anson exchanged another wordless glance and went to investigate. The taproom was loud with talk and the rattle of cutlery on plates. Tables were set close together, with barely room to squeeze between them, and most were in use. Anson sat at the largest of the unoccupied tables to keep their place, and Phoebe squared her shoulders and went back to the coach.
The comtesse wasn’t pleased, but sat down at the table to await service, her mouth pursed. Although there were several serving women bustling around, no-one came to take their order. Phoebe whiled away the time watching customers come and go, trying to ignore her aunt’s tapping foot. A man eating in one corner looked remarkably like the blond traveller from the last inn, a plump couple argued nearby, and a thin man slurping his stew at the next table kept turning his gaze on their party, his eyes narrowed. He wore a short wig, a messily tied neckcloth and a stained brown jacket.
Phoebe looked away, thankful that her aunt had so far said nothing, even though her expression was becoming more and more pinched. The comtesse’s glare switched between her and Anson.
“I’ll… I’ll go and make sure Dubois has arranged a change of horses,” Anson said, pushing his chair back.
Craven. But Phoebe couldn’t blame him. Nothing was ever her aunt’s fault, after all.
The blond man got up to leave; it was one of the travellers she’d seen at breakfast. The comtesse’s gaze followed him, then turned back to the table he’d vacated. The corners of her mouth curved down further. A new customer had taken the traveller’s place, and a serving woman was talking to him.
The comtesse stood, her chair screeching against the floor. “I demand service, now!”
“Aunt!” Phoebe put a hand out, only to receive a stinging slap on her arm. The knot in her stomach intensified.
“I am the Comtesse du Calvac, and I will not be ignored!”
The hubbub in the room quieted.
“No comtesses in France now, citoyenne.” The words came from the thin man at the next table, a malicious smile on his face.
The comtesse glared at him, ignoring the innkeeper making his way to them through the crowded room.
“I am also the daughter of an English milord, and—”
“Aunt, please—”
“Mama—” Hélène’s voice was faint, her eyes wide.
“—I demand—”
“English spies!” the thin man exclaimed, wiping gravy from his chin as he got to his feet. The remaining talk in the room stopped, all eyes turning their way.
That statement had shocked the comtesse into silence. Too late.
“Mama, please sit down.”
To Phoebe’s surprise, her aunt did.
“Spies, Perrault?” the innkeeper asked, his expression dubious. “Announcing themselves to anyone with ears?”
“You should lock them up, Jean,” Perrault said. The cold gleam in his eyes made Phoebe’s skin crawl.
“Where do you suggest they go?” the innkeeper asked sourly.
Phoebe watched him stop to talk to someone a couple of tables away, and caught sight of Anson in the doorway. From his expression, he’d been there long enough to witness the comtesse’s outburst. Catching his eye, she jerked her head to one side. He left without drawing attention to himself.
Around her, customers were murmuring about spies, traitors, and aristos, the murmurs turning into louder demands for someone to do something.
The innkeeper turned back. “You have no authority to arrest them, Perrault, but I will set Sarchet to guard them while you get the magistrate.”
Perrault looked at his half-eaten dinner.
“Take it or leave it. If you put your dinner above national security, that’s your choice.” The innkeeper stamped off, irritably elbowing a customer out of his way. Perrault scowled, muttering something under his breath as he pushed his plate away and stalked out of the room.
“Aunt, let us leave now, before that man returns.”
The comtesse made no move.
Phoebe stood and leaned over the table towards the comtesse. “Aunt, they will—”
“Sit down, citoyenne.” The innkeeper had returned. A large, unshaven man stood beside him, a blunderbuss cradled in one arm. Phoebe almost gagged on the smell of garlic and sweat surrounding him as she sank back into her chair.
“Sarchet, they’re not to move,” the innkeeper instructed. Sarchet grunted and sat down. The other customers gradually resumed eating, drinking, and talking.
There was nothing they could do but wait.
Chapter 4
Alex had been walking for over an hour when he heard another vehicle approaching from behind. Turning to wave it down, he recognised the coach he’d seen at the previous night’s inn. His arm dropped as the coach rattled by; there was no chance of help from that quarter. He caught a glimpse of a white cap and a pale face at a window before the coach rounded a bend in the road.
He trudged onwards, going over everything Brevare had said since he arrived the week before. He was so lost in thought he almost didn’t notice the flash of colour on a fallen branch beside the road. A piece of red cloth, a napkin, tied up in a bundle. It was dry and clean, so could not have been there long.
Curious, he undid it and found bread, a lump of cheese, and a bottle of ale. A paper fluttered to the ground. He almost laughed out loud when he saw what was on it. The sketch comprised only a few lines, but it clearly showed a coach with a horse tied on behind and someone riding on the roof. This was in a bubble coming from a woman in a cap. The other figure, unmistakably the comtesse, was saying non and pointing up the road.
He folded the paper carefully and put it in his pocket, then sat on a nearby stone. He drank the ale to slake his thirst, and ate the bread and cheese. His legs still ached, but he felt more cheerful, and it wasn’t only because he had eaten. He took his boots off, not without a struggle, and rubbed his feet for a few minutes before forcing them back into the boots.
There was more to the shabby citoyenne than met the eye, he thought as he started walking. Much more. A pity they would not meet again.
Half an hour later, the wind changed direction, blowing spatters of rain into his face. His cheerful mood was disappearing rapidly when he saw a horseman approaching, leading another animal. Brevare, at last.
Alex muttered a brief thanks as he swung into the saddle of the spare horse, still annoyed with Brevare for rushing off earlier. They set off, limited by the speed of the horse Alex was now leading, but at least he was riding instead of walking. They came to an inn twenty minutes later.
Twenty minutes each way, Alex thought. Less, really, as Brevare could have ridden faster. P
erhaps another twenty to hire the spare horse. Brevare had been gone nearly two hours—what had he been doing? He’d think about that when he’d had a proper meal.
“Here, you must know where to take them,” Alex said to Brevare, handing over the reins of both horses. “I’ll get something to eat before we go on.”
Brevare went off with the horses, and Alex headed for the main door. A coach at the edge of the yard caught his eye—the Calvacs again. It wasn’t the sight of the coach itself that made him stop, but the older man who he had last seen in the parlour that morning. He stood behind the coach, clutching a box and peering nervously around the end of the vehicle towards the inn.
Was the party in trouble? He wouldn’t be surprised, after seeing the comtesse’s behaviour last night. What had happened?
There was no need to get involved, he thought, slowing down to get a better look at the older man. Getting his information to England was his priority. The redhead had only repaid him for saving her sketchbook, after all.
She had helped, though. She’d gone out of her way to leave him some food, and must have deceived her aunt to do so. There was the daughter, too—he doubted the golden-haired beauty was responsible for whatever trouble they were in.
He should at least find out why their manservant stood there looking afraid. He moved towards the coach, ignoring that little internal voice that said that he would come to regret this.
* * *
“How long are they going to keep us here?” Hélène’s voice trembled on the edge of tears as she asked the question for the third time.
“This is outrageous,” the comtesse said. “I have never been treated like this in all my life. I will not stand for it any longer!”
The comtesse stood up, but Sarchet waved his blunderbuss and she subsided. He was a man of few words.
Cringing as her aunt’s exclamation drew attention to them once more, Phoebe resisted the temptation to bury her head in her hands. She needed to stay calm. “We have only been waiting for half an hour,” she said, glad to hear her voice didn’t convey her fear. “I’m sure the magistrate will sort this all out when he arrives. Aunt, please try not to antagonise these men any further.”
The comtesse scowled, but said nothing more. Hélène stared at the table—she, at least, apparently had the sense to be worried about their situation. Savoury smells drifted from other tables, but the serving women didn’t seem inclined to attend to people who might soon be under arrest.
They waited another twenty minutes before Perrault reappeared.
“The magistrate is away,” he said to the innkeeper, loudly enough to be heard by most of the people present.
“We can go, then.” The comtesse started to rise, but Sarchet raised the blunderbuss a few inches and she sank back into her chair.
“Certainly not,” Perrault said. “You will have to wait until he returns.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the comtesse said. “We cannot stay here for days waiting for some local magistrate!”
“Why not?” Perrault looked at the innkeeper. “You have a room free?”
The innkeeper nodded. “If they can pay,” he said. “I’m not guarding them, though. We’re short of help as it is.”
“I refuse to pay to be imprisoned here.” The comtesse’s voice was getting louder and shriller. “Where is—?” The blunderbuss moved, and she stopped talking.
“Mama.” Hélène’s voice was almost a wail. “Mama, what will happen to us?”
“We should ask the citoyen to arrange our room,” Phoebe said. “We are all tired—”
Phoebe broke off as she noticed the comtesse’s open-mouthed stare, and turned her head to follow her aunt’s gaze. Two men stood in the doorway. When she had seen them at breakfast, they had not been wearing tricolour cockades on their hats, or holding pistols.
“What exactly is going on here?” The cold, commanding tone matched the menacing lines of strain on the brown-haired man’s face, and silenced everyone in the room. He had looked friendly this morning when he returned her sketchbook. He was not friendly now. His expression showed the kind of controlled fury that was far more dangerous than red-faced anger.
He looked directly at Perrault. “You have probably ruined our plans.”
Perrault’s face reddened. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What right—?”
Sarchet turned his blunderbuss towards the men.
“My name is Alexandre Leon,” the brown-haired man said, pointing his pistol towards Sarchet. “I suggest your friend keeps his weapon away from me.”
The man with Leon raised his own gun. Phoebe glanced around; if shots were fired, someone would certainly get hurt in this crowded room. She slid down a little in her chair, her heart racing.
“Sarchet,” Perrault said to the guard, and the man pointed the blunderbuss at the comtesse again.
“Why have you detained these people?” Leon asked.
“They are aristos,” Perrault said. “And English! You do know we are at war with England?”
“Naturally.” Leon raised one eyebrow. “But, as yet, being English is not a crime.”
“So we can go.” The comtesse stood up. Phoebe couldn’t decide if she was being brave or stupid.
“Sit down and shut your mouth,” Leon said to the comtesse, waving his pistol in her direction. Her aunt subsided once more. Leon’s gaze swept over Hélène, now sobbing into a handkerchief, and stopped briefly at Phoebe. He gave no sign of recognition as he returned his attention to Perrault.
“By what authority have you detained these people?” Leon asked again, more forcefully this time.
“Out of a citizen’s duty,” Perrault said. “I told you why. What business is it of yours, anyway?”
“We work for the Committee of General Security.” Leon indicated the three women. “They are suspected of carrying information to the enemies of France.”
Phoebe kept her expression neutral with an effort. If that were true, why hadn’t he said something yesterday?
“I knew it!” Perrault crowed. “Didn’t I say they were spies?”
“We are not spies!”
Leon shrugged, his glance at the comtesse dismissive. “You would naturally say that. Now be quiet or I will have you removed.” He paused, pulling a red cloth from his pocket to wipe his face.
That was the napkin she had left by the road that afternoon. A tiny nugget of hope began to form inside her. Her gaze lifted to Leon’s eyes, but he was once more looking at Perrault. Everyone else was avidly watching the unfolding drama.
“Why do you think they are spies?” Leon asked Perrault.
Perrault hesitated, suddenly appearing less sure of himself. “They are English. And you are not from the Tours committee,” he added, sounding more confident. “I would recognise you.”
“We are from Grenoble,” Leon said.
“Then you have no jurisdiction here.” Perrault’s triumphant smile made Phoebe’s skin crawl.
“What is all this?” the comtesse asked. “We are not—” She closed her mouth when Leon’s pistol once more pointed in her direction.
“Why not let her speak?” Perrault asked, his expression pinched with suspicion.
“You have been speaking to her for some time. Has she said anything useful?”
Perrault had to shake his head. “But what has the Committee in Grenoble got to do with these aristos?”
“We have been following them for days,” Leon said.
Phoebe glanced at Perrault; was he going to accept the explanation? Her nails dug into her palms and she forced her hands to unclench. For whatever reason, Leon was attempting to get them out of this situation.
“We should discuss this without those two,” Leon said, pointing at the comtesse and Hélène. “They will be questioned in detail later.”
Phoebe shivered, despite her increasing conviction that Leon was not their enemy.
“This servant can answer any questions about their journey.” Leon gestured towards Phoe
be.
Whatever Leon was doing, they probably had a better chance with him than with Perrault—provided that her aunt did not upset his story. Phoebe leaned over and put her head next to Hélène’s.
“Now would be a good time to swoon,” she breathed, hoping that Hélène could hear her. “Or they may kill us.” She half believed it herself.
Hélène gave a little wail and slumped down in her chair.
The comtesse turned her gaze to her daughter. “Hélène, what—”
“Brevare, get them into a bedchamber and lock them in.” Leon spoke over the comtesse’s voice. “Innkeeper, a room. You—Sarchet is it? Go with them and guard the door once they’re locked in.”
Such was the authority in his voice that the three men obeyed without question. Brevare walked around the table and picked up Hélène, carrying her easily in his arms as the innkeeper led the way up the stairs. Sarchet took the comtesse’s arm, taking no notice of her protests, and dragged her after them. The lace on the sleeve of her gown caught on a rough part of the door frame and tore loudly as Sarchet pulled her through, but he did not stop.
Alex waited until the sound of the comtesse’s voice died away, then sat down, gesturing to Perrault to take the other vacated chair. Some of his tension dissipated as he took in the assessing gaze from the redhead. She seemed to have quick wits—and had helped him get the comtesse out of the way. Now he just had to get rid of this interfering busybody.
“Where are their other servants?” Alex asked.
Perrault looked blank.
“They weren’t driving their own coach, were they?”
Perrault’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times. “I don’t know, citoyen. What does it matter?”
“I wish to question them,” Alex said. His hastily concocted story sounded thin to him, but he was relying on intimidation. Few people wished to cross agents of the Committee of General Security. “You have let the servants escape and ruined our whole plan.”
