by Jayne Davis
Alex caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Brevare and the innkeeper had returned, and both took up a position by the door. Good. He hadn’t explained to Brevare what he was doing—he hadn’t really known himself. He’d just told Brevare to back him up but, from what he’d seen so far, the redhead was likely to be a better conspirator than Brevare.
“The older one said she was the ci-devant Comtesse de Calvac,” the innkeeper said, shaking his head. He drew closer to their table. “I’ve heard of Calvac; it’s less than three days from here. It’s nowhere near Grenoble.”
“True, but—”
“Citoyenne, your name?” Perrault cut him off, turning to the redhead. He looked at Alex with a challenge on his face. “If you are speaking the truth, then she can confirm your story.”
Perrault returned his gaze to the woman, his eyes narrowing as he inspected her face, then her gown. “That is a rather fine garment for a servant,” he added, suspicion deepening on his face.
“I am Phoebe Deane,” the redhead said, her voice wobbling a little. “This gown was her daughter’s.” She pulled at one of her curls. “Would someone with hair like mine choose an orange gown?”
One of the watching serving girls giggled. “She’s right, she’d be stupid to—”
“Enough!” Perrault snarled. He turned back to Miss Deane. “Where have you come from?”
She raised her chin. “Why should I answer your questions?”
Truly defiant, Alex wondered, or making time to think? “Tell the truth,” he said. “If you give us the information we need, we may release you.” He smiled, hoping his expression looked encouraging. “What loyalty do you owe your mistress, anyway?”
“He is correct, citoyen,” she said to Perrault, pointing at the innkeeper. “Calvac is only two days’ drive from here.”
Perrault smiled.
“But it is not their only château,” Miss Deane went on. “We have been at the Château Sarlande. It is between Grenoble and Lyon.”
Perrault’s face fell, and Alex felt his shoulders relax slightly.
“And where are you going?” Perrault asked.
“England. We are to find a boat at Calais. Madame is afraid of the revolutionaries.”
A pity the woman hadn’t been more afraid, Alex thought, anger rising. This redhead before him would surely have had more sense than to be in France at such a time if the decision had been hers to make.
“Is she really English, as she said?”
“Yes. She is the daughter of an English viscount. She married the Comte de Calvac.”
“And the ci-devant comte?” Perrault almost spat the words.
“He is in England.” Miss Deane paused. Her gaze moved to Alex’s face. “I don’t think she’s a spy. She’s too stupid.”
That was true enough.
“I will answer your questions,” Miss Deane said, “but it may not help you much.”
“Good.” Alex turned to Perrault. “I am taking charge of the matter from here.” He injected as much authority into his voice as he could.
Perrault leaned forward, his chin rising. “If they know you suspect them, there’s no point in following them any further, is there?” he said. “They can wait here for our magistrate, as I said. I will ensure they are arrested.”
Alex gazed at him, noting the slight fraying at the cuffs of his coat, the neckcloth clearly in need of laundering. Was the man after money?
“You are hoping for some kind of reward?” he asked, the flicker of Perrault’s eyes confirming his supposition. “They will be taken to Paris for questioning.”
He glanced at the watching crowd, then back to Perrault. Time for more intimidation. “You should hope the questioning finds something useful. Otherwise those responsible for destroying our plan could find themselves answerable to the Committee.”
Perrault’s face paled. “You haven’t proved you are who you say you are,” he countered, his voice rising.
“I can show you my papers if you wish.” Alex looked down his nose at Perrault, speaking as casually as he could. “But you will say I could have forged them. Ask yourself if you are brave enough to thwart me. If I am telling the truth, and you hinder my plans any further, you will soon be embracing Madame la Guillotine.” He looked at the innkeeper. “As will anyone who has helped you.”
“Let him take them to Paris, Perrault,” the innkeeper said hastily. “It’s nothing to do with me, anyway.”
“I will accompany you,” Perrault stated. “To make sure they are handed over to the proper authorities.”
There were a few nods amongst the bystanders.
Damn.
Accepting the arrangement for now would at least get them all out of this inn and on the road. He’d find a way of getting rid of Perrault later. “If you wish,” he said. “You let their drivers go. Can you drive a coach?”
Perrault looked around; the watching people simply shrugged or turned away.
“Take Sarchet,” the innkeeper suggested. “He can drive.”
“Good. That’s settled.” Alex turned to the innkeeper. “Get someone to put a team to their carriage. We’ll set off in twenty minutes, but I could do with some food first.”
“We can’t go now!” Perrault protested.
“Why not?”
“Well, I need some clothes. We’ll be gone for several days.”
“Ah, you would like to keep up your immaculate appearance?” Alex said, his gaze resting on the stains down the front of the man’s jacket. “You have twenty minutes.”
He watched Perrault leave. “Our meal?” he prompted the innkeeper.
Brevare joined them at the table. He glanced from Alex to Miss Deane, opening his mouth as if about to speak, but Alex shook his head and Brevare subsided. The innkeeper hurried back with two plates of stew.
“And some for her,” Alex said, gesturing at Miss Deane.
Brevare waited until the innkeeper had brought an extra plate and the remaining watchers had drifted off. “What are we—?”
“Later,” Alex said. “Eat.”
He tucked into his own meal with a will, but neither Brevare nor the woman appeared to have much appetite. Miss Deane’s lack of hunger he could understand, but Brevare should be as ravenous as he was himself. When he’d finished his second helping, he left Brevare with the woman while he went outside to make final arrangements.
Chapter 5
The carriage lurched and rocked along the road, moving at a faster pace than Masson had achieved. Phoebe sat in the middle of the seat, crushed between Hélène and her aunt. Today she was facing forwards, but she preferred the rear-facing corner she had occupied for the two previous days. Alexandre Leon reclined there, his square face stern and expressionless, his brown eyes cold. Perrault occupied the other corner. Sarchet was driving, with Brevare on the box beside him.
Phoebe leaned her head back, enjoying the unaccustomed peace. They had put several hours’ drive between them and Perrault’s village yesterday afternoon, not stopping until long after dark. Once in the coach, Leon had answered her aunt’s initial strident remarks by stating that she could either travel inside without talking, or she could sit on the box with the driver. Her protest had been met with an icy and contemptuous stare, and she had relapsed into a stiff silence. Perrault’s attempt to discuss the political situation had received a similar response.
Last night’s inn had been smaller and dirtier than the one where the comtesse had caused such a disastrous scene. They had been locked in a bedroom overnight, together with a simple meal of cold chicken, bread, and cheese. Phoebe winced at the recollection of her aunt’s complaints: the food, the lack of respect, disloyal maids—Jeanne—who ran away at the first sign of trouble, and ungrateful nieces who were less than competent when standing in for a lady’s maid.
Her aunt had also been angry with Anson for deserting them, but Phoebe managed to impress on her that the steward’s freedom was a good thing. Phoebe’s small trunk with the false bottom,
containing most of the money they had with them, was safely strapped to the coach roof. When she’d checked it, some money was missing, but she guessed Anson had taken what he needed to get to England.
Perhaps he could find someone to help them?
She’d let her aunt think that Anson had absconded with nearly all the money, hoping that it would stop her demanding that Phoebe produce coin for bribes or better service.
Observing the men sitting opposite, she’d noticed Perrault’s almost constant attention on them. His gaze was piercing, as if he were looking through her clothing, and she resisted the impulse to wriggle in discomfort, glad that Sarchet was outside with Brevare. On occasion, she caught Leon watching them, too, his face always impassive. But most of the time he leant on the squabs, his hat tipped over his eyes, legs stretched out. Phoebe tried to concentrate on her novel, looking up now and then when her aunt shifted position and found Leon’s legs in the way. Phoebe could have sworn his lips twitched slightly, even though he was supposedly asleep.
They stopped in the early afternoon for another change of horses, and Leon ordered some bread rolls and cheese brought to the carriage. Phoebe felt too nervous to eat, and her aunt and cousin barely picked at their food. At Phoebe’s polite request, Leon escorted the three of them to a parlour where a maid joined them with a chamber pot. She dismissed the idea of asking the maid to help them—the woman could do nothing alone, and who else would assist them?
Last night the comtesse had said, repeatedly, that it was all a mistake and the ambassador in Paris would sort everything out, as if saying it enough times would make it true. Hélène seemed to believe her, but Phoebe did not. Did England still have an ambassador now they were at war? And even if he were there, how could he really help?
She settled back in the seat when they set off, picking up her novel to try to take her mind off their troubles. The lowering sun shone through the coach window as she turned the pages, but the adventures of Lucinda in The Pirate’s Cavern seemed no more likely now than they had yesterday. She read only a few pages before setting the book aside.
She felt for Joe’s letter in her pocket, extracting it without letting her aunt see the sketchbook. Reading his descriptions of the Caribbean islands and shipboard life, she tried to imagine she was there instead of in this jolting coach. For a few moments she had a warm, salty wind in her hair, smelled exotic spices, and enjoyed the idea of deciding her own fate.
A particularly deep pothole brought her back to reality, and the worry caused by Joe’s last, hastily scrawled, paragraph. His ship had been lost, but he was safe. There was no more than that—no indication as to whether it had been an accident or due to enemy action. It could be another year or more before Joe was able get leave and return to England. Until then, she’d have to make do with his letters, hoping his next one gave her more details. With a wry twist of her lips, she thought she would at last have something interesting to write to him if they all came out of this journey safely.
Tucking the letter back into her sketchbook, she looked up to find Leon watching her. His expression continued to give nothing away, but his gaze did not make her as uncomfortable as Perrault’s inspection did. When he saw her eyes on him, he turned his attention back to the passing countryside.
How long would it take them to get to Paris? Two days, perhaps, so they could be there tomorrow. A shaft of sunlight was shining on the back of the coach above her aunt’s head—that would mean they were heading west. But surely Paris was to the north-east? Not that the roads were straight, but that did seem odd. Perhaps her knowledge of the geography of France wasn’t as accurate as she thought.
Leon refused to have all their boxes brought in when they stopped for the evening, so Phoebe pointed out the few they really needed, and Sarchet was sent to carry them upstairs. Their room was cold, with an empty grate, a bed, and a single chair. Tonight the thought of sleeping on a truckle bed didn’t concern her—they were still alive, and possibly not being taken to Paris. What the future held, she wasn’t sure, but it seemed a little brighter now.
Phoebe went to open her own trunk, but she paused as her aunt spoke.
“I have never been treated so in all my days! Being forbidden to speak in my own coach—just wait until I talk to the ambassador. That man will pay for this insolence.”
“It is your own fault, Aunt!” Phoebe said, at the end of her patience. “Perrault would never have caused trouble if you had kept quiet yesterday. They have nothing against us, but that has not stopped other people being accused and condemned.”
Her aunt glared back, high spots of colour in her cheeks. “How dare you tell me what to do? You should be grateful Monsieur le Comte took you in, and show more respect for your betters.”
Phoebe clenched her jaw against a retort.
“Mama, we should get ready for dinner,” Hélène said hesitantly. “Why don’t you change your gown, and I will tidy your hair for you.”
“Very well, my dear. I’m glad I have someone who respects me.”
Phoebe flashed a grateful smile at Hélène and turned back to her trunk. She lifted her clothing out, then the false bottom. The bags of money were still there. She felt the weight of them, and put one into her pocket. It would bump against her legs, but if the trunk was stolen, searched, or left behind, they would still have a little money with them.
“Aunt,” she began cautiously. “It might be wise to carry your jewels on your person. Our trunks will not be looked after as—”
“Yes, yes, Phoebe. There is no need to explain as if I were an imbecile.”
For once, the comtesse did as Phoebe suggested, borrowing one of Hélène’s pockets and tying it on between her petticoat and gown. Phoebe, busy tidying her hair, thought she saw a packet of letters go into the pocket as well, but when she tried to get a better look, her aunt had turned away.
The comtesse did not speak to her again until they were all ready for dinner. “That man seems to have decided you are a servant,” she said, holding out the blue gown she had been wearing. “So you can mend this lace.” She didn’t wait for an answer, but tossed the gown at Phoebe and swept over to the door, banging on it and demanding to be let out.
Phoebe sighed, bundled up the gown, and opened her trunk to take out the housewife containing her needles and thread. It would give her something to do in the parlour after dinner.
A key scraped in the door and Sarchet entered without knocking. “Downstairs,” he grunted, and gestured with his hand. The comtesse swept out ahead of Hélène, her nose in the air. Phoebe followed, uneasily aware of Sarchet’s gaze sweeping over her as she passed him. They were ushered into a dining room, warm from the fire blazing in the hearth. The only people present were Leon and Brevare, sitting at a table near the door.
“I’m glad you realise what is due to my station, young man,” the comtesse said.
Leon inclined his head. “It is generous of you to pay for all of us,” he said, waving them into the room.
Phoebe suppressed a chuckle. It was no laughing matter, but she couldn’t help being amused.
“I will do no such thing.”
“You can eat in the taproom, then.”
The comtesse opened her mouth, clearly about to protest further, but stopped as Perrault and Sarchet entered the room with tankards of ale and sat down at another table.
“What are they doing here?”
“We will all be eating in here.”
The comtesse glared at Leon, then looked around the room. She finally took a seat at the table closest to the fire, gesturing for Hélène to join her. Phoebe guessed that the warmth had outweighed her aunt’s desire to maintain her status.
Leon must have already ordered food, for it was only a few minutes before a couple of serving women entered with laden trays. They all ate in silence, except for some, thankfully quiet, remarks from the comtesse about the lack of choice.
The ragout was of lamb and vegetables, tender and smelling of rosemary. Phoebe ate slowly
; although it was tasty, she was still too worried to enjoy it. Leon and Brevare ate mechanically, both appearing tired and preoccupied.
Alex took a draught of ale, studying the other occupants of the room. Brevare seemed taken with the comtesse’s daughter, although his gaze seemed to be looking through her rather than at her much of the time.
The redhead looked away whenever Alex’s eyes met hers. He studied her through half-closed eyes as she ate. The colour of the ill-fitting gown made her pale skin look sallow, and he wondered what she’d look like dressed properly, and without that enveloping cap. Appearance aside, she was quick witted and capable of controlling her emotions. His story yesterday afternoon hadn’t been very convincing; without her corroboration, he almost certainly wouldn’t have succeeded. He would have found himself under suspicion, wasting his efforts of the last few months and endangering all his contacts.
Perrault and Sarchet, at the far side of the room, slurped noisily as they wolfed down their bowls of stew. Sarchet left when the two had finished eating, returning with more ale. Sarchet’s gaze, too, was on Hélène; he stared at her while Perrault talked to him in a voice too low for his words to carry.
What was Perrault saying? He would have to get rid of the pair of them in the next couple of days, but an inn parlour with the three women present was not the place for a confrontation. The pistols in the pockets of his greatcoat, thrown over the back of a nearby chair, were there as a precaution only.
A serving woman cleared the plates, and Alex watched as Miss Deane moved her chair closer to the candles on the mantelpiece. She took a needle, scissors, and thread from her housewife, and began to mend lace on a blue gown.
He was roused from his deliberations by the sound of wood scraping on the stone flags as Sarchet stood up. He dragged his chair to the women’s table and sat down next to Hélène.
“Pretty hair,” he said, winding one golden curl around a grubby finger.
