by Jayne Davis
“I sent him to the coast. I got him to pay off the servants you had with you before he left; they were happy enough to avoid trouble and go home. He’s likely to be safer on the diligence than he would have been remaining in your aunt’s company.”
That was true. Although his French was poor, he would have the sense to remain inconspicuous while travelling on the public coaches.
“Go on. Anson was sent over…”
“While my uncle was away, the comtesse decided to accompany him. She said she had to collect some of her jewels that had been left at Calvac.”
“Hmm.”
Phoebe didn’t believe it either. Anson could easily have been told where to find such things. She recalled the packet of letters she’d glimpsed. Old love letters, perhaps? Something that her aunt didn’t want Anson—or even her uncle—to know about?
She put that idea out of her mind. She could think about that later when—if—they returned to England.
“Do you live with your aunt and uncle?”
“Yes.”
Leon glanced at her, one eyebrow raised.
Phoebe hesitated, wondering why he was asking, but it could do no harm to answer his questions. “The comtesse is my mother’s sister. Their father, my grandfather, was Viscount Wycombe. He did not approve of my mother marrying my father, so he cut her off.”
“The doctor?”
She nodded. “When my parents died, four years ago, my uncle took me in.”
“I’m sorry.”
Phoebe managed a smile. “I miss them, and I miss my old life too. London is so… confined.” She walked in the park, when a maid could be spared to go with her, or took outings with her ten-year-old cousin Georges and his governess.
Leon lapsed into silence again after that. Phoebe gazed at the passing hedges, coppices, and fields, but there was little of interest in the countryside hereabouts. Tiring of the scenery, she opened the road guide and tried to work out where they were and how far they had to go.
She found the page with the villages marked, but none of the names looked like any she had seen on signposts. Flicking back through the book, she found some names she recognised, then consulted a few more pages.
They were no longer heading for Caen.
Phoebe was debating whether to ask about their new destination when Leon switched the reins to his right hand, wincing as he flexed his left arm.
“We should stop before dark,” she suggested. “It will hurt even more if you are going to drive all day tomorrow.”
His head turned sharply in her direction. “Damn it, woman, are you a mind reader?” He didn’t sound or look angry, in spite of his words. Curious, perhaps. “Why do you suggest I won’t be getting Brevare to drive tomorrow?”
“Brevare was—is—travelling with you, but you don’t trust him,” she said. “You didn’t trust him before I told you he wanted your message, did you? If you did, you wouldn’t have left a pistol in this coat for me this morning.”
He nodded.
“He knew that the notion my aunt was a spy was nonsense, and that you are heading for the coast,” Phoebe continued. “He rode on the box with Sarchet yesterday, to direct him. Sarchet wouldn’t have known we weren’t heading for Paris, but Perrault might, so you kept him inside the carriage.”
“Correct so far. How did you know yesterday that we weren’t going to Paris?”
“I didn’t guess until the afternoon. The sun was in the wrong direction. I checked in the road guide this morning.”
“Go on.”
“Last night you told Perrault we would go to Caen. And this morning’s route was in roughly that direction. But now we are aiming for somewhere that Brevare doesn’t know about either.”
Leon shook his head.
“I’m wrong?” Where had her reasoning had gone astray?
“No, you’re not wrong.” His tone was resigned, or thoughtful, perhaps. “You are a most unusual woman,” he said, after driving on for a while.
“Oh?” She hoped it was a compliment.
“You haven’t asked me what is in the message, nor where we are going. Most people I know would have been pestering me with questions.”
“What’s the point? You wouldn’t tell me.”
He turned to look at her, but she couldn’t decipher his expression.
“I might.”
Chapter 11
Phoebe surveyed the small bedroom she’d been allocated. It was cold, with no fire laid in the grate, and contained only a narrow bed, a tiny wash-stand, and a chair. But it suited her far better than sharing her aunt and cousin’s larger room. There was no key in the lock, but she could jam the back of the chair under the latch tonight. Laying her bonnet on the bed, she started to unpin her hair.
She tensed as the door opened, but it was only Hélène.
“Mama says you have to come to our room.”
Phoebe sighed, and pushed the pins back into place.
“Phoebe… are you… have you…?”
Surprised, Phoebe noted Hélène’s frown, and the hesitant way she had spoken.
“I mean… Mama said some things about…” Words appeared to fail Hélène, and she waved a hand.
“I am well, thank you.” Despite her aunt’s opinion about what had happened.
“Mama says you must—”
“I’ll come.” Refusing would be storing up trouble. If they did all get home safely, her future would still depend on her aunt.
In the larger room, colour glowed from the gowns strewn across the bed and spilling from the trunks. Her aunt had persuaded someone to bring all their luggage inside. The comtesse thrust a gold-coloured dress towards Phoebe. “Wear this tonight. It’s long on Hélène, so it should be only a little short for you.”
“That’s one of Hélène’s best gowns,” Phoebe objected.
“It will be more becoming than what you are wearing,” the comtesse said. “You’ll never be a beauty like Hélène, but you’ll look less pasty in that colour. It might help tone down your hair, too.”
Phoebe made no move to take the gown, suspicious of her aunt’s motives.
“Put it on,” the comtesse said impatiently. “Then Hélène can help you with your hair.”
“Why?”
“That man seems taken with you. If you… play the coquette… with him, he may not ask as much ransom. Hélène’s come-out will be expensive.”
And we will also try to avoid paying a ransom for poor relations, Phoebe thought bitterly.
“Don’t just stand there, girl, put it on!”
Phoebe reluctantly unfastened the peach gown. The gold fabric was lovely, the sleeves ending with a fall of lace below the elbow. She resisted the temptation to stroke the material; under other circumstances she would have enjoyed wearing it. Donning the gown, she carefully checked that Leon’s message was still tucked inside her stays while the other two were occupied with their own toilettes.
Phoebe sat before the mirror, scowling at Hélène’s reflection as her cousin dressed her hair into a loose collection of curls and picked up a gold ribbon. Was Hélène so poisoned by her mother’s pride and selfishness that she thought there was nothing wrong in helping Phoebe to prepare herself to seduce someone? For that was what it amounted to, if the comtesse had her way. Surely Hélène had some idea of what normally went on when a man and a woman were together?
“The sacrificial lamb is sufficiently adorned as it is.” She lowered her voice to a forceful whisper. “How would you like to be sent to please Brevare so that he could help us get home?”
Hélène’s eyes widened, the hand holding the ribbon stilled in mid-air.
“I… I didn’t think…” Her lower lip began to tremble. “I’m sorry. Mama said—”
“I don’t want to hear what she said,” Phoebe hissed.
“He would not… I mean, he’s a vicomte, he told us in the carriage today. He wouldn’t ask a ransom for us. That man must have some hold on him.”
“He’s not nobility no
w,” Phoebe pointed out, wondering what else Brevare had told her cousin.
“He said he has a château north of Paris. His mother and his sister live there.”
Rank and honour seemed to go together in Hélène’s mind, but Phoebe didn’t agree. She turned to go back to her own room, picking up the peach gown she had taken off. Did Hélène’s information have any bearing on Brevare’s actions in recent days? He must be worried about his mother and sister, alone in a country gone mad.
When she closed her door, she looked at the gown over her arm, tempted to change into it again. But a good dress did not make a flirtation—the comtesse could not control her behaviour.
She compromised by adding a fichu to fill in the low neckline and redoing her hair in a plainer style. Satisfied with her appearance, she spent the time before dinner going over all that had been said that afternoon.
In the empty taproom, Alex was half-way through his meal when the comtesse swept in, speaking to someone behind her.
“Come in, Phoebe, for heaven’s sake. Why are you loitering in the hallway?” Not waiting for an answer, the comtesse seated herself at the table laid for three. Once again, both mother and daughter were dressed as if for a formal dinner.
Miss Deane followed them into the room, her eyes downcast as she removed her shawl and draped it over a chair. Surprise, mingled with a stirring of attraction, filled him as he watched her discreetly. She, too, wore a decent gown instead of the usual shabby garments. Her hair was without its normal enveloping cap, and although she had it arranged in a rather severe style, it still made a fiery halo around her head.
The dress was clearly not hers. The colour lent her skin a creamy glow, but the skirt was a little too short, and the bodice too big. Another cast-off from her cousin? The sash pulled the gown in at her waist and showed off her figure well.
Not that he should be thinking about that, he told himself, forcing his attention back to his plate. He took several mouthfuls before noticing that Brevare was not eating, but looking at the comtesse and her daughter with an odd expression on his face.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Alex asked.
Brevare started and cast a quick glance at Alex before picking up his fork. Alex glanced uneasily at the other tables in the room. He hadn’t seen Perrault since they had got out of the coach earlier. The man’s absence was worrying.
When they finished their meal, Alex leaned back in his chair, nursing a glass of wine. Keeping his gaze ostensibly on the fire, he watched the women from the corner of his eye. The innkeeper had produced pastries in addition to the roast chicken, and the comtesse and her daughter were eating them. Miss Deane was pushing pieces of chicken around her plate, her face expressionless.
He recalled their conversation on the coach. She was observant, that was certain. And she had drawn correct conclusions from the things she had noticed.
He’d told her that he might answer her questions. At the time, he hadn’t been sure if he’d meant it, but the more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him. The situation had become complicated.
Brevare finished his meal and drained his glass. “More wine?”
“Not yet.”
“I will.” Brevare pushed his chair back. “I’m going to take a look in the cellar—see if they’ve got anything better than this.” He flicked a disdainful finger at the empty wine bottle.
Alex watched him leave, wondering what he was really going to do.
“Come Hélène,” the comtesse said, loudly enough for Alex to hear. “We will spend the evening in our room.”
Keeping his face towards his wine glass, Alex turned his eyes their way and saw Miss Deane stand with them, and her aunt’s glare.
“You’ll stay here, miss,” she hissed. “And take that off.” The woman took hold of the fichu Miss Deane was wearing and pulled. It came away easily, leaving the low neckline of the gown gaping slightly. “And don’t think you can sneak off to your room—I’ve locked it.”
She swept towards the door. Hélène took a few steps after her, then hesitated, turning back towards Phoebe. But any notion she may have had of remaining was thwarted as the comtesse grasped her arm and pulled her out of the room. The door closed behind them with a bang.
Slumping back into her chair, Phoebe rested her head in her hands. How had her aunt locked her room?
“Wine?” Leon put a glass down on the table beside her. “You have a different gown.”
Her cheeks grew hot as she sat up, pulling the shawl from the back of her chair and wrapping it around her shoulders. Leon was regarding her with… sympathy? Kindliness, at least, and he was looking at her face, not her bosom.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” she said through tight lips. “My aunt hopes it might compensate for my hair and complexion, and make me attractive enough to please you. I’m an offering to try to reduce your asking price.” She turned her face away.
He swore softly. In English.
“Watch your language,” she muttered. She glanced upwards to see his quick frown, then a wry smile as he worked out what she meant.
“I would never take such advantage.” He pushed the wine glass towards her. “Drink that—it’ll make you feel better.”
The wine helped calm her, but too much would be unwise on an empty stomach. Setting the glass down, she pulled the shawl more closely round her shoulders.
“May I join you?” He gestured at the chair opposite her.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Yes.”
He hadn’t moved; shame washed through her. “I’m sorry. None of this is your fault. Please, sit. You’d have been far better off if you had just ridden on and left us.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” he said, pulling out the closest chair and sitting down. He smiled. “You don’t intend to do as your aunt says, do you?”
“No,” she said, giving him a sharp look. “No,” she repeated, her tone softening. She didn’t think he’d meant it as a genuine question. “Apart from the obvious reason why not, it wouldn’t make any difference anyway.”
“How so?”
“Does it matter?”
“Humour me.”
She shrugged. “For one thing, you have not been any of the people you’ve said you were. You’re not from Grenoble, you don’t work for the Committee of General Security there, you’re not even French. It seems unlikely that you are a kidnapper.”
“And for another thing?”
“It wouldn’t work.” She hugged the shawl tighter across her chest.
“Oh?”
She raised her eyes to look at him, knowing he wasn’t that obtuse. “If you were going to ask for a ransom, you would still do it whether or not you… we…” The words caught in her throat as he returned her gaze, his eyes on hers, his mouth showing a faint curve.
It might not be the worst possible fate.
Her fingers fumbled for the glass, the red liquid sloshing up the sides as she dropped her gaze to hide her confusion. Where had that thought come from? She hadn’t said it out loud—had she?
She took a sip of the wine, risking a quick glance his way. He was still looking enquiringly at her.
“And a third thing?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I wondered if you had another reason.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said.
She was surprised at the urgency in his voice. “I won’t lie to you,” she said simply. But nor do I promise to tell you everything.
He picked up the bottle of wine and went to top up Phoebe’s glass.
She put her hand over the glass. “No, thank you.”
He set the bottle down again. “I can see if they have anything better.”
“Are you trying to get me intoxicated?” she challenged, tipping her head to one side.
He laughed. “No, not at all. I… well, I wanted to talk to you, and thought you might like a drink while we were talking.” He looked at the
remains of the dinner that had not yet been cleared, now congealed into an unappetising mess. “You didn’t eat much.”
“No.”
“I can order something else if you wish? You should eat after sitting outside in the cold all day.”
What did he want to talk to her about? Curiosity, and a sudden pang of hunger, made the decision easy.
“Yes, please.”
He went to find the innkeeper, leaving Phoebe toying with her glass. She smiled at the irony: her aunt had wanted her to spend the evening with Leon, and she was doing so.
She turned her head as the door opened. It was Brevare, carrying a bottle of wine. He came over to the table.
“That’s a much nicer gown they’ve given you,” he said, appreciation colouring his tone. “It looks well on you.”
He put out a hand to touch one of her curls. Phoebe resisted the impulse to slap his hand away.
“You know, you dress up well,” he said, sounding surprised. “You get me that message and I’ll see you don’t lose by it. I’m sure we can come to some arrangement once we’re in England. You can’t be happy working for that woman.”
Phoebe clenched her fingers around the glass, clamping her lips together. So, he was going to help her with her career as a courtesan? How kind of him.
Loosening her grip, she pretended to sip the wine, needing to do something to hide the trembling in her hands. Perhaps he would think she was nervous, rather than fighting off the temptation to fling the contents into his face.
She forced her thoughts back to what this insufferable man wanted, and why. “What happens, sir, if I can’t find the message?” she asked, relieved to hear the steadiness of her voice.
“You look for it tonight and bring it to me. You can return it later.”
He hadn’t answered the question, but there was no point in persisting. “What if he catches me looking? What should I say?”
“Just don’t get caught. He mustn’t know it is missing.”
