by Jayne Davis
“Tell me more,” she demanded, without hesitation.
“You carry two messages. This one,” he tapped her newly coded lists, “and another, nonsensical one. The real one you hide very well, the second one, not so well.”
Merely putting it inside her dress was not enough, but she had needle and thread. “I could sew it into my stays?”
His lips twitched, but he only nodded.
“What do I do with them?”
“The most important thing you do with the second one is to give it up immediately if Brevare—anyone—threatens you. A safety ruse.”
Phoebe frowned. “But… no, it will take them some time to work out that it is nonsense.”
“Exactly. I’m hoping you’ll be out of France tomorrow night, so it’s only for a day.”
“You said ‘the most important thing’—is there something else?”
“You deliver them in London for me. I’ll work—”
“You’re not returning with us?”
He shook his head. “Probably not. I’ll work out the details tonight, but if you still have the decoy note by then, there might be a way of finding out the identity of the traitor who sent Brevare.”
Something of her sudden, empty feeling must have shown on her face.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “The people I’m sending you with will make sure you get home safely.”
She nodded, managing a small smile. That wasn’t why she’d felt so dismayed.
He eyed the plate of pastries. “Have you eaten enough?”
She was no longer hungry, although she hadn’t eaten much more than the soup. Picking up a couple of the pastries, she wrapped them in a napkin. “I’d better go to my room,” she said, with regret. “I have some sewing to do.”
He stood. “Sleep well.”
Chapter 13
Phoebe awoke to a loud banging, her eyes gritty.
“Citoyenne, it’s time for you to get up.”
She didn’t recognise the voice; it was probably one of the serving women. Light filtering through the curtains revealed that it was already full daylight, even though she felt as if she had only just gone to sleep.
“Citoyenne?” The door rattled.
“I’m coming,” Phoebe called, and the rattling stopped. Shivering in the cold air, she dressed and splashed water on her face. It had been long after midnight when she finished sewing, and her clothing was still strewn about the room. Hastily bundling up the gold dress, she stuffed it into her trunk with her sewing things. Hesitating over The Pirate’s Cavern, she finally put it into her pocket with her sketchbook.
Her trunk was heavy, and she was glad to give it up to an ostler at the inn door. Hélène and her aunt waited by the coach, impatience clear in her aunt’s stiff posture and down-turned mouth. As Phoebe approached, the comtesse turned and climbed in.
Hélène took a step towards Phoebe, with what appeared to be concern on her face, before a sharp word from inside the coach made her turn away. Brevare followed her in and slammed the door.
Westbrook came to stand beside her, garbed in greatcoat, muffler, and hat. “I persuaded the innkeeper to part with this,” he said, holding out a coat. “The comtesse doesn’t appear to be in the mood for your company, and you won’t be warm enough in that cloak.”
Phoebe smiled her thanks, slipping her arms into the coat as he held it for her. This one fitted her better than his greatcoat had, and she turned up its high collar. Westbrook helped her onto the box, handed up a cloth-wrapped parcel, then climbed up himself. She wrapped her cloak around her legs as he sorted out the reins.
“Breakfast,” he said, indicating the parcel. He gave her a stoneware bottle as well. The bottle felt warm, and when she removed the stopper the rich smell of coffee wafted upwards. The napkins held fresh rolls and slices of ham, and she ate hungrily.
“Enough?” he asked as she wiped her fingers and tucked the empty wrappings under the seat.
“Yes, thank you.”
“I thought you’d need as much sleep as you could get,” he said. “Otherwise I’d have had them send up breakfast.”
She rubbed her eyes, still feeling half-asleep. It wasn’t until she finished the coffee that she realised something was wrong.
“Is Perrault in the coach?” She hadn’t seen him, but he could have been in a dark corner.
“No-one’s seen him this morning,” Alex said.
“That’s not good. Where do you think he’s gone?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his expression grim. “I suspect he may have gone to find someone in authority to arrest us—he still thinks he’ll get some kind of reward. He’s had plenty of time since I last saw him before dinner yesterday.”
“Does he know where we’re going?”
“He didn’t, but it’s possible Brevare might. If he does, I wouldn’t put it past him to have let something slip. There’s an inn we use beyond Granville, a place to leave messages or to arrange for a boat.” He glanced down at her. “Don’t worry too much. The Dumont brothers who run the inn are regular contacts; they won’t betray us. I sent Anson to them, so if he’s arrived they’ll know to be extra careful. We’ll have to see what the situation is when we get there.”
Phoebe nodded, rubbing her eyes again, too tired to worry about it now.
“You could ride inside,” he suggested.
He must have seen the change in her expression, for she heard a chuckle. Her eyes were closing of their own accord. She couldn’t sleep sitting up like this, but if she leaned to one side…
Jerking herself upright, she took a deep breath of the cold air, now damp with a fine drizzle. Leaning against Westbrook would be improper. People would think… no, it would make no difference. Her eyes closed. Her aunt already thought the worst of her… Westbrook did not… it was much more comfortable leaning sideways against his shoulder…
Alex shifted position cautiously, glancing down at Phoebe—Miss Deane—resting against him, her face concealed by the dripping brim of her bonnet. Her huddled form seemed far more vulnerable than the animated and perceptive woman he had confided in. He should never have involved her.
Returning his gaze to the road ahead, he forced himself to review the last few days dispassionately. His actions had indirectly led to Sarchet’s assault, but it was difficult to see what else he could have done under the circumstances.
Last night? He had given her several opportunities to change her mind about getting involved; she could have stayed in her room instead of returning with the novel, and she could have declined the decoy note idea. But she’d understood the need for it, and contributed ideas of her own.
A sudden squall brought heavier rain, and he felt her stir. She sat up, casting a quick glance in his direction and sliding away along the seat. She turned her head from side to side, one hand rubbing her neck. The wind whipped strands of hair across her face, and she hunched her shoulders.
“Easterly wind,” he said. “It will be easy for the Lily—the boat—to get under way after she’s picked you up.”
He caught the movement of her bonnet out of the corner of his eye as she looked at him, crossing her arms over her chest.
“You’re cold—move a bit closer.”
“I’m all right,” she said, not moving.
“You may be, but I’m not,” he said. “It will be warmer.”
She was still for a moment, then she shuffled closer until her shoulder touched his. The extra warmth was minimal, but it felt good to have her so close again. The sky to their left was brighter, a few clear patches visible in the distance promising better weather soon.
“Is Brevare short of money?” she asked.
He smiled. “A random thought?”
“Sorry. I was thinking about Brevare…”
His smile vanished.
“Why he’s here, I mean. He’s… well, he doesn’t seem particularly competent. You said he might have been sent because he could recognise you, but why did he agree to come?”
“Money is the most likely reason,” he said. “Although I don’t think he’s any worse off than other émigrés, and gambles no more than anyone else.”
“There are some French nobles who sympathise with the revolutionaries.”
Alex shook his head. “I don’t know him well, but I’ve never heard him say anything remotely like that.”
“Blackmail?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Do you ever answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’?” Phoebe asked, exasperation clear in her voice. “This is worse than being in the schoolroom! Am I making any sense?”
He couldn’t resist a tease. “Yes, and yes.”
She chuckled. “Yes, I’m making sense?”
“Yes, you are. Brevare is likely to be a danger to us, but if he’s being blackmailed, I’d rather not have to kill him.”
The pressure of her shoulder on his lessened as she pulled away from him.
“That surprised you?” His lips twisted. Of course it had—it would shock anyone not involved in his business.
“Yes.” She stared at him, meeting his eyes for a moment before gazing back at the road. “Perhaps it should not have.”
“I presume your normal conversations do not involve such matters?”
She ignored his attempt at levity. “If it’s a choice between one man and all the people on your list…” She shook her head.
He drove on in silence for a few minutes, pleased when she resumed her former position. Blackmail was a possibility he hadn’t considered.
“Why do you suggest he is being blackmailed?” he asked.
“Little things, really. It’s probably a silly idea.”
“Tell me anyway. Small things taken together can be important.”
She did not speak immediately. Marshalling her thoughts?
“He’s not a very good spy, as we said last night.”
“Go on.”
“He could have killed you and made up a story about coming across your body by accident. If he just reported your death to the… the Foreign Office, your organisation would never have known anyone else had your list. Instead, he delays you on the road, doesn’t help you win the fight, and generally impedes things without doing anything directly.”
“So they picked an incompetent traitor?”
Phoebe shook her head. “Perhaps they chose someone they could control. Someone who could not get more money by betraying them to the government.”
That was an excellent point.
“Hélène says he has a mother and sister living in a château somewhere north of Paris,” Phoebe continued.
Alex frowned. “I think I remember him saying something about a sister.”
“He spends a lot of time watching Hélène,” Phoebe said. “You may not have noticed—he’s fairly discreet about it.”
“Well she’s an exceedingly beautiful girl.” His lips curved. “Hen-witted, though, it has to be said.”
“Yes, but I’ve seen other men who admire her, and he doesn’t look at her in the same way. He backed you up when you rescued us from Perrault, and he would have been in as much danger as you. When I caught him looking at her later, I wondered if she reminded him of some other woman—his sister perhaps? Or a sweetheart? Is it possible that she—or they—are being held by the revolutionaries?”
“We won’t know unless we ask him. He and I have never discussed our families, so it would seem odd for me to start now. You might be able to find out, if he lets anything slip.”
“I’ll try.”
He looked at her. “Phoebe, I’m not suggesting you ask him directly.”
Phoebe met his eyes, seeming startled at the vehemence in his tone.
“If he is being blackmailed, he could become desperate,” Alex went on. “Finding out isn’t important enough to put yourself into danger.” He kept his gaze on hers until she nodded, then returned his attention to the road.
What she said had given him an idea. He turned it over in his mind as he drove.
“This decoy idea…”
She turned her head towards him.
“I was originally going to stay behind in France only a day or so, to give Brevare or his handler a chance to get the decoy from you. But if I can find out where the rest of his family is and take them to England—”
“You might be able to persuade Brevare himself to tell you who the traitor is?” She’d understood instantly—of course.
“If he knows. The traitor might be using an intermediary.”
Phoebe nodded. “And even if he doesn’t know anything useful, his family will be out of harm’s way and the traitor will no longer have a hold over Brevare. If we’re right about the blackmail, of course.”
Westbrook’s plan made sense, and it would give him—or his superiors—another possible way of identifying the traitor. She didn’t like it, though. Going to look for Brevare’s family would be far more dangerous than merely waiting at the coast for a few days.
He’s a spy. That’s the kind of thing spies do.
It made no difference, she told herself firmly. They would have parted ways as soon as they reached English soil in any case.
Bare hedges lined the road, with muddy fields punctuated by copses of leafless trees beyond. As the coach rattled on, the rain stopped and occasional patches of sunshine cheered the landscape and the villages along their route. Phoebe found it difficult to correlate the stories of violence and terror she’d read in the newspapers with this peaceful setting.
“Can you drive?” Westbrook asked, bringing her back to the here and now.
“Yes,” she said, picturing driving her father on his rounds. She bit her lip as she realised she might be overstating her skills. “I mean, I used to drive my father’s gig,” she added. “But only one horse, not four, and that was years ago.”
“I might need you to drive later, only for a mile or so.”
Phoebe gazed at the four horses in front of them.
“These aren’t the most taxing animals,” he added.
“Couldn’t Brevare drive?”
“No, I don’t want him to know what’s happening.”
It was important then. She straightened her spine. “I’ll try. What do I do?”
His expression lightened. “I’ll show you. Hold out your left hand.”
She did as he said, and he looped the reins through her gloved fingers.
“That’s it, hold them like that—there’s nothing complicated while we’re going in a straight line. Now try slowing them down.” He reached across her awkwardly with his left hand, then muttered under his breath and moved back to put his arm round her shoulders instead. Now he could twist a little and use his right hand to guide her hands on the reins.
Phoebe drew in a breath.
“Do you mind?” he asked, straightening up again.
She shook her head, not minding at all. In fact, it felt rather nice. Ignoring the warmth coming from him, she concentrated on the horses. He showed her how to loop the leaders’ reins when they came to a bend. After making a few turns without needing his guidance, she began to enjoy herself.
Westbrook divided his gaze between her hands and the way ahead, occasionally consulting the road guide. Her left hand and arm ached after she’d driven a few miles, and she gave the reins back. Flexing her hand, she tried to massage the pains out of it.
“You did well,” Westbrook said. “You’ll be fine if you need to drive them later.” He gave her the road guide.
“Oh,” she said, before he could speak. “I’ve still got the book I used to code the message. Shouldn’t we get rid of it?”
“You’ve hidden the message?”
“Yes, but it would be stupid to be caught with the message and the key to it.”
“Throw it over the hedge,” he said.
“What?”
“Why not?”
P
hoebe thought about it. Why not, indeed? If the message were found, the authorities were hardly likely to search the countryside for a book. She took it from her pocket. How far could she throw it from a seated position?
“Here, I’ll do it,” Westbrook said, taking the book out of her hand. It sailed off over the hedge into a stand of trees. “Everyone knows girls can’t throw,” he said in a bland tone, spoiling the effect by giving her a wary, sideways glance.
“Just as they cannot read maps and follow signposts?” Phoebe asked, her tone honeyed. For once he didn’t have a reply, and she laughed. “I cannot throw as far as you, that’s certain.” She held up the road guide. “What did you want me to do with this?”
“We need to skirt Avranches.” He waved a hand towards the road ahead. “I’ve been in this area before, but I don’t usually need to avoid the towns. I don’t know the way through the lanes. When we’ve passed Avranches we head for the coast beyond Granville, but avoid that town too.”
Phoebe flicked through the pages, finding the towns he’d mentioned. Entering them, or even a village of any size, risked someone wanting to examine their papers, or her aunt doing something that would get them arrested. She worked out a route, turning down the corners of the pages she’d need.
Chapter 14
An hour later, Phoebe took the reins for more practice. This time Westbrook knotted them so she didn’t need to grip them with her fingers to maintain the correct length. He explained how the horses worked together in harness and how much continual but light pressure was needed to keep the animals ready to respond. She listened intently, glad for a chance to learn. It was something she missed greatly about her father—he didn’t care much for what was proper or right for a woman to do. He’d simply taught her what she’d wanted to know, talking to her as he might have done to another adult. Forcing back her sadness at the memories, she kept her concentration on the road and the horses.
The mental effort, as well as handling the reins, tired her and she was glad to let Westbrook take over once again. She checked the road guide, then asked a question that had been in the back of her mind since she first suspected he was a spy.
