by Jayne Davis
“What do you do in France?”
He looked surprised. “I told you last—”
“Sorry. I meant…I was wondering what it is other people think you are doing in France.” She grimaced as the question came out; perhaps she shouldn’t have asked. “But it’s none of my business, really.”
“That part’s no secret,” he said. “I set up trading deals. I find goods that should sell well in England, and put the sellers in contact with my uncle’s trading company in Devon.”
Phoebe suppressed a smile. If her aunt did not already detest ‘that man’, knowing she was associating with someone in trade would have made her turn her nose up.
“You really do that?” It sounded an interesting way of making a living. “Are you a successful trader?”
“Reasonably. It helps to have a true reason for being here.”
“How did you learn that trade?”
“After I finished my schooling I went to work for Pendrick’s—my uncle’s firm. An import and trading business seemed more attractive than studying to become an attorney.”
“That’s what your parents wanted?”
He hesitated. “It was interesting for a while, but then Marstone offered me something more interesting. Marstone—the Earl of Marstone, I should say—runs agents in France, and probably elsewhere.”
Phoebe nodded, wanting him to continue but not feeling she should press him.
“Marstone suggested to Pendrick that I’d be better employed looking for new sources of goods on the continent. They already had their own people doing that, of course, but I suspect he made… well, an investment of some kind, so they agreed.”
“Gathering information for him while buying goods for Pendrick?” He didn’t seem to mind talking.
“Exactly.”
“And you liked that better? It sounds lonely.”
“I didn’t notice that at first. There was the novelty of seeing new places, but it’s not as enjoyable when you have to always be on your guard—whether for business or other matters.” He paused for a moment. “I suppose there was an element of danger too, and it was better than being a glorified warehouse clerk.”
Lonely or not, it sounded both interesting and useful. “What do you trade in?”
“It depends on where I need to be. Wine, quite often. Brandy, fabrics…”
“Smuggled?”
“Most of it is legitimate trade,” he said, one brow rising as he turned to her. “Why did you think I was a smuggler?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, hoping she hadn’t offended him.
“Don’t be.” His lips curled up. “I am sometimes a smuggler. I was wondering why you thought so.”
She had jumped to that conclusion, but there had been enough clues. “I imagine the packet boats won’t be running now we’re at war, but you know that we can get a boat to pick us up at a beach somewhere. It sounds like a regular arrangement.”
“Yes. Smuggling is a good excuse for boats crossing the channel at odd times. No-one questions it—other than the Revenue men, of course. Smuggling keeps the skipper familiar with private little beaches.”
Phoebe sighed.
“Phoebe?”
“Your life sounds so much more interesting than mine.” When had he started to call her Phoebe? She suppressed a smile—perhaps being used as a pillow gave him that right.
“You don’t enjoy living in London?” he asked.
“I prefer the country. I used to go for long walks or rides when my parents were alive; at Calvac, too. In London there is only the park. I spend a lot of my time with my uncle’s travel books.”
“No balls and entertainments?”
“Not yet. My uncle said I was to come out with Hélène this spring. She’s looking forward to it, but it all seems rather pointless to me.”
“Many people enjoy dancing,” he said, a note of enquiry in his voice.
“Oh, I do enjoy dancing, but from what my aunt and Hélène have been discussing, it is likely to be every evening, with social calls all day.” She grimaced. “There’s only so much I can say about fashion and gossip.”
“Hmm, I take your point.” His smile was wry. “Perhaps an unexciting life will seem more appealing after this week’s events.”
Perhaps.
They skirted Granville early in the afternoon and drove on northwards. The warmth of the sun on her face was welcome, helping to counter the wind biting through her coat. They had not talked much more, but the quiet felt companionable, a friendly silence.
“The inn we’re aiming for is about a mile further on,” Westbrook said, as he turned the carriage down yet another narrow lane. “If Brevare told Perrault about the place, there might already be soldiers there.”
“We could stop here and you could check on foot,” Phoebe suggested.
He shook his head. “If there is trouble and the Dumonts have escaped, there’s a rendezvous further on. I’d rather you were safely beyond the inn before I start looking. We must drive along the road as if we’re passing through.”
He handed her the reins. “There’s a copse a little way beyond the turning to the inn—I’ll jump off as you go behind that. In another mile you’ll come to some woodland. Stop there and wait. I shouldn’t be long.”
He felt in the pocket of his coat. “You’d better have this.” He showed her a pistol and then put it into one of her coat pockets.
“Am I likely to need that?”
“Let us hope not, but you can use it to discourage Brevare in case he tries to take charge while I’m away,” he said.
Using a pistol was a little more than she’d bargained for.
“Stay on the box if you can, and use it to keep him away from you if that becomes necessary. It isn’t cocked. You remember the catch on the top you have to pull back?”
Phoebe nodded. That scene was graven on her memory.
As the inn came into sight she slowed the horses, examining the building. “Are some of the windows open?” she asked.
“It looks that way, and not enough chimneys smoking,” Westbrook confirmed. “Something’s definitely wrong.”
Phoebe swallowed a lump in her throat, slowing once again as they neared the copse. Westbrook moved to the edge of the bench and swung himself partway down.
“Are you sure you’ll manage?” he asked.
Phoebe wanted to tell him to be careful, and to ask what they should do if he did not come back, but she couldn’t delay him. She nodded, and he dropped to the road, staying crouched until the coach had passed so the occupants did not see him through the windows.
She felt her pulse accelerate—she was on her own now, in charge of four horses and the people inside the carriage. The lane curved, and she pulled on the reins as she’d been taught, calming as she realised the horses were behaving no differently from before. Westbrook would be returning soon, she told herself firmly. He was going to reconnoitre, not to fight anyone.
Trees appeared ahead once she rounded another bend in the lane. The hedges give way to bushy undergrowth as they approached the patch of woodland. Phoebe slowed the horses to a walk, bringing them to a halt where the road widened a little. Someone coming along the road would see them, but the coach would not be visible from a distance.
“What’s happening? Why have we stopped here?” The comtesse’s shrill tones were clearly audible, even through the closed doors of the coach. Phoebe pulled the pistol out of her pocket and put it down carefully on the seat beside her, keeping a firm grasp on the reins with her left hand. The door opened, and Phoebe twisted round on the seat to see Brevare climb out.
“Why have we stopped?” He looked around, then up at her on the box. “Where’s… what are you doing up there on your own?”
Some of Phoebe’s tension dissipated. She must not underestimate him, but at the moment he didn’t appear to be a threat. The temptation to become the rather dim servant was overwhelming.
“I’m holding the horses.”
“Why?”
“So they don’t run away.” She bit her lip at his scowl.
“Where’s Leon?”
“He got off.”
“Yes, I can see that!”
“What is happening?” the comtesse demanded again from inside the coach.
Brevare ignored her. “Where did he get off?”
“Back there a bit,” Phoebe said, twisting round and pointing the way they had come. Brevare said something she couldn’t quite make out, but from the look on his face she suspected it was rude. She kept her face bland with an effort; it would not do for her to laugh at him.
“Where are we? Here, give me that road guide.”
Phoebe handed it over, and he flicked through the pages, his impatience growing as he failed to find their location.
“Where are we?” he repeated.
A crackle of undergrowth drew her attention away from Brevare’s sputtering demands. She caught a flash of movement between the trees, then a stranger stepped onto the road. Her pulse racing, she slipped her hand down to the pistol beside her, gripping it but not lifting it. Westbrook had mentioned his friends—Dumont, that was the name.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Brevare’s mouth snap closed as the man approached the horses, reaching out to take the reins close to the leading animals’ bits. Brevare cursed as he stepped back into the coach.
The man was smartly dressed—a respectable tradesman, Phoebe guessed, although the effect was spoiled by splashes of mud on his coat and breeches. He drew a pistol from his coat pocket, holding it loosely with the barrel pointing at the ground. Not a soldier. And not, she thought, one of Perrault’s associates.
“Your bonnet, citoyenne—remove it if you please?”
“Unhand those horses!” Brevare emerged from the coach, pointing his own pistol. “Release them at once!”
The man ignored the shouting, keeping his gaze on her while pointing his gun towards Brevare. “Your bonnet,” he repeated.
She pulled the ribbons undone and slid her bonnet off. Guessing what the man might want, she pulled her cap off too—her hair was her most identifiable feature.
The man nodded.
“Are you deaf, man?” Brevare stepped forwards, still waving his pistol.
“Your name, citoyen?” Phoebe called, ignoring Brevare’s incoherent protest.
“Pierre Dumont.” He touched his hat.
“Brevare,” Phoebe called, cocking Westbrook’s pistol. Brevare froze, his jaw dropping.
“You need to get off the road,” Dumont said, putting his weapon away. “There is a track ahead. I will lead them.”
“Lead them on, then.” She let the reins go slack. “Put the pistol away,” she said to Brevare. “This man is helping us.”
“Have you gone mad, woman?”
“Just doing what I was told, sir.”
Brevare muttered something under his breath and climbed back into the now-moving coach, stumbling as the wheels lurched into a rut. The door slammed hard behind him. There was a terse reply to yet another demand from the comtesse, and then quiet from inside.
Phoebe carefully released the lever on the pistol as the coach moved into the trees. If Dumont knew to look out for her, Anson must have arrived here safely. Her relief was short-lived, however—Dumont’s presence here also meant there must be soldiers at the inn.
As the coach came to rest behind a thicket she tucked her hair into her cap and put her bonnet back on. The ground looked a long way off, but she scrambled down without mishap.
“Where is Westbrook?” Dumont asked in a low voice as she approached him.
“He thought there was something wrong at the inn when we passed,” she explained. “He went to investigate. He told me to wait in this wood for him.”
“How long ago?”
“Ten minutes? Not long, he could not have walked here yet.”
He met her gaze and nodded once more. “Bien. We wait.”
“How did you know to be here?” It surely could not be a coincidence, the way he had appeared so quickly.
“Monsieur Anson arrived yesterday. This is a meeting place.” Dumont looked towards the road and then back to Phoebe. “You will stay here?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t turn the horses round on her own anyway.
“If Westbrook arrives, tell him to wait here.”
Phoebe wanted to ask where he was going, but he had already faded into the bushes. She wrapped her coat more tightly round her, choosing to lean on the outside of the coach rather than join her aunt inside.
Finally she heard the crack of a dry stick, a metallic jingle, then a low murmur of voices. Pierre Dumont emerged from the trees, leading a horse with a small girl on its back. He was followed by another man with a horse, this one with a plump woman carrying a baby in a sling, her skirts hitched up to ride astride. Both men and horses were also laden with bags and boxes.
“My brother, Henri,” Pierre said, jerking a thumb towards the other man. Henri was taller, but the two brothers bore a strong facial resemblance.
Pierre helped the girl and woman dismount, then climbed up onto the coach, stowing the bags Henri threw up to him on the roof. The woman opened the coach door and climbed in, her daughter behind her.
“Plenty of room here, isn’t it?” the woman said. “Move along a bit, my lady. Come on, Sophie, cariad, sit you down here.”
“Pierre’s wife is Welsh,” said a familiar voice in her ear.
Phoebe jumped. “You don’t say!” she retorted, her pulse settling at the sound of his chuckle. “What did you—?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Westbrook said. “We need to get a bit further from the inn. You’ll have to travel inside, I’m afraid, but we’re not going far.” As he spoke, Pierre finished tying the bags down and climbed forward onto the box. Henri brought the two riding horses over.
Inside, the girl sat between Hélène and the comtesse. Brevare glowered from the opposite seat, his arms folded. As Phoebe climbed in, Dumont’s wife shuffled along and patted the narrow space beside her.
“Here you are, see. Plenty of room.” The woman settled back comfortably and adjusted the baby on her lap. The coach jolted into motion, and Phoebe almost fell into the gap, muttering her thanks.
“Who are these people…? What…?” Words were failing the comtesse. Phoebe smiled, not caring if her aunt saw it.
“Can’t you do something?” the comtesse said to Brevare. His scowl deepened, and he shook his head.
There wasn’t much to see through the window, only hedges and trees. After about half an hour of jolting along a rutted track, the coach came to a halt. Westbrook opened the door and helped Phoebe and Madame Dumont to alight.
“You will be more comfortable if you stay here for the moment, citoyenne,” Westbrook said to the comtesse. “Brevare, come and help.”
The men busied themselves unharnessing the horses and unloading the baggage. Phoebe could be no help to them, so she walked to the edge of the woodland and breathed deeply of the salt air. Sand dunes rose before her, and the sound of surf was faint in the distance, almost masked by the wind in the trees.
Chapter 15
Alex turned back to the coach as the Dumonts walked past Phoebe and headed off into the dunes, laden with bags and boxes.
“You can have one trunk each,” he said, sticking his head inside. “Sort out what you want to take.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, that’s—”
“If you don’t sort it out, we’ll leave it all behind.” He turned away, ignoring the gasp of anger from the comtesse. Thank God he wouldn’t have to deal with the woman after today.
Now for Brevare.
“Down to the hut on the beach,” he said, pointing the way the Dumonts had gone. Brevare made no move, so he pulled a pistol from his coat pocket.
“Beach. Now!”
Brevare’s mouth opened and closed, then he turned and began to walk.
Alex put the pistol back and hoisted Phoebe’s trunk onto one shoulder. “You
come too, please,” he said as he passed her.
As they neared the hut, a drift of smoke rose from its chimney. Gwen Dumont had wasted no time in lighting a fire. Alex added Phoebe’s trunk to the Dumonts’ pile of baggage and gestured for Brevare and Phoebe to walk on. The Dumont brothers followed them.
“What’s going on, Westbrook?” Brevare asked as they stopped a dozen yards from the hut.
Alex ignored him, turning to Pierre. “There were soldiers at the inn.”
“They arrived this morning,” Pierre confirmed. “I saw them coming and got Gwen and the girls out. Henri went to the nearby farms.”
“Nothing wrong at the farms,” Henri said, his face expressionless as his gaze brushed over Brevare. “They only came to our inn. They were to wait for a grand coach with two men and three women.”
“How do you know that?” Brevare asked. Alex glanced his way; despite the cold, there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“I listened,” Henri said.
“Why didn’t they keep proper watch on the road?” Alex asked. He’d had little difficulty getting close to the inn without being spotted.
“Drunk, probably. I left the cellar door unlocked.”
Alex nodded and turned to Brevare. He was now certain that Brevare had betrayed them; whether deliberately or accidentally he had yet to determine. “How did they know to come to this inn? And who to look for?”
“Perrault must have told them.” Brevare’s gaze dropped as he spoke.
“And how did Perrault know where we were going?” Alex kept his voice level, despite his rising anger.
“I didn’t tell him!” Brevare’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “For God’s sake, I want to get out of this damned country just as much as you! Why would I tell him?”
“So you did know this was where we were headed?” He watched as Brevare’s jaw fell open; the man was clearly searching for a response.
“Well, yes. When they sent me…”
Alex waited, but Brevare did not explain further.
“Who did you tell?” Alex prompted, making an effort not to shout.
