Playing With Fire

by Jayne Davis

  “I suppose that’s better than nothing.” His frown smoothed. “Does he know you stole it, or hasn’t he missed it yet?”

  “I didn’t steal it.”

  “What? Stop messing about and give it to me.” He held a hand out.

  Did he still think of her as a rather dim servant? It was worth a try. “No, sir,” she said, allowing her voice to quaver a little. No servant would wish to antagonise a member of the upper classes.

  He stared at her, nonplussed, then his lips tightened, his mouth forming a sneer. “It will be safer with me—what do you think you can do with it?”

  “Take it to the Earl of Marstone, sir. That’s what Mr Westbrook told me to do.”

  “Nonsense! He wouldn’t trust you with something of such importance. I’ll see it gets to where it needs to go.”

  Phoebe shook her head.

  “Come, girl, do as you are told!” This time he was almost snarling, his face close to hers, menacing.

  She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “I am doing as I was told, sir.” If she had to, she could give him the decoy note.

  “Everything all right, miss?”

  Phoebe let out a long breath as Dan Trasker appeared behind Brevare, two of his crew beside him.

  “I wanted a word, Miss Deane, if you have a moment.” Trasker nodded to Brevare and extended an arm in invitation.

  Brevare’s grip tightened momentarily. Trasker raised an eyebrow and glanced towards the two crewmen, and Brevare finally let go.

  “Excuse us, sir,” Trasker said. “This way, miss.”

  Phoebe took his arm, and he led her aft, steadying her against the movement of the ship. They stopped in the shelter of the small wheelhouse.

  “Best if you don’t come on deck alone,” Trasker said. “Ask Owen to show you the ropes, or have Pierre Dumont with you.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  “That wasn’t what I wanted, though. The wind is still easterly. I wished to discuss our destination with you.”

  Phoebe’s eyes widened. She had heard Alex tell him to consult her, but she hadn’t believed he would.

  “The original plan was to put you ashore near Brighton to make the overland part of your journey short and give that fool,” he jerked his head in Brevare’s direction, “as little chance as possible to… bother you.”

  Phoebe tried to bring a map of the south coast to mind. “The wind…?”

  Trasker smiled. “Indeed, Miss Deane. It could take a day or two to beat up the Channel—longer if the wind strengthens. If you don’t mind a longer coach journey, we could make for Ashcombe. That’s the Lily’s home port, in Devonshire. With the wind fair on this heading, we could be there this evening. It will take two days to London from there, perhaps three, but we can find a coach and driver for you all, and someone to be a lady’s maid as well. They can make sure Brevare doesn’t bother you.”

  “Ashcombe, I think, under the circumstances,” she said.

  Trasker nodded in satisfaction. Phoebe suspected he had already made up his mind, but was pleased to have his choice approved.

  “Would you have taken us to Sussex if I’d chosen that?”

  “Westbrook put you in charge, Miss Deane. I trust his judgement.”

  She could detect no trace of resentment in his words or his expression, which was as surprising as Alex’s instruction. She found herself standing straighter, while hoping their confidence was not misplaced. “Have you worked with him long?”

  “A few years, off and on,” Trasker said, which didn’t tell Phoebe much at all. She sensed she wouldn’t get more out of him. In Granville, the two men had seemed to know each other well, but there was no reason why Trasker should speak freely to her. She changed the subject, asking him to tell her about the Lily.

  “She’s quite big for a cutter—I’ve twenty-eight hands,” he said, chest swelling with pride as he turned and gestured towards the bow. “Fast, too, when her bottom’s clean.”

  “Is she yours?”

  “I’ve been in command five years,” he said, with only the slightest hesitation.

  Phoebe, wondering if she was becoming too suspicious of everyone, interpreted this as meaning that the Lily did not belong to him, but he wasn’t going to tell her who the owner was. Rather than persist, she asked him to explain what some of the seeming hundreds of ropes did.

  Trasker’s disbelieving expression turned into a smile of pleasure when she assured him she really was interested. Walking along the deck beside him, she could hardly keep up as nautical terms flew at her: braces and shrouds, halyards and sheets, masts, yards, and bowsprits. She must have looked bemused, for he apologised with a rueful grin.

  “No, don’t be sorry!” Phoebe said hastily. “It is such a lot to take in—but I am interested. My brother is…” She wondered if smugglers regarded the Royal Navy as their enemies, but ploughed on. “Joe is in the navy. Now I can better understand his stories. Do you… will it be all right if I do some sketching?” She waved her hand to indicate the sails and sea.

  “Of course. I’ll keep an eye on Brevare while you get your things, then I’ll send Owen or Pierre up with a chair for you.”

  An hour later she looked up guiltily as she heard Trasker barking out orders for trimming the sails. Members of his crew surrounded her chair, and she belatedly wondered if some of them were supposed to be doing other things. They had certainly kept Brevare away from her; he still stood by the rail, his gaze alternating between her and the horizon.

  “Am I distracting them from their duties?” she asked as Trasker approached. “I’m sorry.” She showed him her sketchbook, and was relieved to see Trasker’s lips twitch as he regarded the portrait of one of his men, with added eyepatch, cutlass, and bicorne hat complete with skull and crossbones.

  “I allus fancied mesel’ as a pirate,” the subject of the portrait, said. “Jemmy there wanted to be a gennelman with a fancy hat.”

  Jem showed his picture, and Trasker laughed. “No need to hurry, Miss Deane,” he said. “Finish the one you’re doing.”

  She quickly added the final lines and tore out the page, handing it to the crewman. She waited until the men had gone about their duties before she turned back to Trasker. “You will have to let me, or Mr Anson, know how much we owe you. I think… I hope we have enough money left.”

  “No charge, Miss Deane. Besides, I reckon you’ve earned your own passage anyway, entertaining my crew like that!” He shook his head. “Now, what I came to say was, we can make port within a few hours if we keep all sail on, and you could be on your way this evening. Or we could arrive late enough for you to need to stay the night in Ashcombe. Mr Anson could go on ahead; he thought it might be wise if he travelled post to London to carry the news of your arrival.”

  Her uncle must have returned to London from his business trip some days ago. Having Anson tell him the unadorned version of events first seemed an excellent idea to Phoebe.

  “That sounds the best plan,” Phoebe agreed, still enjoying the novelty of having her opinion solicited. She could see a faint smudge ahead where the sea joined the sky. “Is that land?”

  “Yes. We’ll heave to here and wait for a few hours.” Trasker gave orders to the mate and shouts sent men scrambling up the rigging.

  Phoebe tensed as Brevare finally left his position by the rail and made his way towards them. “What’s going on?” he asked Trasker. “Why are you taking in sail here?”

  “Can’t get into the harbour until later this evening,” Trasker told him, his expression bland. “Tides.”

  “Ah, very well.”

  Brevare stood glaring at Trasker, who showed no sign of leaving her side. Phoebe suppressed a smile, then gave the captain a small nod. Trasker moved off, but stopped only a few yards away—out of earshot, but close enough to see what Brevare was doing.

  “I’m sorry if I frightened you earlier,” Brevare said, almost sounding sincere. “But that message is extremely important.”

  �
�I will give it to the earl, sir, as I promised.” Now was probably the time to give him a hint. If he had a plan to obtain the message in London, he was less likely to try to get it from her on the journey. “I’m supposed to take it to the Foreign Office, sir, but I’m not sure where that is. Do you think they will let me in?”

  Brevare’s face brightened. “I can help you there,” he said. “I know the earl, and I’m sure I can arrange for him to meet you. I’m told they are not very friendly there, unless you are a member of the ton. The Calvacs reside in Berkeley Square, do they not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll send a note when I’ve arranged the meeting. You will be able to slip out?”

  Phoebe nodded, almost pleased with him for falling in so well with Alex’s plan. He was about to say something else when Trasker, with excellent timing, returned.

  “Excuse me, Miss Deane, but her ladyship is asking for you,” he said.

  Phoebe sighed, until she caught his quick wink.

  “Thought you wouldn’t want to spend too long with him,” Trasker muttered quietly as Phoebe moved away.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Phoebe said, and gladly escaped.

  Chapter 19

  Phoebe sighed with pleasure as she sank into the hot water. After the sea voyage and two very long days on the road to London, it was bliss to be allowed to soak in peace, scented soap to hand and a steaming cup of chocolate on a table by the bath. By the time they had reached the house last night, she had been too exhausted to do anything other than retire to bed.

  The Lily had moored in Ashcombe harbour after dark, and Owen and Trasker escorted them all to the village’s single inn. As soon as the comtesse and Hélène had been shown to their rooms, Anson arranged for the inn’s gig to take him to Exeter that night, hoping to get a seat on the mail coach. Phoebe, sorry to see him go but appreciating the need, had been relieved when Brevare said he would join him. That had removed any worry about the journey to London, and now they were back on English soil her aunt’s injudicious remarks could cause no further trouble.

  Phoebe had risen early the next morning and walked around the village, knowing it was the only exercise she was likely to get over the following couple of days. Seen in daylight, Ashcombe was a pretty little place, houses lining a cleft in the sandstone cliffs running inland from the harbour. Standing on the short sea wall with gulls calling above her, she wondered if Alex had ever stood here looking at this view.

  The east wind was biting, and she had not stayed out long. She had returned to find that the comtesse and Hélène had breakfasted and Trasker had organised a coach and driver. Owen Jones was to act as guard, and the innkeeper’s daughter, Ellie, would be their maid. It had felt rather odd, at first, to be travelling inside a coach again, but Ellie’s presence inside, and her aunt’s tiredness from the crossing, resulted in a relatively peaceful journey. All had gone to plan so far.

  Her part in the plan, at least. Where was Alex now? She sat up and soaped herself, feeling a pang of guilt for luxuriating in her bath when he was probably crammed into a jolting diligence somewhere. He hadn’t explained how he would go about finding Brevare’s family, but she couldn’t imagine he would be able to relax properly until he was back in England.

  Phoebe donned a robe while she towelled her hair, thinking how things would change here at home. She was looking forward to seeing her young cousin Georges again, and his governess. Before this last trip to France, she and Alice Bryant had shared confidences—now there was much she couldn’t tell.

  They would be happy to see her again, she told herself, giving her curls a final rub. She hoped that her uncle would, too, unless her aunt had already poisoned him against her.

  No, he was a fair man, and would at least ask for her version of events.

  Ellie’s knock was a welcome interruption to these thoughts, and the maid’s cheery smile helped to lighten Phoebe’s mood. “M’sewer le Comte said to join ’im fer breakfast, miss.” She eyed the yellow gown Phoebe had laid on the bed. “Shall I ’elp you on with that, miss?”

  “Yes, please. But why are you waiting on me? I thought you were only taken on for the journey. Aren’t you supposed to be going back to Devonshire?”

  Ellie bobbed a curtsey. “The ’ousekeeper said as how I should make myself useful while I be ’ere.” Ellie finished lacing Phoebe’s gown. “I was wonderin’, miss…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I was wonderin’ if I could be your maid for a bit. It’d be nice to see Lunnun. And Mrs Kidd said as how Lady Hélène’s maid would be busy lookin’ after ’er ladyship as well, ‘til she gets a new maid, so there baint no-one for you. I baint trained, like, but I can get gowns clean and pressed, and I learns fast and I allus used to do my sister’s hair, and—”

  “Stop!” Phoebe begged, laughing. “If Mrs Kidd agrees, I’d love to have you as my maid!”

  “Thank you, miss!” Ellie beamed, dropping a quick curtsey, then turned to unpack Phoebe’s bag.

  “What time is it?”

  “It be gone ten o’clock, miss.”

  No wonder she felt so ravenous.

  The Comte de Calvac looked up as Phoebe entered the breakfast room. He was seated at one end of the table, wearing his usual matching waistcoat, coat and breeches—of plain cloth but well cut—and his grey wig. He smiled and put aside his newspaper.

  “Ah, Phoebe! Welcome back.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Phoebe said, appreciating his unfailing courtesy. How different he was from his wife in that respect.

  “I hear from Anson that you had a bit of difficulty?”

  What had Anson said to the comte? Helping herself to eggs and toast, she thought she would have to see the steward in private—the sooner the better.

  “Yes, sir, but all ended well.” A footman brought her some fresh coffee.

  “I have not yet spoken to your aunt in detail, but she did not sound happy when you arrived last night.” The comte’s voice held an unspoken question.

  “Her maid left us to return home only two days after we left Calvac,” Phoebe explained. “She didn’t like having to manage without servants.” Which was the truth, although it omitted all the important details.

  The comte nodded and returned to his newspaper while Phoebe ate. He must have been watching her, as he put his paper down as soon as she finished her meal.

  “You may leave us, Green,” he said to the footman.

  Green bowed, closing the door as he left.

  “Now, Phoebe, I would like more detail, please.”

  Phoebe took a sip of coffee, wondering how much she should—or could—tell her uncle.

  “We were travelling in short stages, sir, from Calvac. On the third day we were accused of being spies when we stopped at an inn. Luckily the local magistrate was not available, and a passing gentleman persuaded them to let us travel on. He escorted us to the coast and found us a passage home.” That was all true.

  “The name of this gentleman?”

  “Mr Westbrook. He was travelling with the Vicomte de Brevare.”

  “My wife said…”

  Phoebe was fascinated to see her uncle’s face turning red. She guessed that her aunt had told her own version of events, and the comte was trying to think of a way to put his question delicately.

  He cleared his throat. “She seemed to think that you were… that your reputation…” He faltered to a halt again.

  Phoebe took pity on him. “If someone wanted to put the worst possible interpretation on what happened, then some happenings could lead to that view.” Which, of course, was exactly what her aunt had done.

  The comte digested this. “But you were not… did not…”

  “No, sir. Nothing like that.”

  Apart from that kiss. Phoebe felt heat rise to her face, and hurriedly took another mouthful of coffee, hoping the cup would hide her momentary confusion.

  “Good… good.” He nodded, seeming relieved to have got that out of the way.

 
; Phoebe suspected that this would not be the end of the matter. The comtesse was not one to let complaints drop.

  “May I ask you a question, Uncle? Without explaining why I want to know?”

  “That might depend on the question.”

  “Do you know of the Earl of Marstone?”

  “I have met him, yes, but do not claim a good acquaintance. He is not particularly active in the Lords, as far as I know, but I believe he has some links with the government.” His brows drew together. “What do you want to know?”

  “Just whether he is a… a man of integrity.”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  The comte’s lips twitched. “Perhaps one day you will tell me why you need to ask?”

  “Perhaps,” she replied composedly. “If you will excuse me, sir?”

  He smiled, and Phoebe went in search of the housekeeper, relieved that she hadn’t had to explain in any more detail.

  Mrs Kidd was happy to take on Ellie as Phoebe’s maid for a few weeks. As Phoebe made her way back up to her room, Georges appeared on the landing.

  “You’re back!”

  “Georges!”

  Her cousin flung his arms around her waist, then recalled some of the dignity required of the ten-year-old heir. “That is, I am glad you are back safe, cousin.” His hauteur slipped again. “Bryant is so stuffy. Will you come and play cricket with me in the gardens?”

  Phoebe laughed. “Miss Bryant is supposed to be giving you lessons—she’s not stuffy! But I will come with you and ask her if you may play later.” In the meantime, she should work out how she could arrange to see the Earl of Marstone.

  An hour later, Phoebe descended the front steps and crossed the road to the gardens in the middle of Berkeley Square. Unlocking the gate, she wandered around the path inside the railings, the sun warm on her face. She was grateful that the houses on the square had access to this bit of greenery, but it wasn’t the same as being in the country. The sound of horses and carriages on the cobbles was only slightly muffled by the vegetation, and the tops of the surrounding houses were visible above the trees.