by Lisa Chaplin
“I do.” Grabbing Duncan’s cravat, he pulled them face-to-face, blowing out the scent of rotting meat, and Duncan’s stomach churned. “All Channel ports apart from Calais were closed this week. The coastal roads are guarded and blocked, and warships patrol all French waters from Jersey to Calais. I’ve heard whispers of a planned assassination of the first consul on the Channel Coast in late October. My sources say he’s coming, but Bonaparte has no visit marked on his official agenda.”
With a chill, Duncan remembered the whispered October twenty-ninth. If royalist spies knew the date, it meant everyone in charge at the Alien Office also knew. Why hadn’t he been told?
Narbonne spoke almost in a whisper. “So is this plot real, or is Bonaparte using the many previous attempts on his life to deflect us all from the truth?”
Duncan frowned hard. “Deflect us from what?”
The old man’s gaze bored into his. “How do you hide a masked assassin? Naturellement, send him to kill during a masquerade,” he answered the question. “How do you mask a conspiracy so large it couldn’t possibly be missed if it stood alone?”
Duncan’s mind pitched and rolled like his stomach did on his first day returning to sea. Assassination, betrayal of church, and international conspiracy, all in an hour. “Lose it in a crowd of other plots.”
Narbonne nodded. “A hundred warships and a thousand soldiers surround Boulogne-sur-Mer. Bonaparte reads every dispatch he’s given by day’s end. He’d never go if he thought the assassination attempt was real, unless the plot comes from him, or there’s something in Boulogne that makes his visit imperative. Either way, your government needs to know what’s happening.”
Narbonne’s words churned in Duncan’s mind amid a stormy sea of questions. Why kill a poor, silly king who spent half his life growing vegetables? Why was every entrance to Boulogne-sur-Mer blocked? Why was the entire Channel Coast manned by thousands of soldiers?
The scraps of conversation he’d overheard at the tavern . . . what did his enemies know that he didn’t? How could he have missed the installation of a blockade while he’d been combing the Channel Coast—and how the hell had every member of his team missed it?
Answer: they couldn’t have. One of his team was hand in glove with the French. God help them all if the rat was one of the semaphore signalers.
Semaphore . . . the message about Eddie’s daughter. If there was a mole, and he’d passed the message to the French, Delacorte might know they’d found her. Given what he knew, that boded very badly for Delacorte. How soon had the Frenchman known? Was his presence why she’d been attacked the first night?
“I’m afraid my usefulness ends here, Commander.” Narbonne’s sigh sounded like an admission of defeat. “Bonaparte’s setting empires ablaze, and God help those who try to stamp them out. I believe the answer to your questions lies in what he is hiding in Boulogne.”
The bow Duncan made this time was deep, filled with respect. “I would never have discovered this much on my own. Thank you, Votre Éminence. You spoke of speculations. I would hear them, if you’d care to share them with me.”
For the first time since they met, Narbonne smiled. “Think how the Opening of Parliament will be after the attempt on Bonaparte—especially if he blames the English for it.” The fatalistic shrug said it all. With Boney, it was always the Jacobins or the English. “If the attempt happens, Parliament will call the king to an emergency meeting. The conspirators will be ready for it, especially if they have an impoverished member of the House of Lords in their pockets.”
As Annersley’s legal representative and proxy since he’d turned twenty-one, Duncan had attended several sessions of Parliament. With every lord loudly abusing or pushing his agenda over whoever was speaking, it was lively and confusing enough in peacetime; but an emergency meeting with an addled king, a frightened Prince of Wales, a strident Duke of York, Irish and Scots landlords yelling about insurrection and a renewed threat of war—it made for a shambles that would cover any noise the conspirators made until it was far too late.
Narbonne murmured, “They must have a member of the House of Lords telling them about any changes in schedule—a man who wants a place of honor when Bonaparte takes power here. I believe those ranks are swelling daily. Bonaparte has many admirers.”
Again, it was plausible. In the past two years, many of Bonaparte’s fanatical spies had been British: night soil men and farmers, stable lads and housemaids, doctors and lawyers, sailors and high-ranking officers, naval and military. Even members of the aristocracy had been discovered to be in French pay.
He remembered a dream he’d had where he’d been tossed naked into the snow, and everyone he knew was there, laughing at him. Annersley stood at the front of the line, jeering. Did you really think you could save the world, boy? You’re pathetic.
He said slowly, “You think they’re aiming at revolution.”
“Killing the king and many prominent lords will leave Britain with a gaping hole in its existing social system. It leaves the nation ripe for plucking by the Grande Armée, which is many times the size of its armed forces. I believe all this was planned before Bonaparte proposed the Treaty of Amiens, to give him time to create a means to bring his army across the Channel.”
“An invasion fleet?” Duncan thought of the Liane, Boulogne’s deep, wide river behind the shallow harbor, and all the new buildings erected on the seaside of the river, making it impossible to see anything from a ship in the Channel.
In the light of the pillage of Parma and Piedmont, there was no hiding from Boney’s intentions. He craved Britain’s treasury, made fat on the wealth of its colonies—and to conquer Britain was to conquer Europe. His timing couldn’t be better with the navy halved, not to mention a war-weary government and public. Addington would almost open the gates of London for Boney rather than declare war again.
Duncan stood. “Thank you for the risks you took to give me this information, Votre Éminence. I’ll make certain our people investigate everything you’ve told me.”
The old man bowed, his head dipped a shade deeper than mere acknowledgment or farewell. The implied respect lessened the cold clenching of Duncan’s gut. So stupid to care what a stranger thought of him. About as ridiculous as the part of him that still feared Annersley’s ridicule and craved his approval.
“There’s a final message from Sir Edward.” Narbonne’s hauteur softened, giving way to an expression Duncan couldn’t recognize. “He said, ‘Bring my daughter home as soon as your work is done.’”
A sword tip of hated emotion ripped the commander’s belly. Kings and consuls, plots and counterplots turned urgent in circles in his mind. But Narbonne’s words injected the unwanted vision of a plucky young woman, a scrappy little fighter with a hidden fragility and quaint self-respect, so strange given her current status in life; but he assumed someone her age—little more than a girl—needed her mother.
Eddie wouldn’t have asked him to leave France unless he believed the king could be assassinated, or dozens of lords were in serious danger. Given all he’d learned today, that his mentor, a King’s Man to the end, hadn’t come to meet the archbishop himself was telling—but he hadn’t asked him to bring his daughter home straightaway. So how ill was Caroline? Why hadn’t Eddie told him?
Suddenly he remembered Flynn’s report. He must have a man in place at Le Havre by tomorrow’s sunset, or the whole mission could fail.
If half of what he’d heard today was true, the girl was his best means to discover Boney’s plans. Her need for reconciliation with the family must wait. The choice had slipped out of his hands. He’d bend the girl to his will if need be—and there was only one way to do it.
The archbishop murmured, “Go with God, Commander.”
Indeed, God help him. He had the mission of his lifetime to set up, and a rat in his team. With Eddie, Leo, and Andrew unable to leave home, and Zephyr suddenly an unknown quantity, Duncan didn’t have a bloody clue whom to trust. News of this caliber mu
st be delivered to the Alien Office from a recognized King’s Man, but he had no time to find one.
A face rose in his mind. A face that was like looking in the mirror, with scars in different places. He didn’t like the man, but who else was there?
No matter how much you want to deny it, we are brothers, Duncan. If you ever need me, I’ll come.
There was no help for it. He had to ask Alec.
CHAPTER 6
Outside St. Pancras Church, London
August 19, 1802
MORE THAN HALF AN HOUR had passed since he’d tied and gagged the boy. He could start making a ruckus any moment.
From where he hid just inside the back entrance of the church, Lord Camelford tossed off the cassock he’d snatched from the unconscious underpriest and slipped out the doors. So that reprobate “Guinea-Run” Johnstone—no more than a common smuggler, despite pretending to be a reputable ship’s captain—had at last come good with his information for sale. The archbishop had confirmed everything. Camelford knew he must get to France as soon as possible—but he’d been deported from Calais four months ago under the Rushworth false papers. He couldn’t use his real name, since they’d put him on a “watch and deport” list.
He made a hissing sound through his teeth. Thomas Pitt, Lord Camelford, deported like a common felon . . . refused future entry into France. Bonaparte deserved death for that alone.
“Hie, you!” Camelford wheeled around. A sandy-haired boy with a freckled face and a black cassock stood twenty feet away, his face filled with suspicion. “What you doin’ ’ere?”
Great God, the little guttersnipe couldn’t even speak the King’s English! But his sharp eyes bespoke intelligence—and unfortunately, with Camelford’s height, harsh features, and hooked nose, when people recalled his face, they did so with accuracy.
It was as good an excuse as any. He was damned irritable with the heat in any case.
He loosed the knife from its sheath and flicked his wrist with the expertise of long practice. The frustration in his chest lightened as the boy gasped—but he staggered, pulling the knife out of his shoulder. Damn it, he ought to be dead. “’Elp me, bruvvers!”
No time to think. Running so fast he stumbled over a crumbled headstone, Camelford jumped on the boy, stifled his second cry, snatched up the knife, and drove it into the thin chest.
Before he could enjoy watching the light fade from his eyes—the world was a better place with less rabble and Papists in it—the alarmed yell of another priest came. More missing of vowels and dropping of consonants. More east-end Catholic garbage! The lot of them were useful as only chimney sweeps, night soil men, or tuppenny whores. The whole district could do with a cleansing fire. Then their betters could do something useful with the area.
He sheathed his knife, ran to the fence, vaulted over and rolled down the embankment, got up, and kept running until his chest ached and his legs felt like rubber. Reach the Thames docks. This upcoming assassination attempt on Boney was a golden opportunity for a true English patriot to make certain the assassins carried it through. For the British aristocracy to retain its supremacy, and to stop this infectious disease of republicanism, Boney must die.
WITHIN TWO HOURS CAMELFORD was forty pounds poorer, but the three forgeries were in his pocket: identity papers and recommendations. By the time Commander Aylsham boarded ship, he’d discover his fourth lieutenant had decamped, but an experienced lieutenant had replaced him. In this time of demobbing, sailors and officers alike combed the docks looking for work. The letters of glowing recommendation for “Fourth Lieutenant Haversham,” written by Camelford’s own cousin, former Prime Minister Pitt, and Lord St. Vincent of the Admiralty, would ensure his place on the ship.
Cousin Will wouldn’t give him away . . . and in a few short weeks, Boney would be dead.
The Isle of Bute, Southwestern Scotland
August 22, 1802
The first shot whizzed beside the boy’s ear like an angry bee. Puzzled, the messenger swatted at it. He didn’t connect the bee to the bang seconds before; why should he? But the second bang came from right nearby, and he fell to the ground with a terrified cry, groveling on the wet ground with his arms shielding his head.
“That was yer warnin’, Sassenach boy. You been askin’ where the Black Stewarts could be found? You found us. Now get off my land!”
The voice came closer by the moment. A native Londoner, the boy barely understood a word the old man said, but he got the danger right enough. He curled into a ball and lifted an oilskin packet with a shaking hand. “I’m just deliverin’ a letter! Commander Aylsham sent me!”
For long moments, only the sound of the howling wind and pounding rain filled his ears. Then the man spoke, his accent clear and sharp. “Did you say Aylsham, boy?”
“Yes, sir! Me mam diden want me comin’ all this way, but the commander promised five pound if I put this into Alec Stewart’s hand, an’ more if I bring ’im back to Lunnon quick-smart. Five pound and more, sir! It’ll keep me family fed fer months!” The boy dared look up to the face now right in front of him and blurted, “The commander, he looks awful like you, sir, he do, but his hair’s black, not silver. Sir, me mam need that five pound, she do!”
“I’d say she does—and she’ll get it all and more.” The voice was softer, clearer, as was the old man’s face. “Take this to Master Alec,” he said to someone inside, passing the packet along. He turned back to the courier, smiling, and pressed a coin into the boy’s hand. “Ye’ve only an hour to make today’s last ferry, but dinna fash yersel’. My grandson’s a quick packer.”
CHAPTER 7
Trouville-sur-Mer, France (English Channel)
August 25, 1802
THE STURDY YOUNG MAN with light-brown hair tied back in a queue and worried eyes stood perfectly straight in front of his commander. “What if he doesn’t fail tomorrow, sir?”
Despite his growing impatience to be gone to Abbeville, Duncan lightly cuffed his first lieutenant on the shoulder, with a smile. “He will fail, Flynn. He’s not ready yet. But you are. I have every confidence in you. When you complete this part of the mission, follow him to the house . . . and make certain he can’t hire any assistance at all.” He dropped a heavy purse into the younger man’s hand. “Hazeltine will be in place. You just do your part.”
“If Mr. Fulton sees me around the new house, he’ll know—”
“You don’t go near the house, Flynn. Leave that to Hazeltine, and to me. Do your part, and by the time you have, the ship should be anchored off Ambleteuse, a manned rowboat in the river mouth between Ambleteuse and Wimereux after sunset every night after we arrive. Just hire a coach and return to ship.”
“But sir—”
“A horse awaits you southwest of the river mouth, at Les Planches. Take the Deauville road. You should reach Le Havre just in time for the test.”
Obviously recognizing dismissal in the note of impatience Duncan couldn’t quite mask, Flynn snapped to attention and saluted. “Aye-aye, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t.” The torpedo testing in the morning provided a gilt-edged opportunity that might not return for months. Their mission had a good chance of success . . . as long as Robert Fulton failed.
The moment the launch that took Flynn to the river mouth at Trouville was back and lashed into place, he ordered, “The marshes of Le Crotoy near Abbeville, before sunrise.”
His remaining lieutenants began snapping directions, and tired sailors ran to their stations.
Le Havre, France
August 26, 1802
The sun had barely risen above the hills behind the town when the sleek, fish-shaped underwater boat Nautilus came to the ocean’s surface two hundred feet from shore.
American inventor Robert Fulton murmured a prayer. This was the culmination of years of hard work. Minister of the Marine Decrés had sent his secretary for this demonstration. Just weeks ago, he’d demonstrated his steam-engine could work on a small boat whe
n the boat had traveled two miles down the Seine River near Paris. High on the excitement of official interest, he’d bragged that he could use a spring-propelled chamber inside his submersible boat to shoot the barrel bomb fifty feet in front and sink a ship. But the minister of the marine had sent his man at least two months too early.
After a failure off Brest to attach his little porcupine-shaped bombs he called torpedoes to a British warship, he had this last chance with the barrel bombs he called carcasses. If he could do it, the first consul himself would come for a private demonstration.
Even though he was stooped over, Fulton’s head filled Nautilus’s observation dome. Though he’d locked the hatch of the submersible boat only eight minutes ago, with the spring-propulsion equipment beside the pole down the center of the craft’s belly, the usual propeller and rudder cranks and the pump on each side, it was an overly snug fit for three men. Fulton’s clothing was already limp, and the stench of nervous sweat filled his nostrils.
Only a small lantern lit the gloom, easy to extinguish in case of fire. As they broke surface, the late-summer sunlight hurt his eyes. Through the tiny observation dome’s window, he saw his target. The long-retired frigate provided by the Ministry of the Marine sat on the calm tide like a ghost scow about fifty feet away. He scowled at it, his enemy of days. He’d been practicing since he’d received word of Decrés’s interest.
“Blow up this time, you—dog.” Harsher words didn’t come naturally to him. Though he was now a famed scientist, the child in him still wanted to check for the lightning bolts his childhood pastor in Pennsylvania vowed would hit him if he broke any of the commandments.
So why are you creating this instrument of death?
Thou shalt not kill, Robert, his minister’s voice whispered in his head. Those who take up the sword will perish by the sword. Gaspard Monge is an atheist, Robert! Remember what St. Paul said: bad associations ruin good habits . . . do not become inventors of injurious things . . .
