by Lisa Chaplin
He wasn’t the only one to feel the temptation and the protectiveness. Half the crew made excuses each day to watch her, or watch over her, especially West, who’d appointed himself her replacement father and general guard dog against randy sailors while Duncan was on duty.
“What creates the sharp edges?” she asked Jonas Carlsberg, her eyes wide and a half smile on her face. The fire lit her hair to stripes of golden honey. Her fascination with the smithy brought the charm of her unusual face to life. “Do the edges need to be smoother to be useful in battle?”
“Well said, miss.” Jonas beamed at her, like she was one of his daughters. “This is . . .”
As they watched, Flynn murmured to Duncan, “She’s a quick study, and a hard worker.”
“Thank God.” She was smiling at Jonas, making the new scar crease her face. It must hurt like the dickens, but she never complained. “We have no time to start over with another woman.”
“Reports are that Fulton’s frustrated by the lack of help.” Flynn kept staring at Lisbeth. “His bomb maker was recalled to the navy. His assistant was offered twice as much as Fulton can pay to join the French Ministry of Science.”
Duncan felt his brows lift. “Is Bonaparte forcing him to leave France, you think?”
“More like to go and leave everything behind, sir. He’d have had to do that without your donation.” Flynn still watched the girl. Duncan didn’t blame him. By day she was pretty enough; but here in the half dark of the hold, in the pink dress the modiste in Portsmouth made for her, her cheeks flushed in the heat of the fire and the look of fascination in her slanted eyes showing up in light and shadow, she was a thing of grace and beauty. Even the scar on her face didn’t detract from the odd appeal she wore like a careless garment.
Being the first young, pretty woman to join the crew, the male attraction was inevitable; but until now, he wouldn’t have believed the career-driven Flynn would join the ranks.
This morning as Duncan had plaited her hair, she’d blurted, “Do the sailors watch me because of the scar on my face? Am I—? If I’m too ugly for the mission . . .”
Even if she had the face of a baboon, her wistful, unconscious charm would lure men without trying. “They come because we’ve never had a beautiful woman on board before.”
She threw him a withering glance. “Please don’t lie to me. I’m no beauty. I never was.”
He shrugged. “There are many kinds of beauty, madame.” He didn’t say more. It would only frighten her to know her delicacy, even her scars, made her very close to beautiful now.
Zephyr’s right. The damage and her haunting uncertainty will make Fulton play the knight-errant to her lost waif. Her intelligence and curiosity will reel him in, lure to his fish.
Duncan quashed the guilt and wrongness under his heel. Eddie hadn’t returned post, which was as good a permission as he’d get. She’d save thousands of lives with this mission. He’d all but demanded permission from Eddie with his stories of the girl’s courage and brilliance.
Flynn interrupted his dark musings. “Why doesn’t Boney pay Fulton for the boats and bring him in on the project?”
Duncan grinned. “Because he’s the uncrowned king of France. Why pay for what he can have by force?”
Flynn didn’t laugh. “Bonaparte won’t leave Fulton alone for long, sir, not as soon as he knows of Britain’s interest.”
“He doesn’t know where Fulton is yet. We have some time.” Sobered, Duncan shook his head. “October twenty-ninth. She’ll have seven weeks to win Fulton over.”
Flynn stared at the girl, glowing in the fire’s golden heat. “Sir . . .”
Duncan heard the hesitant determination in Flynn’s voice and sighed. Being with idealistic people made him feel a hundred years old. “I know.”
Flynn’s jaw hardened. “Sir . . .”
Wheeling away, he saw Lisbeth notice, glancing at him in the half light of the forge. She was as out of place on his ship as Sèvres porcelain in a rowdy pub. Carlsberg, West, Hazeltine, the sailors—even Flynn—had turned protective. Half the sailors waited for her slightest wish, wanting to be the one to give her what she needed. She was disturbing the crew’s focus.
He needed to get her to Fulton, and fast. “Get it off your conscience, Flynn.”
The words were a burst dam. “She only talks to you, West, Carlsberg, and the cook. She won’t look at another man under the age of fifty, no matter how gentle or respectful we are with her. If anyone gives her something, she bolts as if he’s going to rape her. How a frightened rabbit like her is supposed to seduce Fulton is beyond me. It’s obvious she’s . . . well, she’s a lady. If Bonaparte gets wind of her . . . you know how he is with well-born girls, especially blondes. She’d have no chance.”
The vision filled Duncan’s head. Boney had never pretended fidelity to Madame Bonaparte, but young, highborn blondes were his favored bed warmers. No doubt he’d marry her off to some marshal or general when he was done with her, but Eddie would never have her back. And it’d be a miracle if that marshal or general would allow her to have little Edmond with her. Most men didn’t care to have reminders of their wife’s past indiscretions.
A mulish set to his face, Flynn said, “Even if she’s not ruined by association with Fulton or made the first consul’s mistress, the more she knows about Fulton’s inventions, the more danger she’s in. Both sides will see her as a commodity, not a person. Whoever takes her will keep her in the name of national safety and lock her in some admiral’s cage.”
“Do you think I don’t know, Flynn?” It was everything he hated about the mission. In fact he hated it only less than the thousands that would die in a French invasion of Britain. It was useless for the spy to tell himself Lisbeth knew the risks, because his guilt always retorted, no, she didn’t. “Inform the men I’ll need the launch before first light. She goes to Fulton tomorrow.”
Flynn barely saluted before stalking out—then Hazeltine came running in, chest heaving. “Commander, a semaphore message from Boulogne,” he murmured.
Duncan snatched at the note, scanned it in moments, and frowned. He read it twice more. Something about the message wasn’t right. “Tell Beauchamp to ready himself for a mission.”
IN THE DEEPEST HOUR of night, the launch struggled through rolling seas. Not even thirty feet away, the ship had already become invisible. With French patrols crisscrossing these waters every sunrise, they had to be gone in a few hours.
Símon Beauchamp, code name Argenteuil after the town of his birth, felt the urgency in the maintained silence until they were off ship. “You have need of me, Commander?”
The commander handed Símon a slip of paper. “Don’t read this until you’re alone. Tell no one about its contents, and destroy your instructions as soon as possible.”
Símon didn’t look around at the other sailors. The implications were clear; there must be a traitor on board, but since he’d been entrusted with this mission, it seemed he wasn’t a suspect. “I understand.”
The relaxation of the commander’s harsh features signaled the approval Símon had long been trying to earn—and he was determined to fulfill his mission to the best of his ability.
CHAPTER 23
Rue Laboratoire, Ambleteuse, France
September 11, 1802
THOUGH IT WAS BUT September the day was pea-soup thick, half dark in the early afternoon and getting colder by the moment, surrounding the funny-looking house that was the inventor’s current home. She’d been given warm stockings and pantalon with the dresses made up for her, but still she shivered. The ship’s surgeon told her the blood loss she’d suffered could make her feel a bitter cold where none existed, until her body made up for its lack. He’d ordered her to drink beef broth with every meal, but it didn’t seem to make much difference.
Lisbeth pounded on the door with its odd diamond-shaped insets, but her undamaged left hand was too weak to have much effect.
At last thudding sounds came down toward her fr
om the top of the house. Standing out of range, the commander nodded and moved into the gorse bushes on the sandy path.
Crouching like that must hurt his leg.
Turning back, she frowned at the Gothic house with its slanting roof tiles, lost in a tangle of gorse and blackberry brambles. Did Fulton really work here? Was the submarine the British were so desperate to have in this house, or was he working on his bombs?
A man with two kinds of bombs, God knew where in his house, who made products of death for a living, and she was only nineteen. What was she doing here? She half turned—
The door jerked open to reveal a dark-haired man wearing a dirty smock over crumpled, dust-covered gentleman’s clothing. He was younger than she’d expected, thinner and pale, as if he’d locked himself inside the house for weeks on end. But it was a good face, a kind face.
Shaking, she sketched the submissive curtsy of the domestic servant. “Bonjour, m’sieur.”
He was looking her over in the same manner. Seeing her arm in a sling, the healing cut on her cheek, the suspicion in his gaze softened. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. How may I help you?”
With her second glance at Robert Fulton, she knew the commander hadn’t lied. Even if his hair and clothing weren’t a crumpled mess, his thin build and spectacles askew, the touch of loneliness hidden deep in his eyes told the story. If ever a man needed a carer and confidante, it was Robert Fulton. “M’sieur, I hear you seek a housekeeper?”
“How do you know, mademoiselle?” he replied like a sheathed sword, the edge still there, making her gulp. There was no trace of accent in his French. Fulton might need a housekeeper, an assistant, a friend, or—God help her—a woman, but he wasn’t a man to underestimate.
“M-Martine Latisse in the Wimereux store told me, m’sieur.” Indeed, after a look at her, the owner of the only store in the hamlets of Ambleteuse and Wimereux showed Lisbeth the notice board. Word of her injuries would get about; and since she couldn’t help paling and shuddering when Madame Latisse asked about her family, she hoped the town would notify her if—when Alain came for her.
Let him come. It gives the commander’s men a chance to take Edmond. Thinking of her son, how she missed him—the longest fifteen days of her life—gave her the impetus to keep her gaze on Robert Fulton, eyes wide, a young and anxious girl.
Fulton nodded. “Ah, certainement. I did put an advertisement on the board.” He glanced over her shoulder again, as if he’d seen a shadow or a movement.
Returning to her, he took in the soft amber redingote and dress she wore. Though the look wasn’t sexual, she felt like a butterfly in a net. The outfit flattered her figure, and even with the facial scar and the sling, her youth and blond hair almost painted a target on her. Fulton likes pretty young things.
In the end, the sling and bruises, or the pitiful sack holding her luggage, commanded his compassion. “You’re unwell, mademoiselle?”
This was the critical moment—but instinct told her that to solicit his pity at first meeting would be too much for Fulton to swallow. Fulton doesn’t like me, the commander had said.
“I am Madame Elise Dupont,” she mumbled, going for a half truth. “I can tell you no more about where I’m from, m’sieur, except that I’ll never go back.”
Fulton released his grip on the door. “My name is Robert . . . Monteaux. Pray, come in, sit down, Madame Dupont.” He led the way inside to a small parlor, cold and dark without a fire lit, and waved her to a chair. “Might I say you do not seem old enough to have been married?”
And to have left your husband. The curiosity hovered in the air, unspoken. And though she trembled, she didn’t sit.
“Madame?” Fulton prompted in a subdued tone.
Pulled out of her thoughts, she started like a deer ready to bolt, making her head spin. “I . . . I am sorry, m’sieur, I—I thought I could do this, but—”
“Madame, you have nothing to fear here.”
With her good hand holding the doorpost, she looked into eyes that were both sincere and kind. But Alain had been gentle and romantic at the start . . .
Forget Lisbeth Delacorte. You are Elise Dupont. You’re here to save Edmond.
Fulton waved a hand. “Please sit down, madame. I assure you, you are safe.”
Hand into glove she slipped into the role. I am Elise Dupont. Yet she hesitated before every step. Touching the walls for balance, she walked to the chair he indicated. The room was dim and faded and smelled of dust and metalworking.
“You need not answer my question, if it makes you uncomfortable, madame,” he said gently, once he’d helped her into a large, padded wing chair, touching only her hand.
“I was a foolish girl,” she answered at last, forcing a quiet dismissal into her tone. No matter what the commander advised, her instincts told her to hold on to the mystery.
The room’s smell reminded her of the smithy at home, but it seemed to waft down from above. Surely he’s not melting metals in the attic!
Dust flew up from the cushions as Fulton sat across from her, and she sneezed. “I beg your pardon, m’sieur,” she muttered.
“I understand. The place came furnished but was unused for months.” Fulton grinned, softening his pleasant, gentlemanlike face. “As you can surely see, I’m in need of someone to look after the house. I may also ask you to help me with things you may deem strange, without question . . . or gossip. And if anyone asks who I am, you know only that I am Monsieur Monteaux, an amateur scientist.”
He tossed the last at her like a child’s ball, a gentle challenge. Again, thinking of Edmond gave her the strength to hold his gaze. “If you will allow me my secrets, m’sieur, I will respect yours. I will not associate with outsiders. Your need for privacy is precisely what I require.”
“I see.” His eyes tinged with pity. “Ah, do you have references or relevant experience?”
The way he asked showed his greenness with employing household staff. She fought a smile. Since he believed both sides were chasing his inventions, Fulton would suspect a quick change in her personality. “I worked as a tavern server and cleaner in—my last town. I can cook soup and stews, bake bread, and I can clean. I cannot give you references. I . . . left suddenly.” The vision of LeClerc sprawled across the commander’s front step, the stair sticky with his blood—
“I left Le Havre rather suddenly myself. The times in France demand, ah, flexibility.” Fulton’s smile was almost naughty, as if they were fellow conspirators. “Can you start today?”
A lump rose in her throat. A stranger from a foreign country had given her kindness without agenda, or risk to her life or reputation. Why it made her miss her mother with a fierce ache, she couldn’t understand. “Certainement, m’sieur, but I’ll be a slow worker with only one useful arm,” she replied calmly, with a tinge of relief: the woman with nowhere else to go. “I cannot lift anything heavy for ten days or more.”
“I predict you’ll still be more proficient than I at any household tasks, madame.” He was laughing at himself.
The commander had known his intended victim well, setting up Lisbeth to play the perfect part. Yet Fulton’s self-deprecating wit disarmed her. “If you could assist me with the heavy things for a little time . . . ?”
“I’ll feel less of a useless clod, madame. I thank you for the opportunity.” With another grin, he sketched a mock bow.
Far earlier than she’d planned, she was smiling. Against her will and her fears, she liked this man; his air of confidence mixed with self-deprecating charm was a neat counterpoint to his brilliance. Yes, she and Fulton would become friends. Then the cut on her cheek stung to the bone, and her smile vanished. Trust no man. You are here for Edmond, only for Edmond.
Start disarming him. She mumbled, “Monsieur Monteaux, I—can you please give me a small advance on my wages for—for necessary items?” She felt herself blushing. “I need slippers to wear in the house while cleaning, an apron and cap. I will need oils for cleaning, herbs for my pain and . . . um, f
eminine needs.”
Which of them was blushing more? “Certainly. W-will three francs suffice?”
If she were really a starving waif, it would represent a fortune. Her look held hopeless gratitude and budding admiration. “Merci, monsieur.” Ashamed, she looked at her lap. It wouldn’t be long until her first task of disarming any suspicion on Fulton’s part was complete.
You called him monsieur twice. Stick to the lower-class m’sieur from now on.
She couldn’t afford another slip.
IT WAS PAST MIDNIGHT, yet candles were still lit on both the second and third floors.
Duncan paced the sandy path a quarter of a mile from the house, where he’d set up a black tent that would be packed up before sunrise. Why was she awake? Couldn’t Fulton see she needed rest? He’d thought the man a gentleman . . . if he was forcing her to—
Breathe, man. Fulton isn’t the kind of man to force himself on her.
No matter what Duncan told himself, the image of Lisbeth’s cut and battered face returned to haunt him: an eternal reminder of the damage he’d done just by entering her life.
I can’t become involved. She’s a pawn for king and country. Like me, she is—
But he was already at the house, clinging to the shrubs and shadows.
When his men helped Fulton move in, Duncan had ordered the tiny pantry window to be left unlocked. He’d told Lisbeth to inspect the house tonight and leave the pantry door ajar. He’d never get through it, but he could at least listen.
With painful slowness he pulled the top of the little window toward him. Though he strained his ears, he could only hear creaking of the floorboards. Someone was walking.
