“Perhaps, Monsieur, but should it be necessary when she has an older brother to watch over her?”
Reid narrowed his eyes at Mont Trignon. “She’s no concern of yours, friend.”
His voice held an unmistakable note of warning, and Mont Trignon knew, once again, he had crossed over the line with the mercurial Reid Turner. But the man’s callous attitude toward his sister bordered on unforgiveable. He would never have allowed his own sisters, nor any woman of his acquaintance, to step foot outside, alone and unprotected, at night.
“Perhaps not, mon ami, but as a Chevalier of France, I am but a humble servant of women everywhere.”
He fought to keep disapproval from staining his words, not wanting to make an enemy of his best source of information. In truth, however, he wished he could knock some sense into the man.
“That so? Then why don’t you go after her you ‘humble servant of women everywhere’?” Reid said, mocking the chevalier’s choice of words.
The Bandys sniggered behind their mugs, watching the exchange. Josh coughed after a mouthful of ale threatened to spurt through his nose, and both brothers erupted into gales of laughter.
“I would be honored to do so,” Mont Trignon said as he stood, ignoring Josh and Beau’s amusement at his expense. “I take my leave of you, gentlemen.” He gave a small nod before turning on his heel.
It was probably for the best anyway, he thought as he closed the tavern door behind him with a sharp click. Urged on by him, his companions had consumed a great deal of spirits. He had always found alcohol an effective tool for loosening men’s tongues. Josh and Beau were no exception to the rule. Reid, as could be expected, tended toward a more sullen drunkenness, preferring to wallow in his hatred of the British rather than engage in loose talk.
As the night wore on, sprits fueled their discussion more than rational thought. He would learn nothing more until they sobered.
Outside the tavern, Mont Trignon filled his lungs with the moist August evening air. The early evening rain had left only the clean smell of horse dung and earth. The aromas reminded him of being in the stables when he was a boy. If only things could be so simple once again.
Needing to hurry to catch Alexandra, he did not linger long outside the tavern door. At least he knew in which direction she traveled since he and the marquis had escorted her home from the Lancasters’ assembly.
The fresh evening breeze cooled his cheeks, reviving his energy after the stale atmosphere of the tavern and the questionable company of his inebriated companions.
He savored the earthy bouquet of the city as he walked. According to Lafayette, Philadelphia had blossomed into the largest, most prosperous city in America. Even so, it held none of the noxious odors hovering around his native Paris.
The city of his birth had become a swirling mixture of the stench of man combined with cloying perfumes that were all the rage since the time of Louis XV. As if his fellow countrymen were on a quest to deny their humanity by covering up their scent, they drenched themselves with concoctions that did little more than exacerbate the problem. For himself, he preferred a bath.
The pale moon ducked behind a cloud, throwing the empty street into darkness. If not for the chirping of crickets and the occasional candlelight glimpsed through thin curtains, he might have thought the city abandoned.
Even in the middle of the night, the streets of Paris would not be so void of life. Not to say a woman would be safe to walk alone, but the illumination provided by the occasional oil lamp and the company of other citizens provided at least some protection.
His footsteps rang with a hollow echo on the brick walk, but experience told him the empty sound did not mean he was alone. He quickened his pace.
Picking his way along the sidewalk, lest he slip on the wet, uneven bricks, he considered his good fortune to have made ready acquaintance with the Bandy’s. Their bonhomme might have led a lesser judge of character to assume a lack of intelligence, but both of the boys were quick-witted and reliable. And their general gregariousness meant they were well-connected, at least within their social stratus, and privy to all sorts of instructive information.
Reid led this amateur band of spies, of course. ‘Twas a pity, Mont Trignon thought, looking up to scan the street for signs of Alexandra. The wisps of movement far ahead could have been her, a stray animal, or something more malevolent. The greatest danger came from what he could not see rather than the slippery bricks, and he vowed to keep his eyes up instead of on his feet.
But even as he walked, his mind still played with the odd contrast in personalities presented by his new American friends. Born in France and raised as Mont Trignon had been, Reid Turner would have performed well in service to the king. He could ferret information from the most reluctant of sources, and his natural mistrust of his fellow man meant he divulged far less than he discovered. Even his pamphlets took a liberal interpretation of the truth, depending on what end suited Ol’ George.
Peering into the darkness ahead of him, he could just see the outline of a lone figure shrouded in black.
On this dark night, she appeared like a wraith, emerging and dissolving into the gloom as clouds flitted over the sliver of a moon.
Admiration for her warmed him, even while he wrestled with a sense of impending danger. Alexandra knew little of the part her brother played in the vast network of informants feeding information to the rebels, yet she could go unnoticed better than any of them. Her sense of mistrust ran as deep as her brother’s, and Reid did her a great disservice by keeping her in the dark. Perhaps he intended to keep her safe, or perhaps he thought her incapable of understanding because she was naught but a woman. In Mont Trignon’s experience, ignorance did not serve one well.
He picked up his pace to something nearer a run, but prudence required he watch his step lest he stumble in the dark on the wet sidewalk. He looked up to glimpse a flutter of movement as Alexandra’s black woolen cape billowed out behind her, and she ducked onto a narrow side street.
Mont Trignon’s heart quickened. If he had his bearings, she had chosen the shorter path, but one that meandered through a shabby residential district and even past a maison de prostitution. The vacant street, with houses huddled together on both sides, was intersected by tight, dark alleys—the favorite lurking ground for all manner of delinquents. His gut clenched at the dangers an innocent woman might face as she walked past a brothel doing a brisk business in debauchery.
Heedless of the wet bricks, Mont Trignon ran to the corner and peered into the murky shadows, but darkness had swallowed Alexandra. Setting his jaw, he strode in after her.
With no sidewalk, he had to walk in the street and pick his way around muddy pits as wide as a barrel. Mont Trignon jumped as a mangy cat leapt from behind a downspout, spitting feline fury and sending the metal pipe clattering to the ground.
Raucous laughter from a few houses ahead reached his ears. Cats were the least of his worries. He might soon encounter wild animals of the two-legged sort.
Why in heaven’s name had Alexandra chosen to take this particular path? Perhaps he and her brother had overestimated her ability to take care of herself.
As he drew near, the orange glow of a roaring fire in the hearth of the brothel’s main room sent wicked silhouettes dancing against the dull, peeling clapboard of the lifeless houses on the other side of the street. He crept as close as he could to their scant protection, hoping his russet coat and ochre breeches would blend into the shadows cast by the fire.
“Well lookee wot we ‘ave ‘ere, Robert,” a rough voice said, as a short, stocky figure heaved himself up from a set of darkened steps.
Mont Trignon straightened so the light cast from the brothel behind him brought him into full view. No sense in skulking once discovered, after all.
Sizing up his assailant, the acrid stench of an unwashed body assailed his nose. The man had beady eyes set in a thick face atop a body gnarled like a tree stump. He held his arms out at an angle, as if al
ert for any sudden moves his intended victim might make, but Mont Trignon recognized the stiff look of a man who spent his days hefting great weights and whose joints had stiffened from years of abuse. Provided he could stay away from his meaty fists, the man presented little danger.
“A right gentleman, by the looks of them threads,” agreed a reedy voice behind him.
Ah, a second assailant. Mont Trignon continued to stare down the man in front of him while assessing his odds. He had faced worse than two against one, and from the wheezing of the man behind him, he might only amount to one half.
Orange metal glinted as a blade caught the glow of the fire. A knife did change the odds somewhat.
Mont Trignon recalculated his chances, fighting the urge to turn around. It was better not to turn your back on a man with a knife if you could avoid it. The man’s attire suggested he earned his living as a sailor. If true, he probably knew how to use his weapon even if his size would hinder his movements. Judging from the twitch underneath his left eye, he needed little provocation.
From his assailants’ back-alley London accents, he might also presume they had escaped from an English ship, seeking refuge in Philadelphia. Proof, perhaps, the English moved troops by sea in preparation to invade the city.
“Ya knows wot gentleman usually have, don’t ya, Robert?” One bushy eyebrow rose, deepening the wrinkles in his fleshy forehead.
“A purse, Henry?” said the thin voice.
“That’s right, Robert. Well, let’s have it, friend.” The stocky figure named Henry brought his face closer to Mont Trignon until his putrid breath washed over him as he spoke.
Mont Trignon recoiled as the worst odor he had encountered since arriving in America threatened to choke him.
“I am afraid I do not carry much in my purse,” Mont Trignon responded, reaching inside his coat for the small silk pouch he kept in his breast pocket.
Although eager to be on his way, dispatching two men, one of whom held a knife, could take time he could ill-afford to spare. If giving them what they asked would allow him to pass and catch up to Mademoiselle Turner, then so be it. Besides, the few coins he carried would not make much of a dent in his funds.
“Oh, a frog, are ye?” the man asked with a sneer. “Are you one of them rich frogs come to fight our war, then?”
Our war? Allies with the Americans already, were they? Mont Trignon ignored the slur that had followed the British to America and handed Henry the silk pouch.
The man would have to get rid of his dislike of the French if he hoped to make a convincing American. The French and the Americans were allies now—at least unofficially.
“Well, I’ll be thanking ye for that, but I’m afraid you ain’t going to get off by handing us such a light purse. You see, we don’t like you frogs come meddlin’ in our affairs, ain’t that right, Robert?”
“That’s right, Henry,” Robert said.
Mont Trignon surmised Robert had encroached on his position as the man’s raspy breathing came from just over his shoulder now.
He clenched his right hand in frustration. One sight of his sabre, and these men would run for cover. Then he could be on his way. Alas, his weapon lay on the dresser in his bedchamber. Well aware of the menacing figure he cut with his tall frame, a deadly sword hanging from his belt, he had thought it better to leave it at home. More often than not, a non-threatening appearance proved more helpful for gathering information—up to a point anyway.
He unclenched his fist hoping to release his tension along with it. It could not be helped. He would have to resort to a more cunning approach to get out of the sticky situation he had found himself in.
His pulse raced as he plotted, not with fear for himself, but for Alexandra. How had she made it past without being accosted? Or had she? With precious seconds ticking away, he fought to control a surge of anger, compelling him to bury his sword, or whatever he could find in its stead, in the belly of the man in front of him.
On the other hand, perhaps he had been mistaken, and Alexandra had not taken this route after all. He cursed her brother’s stubbornness as well as her independence. She should have insisted Reid see her to her door.
“What did you say your name was, mon ami?’ Mont Trignon asked in his most amiable voice.
“Why’ja need to know that?” Henry asked.
Even in the darkness, Mont Trignon could see suspicion in the man’s eyes. There did not appear to be much thought beyond suspicion though, and his instincts told him he was not dealing with the brightest of fellows. He bit back a sneer. That would work to his advantage.
“Because I have a proposition for you.”
“A proposition? I’m listenin’.”
“It involves both of you,” Mont Trignon said, taking a chance and turning to the man behind him.
The second man called to mind images of a skittish weasel as the firelight reflected in his dark, narrow eyes and illuminated the twitching of wiry limbs. As Mont Trignon suspected, he held no weapons in his thin fingers with their long, claw-like nails.
The chance of greater gain enticed the two men to drop their guard, and they moved until both stood in front of him, ready to hear him out.
One really should not become a criminal, unless one had the wits to carry it off, he thought, but he kept the acerbic observation to himself.
“Well, here is the plan, gentlemen,” Mont Trignon said, in a conspiratorial whisper.
Robert and Henry leaned in, eyes flashing with eagerness and greed.
With lightning speed, Mont Trignon’s fist caught Robert’s chin and lifted him up, knocking his head against Henry’s. In the next moment, both men lay on the ground.
Mont Trignon grinned as he looked down at his assailants, assessing the damage. Henry’s massive rib cage rose in a rhythm suggesting a deep sleep, and Robert’s right hand continued to twitch. They were both alive, but their headaches, when they awoke, would not do much for their regard for the French.
Still he was glad of it. Although he had no compunction against killing when the situation warranted it, he hated to deprive King George of two more enemies.
“C’est très anglais,” Mont Trignon muttered, as he shook his stinging knuckles.
The English were always pummeling each other with their fists while the French preferred a much more civilized sword fight.
Mont Trignon left the two men where they lay and broke into a run his mother would have declared undignified as he raced to overtake Alexandra before she reached her home. He hoped she had not taken the short cut because it meant he might not make it in time if he continued on this dark and dangerous path. On the other hand, if she had traversed the same route, she might not make it home at all.
One way or another, he would have a talk with Reid about seeing to Alexandra’s safety. If he would not listen, then perhaps Alexandra would. If he volunteered to walk her home every night, she would not have to rely on her brother.
Of course, the way she looked at him, doubt in those luminous brown eyes of her, she might think twice about allowing a man she had just met to become her protector.
The side street emptied onto the main thoroughfare intersecting Baker Street. He rounded the corner, recognizing the hole that had threatened to swallow the marquis’s carriage just a week before. Looking up, a dark profile made his heart leap into his throat. She had made it home after all.
“Mademoiselle Turner!” Mont Trignon called, catching up to her just as she mounted the steps leading to her front door.
“Chevalier!” Alexandra said, her pale face peeking from beneath her hood. Confusion knitted her dark eyebrows together over her delicate nose. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“Mademoiselle,” Mont Trignon said, steadying his breathing, “I am seeing to it that you arrive safely home.”
Mont Trignon cringed at how foolish he sounded when it was evident she had made it home without his assistance.
“That is very kind of you, sir, but I am home.” She nodded
toward the shabby townhouse behind her and gave him an almost apologetic smile, as though it were her fault for setting such a brisk pace.
“Well then, allow me to escort you the rest of the way to your door, Mademoiselle,” he said, offering his arm.
Alexandra took it after a moment’s hesitation but did not mention the absurdity of escorting her up the short flight of stairs.
Climbing the six wooden steps to her faded front door did not give him enough time to plan his next move, and he searched his brain for a way to detain her a moment longer.
She had arrived home without being accosted, yet he found he did not want to leave her. He assured himself his duty would be complete once she had gone inside and locked the door behind her. So why did his heart threaten to leap from his chest when she reached for the key in her pocket?
“If I may be so impertinent, Mademoiselle, how did you come to own a tavern?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer to his question.
A few discreet inquiries had allowed him to track Alexandra Turner down the morning after their first meeting. Monsieur Turner had been, before his premature death, a pillar of the local community, and his daughter ran a respectable tavern. He grinned. A fact to which she had informed him the first time she met him as the chevalier.
He had admired her bluntness when she told him there were “certain behaviors” she did not allow in her tavern. He had admired, even more, the two spots of color on her otherwise fair cheeks when he had asked her to what sort of behaviors she referred.
“My father left it to Reid and me after he passed.” In the faint glow of the moon sliding from behind a cloud, he could see the pain in her eyes.
“Oh I see.” He leaned against the iron railing behind him. “Has it been long?”
She withdrew her still-empty hand from her pocket and fixed her gaze on the toes of her boots peeking from beneath the tattered edge of her well-worn petticoats. He held his breath, waiting for her to speak.
Le Chevalier Page 7
