Le Chevalier

by Mary Jean Adams

  When he sat at her corner table, one long lean leg stretched out in front of him in a stylish yet masculine pose, she lost all concentration. More than once, she had brought a patron stew instead of ale or wine instead of beer. When she brought a glass of her best port to Mr. Chester, who had ordered a porter, he gave her a look that said he considered her daft-but drank it anyway.

  When Mont Trignon didn’t show, sometimes for days at a time, his absence unsettled her even more. Where could he have gone? As far as she knew, he had no business that didn’t involve her brother, yet Reid took his customary seat at the corner table every night-even when he did not.

  Without his masculine charm and devastating smile to upend her senses, her thoughts turned to the unanswered questions surrounding him. Why was he in America? Why did he associate with Reid and the Bandys? They were her brother and his friends, but she could say without reservation, he had nothing in common with them. A wider chasm separated Reid from the elegant Frenchman than from the average English military officer.

  Yet, Reid trusted him. For once, she doubted her brother’s instincts. Could any of them really trust Mont Trignon when they knew so little about him?

  Alex dropped her hands in her lap as she thought again of the one kiss she had shared with him. She no longer considered it such a momentous event in her life. How could she when it had meant so little to him? He hadn’t walked her home since that night and had made no attempt to repeat the encounter. For that matter, he hadn’t even mentioned it.

  On more than one night, she thought she could sense someone following her, but when she turned around the streets were always empty. The first couple of times, it had scared the wits out of her, but when she made it home without incident, she decided her sleep-deprived imagination had gotten the best of her.

  Whatever his reason for being at the tavern, it had nothing to do with her.

  A sudden concern for her brother sent a shiver up her spine. Alex rose to pace the room, attempting to shake off the ominous weight settling about her shoulders. There were those who considered Reid a troublemaker, and he had made more than a few enemies over the past year. As much as he hid behind the character of Ol’ George, more than one man knew his real identity.

  Had the British planted Mont Trignon in her tavern to spy on Reid? It would be easier for a Frenchman to earn Reid’s trust than an Englishman. At least the French were rumored to be allies. It would also be easier as a Frenchman than as an American since one could not distinguish Tory from Patriot by appearance alone. In general, Reid didn’t even trust his fellow Philadelphians.

  She chewed on a thumbnail as she churned through the possibilities in her mind.

  She had heard the British planted spies to spread misinformation designed to dispirit the rebels. Were they using her brother to break down the resistance by spreading rumors of an imminent invasion?

  No matter how she turned the pieces, she couldn’t make them fit together to complete the picture. Reid made a poor choice for an unwitting accomplice. Even if the stories he printed were false, they had contributed to the war effort by rousing Philadelphians to pick up arms and join the militia.

  The missing key had to be the chevalier. If she could discover the real man behind the mask, perhaps the pieces would fall into place.

  She yawned. Maybe if she catalogued the things she did know, her concerns would resolve themselves, and she could get some sleep.

  She stood and walked to the mantel where she took down a short stub of tallow set in a pewter dish. She lit the wick using one of her few remaining spunks. It sputtered and spat to life, a noxious tendril of smoke wafting from the tip of the yellow flame.

  She hated to waste spunk or candle, and it reminded her of another time not too long ago when she had been forced to light a candle she would only use for a short while.

  The night Marie and the marquis had escorted her home from the Lancasters’ assembly she had peeked through a crack in her curtains and spied two concerned faces searching her windows. It made her laugh even now. If she hadn’t lit her candle and held it up to the window so they could see it, they would probably have come in after her to make sure a burglar hadn’t waylaid her.

  She set the candle on a small, wobbly writing desk in the corner of the room. One of her neighbors had found it discarded in an alley and brought it to her, knowing her fondness for studying her father’s books. Alex traced the quill scratches on the soft wood surface, wondering about the lives of the people who had used the desk before her.

  Surely, what they wrote could be no more important than the list she created tonight. She took a fresh piece of parchment from a drawer and dipped her quill in the inkpot.

  No 1, she scribbled on the corner of the page. Might as well start with the obvious. He is French, she wrote.

  Alex laughed. Of course, she only had his word to go on and that he spoke French. At least she assumed it to be French since she spoke so little herself. She recognized a few words like Oui and Mon Dieu, but aside from that, he could be speaking Gaelic for all she knew. Although she had to admit, his melodic accent certainly didn’t sound Gaelic.

  She shook her head. If she were going to second-guess everything, she would never get anywhere. She wrote No 2 below her first line in bold strokes before she could change her mind.

  The tallow snapped and sizzled in the flame as her thoughts whirled.

  He came to America with the Marquis de Lafayette. At least he said he did.

  No, she reminded herself, Marie told her the chevalier had come with the marquis. Her gut told her she could trust Marie, so she saw no reason to question that.

  No 3, He is a chevalier.

  What is a chevalier, anyway? Should she scratch out number three? She shook her head. What did it matter if she didn’t know what the title meant?

  No 4.

  Number four…number four…number four…She tapped the quill against her lips in time to her thoughts and stared at the dancing shadows cast on the wall by the light of the candle.

  How else could she describe him? Kind. Handsome. He made her feel alive. He had soft, warm lips.

  No, no, no. She stabbed the quill into the parchment, bleeding ink onto the wood beneath. These were things she felt about the chevalier, not things she knew about him. She needed to keep her opinions and her emotions out of her assessment.

  Try as she might, Alex couldn’t think of another relevant fact. She considered jotting down a line about his skill at making croissants but decided she had wasted enough ink.

  She set the quill down on the paper, leaned her elbow on the desk and rested her chin in her hand. Chewing on her lip and staring at the shadows on the wall, she considered her next move.

  Maybe she would go to the Montgomery mansion in the morning and demand to speak to the chevalier-alone.

  Nonsense! What excuse could she possibly give for calling on a man to speak with him in private? Even if she managed to arrive at a time when Mrs. Montgomery was out, she’d never get past the butler. Besides, Mrs. Montgomery’s servants were sure to gossip about their unusual visitor. No good could come of such a visit.

  The rancid smoke from the candle grew stronger, and she pinched out the flame before she wasted any more tallow. Then she sat in the dark, thoughts roiling in her head while her stomach churned, not feeling reassured in the slightest.

  Alex rubbed her temples. Her eyes burned when she shut them, yet she knew if she lay down, sleep would not claim her for hours. She would remain in a half-conscious state, sweaty sheets twisted about her, as her mind alternated between dreams of Mont Trignon and images of the British invading Philadelphia. Whenever she managed to snatch a few minutes of sleep, she awoke filled with emotions ranging from intense longing to wretched fear.

  An idea struck her. She tried to stuff it back down into whatever recess of her overwrought brain it had emerged from, but like a demon bent on mischief, it clawed to the surface of her thoughts.

  Impossible, ill-advised, ille
gal, dangerous—she couldn’t think of a single positive thing about her plan.

  Alex rose to her feet as if in a trance. She would do it.

  Chapter Nine

  With a sense of renewed purpose pulsing through her, Alex slid her hand along the railing in the darkness, climbing the stairs to her small bedroom.

  In her bedroom, the hinges of her ancient wardrobe creaked a warning, but she knew she couldn’t turn back now.

  From within the furthest recesses, she pulled out a black bombazine gown with an unfashionably high neck, a dress she hadn’t worn since her parents’ funeral.

  She had considered burning it after the services were over, but her frugal nature wouldn’t allow her to discard anything so expensive. Instead, she had stuffed it into the back of the wardrobe, as if burying it out of sight would prevent her from needing it again anytime soon.

  Alex shut out the painful memories by focusing on the present as she pulled the gown over her head and smoothed the skirt over her petticoat. She had no well-thought out plan, no ingenious method for achieving her goal. Instead, she would take things one step at a time and do what seemed best in the moment.

  Silver light from a half moon streamed in through the window as she scrutinized her image in the full-length mirror hanging inside the wardrobe door. With the dark dress covering her from neck to toe and her dark hair, she disappeared into the shadows. Only the pale skin of her face and hands reflected the moonlight.

  Alex opened a drawer, removed a pair of black linen gloves and pulled them on. Then, she picked up her cloak from the foot of her bed, wrapped it around her shoulders, and tugged the hood over her head.

  A bead of sweat formed at her temple, and she considered removing the cloak, but the hood obscured her face, giving her a wraithlike appearance. The discomfort, she decided, could not be helped.

  Alex inched forward on the tips of her toes, hoping any neighbors awake at this hour would mistake the creaking floorboards for the typical noises made by an old house in the middle of the night.

  She crept past paper-thin walls, pausing with each step so as not to wake her nearest neighbor, Mrs. Walters. A dear woman but a bit of a busy body, Alex didn’t look forward to her questions in the morning if Mrs. Walters should happen to peek through her lace curtains and see her neighbor slinking off into the night.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she straightened her back and released the breath she had been holding. Then she opened the door and stepped out into the night. Keeping her hand on the latch, she closed the door behind her with a soft click.

  The bead of sweat that had formed on her brow trickled down her cheek as she set off on the long walk to the Montgomery Mansion.

  ****

  Dark windows stared back at her like predatory eyes as she surveyed the three-storied Georgian mansion dominating the cobblestone street. On the afternoon of the tea party, Alex had thought the mansion imposing but beautiful. Now, with two sets of four windows on either side of the ornate four columned marble portico, it reminded her of a fantastical, multi-layered spider waiting to pounce on its next victim.

  A chill ran through her despite the oppressive heat trapped beneath her cloak. She hated spiders.

  Ignoring the visions in her head, she searched the shadows for signs of life. Nothing moved in the main quarters occupied by Mrs. Montgomery, in the servants’ quarters below street level, nor in the suite of rooms at the top of the house. All should be in bed by now, with the exception of Mont Trignon who, if his routine held, would still be at the tavern conspiring with her brother about God only knew what.

  Alex paused to consider her next move while chastising herself for not having a plan. She couldn’t walk up to the door and knock. If she had no plausible excuse for visiting Mont Trignon in the morning, she certainly didn’t have one for calling on him in the middle of the night—not one that would preserve her reputation anyway. Even if she could concoct something credible, she would be informed the man was not at home, and then what would she say? Please allow me to wait for him in his room?

  The laughter bubbling up from her throat ended on a high-pitched note. She clapped her hand over her mouth and glanced up and down the empty street, her heart thumping against her ribs as if trying to break free from its cage.

  She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, but it turned out to be only a stray dog trotting down the street with the odd, sideways gait peculiar to some breeds.

  She ducked behind the hedge shielding the house from the street. Its leafy branches formed a high barricade that completely hid her presence should anyone happen to pass on the street. And if anyone were to look out from the house, they would have to be observant indeed to pick out the lone form skulking along the dark hedge.

  She did not know the Montgomery mansion. Aside from the tea party to which Angelina had dragged her, she had never even been in the home. The Montgomerys and the Turners traveled in different circles. As did French chevaliers, Alex thought with a smirk as she surveyed the side of the magnificent three-storied building that looked even larger and more impenetrable from the side than from the street. She placed her hands on her hips as she studied the granite walls looking for toeholds, vines, a trellis or anything that would allow her to scale the structure.

  Fortunately, she had paid some attention to the girlish prattle at the tea party and had learned Mont Trignon held the suite of rooms at the back of the house, the southeast corner to be precise.

  A shiver of anticipation ran through her as she guessed which windows were his. She had never been in a man’s chambers. Except her brother’s, of course, but that hardly counted. The idea of invading a man’s domain made her blood race and her belly tingle in a way having nothing to do with fear.

  Doubt assailed her as she studied the sheer granite. She still had time to reconsider her plan; to turn around, go home, and crawl into bed, her reputation still intact. Of course, turning back now meant she might never know Mont Trignon any better than she did today. Never know why he came to America. Never know the man beneath the mask. Not long ago, she had read a poem claiming “ignorance is bliss.” She found it unconscionable.

  In the corner nearest his rooms, an ancient maple loomed like a leafy medusa spreading multiple tendrils into the night sky. Probably as old as the house, each thick, gnarled branch had grown almost as big as the trunk itself.

  Alex grinned as she crept forward, removing her black lace gloves and stuffing them in her pocket. It had been a long time since she had climbed a tree, but growing up with Reid and the Bandys, she had developed her tree-climbing skills at an early age.

  Giving the tree a quick study, she grasped a sturdy, low-hanging branch and pulled herself up, careful not to snag her cloak. It wouldn’t do to have the gardener discover her in the morning, having hung herself by her woolen cloak in the old maple.

  Her arm muscles burned, and her legs shook as she pulled and heaved. The thick, closely-spaced branches that had looked so easy were filled with smaller branches that scratched and clawed. One pulled back the hood of her cloak, and she snagged her hair on a twig. Releasing herself with difficulty and the loss of several strands of auburn hair, she eventually made it to a sturdy branch skirting a window on the top floor.

  Alex peered in, trying to make out what room it might be. The hulking form of a cylinder desk dominated the dark interior. A study perhaps? Relief washed through her. Searching his desk would be far preferable to invading his bedroom.

  Praying for divine intervention and more than a little luck, she tested the window. It opened with no more than a soft tug.

  Examining the room and then peeking around outside one last time to be sure she hadn’t been seen, Alex climbed inside.

  Moonlight shone on Mont Trignon’s blue brocade coat tossed over the back of an armchair, confirming the room belonged to him.

  She froze for a moment, her heart in her throat. Had he worn his blue coat earlier today? No, it had definitely been the forest green vel
vet with his cream-colored satin waistcoat. She recalled the vivid contrast of the course white flower against the verdant fabric. Alex took deep breaths until her heart slowed to its normal rhythm.

  Peering into the darkness surrounding her, she scanned the mostly-empty shelves lining the walls on the far side of the room. The few books filling the corners had identical dark leather covers indicating they were a matched set. So different from the tattered bindings of her books at home, she doubted the spines had ever been broken. Still, she made a mental note to investigate them once she had done a quick inventory of the rest of the room.

  In addition to the cylinder desk, a couch angled in front of the hearth, looking as if the furniture maker had mixed up the parts. A high, upholstered armrest ran down one side. The back rose to a more traditional height but only extended halfway down the couch. The fabric, alternating stripes of white and a color that looked like burnt caramel in the dark, only added to its lack of appeal.

  Alex screwed up her face. The things wealthy people bought with their money. Never would you find her owning such a useless piece of furniture.

  A wingback chair, upholstered in the same unappealing pattern, sat across from the hideous couch. There were no indentations in the cushions as though whoever purchased the furniture had forbidden anyone to use it. She had an almost irresistible impulse to sit in it and leave a hollow in the pristine cushions as a unique form of calling card. Grinning, she reminded herself she did not have time to give in to her whims. Morning would come soon, and this might be her only chance to discover some truths about Mont Trignon. She had to stay focused.

  A low, round table of polished mahogany sat between the chair and the couch, a large ceramic vase in the center.

  Alex crept to the vase and leaned over to peer into it. Although she didn’t really expect to see anything, she strained her eyes trying to see the dark bottom. Then, she picked it up and flipped it over.

  A small, metal object fell out. Alex cringed when it clattered on the glossy surface of the table and bounced to the floor.