No. Her French was better than Anthony’s. So long as she rehearsed what she meant to say in her head and carefully chose her words, she would have been fine. Granted, the man she combed for information might have thought her a bit slow of wit. All the better—Mama had taught her that once someone made a preliminary judgment of a person, they were more likely to overlook suspicious behavior and excuse it as part of their initial judgment.
Anthony grimaced as he answered Mama in a low murmur. “She asked me a question. Was I supposed to ignore her?”
Would the serving girl have approached to flirt with him if Charlie hadn’t drifted away? She swallowed the question and asked, “Did you find anything?”
“Yes. I have an address. I wanted us to sit and have a drink so that we didn’t arouse suspicion, but that might no longer be possible. Come.”
Charlie fought to keep from grinning. With an address, they would find Papa, at long last.
Gray called himself seven kinds of stupid as he followed Mrs. Vale up a narrow staircase to the rooms above the tavern—or inn, as it turned out. She counted the doors under her breath in French as she found the right one. The muscles in his shoulders knotted as he took up position behind her. Charlie stood to his right, dancing from foot to foot.
Mrs. Vale knocked.
A weak male voice called from within. “Who is there?”
“The innkeeper sent me,” Mrs. Vale answered in the same language, French. “Will you please open the door, sir?”
A pause lengthened into a tension-filled silence. Gray glanced toward the stairs, from which they had ascended, wondering whether the serving maid had called for the French authorities, or if she had accepted Charlie’s ludicrous tale that he was Bavarian. If the serving maid had ever spoken to a Bavarian, she would know that his accent wasn’t remotely similar. He had crossed paths with one or two during his career in the Royal Navy.
The click of a lock returned his attention to the door and the man behind it. Gray tensed. This could be Mr. Vale, but he could have nearly exposed them in pursuit of a red herring, too. Slowly, the door opened a crack to reveal a sliver of a man. He had a receding hairline, brown hair, and bags around his eyes. It was those eyes, blue like Charlie’s, that convinced Gray that they had found the right man.
The moment Mr. Vale beheld his wife, his eyes widened, and he opened the door. “Louisa?”
Next to Gray, Charlie bunched as if she meant to throw herself at the man, presumably her father. Gray laid a restraining hand on her arm and said sharply in English, “We don’t have time for a happy reunion. I have a dinghy waiting in a cove outside Marseille and a ship to take us back to England. We must leave.”
Both Mrs. Vale and her daughter seemed reluctant, but they complied with Gray’s urgent tone. Mr. Vale took only a moment to kiss his wife and then grab a satchel containing his belongings before he exited into the hall. He cast his wife a sidelong look before he joined Gray in the corridor.
To Gray’s surprise, Mr. Vale didn’t question his presence. Either he recognized Gray’s black hair, build, and features for a Graylocke, or he trusted that his wife and daughter would choose a trustworthy ally. “Where are we off to?” the older man asked in smooth French.
Either there was over a fifteen-year age gap between him and his wife, or Mr. Vale was so fatigued and under so much stress that he showed signs of age beyond his years. The slump of his shoulders despite his trim build, the bags around his eyes, and the lines around his mouth and nose all combined to make him look to be in his midsixties.
Gray didn’t comment on the signs of fatigue in the man’s bearing. Instead, he answered the question succinctly as he led toward the stairs. However, he’d barely informed the man of the cove where the French barque resided when, midway down the steps into the common room below, he caught sight of a French uniform. Hell and damnation. The serving maid hadn’t believed Charlie’s tale, after all.
Mr. Vale put a restraining hand on Gray’s sleeve. “I know a back exit. Follow me.”
Gray didn’t argue. He hoped that Charlie’s father was trustworthy, because at the moment he was putting his and the Vales’ lives in the other man’s hands. Charlie looked as pale as snow as he passed her.
“What happened?” she whispered to Gray in English.
He spoke only two words, but they were enough to render her silent. “French soldiers.” When she pressed her lips together, her eyes wide and frightened, he considering trying those two words in the future, when they next had an argument. It might earn him a moment’s respite to collect his thoughts.
He didn’t have time to think now. Sliding his hand into his pocket, where his pistol resided, Anthony followed Mr. Vale along the corridor to a back staircase that exited into the open air. He and the Vales moved swiftly and silently. His heart beat so loudly, it was a wonder the French authorities didn’t hear it and come barreling around the building.
On the street, he followed Mr. Vale’s lead and offered his arm to Charlie. If they acted like two couples strolling along the street, they would be less likely to be noticed as fugitives. Charlie’s arm trembled as she slid it onto his. He laid his hand atop hers and squeezed, attempting a reassuring smile. It felt weak.
As they reached the corner of the building he heard a shout in French. He couldn’t decipher the rapid words, but when he glanced over his shoulder, he found the serving maid pointing an officer in his direction.
“Follow me,” Mr. Vale shouted. He clasped his wife’s hand and bolted down the street.
“What—” The word gushed from Charlie’s mouth as Gray did the same with her.
“No questions. Run!”
When Charlie staggered over the hem of her dress, he nearly tossed her over his shoulder and carried her. A moment later, she wrestled her skirt into submission and draped the tail over her forearm. He released her hand and dropped his palm to the small of her back, steering her after her parents.
Although neither he nor the Vale women knew the layout of Marseille, Mr. Vale must have taken some time upon arrival to become familiar with the terrain.
He led them through alley after alley. They jumped the fences and crossed private, fenced-in yards, taking turn after turn to throw off their pursuers. In fact, Gray was certain that at some point they were heading into the heart of Marseille, not away from it. When they reached the edge of the city, relief swept through him. It weakened his knees, but he pushed on. They weren’t out of danger yet.
He took the lead. With Charlie at his heels, he followed the same path they’d taken into the city. Although he continually glanced over his shoulder, he saw no signs of pursuit from the French authorities.
He still didn’t consider them safe. The moment they reached the cove, he ushered them into the dinghy. “Hurry. I want to be on the ship and weigh anchor before the French navy comes down upon us.”
For once, Charlie didn’t argue. She jumped into the boat and threw her arms around her father as he did the same. Gray shoved the boat into the water, hopped into it with the Vale family, and rowed for all he was worth.
They didn’t have a moment to lose.
13
Lieutenant Stills stood in the shadow of the nearest mast, his hands clasped behind his back, as he watched Mama and Papa embrace tearfully. Charlie hugged herself as she waited for her turn. It had been years since she’d seen Papa. Years. She missed him. She blinked away tears.
Anthony crossed to stand next to her. He said nothing, so she remained silent. Around them, the crew hurried to turn the ship north and get underway. With the chaos of activity, it felt like Charlie stood in the eye of a storm.
Anthony brushed his hand over her shoulder, a warm reminder of his presence. “We did it.”
She wondered if they really had. They still weren’t safe in England, and the French navy might give chase.
Smiling, Mama and Papa parted. He turned to Charlie and beckoned her closer. She raced into his embrace. “You’ve grown,” he whispered as he hugged her.
>
“Perhaps you’ve shrunk,” she teased. Her words emerged a bit watery. She brushed her tears away. This was a happy moment, and tears had no place here. But she’d missed Papa so much.
Anthony cleared his throat, standing closer than expected. “Perhaps you ought to adjourn to the captain’s quarters.”
“Yes, of course.” Papa nodded.
As Mama showed him the way, Anthony stepped back to let Charlie follow. She hoisted her skirts so she wouldn’t trip over them on the rolling deck and squeezed into the captain’s quarters after her parents. Anthony, on her heels, shouted for Lieutenant Stills to remain on deck. “Let me know the moment you see a French flag!”
“Do you expect trouble, sir?”
“Be vigilant, just in case.”
Charlie’s stomach squeezed as if it were wringing out a wet rag. Her courage poured away from her. Seeing Marseille had been wonderful. She would have happily strolled along the streets for hours, admiring the vista and buildings. But the consequences of stepping foot in the city—the fear and threat of violence—that wasn’t adventure. That was war. She was ready to go home.
To her surprise, Anthony followed her into the captain’s quarters with Mama and Papa. The room was small, and even with her parents sitting on the bed—or, in this case, Papa standing beside it before Mama laid a hand on his arm and begged him to sit next to her—there was precious little room for Charlie and Anthony. He shut the door behind him. They stood shoulder to shoulder. The heat of his body sank into hers, simultaneously bringing her comfort and an increased awareness of him.
Anthony said, “Forgive the intrusion. I’ll leave you to your reunion in a moment, but if the information you have is of a sensitive nature to Britain, you must share it in case we are separated.”
Papa sat straighter, throwing back his shoulders. “Of course.” He looked between Charlie and Mama. “How much have you been told about Monsieur V?”
“He was the French spymaster in London,” Charlie volunteered. “Lucy captured him a couple months ago—”
“Lucy did what?”
Charlie bit her lip to keep from laughing at the shocked and appalled look on Anthony’s face. “Are you afraid your little sister is going to outstrip your daring deeds?”
“No.” His voice was weak. He looked a bit pale.
She took pity on him and patted his arm. “You needn’t worry. She and her husband have retired.”
“Retired from what?”
“Spying, of course.”
If anything, that made him look a bit gray. “She was a spy?”
“Briefly,” Charlie answered without hesitation.
Mama elaborated, “She was never formally trained, but she took it upon herself to locate and arrange the capture of Monsieur V, with the help of her husband. He was a spy for much longer but retired after that mission. Even so, the duke was far from happy to hear of her involvement.”
“I imagine so,” Anthony said weakly.
Papa seemed confused at the turn in the conversation. Charlie smiled and returned to answering his question.
“Monsieur V was killed during the arrest, though.”
“Not precisely,” Mama hedged. “He died during transport to Lord Strickland for questioning.”
“It amounts to the same thing,” she insisted. “He is dead.”
“Yes,” Papa said, warming to this new topic. “However, before he died, I believe he alluded to the existence of a plot he’d set into play. I received instructions in France to look into such a plot and see if I could uncover it.”
Charlie leaned forward. “And you did?”
Papa nodded. “A French spy, formerly posted in England, took refuge in Paris. With Monsieur V’s death, the spy network in place in London is beginning to crumble.”
Charlie grinned, assuming that was good news for Britain.
“I have a source in the French spy network in Paris, and I managed to learn the identity of this spy. It took a bit of work to cozy up to her, but I managed to convince her I was a friend and glean what she knew about Monsieur V. She left because she feared Lord Strickland knew of her true allegiance, and with no one to report to in London, it was no longer safe for her. Her part in Monsieur V’s plan was done. She hired the assassin.”
Charlie swallowed, wondering what the French plot to assassinate Lord Strickland meant for England. “When does this assassination take place?”
“Soon.” Papa rubbed a hand across his face and looked at Mama. “I can’t be more precise than that. She grew suspicious of me, and I had to leave Paris as soon as possible. They nearly caught me on the coast, so I took the first ship out and tried to go into hiding again, which is where you found me.” He sighed. “I guess I wasn’t careful enough.”
“Or we were lucky,” Anthony said, his voice soft. “I don’t know if the Portuguese captain would have disclosed the same information to the French as he did to me.”
Mama laid her hand on Papa’s sleeve. Wrinkles formed around her eyes, and her mouth was thin. “What can you tell us about the assassination? Do you know the location?”
Papa deflated. His shoulders slumped, and he looked haggard. “I don’t know where, precisely. Somewhere public, among friends, to prove their reach knows no bounds.”
Charlie turned to Anthony. “Lord Strickland's life is in danger. We must reach London as soon as possible and warn him.”
Papa frowned. “Strickland? He's not the one in danger.”
“Don’t be absurd. Of course he is. I have a missive—” Charlie reached for her bodice, only to recall that she’d delivered that paper to Anthony. She turned to him. “Do you have it with you?”
Whatever Anthony intended to answer, Papa cut him off. “Lord Strickland is the figurehead, the person shown to the public. The true Commander of Spies works anonymously from the shadows, for their own safety. Somehow, Monsieur V learned this person's true identity, and the French mean to eliminate them at all costs.”
Charlie bit her lip. “If Lord Strickland isn’t the target, who is?”
Papa glanced briefly at Anthony before he answered, his expression hard. “Lady Evelyn Graylocke.”
14
Gray strode the length of the ship that wasn’t even his, earning the quizzical looks of his men. It brought him no solace. His ears still rang from the news Mr. Vale had delivered. It couldn’t possibly be true. His mother couldn’t be Britain’s spymaster… could she?
Stills met him on the quarterdeck. “Is something amiss, sir? The man we brought aboard—”
“Mr. Vale,” Gray supplied. “He is Mrs. Vale’s husband and Miss Vale’s father.”
“Did he deliver some unsavory news? I know you seem to have a preference for Miss Vale, but if she’s to be married to someone else…”
“I beg your pardon?” Gray shook his head. “I have no preference for Miss Vale. Quite the opposite. She is—”
“Captivating?” Stills grinned. “I find her rather comely, myself.”
Gray scowled. “She is a guest on this ship. I won’t tolerate any untoward behavior.”
Stills smirked. “Of course not, sir. If she’s not the source of your troubles, then what ails you?”
Rubbing his temple, Gray sighed, considering how much he should disclose. “We must return to England with all possible haste. Mr. Vale has information that suggests our Commander of Spies is in peril.”
With a raised eyebrow, Stills remarked, “What of Miss Vale’s wedding? Or will that not be going forward as planned, after all? Better news for you, sir.” He winked.
Gray fought a grimace. “At the moment, our only concern is returning to England. You have your orders.” His voice was sharp. He turned away before his second-in-command noticed the fear that permeated his every muscle.
His mother was in mortal danger. He’d already lost a father. He didn’t know what to do, save for urging his crew to as great a speed as possible. Suddenly, he knew precisely the terror Charlie had felt upon setting foot on hi
s ship. No wonder she had been so insistent. If he hadn’t known that his crew was performing their jobs with the utmost speed and accuracy, he would have been hounding the man in charge for information, too.
Parting ways with Stills on the quarterdeck, Gray retreated to where he would not be seen—his cabin below deck. It was squished and claustrophobic, but he doubted it would be any easier to breathe above deck when he had his mother’s life dangling in front of him.
He had to believe that Morgan would keep her safe.
Morgan served as a spymaster of sorts within England, curating information from reports and training new spies. His wife, the duchess, invented gadgets to aid their endeavors. His younger brother, Gideon, had created a truth serum with his wife, and both continued to serve as field agents in London. Tristan’s tenure as a field agent predated Morgan’s. Gray was the only Graylocke who hadn’t served as a spy in some capacity.
Perhaps that was why Mother had been so adamant that he refrain from joining the Royal Navy, because she’d hoped for him to carry on the family tradition of spying, instead.
Gray was no spy. Subterfuge wasn’t his strong point—as evidenced by the fact that he’d told Lieutenant Stills more than perhaps he should have. No one had sworn him to secrecy, but this was sensitive information. The fewer people who knew, the less chance there would be of someone remarking out of turn.
In both his personal and professional lives, he preferred to handle himself in a straightforward manner. He liked dealings that laid out the honorable rules. Even war had rules, such as taking prisoners whenever possible rather than killing out of hand.
Though, given the way Morgan had chafed to serve his country when Gray had joined the Royal Navy, he wasn’t surprised to find that his older brother had found another way to serve. What surprised him was Mother. His own mother was a spy, and no one had told him. Given Charlie’s shock at the news, Mother hadn’t told anyone. He wondered how long had she been doing this and whether it had predated his father’s death.
Captivating the Captain (Scandals and Spies Book 6) Page 8
