His Forbidden Liaison: A brotherhood of spies in Napoleonic France (The Aikenhead Honours Book 3)

by Joanna Maitland

  She pulled herself up to her full height and stared proudly at them. But if she had hoped to frighten them off, she was mistaken. Two of them muttered in low voices and then came towards her. One was openly carrying a knife.

  Marguerite continued to stare loftily at them. She did not dare to move from the bloodstained spot. And she would not show fear. She had learnt that only a few hours ago. "Put that thing away," she snapped.

  The knifeman stopped dead and stared at her. Then, looking suddenly a little sheepish, he tucked the knife into his boot.

  Marguerite waited. She had had one small victory, but there were still five of them, five men against one woman. The pistol, hard against her leg, provided some reassurance. If either of these two tried to assault her, she would shoot him.

  "We be looking for two men. Fugitives," the knifeman said, forcing a false smile. "They came this way, mistress. Did you see where they went?"

  "Two men?" Marguerite raised her eyebrows.

  "Aye," said the second man. "One dark, one fair. The fair one would be limping, and bleeding. He was shot."

  "Shot?" Marguerite put as much horror as she could into her voice.

  "By the constable, mistress. They be wanted, by the law."

  "Aye," agreed the knifeman. "We be deputised, by the constable. He's too fat to run." The second man laughed shortly.

  "Ah. Yes, I did see two men, one helping the other. They went into the old town." She pointed to the maze of squalid streets that opened off the tiny square and ran the entire length of the harbour. "Over there."

  "Thank ye, mistress."

  "I doubt you'll be able to catch them," Marguerite said earnestly. "They were some way ahead of you, and running. And in that labyrinth…" She shrugged her shoulders.

  "True, mistress, but we be able to follow the blood trail. The fair one, he was bleeding." He began to scan the ground for signs.

  Marguerite took half a step forward. The bloodstain was completely hidden by her shadow. "Well, I hope you do, if they are fugitives. But I must tell you that they stopped at the corner, over there, and I think the dark man put a pad on the fair man's wound. So there may be no trail for you to follow." She raised her hands in the universal gesture of helplessness. "But if you're quick, you may succeed."

  "Aye," said the knifeman. "Come, Jean. We must go." They both looked across to the narrow street Marguerite had indicated. Then waving to their accomplices to join them, they trotted off.

  Marguerite stood motionless until all five of them had disappeared into the dark and malodorous streets of the oldest quarter of Marseilles.

  Ben was barely half-conscious now. Jack wished he would swoon completely, for he was starting to mutter and groan with the pain of his wound. Jack laid a hand gently over Ben's mouth, trying to muffle the sound. If that did not work, he was going to have to hit him, to knock him out. It would be a terrible thing to do to a friend who already had a bullet in him. But he would do it if he had to, to prevent Ben's English moans from betraying them.

  Ben gave another long groan and went limp. Thank God, Jack thought. Let him stay that way until they were out of this dangerous coil.

  He listened intently. He could hear the woman dealing most adroitly with their pursuers. She was sending them off into the warren of the old city. It was the place where any fugitive would choose to hide, but she had even concocted a story as to why there would be no blood trail to follow. What a woman. Not only was she ready to confront robbers at the dead of night, she was also extremely quick-witted. Jack was not sure he would have done half as well.

  He could hear the sound of the men rushing away in pursuit of their phantom quarry. The woman would come back now, and then Jack and Ben would need to find somewhere else to hide. It could not be among the harbour inns, that was for certain, for they had already been betrayed once by that route. Perhaps if—

  The carriage door opened. It swayed as someone climbed in. "Do not move an inch." It was the lady's voice, soft but strong.

  The coach swayed again as the lady took her place on the bench seat.

  "Put the provisions on the floor, Guillaume," she said, in a slightly louder voice, "and then let us be off. I have had quite enough of this city, full of thieves and vagabonds. Let us show it a clean pair of heels."

  "Yes, miss." It was a man's voice, an older voice, and it was followed by the sound of the door closing.

  "Don't move yet," she whispered. Then the carriage started forward. She was leaving Marseilles. And she was taking Jack and Ben with her.

  Jack did as he was bid, though he worried very much for Ben. He might have lost his senses, but he would still be bleeding. There had not been time to staunch his wound which needed to be tended. And yet the lady was right to bid them stay concealed, for those blackguards might easily catch up with the coach in the busy streets of Marseilles. And if they did, the consequences could be dire. Two able-bodied men, one of them old, against five armed ruffians.

  After some minutes, he felt the coach make a sharp left turn. Peering cautiously out from among the packages, his gaze met the shifting, dappled light of a tree-lined avenue. They must be well away from the harbour now.

  The coach picked up speed for a while and Jack breathed more easily. They were leaving the centre of the town. Perhaps now he could—? But then the coach slowed once more, almost to a stop. What now? He tensed, ready to defend Ben.

  "Be easy," she said softly. "We must go through the Porte d'Aix. I do not expect to be stopped."

  But what if they were? Jack listened intently, trying to make himself as small as possible. He heard a muttered exchange outside. Guillaume must be talking to the guards on the gate. Would they—?

  The coach was pulling away again. They were through. Jack continued to lie motionless, however, for he did not know how far they still had to go to leave the city altogether. He took a deep breath. Yes, surely that was the smell of trees, and good moist earth? But he did not stir. He would wait for her to give the word. Gratefully he breathed in the fresh country smells. And then he realised there was something more. It was the smell of the sea.

  "Sir, I think it is safe now. We have reached the Aix road. There is nothing here but fields, and the sea beyond." She was starting to remove the packages of silk that lay on top of them.

  Jack sat up and quickly pushed the rest away. The coach was barely a hundred yards from the shore. White-crested waves were beating in to break on the rocks. He felt his stomach heave, but he forced himself to concentrate on their escape. He was in a coach, after all, not a ship. "You put yourself in grave danger, ma'am."

  She dropped to her knees beside the two of them. "No more danger than you were in last night, sir. Now, let us see to your friend."

  She was right. For several minutes, they worked together in silence, stripping off Ben's coat and pulling open his shirt to get at the wound. It was high in his shoulder. The shot seemed to have missed the vital organs, but there was no exit wound. It would be necessary to find a surgeon to remove the ball. She lifted her skirt and reached for her petticoat, as if about to tear off a bandage.

  "No, ma'am. There is no need. For some reason, I kept hold of my bag." He nodded towards the battered valise which lay at a peculiar angle against the far door. He reached for it, pulled out his spare shirt and quickly made it into a pad to apply to Ben's wound. Then he tied the pad in place with a makeshift bandage of his stockings. "Thank God he fainted."

  The lady nodded. "Shall we put him on the seat?"

  "I think he is probably better there on the floor, among the bales of silk," Jack said after a moment. "It would hurt him if we moved him. And, to be frank, it is easier to conceal him there."

  She thought for a moment, but then she nodded again. "Yes, you are right." She pushed herself back up on to the seat and took a handkerchief from her reticule to clean the blood from her fingers. Then she looked out of the window. The sea was no longer in sight. "Guillaume has made good time, even though he does not know what dang
erous cargo he carries." She gave a small, nervous laugh. "He will berate me when he discovers it, but never mind. I owe it to you, sir. After last night."

  Jack made Ben as comfortable as he could, adding extra parcels of silk to stop him rolling with the movement of the coach. Then he looked up at the lady.

  "Pray sit." She indicated the other half of the bench seat. "There is no need for you to remain on the floor. Not now."

  "Thank you, ma'am." Jack ran a nervy hand through his hair. Then he dived into his pocket for a handkerchief to mop his brow and clean his hands. "I'd wager I look as much of a ruffian as those five."

  "I think not. You, sir, are clearly a gentleman, and they—" She shuddered. "They were not."

  "No, I—" Jack stopped, thunderstruck, for she had taken a pistol from the seat under her skirts and was calmly returning it to the leather holster by the window. "A pistol, ma'am?"

  "After last night, I was prepared to use it, I may tell you. It was concealed in my skirts all the time I was dealing with those men. It gave me a degree of courage I might not otherwise have had," she added simply.

  "Madame," Jack said, very seriously, trying to bow from his sitting position, "you have as much courage as any woman I have ever met, and I salute you for it."

  "Thank you." She would not meet his eyes. "Thank you, Mr…?" She looked up then. Her eyes, he could see at last, were an unusual shade of blue-green, and very wide. As beautiful as the sea. And as easy to drown in. "I am afraid I do not know your name," she said quietly.

  "Nor I yours, ma'am. My name is Louis Jacques, from Paris. My poor wounded companion is a German, Christian Benn. I am escorting him to Paris, on behalf of a mutual friend." Jack cursed inwardly. He had been paying too much attention to the fair Amazon's eyes, and hazarding his mission as a result. He should have prepared their cover story with much more care. He had assumed, stupidly, that he would never have to go into detail. How wrong could he be? His brothers, Dominic and Leo, would never have been caught out in that way. They always had a plan B, and usually a plan C as well.

  Jack resolved to be more prudent in future. And also to tell this lady nothing more. For all he knew, she might be a Bonapartist, in spite of the fact that she had saved them. Indeed, he should have thought of that before. Still, he had told her only his nom de guerre, and Ben's. The mention of Paris as their destination was harmless enough. He had given away nothing of importance. He and Ben would be safe, even if she did favour the enemy, but he must say nothing more. She was a remarkable woman, and he might admire her, but he must not trust her. He could not afford to jeopardise his mission for a pair of limpid blue-green eyes.

  He plastered what he hoped was a charming smile on his face, and said, in his most confiding voice, "We are much in your debt, ma'am, and I should be glad to know your name, if you would allow it."

  She seemed to have been taken in by that smile, for she returned it. And hers was genuine. "My name, sir, is Marguerite Grolier, and I am a weaver from Lyons. Which is where this coach is now going." She twinkled. "If you and your companion are bound for Paris, you will have no objection to our route, I take it?"

  Chapter Three

  The injured German was still lying unconscious on the bales of silk. From time to time, he moaned, but he had not yet opened his eyes. It was probably a mercy, for his pain must be intense.

  "I think we should stop soon, Mr Jacques," Marguerite said, breaking the silence that had held for nearly an hour. After those first few exchanges, when her companion's rich voice had filled her senses, her attempts to converse with him had been politely but firmly rebuffed. He had been unwilling to talk about himself or his companion. It seemed that Mr Jacques's attention was all still on escaping from the danger behind them, even though they had covered quite a distance. However, they had more pressing matters to deal with. The injured man needed a surgeon. "Marseilles is well behind us, sir, and you are both out of danger now. Those men cannot follow us." She was trying to sound reassuring.

  Mr Jacques frowned in response. But after several moments, he shrugged his shoulders and relaxed a little. "No, you are probably right."

  Thank goodness he was seeing reason, and talking to her at last, though his voice was somehow harsher than before. "Forgive me, but why were they chasing you in the first place? I am sure they were not what they said. Not constable's men."

  He laughed mirthlessly. "Of course, you did not see them all on the quayside. I am pretty sure that they were accomplices of the two men who attacked you last night. I am afraid that you and I were more than gullible, ma'am, in taking the landlord's word that your two attackers would be handed over to the authorities. I saw them both standing, free as air, outside the inn. No doubt they were in league with that scurvy landlord. And the other five were their accomplices, waiting for their share of the spoils."

  Marguerite exclaimed in disgust.

  "Quite so, ma'am. They all came out of the inn just in time to spot Benn and me, making our way to the diligence. Your assailants were too weak to pursue us themselves—I must say you did a good job there, for both their heads were still bandaged—but they pointed me out to their accomplices and set them on to attack us. And then one of them shot Benn."

  "Oh, heavens. So it was all because of me that poor Herr Benn was shot? How dreadful." She clasped her hands together in an attempt to control her racing pulse. At that instant, another thought struck her. "I suppose I should be grateful that the two injured men remained behind, for if they had recognised me, they would surely have suspected that I was hiding you."

  "Aye. And they might have assaulted you again. You and I had the luck of it, this morning. Unfortunately, poor Benn—" he glanced across at the motionless body on the floor "—has suffered grievously, even though he was snoring innocently throughout last night's attack."

  "He has paid for that now, poor man." Marguerite dropped quickly to her knees and put a gentle hand to Herr Benn's brow. It was damp and hot. She looked back at Mr Jacques. "We must get a surgeon to him. He has the beginnings of a fever. If the ball is not removed…" Her voice tailed off. They both knew that such a fever could be fatal.

  "You are right, ma'am. If it will not inconvenience you too much," he continued politely, as if he were conversing in some lady's salon, "we could stop a moment when you change horses so that Benn and I could get down. The post-house landlord might be able to direct me to a surgeon."

  "Let us hope so. It is a blessing that he remains insensible."

  "Aye." He nodded.

  "I…I would be able to keep him so, if you think it wise. I have…I always carry some laudanum in my bag."

  "Do you indeed, ma'am? You astonish me. First a candlestick, then a pistol, and now a phial of laudanum. You are full of surprises."

  Marguerite felt herself blushing. "I…I have an invalid mother. I know the value of laudanum. And also its dangers. But sometimes…well, sometimes, it is the only solution."

  "Forgive me, ma'am, I did not mean to suggest— I am sure your phial may well be very useful if we have a need to keep him insensible. I certainly would not wish him to wake while the surgeon is ministering to him."

  "No, of course not. Ah, look." She pointed out of the window to a bend in the road ahead of them. "There is Rognac. We should arrive in less than another quarter of an hour. I recall the posting house there was more than adequate when we were travelling south to Marseilles. Let us hope the landlord can direct you to a surgeon."

  "Hmm. The place does look a mite small. But I trust you are right." He reached down to help her back on to the seat. "I am sure it would be best if you were not kneeling on the floor when we arrive at Rognac, ma'am, though I do thank you for your care of my companion. And I hope we have not delayed your journey too much. You have been a true Samaritan to us." He smiled at her then, with real generosity of spirit. It wiped the lines of care from his face and made him look years younger.

  His voice might still be hard, but Marguerite felt her heart lift. And without hi
s hand under her arm, she would have staggered as she resumed her seat, for she had suddenly begun to feel strangely dizzy.

  Marguerite had refused to leave Rognac. How could she possibly travel on to Lyons before poor Herr Benn had seen a surgeon? He had groaned horribly as he was carried from the coach and into the posting house. Even now, when he was lying on clean sheets in the best bedchamber of the inn, he was still moaning.

  Oh, when would Mr Jacques return with the surgeon? Herr Benn's need was becoming ever more desperate. Marguerite soaked her cloth in the bowl of cool water once more. She was about to lay it across the injured man's forehead when he stirred and half-opened his eyes.

  He said something incomprehensible. Not French. German, perhaps? She leant across him and bathed his brow again. His gaze was fixed on a point somewhere beyond her shoulder. She knew he was not seeing her.

  He spoke again. "Mission." It was very low, but audible enough. Mission? Then, "Wellington. Mission."

  Marguerite stopped dead, the cloth hanging limply from her fingers. Dear God, he was an Englishman and, by the sound of it, a spy. What was she to do?

  She forced herself to think. Mr Jacques was a Frenchman, and quite possibly a Bonapartist, as so many were. He had said he was conducting Herr Benn, a German, to Paris. But Herr Benn spoke English, and must surely be a spy. Did Mr Jacques know of it? It was impossible to say. They might be accomplices, but equally, Herr Benn might be acting alone. If so, there was a real risk that Mr Jacques might betray this poor man. And there were certainly Bonapartists a-plenty who would take pleasure in executing an English spy, especially now that there were so many rumours, and so many hopes, for the promised return of their so-called emperor.

  She could not take the chance. Mr Jacques's voice and his touch might have made her senses reel, but her practical self knew better than to yield to such missish fancies. She might be wrong—she fervently hoped she was—but she had to work on the assumption that Mr Jacques and the pretend German were not fellow-conspirators. She must protect the wounded man.