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

by Joanna Maitland

  She looked round wildly. Yes, her valise was here. Guillaume had deposited it in the bedchamber, all the while muttering about the dangers of taking strangers into their carriage. And he would still have been here, berating her, if he had not had to return to the yard to see to the safe disposal of the silk.

  Marguerite grabbed her valise and scrabbled around in it until she lighted on the little bottle, wrapped in raw silk to keep it safe. She mixed a dose of laudanum in the glass from the night stand. Then she slid an arm under Herr Benn's shoulders and lifted his head. "Forgive me, sir," she said softly, "but I must do this, for your own safety."

  She put the glass to his lips, but they were stubbornly closed. Confound it. He must take it. It was the only way to save him.

  In that instant, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Mr Jacques might be returning, or Guillaume. Desperately, she seized another pillow and pushed it roughly behind the man's head. She pulled her arm free and pinched his nostrils closed with her fingers. One second, two seconds, yes. His mouth opened to take a breath. With a single, swift movement, she tossed the contents of the glass down his throat, holding his nose until he swallowed. He gasped for breath, and groaned. But it did go down. It was done.

  She settled him back more gently on the pillows, and quickly rinsed out the glass. She was about to return the bottle to her valise when the door opened. "Mr Jacques!" she exclaimed. She hid the bottle among her skirts, as she had done the pistol, seemingly hours before. Was she blushing? It seemed it did not matter, for neither Mr Jacques, nor the man who followed him, was looking at her. The new arrival was a surgeon, to judge by his clothing, and by the bag he carried.

  "Here is your patient, sir," Mr Jacques said, gesturing towards the bed. "And still insensible, thank God. You will be able to do your work without concern about the pain you may cause him."

  The surgeon crossed to the bed, took a cursory look at Herr Benn's wound, and began to unpack the instruments from his bag. "This will not take long, sir," he said briskly. "I shall need a basin, and some bandages, if you would be so good."

  "Yes, certainly. Miss Grolier, would you be so kind as to ask the landlord for a clean sheet, or some other cloth that we may use for bandages?"

  Marguerite nodded. It sounded as though Mr Jacques was trying to prevent her from witnessing the operation. It was thoughtful of him, though unnecessary, for she was not afraid of the sight of blood. She had assisted at the bleeding of her mother, oftentimes. It had rarely made much difference, though on occasion it had calmed the poor demented lady's ravings.

  Marguerite cast a last, cautious glance at Herr Benn. The laudanum seemed to have worked remarkably quickly. His eyes were closed, and he was no longer making any sound. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  She hurried out of the room and down the staircase to the entrance hall, where she soon obtained what they needed. She was determined that she would not be out of that chamber for a moment longer than she could help. If Herr Benn spoke again, she needed to be there to hear whatever he might say. For now there were two potential betrayers: Mr Jacques, and the surgeon. It might fall to her, and her alone, to defend the English spy.

  The surgeon continued to probe into Ben's wound. "The ball lies deep." He grunted as he worked. "Ah, I have it now." A moment later, the ball rattled into the tin basin that Jack was holding. It was followed by a gush of bright blood. The surgeon calmly replaced the bloody pad of Jack's shirt and pressed hard. "We need those fresh bandages now."

  "Aye." Jack glanced over his shoulder to the open door. There had not yet been time. It was but a few minutes since Miss Grolier had gone downstairs to fetch the bandages. He looked back at the bed where Ben lay, very still, and almost as pale as the linen surrounding him. Jack was grateful that his friend had not come round during the operation, and yet it worried him that Ben had shown no sign of regaining his wits since they had left Marseilles. Perhaps Jack had been wrong in assuming that the wound had damaged no vital organs? "He will recover now, sir?" Jack was unable to keep the anxiety from his voice.

  "Yes, with careful nursing. There is a deal of damage to his shoulder, for I had to dig deep to remove the ball. 'Twill be a long time before he wields a sword with that arm."

  Jack was instantly on the alert. Why should a surgeon speak of swords, and fighting? But he replied only, "It is not his fighting arm. He is left-handed."

  "Ah. Then he has been lucky, for his shoulder will take some time to heal. How came he by this wound, sir?"

  "We were set upon by a group of footpads, in Marseilles. We were outnumbered, and running from them. When they saw that we were about to escape, one of them shot him."

  "Wicked," the surgeon muttered. "And cowardly, too, especially now, when we are like to need every Frenchman we have."

  "Especially now?" Jack echoed. "Forgive me, sir, but I—"

  The surgeon's eyes widened and he stared at Jack. "Have you not heard?"

  "Heard what?"

  "The Emperor has returned. God save him."

  Jack felt as though he had been winded by a blow to the gut. "Returned?" For a moment, he could not manage more than that single word. Then his common sense took hold and he breathed again. The surgeon was yet another of the many Bonapartists waiting all over France. Jack must take care. He must not allow the surgeon's suspicions to be aroused. "Are you sure, sir?" he asked breezily. "We heard nothing of that at Marseilles. Only that he would return."

  The surgeon paused. "Be so good as to keep the pressure on the wound." As soon as Jack had taken over, the man turned away. He began to clean his hands with a cloth and then to put his instruments back into his case. "Well, I suppose the rumours could be mistaken," he said thoughtfully. "But the way it was told to me, I tell you, sir, it was not that the Emperor might return, but that he had returned. I pray it is so, for with fat Louis on the throne, France will always be under the heel of her enemies." He spun round to face Jack. "Vive l'Empereur!"

  It was a test. Jack swallowed. He had no choice. "Vive l'Empereur!" he echoed, trying to sound as though he meant it.

  A sound from the doorway made him turn. Marguerite Grolier stood there, transfixed, with a bundle of white cloth clasped to her bosom.

  Jack swore silently. If the lady was a Bonapartist, he might have improved his standing with her. But if she was not, he could have made himself an enemy. He wanted neither of those. He wanted her to trust him, without question. But she was standing as if stunned, her glorious eyes very wide. Was that from pleasure? Or dismay? He could not tell. He desired her as an ally, but he dare not risk treating her as anything but an enemy.

  "At last," the surgeon cried. "Bring them here, ma'am. This man is bleeding."

  The surgeon's words spurred her into action. She started violently and hurried across to the bed. Between them, she and the surgeon tore bandages and had soon bound a clean pad on to Ben's wounded shoulder.

  "He'll do now, sir," the surgeon said.

  "Thank you. How soon will he be well enough to travel, do you think? We should not remain here, especially if the news you bring is true."

  The surgeon grinned. "Pray God it is, eh, sir? He promised to return with the violets. He would not break such a promise. Not a promise to France." The surgeon had a faraway look in his eyes, which sat strangely with his burly figure and bloodstained fingernails. But many Frenchmen had revered Bonaparte as a hero. As this man clearly did.

  "I need to know, sir. How soon?" Jack repeated. "How long must my companion remain here before he is fit to travel?"

  "Oh, that. A day or two only. Much will depend upon whether he develops a fever. That ball should have been removed hours since, you know."

  Jack nodded guiltily. "I…I know it." He straightened. "May I escort you downstairs, sir? Perhaps you will take a glass with me before you leave?"

  The surgeon beamed. "That is kind, sir. I accept, gladly."

  Jack glanced towards the lady, who nodded. Since Ben was unconscious, she could safely be left alone to
take care of him for a space, while Jack took the surgeon below and paid him for his services. There would still be plenty of light for her to continue her journey later. He would thank her properly then, and try to allay her suspicions, somehow. He wanted her to think well of him when they parted, as he did of her, whatever her allegiance. In truth, she deserved more gratitude than he would ever be able to express, since she must never learn of their mission.

  For now, that mission came first. He must stop thinking about Marguerite Grolier. His immediate task was to extract as much information as possible about Bonaparte. He would start with the surgeon. Over a glass of brandy, the man might disclose a great deal about the exiled Emperor. Was it possible? Could he really have landed in France again? Was the whole of Europe about to be engulfed in flames once more?

  Now what was she to do? Herr Benn was an English spy. And Mr Jacques was all too clearly a Bonapartist. She swallowed hard, trying to control the nausea that had engulfed her when she heard those fateful words on his lips. He was a brave and generous man, he had rescued her with no thought for his own safety, but he was a Bonapartist. They were enemies, but she must not let him suspect that. She must keep him always at a distance and treat him with the utmost care. She had thought, for that fleeting moment when he touched her, that he might be a friend. Nothing of the sort. He was an enemy, to her and to everything her family believed in. She must beware of him.

  Marguerite's hands were automatically clearing away the mess the surgeon had left. Herr Benn was deeply insensible and pale as a ghost. She fancied that the surgeon was a butcher as well as a Bonapartist. He had removed the bullet, but what else had he done? She dropped the last of the bloody cloths into the basin and turned to the dressing table to wash her hands. The water there was clean. Neither the surgeon nor Mr Jacques had washed off the blood.

  She shuddered. Blood. If Bonaparte had indeed returned, there would be a great deal of blood.

  She glanced around for a towel. There was none. She shook the drops of water back into the bowl and turned to her valise for her own towel. In a moment, she found it, tucked alongside the raw silk cocoon which normally held her phial of laudanum. She dried her hands, extracted the phial from her pocket and restored it to its place beside the basilicum powder. It would be best to give Herr Benn no more laudanum. But did she dare to let him alone? What if he began raving? Mr Jacques was surely not to be trusted. On the other hand, Herr Benn might not recover if Marguerite kept him dosed with laudanum. It was a wicked dilemma.

  Reluctantly, she retrieved the phial in its soft wrapping and stowed it deep in her pocket. She would keep it to hand, just in case.

  Was that a sound on the stairs? She looked round, guiltily, to see the door opening. Quickly, she grabbed the tin of basilicum powder and whirled to meet this new challenge.

  "Mistress?

  Marguerite let out the breath she had been holding. It was only Guillaume.

  "I have ordered food. It will be served directly, in the coffee room downstairs. Will you come?"

  "No, Guillaume." She glanced towards the bed. "I cannot leave him."

  "But, mistress—"

  She waved the tin at him. "His wound needs to be redressed."

  "That is not for you to do, surely? The surgeon has seen to him, and he has his companion, also. You have been more than generous to them both, but it is none of our concern. We should be on our way home."

  Without a moment's pause for reflection, Marguerite shook her head.

  "Mistress, your sister needs you more than these men. And there is the Duchess of Courland's silk. It has to be taken to Paris."

  He was right. The family's future might depend on the duchess's approval. And yet Marguerite was the only person who could save the English spy from the Bonapartists. She owed a debt of gratitude, perhaps even her life, to Mr Jacques, but she could not trust him with the English spy's life. He was the enemy. She repeated it yet again, forcing herself to ignore the tiny voice that urged her to trust him, to value his kindness.

  She straightened her back and tried to look sternly at her old retainer. "We cannot leave so soon," she said firmly. "Herr Benn has the beginnings of a fever. That butcher may have extracted the ball, but heavens knows what damage he did in the process. And Mr Jacques, for all his bravery in defending me last evening, is no nurse."

  "No, but—"

  "Guillaume, I cannot leave this man. Not until he is out of danger. I am sure that it will take only a day, or two at most."

  Guillaume was shaking his grizzled head.

  Marguerite would not permit him to voice the protest he so clearly wished to make. "No, Guillaume, we are staying, at least for a day. We must take care, though, for Rognac seems to be a nest of Bonapartists." She ignored Guillaume's worried frown. "Do you bespeak a bedchamber and make sure all our supplies are safely stowed there. I want no repetition of last night's trouble. Take the pistols from the coach and remain with our goods. It is your responsibility to ensure they are well guarded."

  He stood there, looking her up and down. She thought she detected a new respect in his gaze. "And tell the landlord to send up some food. I shall not be able to leave Herr Benn."

  "As you wish, mistress," Guillaume said quietly. "Shall I bespeak a separate bedchamber for you? Or shall you sleep with the silk?"

  "Neither. I shall sleep here," she said flatly. She pointed to the chaise longue under the window. "Herr Benn will need constant nursing, and I do not imagine that Mr Jacques possesses the necessary skill. Ask the landlord to find me some extra pillows, and a coverlet. I shall be comfortable enough there."

  Guillaume hesitated for a moment, but then, perhaps seeing the determination on Marguerite's face, he nodded and left the room. A second later, she heard the sound of his boots clattering down the stairs.

  Her decisions were made. She crossed to the bed and began to untie the bandages so that she could apply her basilicum powder to the unconscious man's open wound.

  She would save him at all costs, even if she had to shoot Mr Jacques in order to do so.

  Chapter Four

  "Come in." Marguerite did not look up from her task of bathing Herr Benn's forehead. It did not matter who the visitor was. Herr Benn was still safely unconscious, while she was behaving like the perfect nurse, for anyone to see.

  "I beg your pardon, ma'am."

  That unmistakable voice sent strange vibrations down her spine all over again, in spite of her resolutions. The earlier hard edge was almost gone, replaced by thick, velvet richness. She clenched her fists and dug her nails into her palms. By the time she rose and turned to face him, she was back in control of her wayward senses.

  Mr Jacques was standing just inside the door, staring across at the motionless figure on the bed.

  "It is too soon to expect any change, sir." Marguerite was pleased that her voice was steady, though she found it easier not to look directly into his face. His deep blue eyes, so much more intense than Herr Benn's, were definitely best avoided.

  He waved a hand dismissively. "I apologise for disturbing you. I am going to the village. I wondered if there was anything you needed?"

  Marguerite gestured towards the window. The sky was very dark. "Is that wise? I'd say there's a storm brewing."

  He shook his head impatiently. "I have no choice, ma'am. Herr Benn's valise was lost in Marseilles, and I do not have enough linen for two. If I can find a haberdasher's here, I might be able to purchase new cravats and so on, for us both."

  Cravats? His companion could be at death's door and he wanted cravats? His casual attitude to Herr Benn's condition caught her on the raw. Worse, he was taking it for granted that she would continue to nurse Herr Benn, without even a single word of thanks. She was too well-schooled to rail at him, but she fanned the flames of her righteous indignation. Better to appear peevish than to succumb to the strange feelings this man was able to arouse in her. "I have everything I require, thank you, sir. And I do not think Herr Benn has need of cravats, no
t at present," she added, with relish.

  That barb struck home. His eyes narrowed. For a second, she thought he would respond in kind, but he did not, though his throat was working as if he were swallowing his ire. Eventually, he sketched a bow and turned for the door, murmuring something inaudible. She supposed it was some kind of farewell.

  Insufferable man. Was he really going to buy cravats? Or was that simply a pretext to go drinking with his new-found Bonapartist cronies? Either way, it should not matter to Marguerite. She was not going to allow herself to think about Mr Jacques. Not in any way. Not his voice, nor his astonishingly deep blue eyes, nor the half-naked torso he had paraded in front of her in that harbour inn.

  That last image was still much too vivid. She could feel her skin heating in the most unladylike way. She rushed across to the door and shut it quickly, leaning her back against it and closing her eyes. She should be glad that Mr Jacques had left the inn, for his very presence was dangerous. She would not think about him. She would concentrate on caring for Herr Benn.

  The sound of muttering jerked Marguerite out of her light doze. She leapt up from the chaise longue. Herr Benn was thrashing around on the bed, clearly in pain. She hurried across to the dressing table to fetch her cooling cloth once more.

  Herr Benn had thrown off most of the bedclothes so that he was naked to the waist, apart from the bandages around his shoulder and upper chest. Marguerite laid her fingers gently on his brow. He was getting hotter. She touched the skin of his torso. That was hot, too. At least he was still insensible. He might be in pain, but he was not aware enough to know it. She began to bathe his face, his neck and the exposed skin of his chest. It seemed to help, for he settled back into his pillows, and the frown disappeared from his brow.