She could not make out Guillaume's low-voiced reply, but she heard the clink of coins. There would be money for the livery stable, for the oats, and probably for the kitchen boy as well.
Whatever Jacques had discovered, it could not be good for the royalist cause. She had detected real satisfaction in his voice. Would he come in to her, to share the news of his hero? Would she be able to conceal her disgust if he did? A shiver ran down her spine. She had a fleeting vision of the Imperial Guard marching over bloody corpses, and shouting for their Emperor.
She could not face him. She ran to the door and opened it a crack so that she could peep out. She saw Jacques still silhouetted against the fading light in the open doorway, talking quietly to his horse. One look was enough. She slipped along the passage and ran up the stairs to her own room. There, with her door firmly closed, she sank on to her bed and stared at her grim reflection in the glass. It seemed that every last vestige of colour had drained from her face. Even her hair seemed to have faded, as if a film of grey had been laid over her.
Jacques had returned. He was safe. But his success had brought the death of all her hopes for her country.
Jack ran a hand through his filthy hair. What he needed was a bath. His whole body was bathed in sweat, and his skin was tight with the clinging dust of the road. No doubt he smelt to high heaven, too.
He was glad that Marguerite had not come to meet him. He did not want her to see him—or smell him—like this. She would be overjoyed at his news, obviously. What Bonapartist would not? Her eyes would widen and her skin would glow, as if he were telling her that her lover was on the way to her, rather than her beloved Emperor. What was is about that little man that inspired such adoration, in women and men alike?
He shrugged his shoulders and made for the stairs. He would look in on Ben, and then, since a bath was out of the question, he would strip and scrub himself clean, inch by inch. He wished, now, that he had not seen that encounter on the road. He would never be able to forget it. It had both impressed and astonished him.
But it terrified him, too.
Marguerite's door flew open with a crash.
"Miss Marguerite. Oh, come quickly to your mama." It was Berthe. She looked distraught.
Marguerite jumped to her feet. "What has happened?"
"She is ripping her gown to shreds, mistress. And cursing like a trooper. I tried to stop her, but she is too strong for me."
It had happened before, and there was only one solution. Marguerite seized the bottle of laudanum from her dressing table and rushed headlong for her mother's chamber.
She crashed straight into Louis Jacques.
He grabbed her by her upper arms to save her from falling. "Why, Miss Grolier. Good evening. I had not expected you to be quite so eager to see me again." He grinned impudently, his teeth very white in his dirty face. His eyes were gleaming, too, as he set her back on her feet and loosened his grip a little. But he did not quite let her go. His large hands rested on her flesh, burning through the fabric of her sleeves, while his gaze was boring into hers, searching, as if for something hidden.
She could not move. She could not even begin to shake him off.
His eyes widened, and darkened. His mouth opened a fraction, and the tip of his tongue moistened his upper lip. Otherwise, he too stood motionless.
"Miss Marguerite. Please."
Berthe's urgent summons broke the spell that held Marguerite. She saw that her hands were against his chest, one still clutching the laudanum bottle. She pushed hard and fled into her mother's chamber.
As the door closed, Marguerite heard his voice behind her. "Happy to be of service, ma'am." It was followed by a deep chuckle. "Always."
Jack held his smile until the door had closed on the two women. A shudder ran through his frame. What the devil had happened there?
He had no idea. But he could tell that it mattered. It certainly proved he had been right in his resolve to keep Marguerite Grolier at a distance. One touch, one innocent contact, and his exhausted body was almost fully aroused. Inexplicable, uncontrollable lust, all over again.
When her gaze had flickered to his lips, his mouth had dried instantly. With hot, blistering desire. For one mad moment, holding the soft warmth of her so tantalisingly close, he had been on the point of kissing her on the lips.
Shocked by his own weakness, he turned on his heel and ran up the stairs to his own bedchamber on the floor above. Ben could wait while Jack splashed cold water on his overheated face. A few moments' delay could make no different to Ben, but it would make all the difference in the world to Jack's self-possession.
When Jack returned to the first-floor landing, it was empty and silent. He refused to think about where Marguerite might be. He must concentrate on Ben and on the next stage of their mission.
He tapped quietly on Ben's door. There was no response. He put an ear to the panel. Perhaps Ben was asleep? He would peep in to check. Slowly and quietly, Jack raised the latch and pushed the door open.
"Oh!" Suzanne Grolier sprang up from the bed where she had been sitting. Her face was scarlet. Ben, too, looked distinctly uncomfortable, and there was a hint of a blush on his neck. Well, well, well. So that was the way of it. How very interesting.
And how very dangerous.
"Good evening, ma'am." He bowed. "I trust I see you well? I can see that I need not ask after my friend's health. He looks to have improved beyond measure in the time I have been away."
She tried to reply, but no words came out. Defeated, she dropped him a sketchy curtsey and rushed out of the room.
"Oh dear. I seem to have frightened her away."
"Looking like that, you would frighten anyone. What on earth have you done to yourself, Jack?" Ben's embarrassment had vanished in a trice. His customary sharp-witted self was back, to Jack's relief.
Jack laid a finger along the side of his nose and crossed the room to check that the door was securely fastened, before returning to take Miss Suzanne's place on the bed. "I have ridden more miles than I can count these last few days, hence my disreputable state. But, more important, I have watched the most astonishing sight of my life. If you are well enough, I will tell you about it."
He raised an eyebrow at Ben, who nodded slightly and settled back on to his pillows with a satisfied sigh. "In your whole life, eh? Now that I really do want to hear."
Chapter Eight
The swish of Suzanne's skirts as she ran along the passage to her room was enough to rouse Marguerite's curiosity and take her to the door. What was the matter? She glanced back to check one last time that all was well. Mama was sleeping peacefully at last, with faithful Berthe by the side of the bed, holding her hand.
Marguerite opened the door just in time to see Herr Benn's door close. Yes, of course. Jacques had gone in to see his companion and had found him closeted with Suzanne. No wonder Suzanne had fled. She must have been mortified.
Marguerite looked up and down the passage and craned her neck to see down the staircase. There was no sign of Guillaume. Berthe would not stir from her mistress's side. Marguerite strained her ears. The only sound she could hear was the low murmur of men's voices in Herr Benn's tiny bedchamber. Encouraged, she swallowed her scruples, crept across the bare floorboards, and put her ear to the thinnest panel of the door.
She could hear Jacques remarkably clearly through the wood. There was excitement in his voice. Perhaps that was why he had not lowered it to a whisper?
"It was extraordinary. If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it." That voice was unmistakable. Jacques was not excited; he was jubilant.
Marguerite began to listen more avidly, her heart pounding.
"Tell me all of it. From the beginning." That was Herr Benn. He was bound to want as much detail as possible to pass on to his masters in England.
"As you wish. I reached Grenoble with no difficulty. There were plenty of soldiers on the road, all wearing the white cockade, but none of them challenged me."<
br />
"I'm not surprised, Jacques. Even in those appalling clothes, you look and ride like a gentleman."
Jacques laughed. "Thank you for the compliment. I think." The amusement in his voice prickled down Marguerite's spine. "In Grenoble, I saw at least a regiment of soldiers spread all over the city. Obviously, I had to be careful not to arouse suspicions by asking questions, but it looked to me like a very neatly laid trap. Riding south to Gap, I found the road pretty well deserted. So much so, that I began to wonder if I would ever find them. And then, at the top of a narrow pass, there they all were, right in front of me."
"All?"
"Yes. The King's soldiers were blockading the full width of the road, muskets at the ready. The Imperial Guard was drawn up facing them, a little out of range. Their formation was immaculate. They didn't look in the least like men who had struggled over trackless mountain passes. And I could tell they were spoiling for a fight. It's no wonder they strike terror into opposing armies. They look formidable. I found myself feeling sorry for the royalists who had to stand against them."
"And Bonaparte was there?"
Marguerite caught her breath. Would Jacques notice that Herr Benn had betrayed his true allegiance by referring to the usurper in such a disparaging way?
It seemed not. Jacques continued his tale, the excitement in his voice mounting all the time. "At first, I almost missed him. I had expected more splendour, I must say. His horse didn't look particularly fine to me, and his dress certainly wasn't—a plain grey coat and the kind of broad black hat that any merchant might wear. He sat his horse at the front of the Guard while the two formations stared at each other. The silence was uncanny. I thought the royalists might advance and fire, but they didn't move. The Guard didn't advance either, but I suppose they'd have been shot to pieces if they had."
"So what did he do?"
"He scrutinised the ranks of royalist troops as minutely as if he were the reviewing officer on a parade square. Then, once all their eyes were fixed on him, he walked his horse forward, cool as you like, until he was well within musket range. I expected them to fire on him, but no order came. Even the officers must have been transfixed, wondering what he would do."
"And?"
"He dismounted—quite casually—and walked forward towards the muskets. You should have seen him, Ben. One small, vulnerable figure apparently advancing into certain death. Such supreme confidence. Such courage." Jacques paused and swallowed audibly. "By then, the silence was absolute. When he stopped, I even heard the thud as he planted his boots in the dust. He looked slowly along the front rank of faces, and I could have sworn I saw the hint of a smile, as if he had recognised them. He certainly addressed the regiment by name. And he made sure every one of them heard him."
"What did he say, exactly?"
"He has a fine carrying voice. 'Soldiers of the Fifth, don't you know me?' And then he put his bare hand over his heart and shouted, 'If there is any man among you who would shoot his General—his Emperor—let him do it!' By God, it was magnificent. The two armies held their breath. It felt like a lifetime before anyone moved. The shouts started in the front rank and soon the whole of the Fifth was yelling 'Vive l'Empereur!' and surging forward to touch him. I tell you, Benn, the Emperor Napoleon has truly come into his own again."
Marguerite could not bear to hear any more. This was not merely hero-worship, it was blind adoration. How was it that a man like Jacques, a man of such sterling qualities, could fail to see what a monster Bonaparte was?
A bitter sob rose in her throat. She managed to swallow it, but she knew that the combination of nausea and fury was going to overwhelm her at any moment. Besides, she had heard enough. She crept back to her own room, barred the door behind her, and threw herself on to her pillows. Hot tears were coursing down her cheeks. She wiped them away impatiently with the back of her hand, berating herself for such childish weakness. She was a grown woman. She had known, almost from the first, that Louis Jacques was a Bonapartist and therefore an enemy. But somehow, until the moment when she heard that soaring jubilation in his voice, she had believed, in a tiny corner of her heart, that he might be redeemed. How ridiculous. There was not the least chance of redemption for such a man. She had been a fool to imagine it, even for a moment.
She rose and scrubbed at her eyes. They were red, but only a little swollen. She poured some cold water into the washbasin and splashed her face vigorously. When she looked in the glass again, the result was much improved.
She would sit here alone for a little while, to recover completely. And then she would emerge as the woman she had been before that disastrous visit to Marseilles. She would be Marguerite Grolier, mistress of a Lyons silk business. And of herself.
"He may be only a puffed-up little Corsican, but I tell you in all honesty, Ben, I cannot fault his personal courage. Or his understanding of men. The old soldiers of the French Empire are clearly longing for the victories and the glory they achieved when he led them. When he faced them, and addressed them by name, they flocked to him like chicks to the mother hen. They love him. And everything he stands for. I have no doubt they are all ready to die for him."
"That is a very potent mixture," Ben said with a deep sigh. "There is no Allied commander who inspires such selfless devotion. Wellington may be admired and even respected. But he is not loved."
"I fear you're right. When I came back through Grenoble, the whole of the Seventh Regiment was stood to arms, waiting for him. Whatever their officers may intend, I doubt very much that the Seventh will shoot where the Fifth would not. Bonaparte will soon be marching into Grenoble with his Guard at his back, and now the Fifth as well. I would wager good money that the Seventh will join him. He is recreating his old legend. Grenoble will fall to it. And probably Lyons as well."
Ben was beginning to look very tired now. It was time to leave him to rest. But before Jack did so, he had to find a way of broaching an even more difficult topic. He began breezily. "Look, old man, I know you're not fit to travel yet, but we've got to make sure this news gets back to England. They need to know that Bonaparte is on the loose again, and that there's not one of the French King's regiments will stand against him. They'll have to muster the Allied armies again. And quickly, too, or Bonaparte will have his armies halfway across Europe."
Ben tried to raise himself from his pillows, but with only one good arm it was an awkward movement, and he fell back, cursing his own weakness. "I'm not fit to go, Jack. We both know that. You must go on alone. The mission comes first, remember?"
"No. We'll manage somehow. We can—"
"Stubble it, Jack. You know we can't. You're the leader. It's your responsibility. I'm only a foot soldier, and a pretty poor one at that." He grimaced down at the bandages that swathed his upper body.
Jack shook his head sadly. "You're right," he admitted after a moment. "I shall have to go alone. I'll make the arrangements tonight and leave at first light tomorrow. Don't worry, I'll see you before I go and bring you up to date on everything. And I should have time to get you out of this nest of Bonapartists and into somewhere safer as well. If you stay here, you'll probably end up being shot. By a firing squad this time."
Ben shook his head, smiling lazily. "You know, my friend, I take leave to doubt that. Somehow I fancy that the Grolier household is the safest place in the world for me at present."
"Oh?" Then the truth dawned. "Oh. So that's the way the wind is blowing, is it? I had not imagined it had gone so far. Well, I wish you joy of her, Ben. But make sure you don't end up in parson's mousetrap with a Frenchwoman you daren't present to your grandfather." Jack stood up and grinned down at the helpless figure on the bed. "And make sure you get home in one piece, too. I give you fair warning. The Honours need you back in England. If you don't appear, I shall be back to collect you, pretty French mistress or no."
With that, he strode swiftly out of the room, totally ignoring the spluttered invective that was thrown at his back.
Marguerite examine
d her face in the glass once more. She looked quite normal, she decided. She could venture out now, without risking awkward questions from the servants. Or, worse, from a solicitous Jacques.
That single passing thought of him had sent her heart racing all over again. She sat down with a bump on the edge of the bed and clasped her hands in her lap. What on earth was she going to do? He seemed to be haunting her, like a fierce, evil spirit. She needed to be rid of him. Oh for those earlier fantasies of shooting him, or stabbing him, or lacing his cup with poison. Sadly, they were only fantasies. She could not kill any man, not even in order to defend her country. Not even to protect Herr Benn.
Goodness. She had almost forgotten Herr Benn. What on earth must he have thought while his companion was relating tales of Bonaparte's extraordinary personal courage? Herr Benn had said very little apart from a few neutral questions. He would know where Jacques's sympathies lay. Marguerite was sure Herr Benn would never be foolish enough to jeopardise his mission by slighting Bonaparte to such an ardent supporter.
It had been astonishing, to her, that Herr Benn was prepared to travel with such a man. But then again, what better cover could he find than a Bonapartist? No doubt, Jacques could talk them both out of any difficulty they might encounter.
Marguerite's respect for Herr Benn was growing by the moment, and so was her ambition to learn to detest Louis Jacques. Unfortunately, in spite of her best endeavours, she was failing there. Her rebellious body continued to respond every time he appeared. The closer he came, the more her heart raced and her skin burned. She could not understand what was happening to her. Even as a green girl, she had never reacted in such a way to any man.
In a flash of burning insight, she understood that it was useless to wonder why it was so. It simply was. And there was no help for it.
His Forbidden Liaison: A brotherhood of spies in Napoleonic France (The Aikenhead Honours Book 3) Page 9
