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

by Joanna Maitland

  She nodded glumly and produced a clean handkerchief. Guillaume lifted the lolling head and gagged Jacques tightly. "That will do for now," he said, with satisfaction. "Once the drug has worn off, I'll come back and unbuckle the belt so that he has a little freedom of movement. But the bindings on wrists and ankles must stay. As must the gag. You do see that, mistress?"

  She nodded again. "How long do you think we will need to hold him?" When they had made their plan, they had not expected Bonaparte to arrive so soon. They had hoped to have enough time to get Herr Benn on his feet, and on his way out of Lyons. Everything had changed as a result of the stable lad's shocking news.

  "I don't know. It will depend on how soon the usurper arrives, and how soon he moves on to Paris. We may end up having to keep both our guests hidden until after Bonaparte has left Lyons. Once Herr Benn is well enough, we can tell him what we have done. He will decide on the best tactics."

  "We could ask him now," she said eagerly. "He may be prepared to take Mr Jacques's parole. Then we would not need to keep him bound."

  "You are too soft-hearted by far, mistress," Guillaume said with a wry smile. "It will not do. Herr Benn is still extremely weak. I thought I detected a hint of fever when I tended to him last night, so we must do nothing to cause him concern. Besides, you know we must keep his true identity from your sister. If we tell Herr Benn the truth now, he is bound to betray it to her."

  "But she—"

  "She is normally the soul of discretion, and biddable to a fault, mistress, but she is in love with Herr Benn. Have you not seen the steely determination she has acquired where he is concerned? She would be like a tigress if she thought that Mr Jacques, or any of us, was like to harm her darling. She must learn nothing of this."

  Guillaume was probably right. Everyone else in the household must be given to understand that Jacques had ridden off, as intended, at first light. Then no one would enquire after him. Guillaume would see to his needs. There was no reason for anyone else to come up to this floor, or to enter the room, though it was a pity the door had no lock.

  Then she saw the real flaw. "What about the horse?"

  "I thought of that," Guillaume said smugly. "I sent the stable lad about his business. Once he was gone, I told the kitchen boy to lead the horse out of the city and keep him hidden for a few hours. He's to let the animal loose a few streets away from the livery stable, so that it will return home of its own accord. Horses always do. Its owner will think only that there was some kind of accident. He won't care twopence provided his horse is unharmed. He was paid in advance."

  It was a good plan and would probably work. Jacques was fated to remain a prisoner, undetected, until Herr Benn should be well enough to decide his fate.

  The body in the chair was stirring. Marguerite heard a muffled groan.

  Guillaume pushed her roughly towards the door. "He must not see you," he hissed. "Go quickly, and do not return until I tell you it is safe."

  When Jack finally managed to open his eyes, he was surprised to see Guillaume standing in front of him, with his feet firmly planted and an aggressive look on his face. Jack tried to move. It was only then that he discovered he was sitting down, and that he was bound and gagged, to boot. He began to struggle.

  "I wouldn't waste your strength, sir," Guillaume said equably.

  Jack shook his head fiercely, straining against the gag. He would not yield. He had been drugged, and he was a helpless prisoner. With a pounding headache.

  "You won't be harmed," Guillaume said, "unless you do something rash, like trying to escape." He paused, scrutinising Jack's mutinous face. "If you stop struggling, I'll remove that belt from round your chest, and fetch some lotion for that bump on your head. You did that yourself when you fell," he added, as though it worried him that Jack might believe he had been struck from behind.

  Jack ignored the pain. He saw that he was tied to the chair with his own belt. So much for his careful planning. It was the ultimate ignominy. The leader of the Aikenhead Honours in France had been overcome by a grizzled old servant.

  No, that was wrong. The guiding hand was not Guillaume's but Marguerite's. She had given him the coffee and encouraged him to drink it. She had smiled, too. If he ever got free of this, he would wring her beautiful neck.

  Jack's initial fury had abated a little. Guillaume had removed the belt, though he had then passed it round Jack's biceps and through the slats of the chair. He could not move his arms, but he could breathe more easily. Guillaume had fed him the bread from Marguerite's tray, washed down with water from the shaving jug. Since it was almost cold by the time he drank it, Jack knew he must have been unconscious for a considerable time. It must be nearly noon.

  Guillaume had said he would come to no harm, but Jack did not believe that. If they freed him now, Jack would find a way of taking his revenge on them. They must know that. Somehow, they must have discovered that he was not the Bonapartist he claimed to be. They would deliver him to the usurper's forces at the first opportunity. At best, he faced prison. If they discovered he was English, he would be shot as a spy. His mission was a failure.

  And what of Ben? Had they secured him, too? That would require no elaborate trick with drugged coffee. They had only to keep Ben in his room, for he was still too weak to fight back, or to try to escape. Ben did not deserve to be shot. If he died here, it would be Jack's doing. His mission was doubly a failure.

  Marguerite Grolier had won, curse her.

  She had brought the drugged coffee to him herself. Did she suspect how his body reacted to her presence? Or was it simply that he was bound to be surprised, and grateful, for such kindness? If Guillaume had brought it, Jack might well have set it aside, impatient to be on his way. But it would have been the height of ill manners to do so to Marguerite. With her clear green gaze on him, he had drunk it down. And she, no doubt, had smiled while she watched him crumple to the floor.

  Yet he could not hate her. Why? What was it about this fierce and formidable Frenchwoman that stopped him from hating her, for the enemy she was? He pondered that for a long time without arriving at any very clear answer. She was extraordinarily brave and resourceful, as she had proved by besting him so efficiently. She was beautiful, hard-working and dedicated to her cause. She would make a wonderful mate for a man who shared her beliefs and matched her qualities, but he doubted she would ever find a man worthy of her among the artisans of Lyons. She was only a weaver's daughter, but she had the manners of a lady, and the clear-sighted virtues of a queen.

  Chapter Ten

  "Marguerite! Guillaume! Come quickly." It was Suzanne's voice, from the floor above. She sounded to be in complete panic.

  Marguerite raced out of the kitchen and up the stairs with Guillaume at her heels. The door to Herr Benn's little room stood open. Inside, Marguerite could see Suzanne kneeling on the floor near the end of the bed.

  "Suzanne, what on earth is the matter?" And then she saw. "Oh, goodness. Guillaume, fetch hot water and fresh bandages. Quickly."

  Marguerite flung herself down beside Herr Benn's motionless body. His head was bleeding copiously, and the bandages round his chest and shoulder were turning redder by the minute. Whatever had happened, it had reopened his wound. She felt for a pulse. It was there, and fairly strong, but irregular.

  "When Guillaume returns, we will get him back on to the bed and dress his wounds. Do not look so concerned, Suzanne. Head wounds always bleed like this." She mopped away the blood with her handkerchief so that she could gently spread the hair around the new injury. She examined it carefully. "It is not so very deep. I expect Herr Benn has a hard head. I am sure he will soon mend."

  Suzanne was shivering. Her eyes were wide and staring out from the stark whiteness of her face. Had she heard a single word? Marguerite took a blanket from the bed to wrap round her sister's shoulders. Herr Benn would not need it until his wounds had been dressed. By then, Suzanne would be herself again.

  Guillaume rushed back into the room. He ha
d been remarkably quick.

  "Put the water down by the bed, Guillaume, and help me to lift him. Once we have dressed his hurts, we must not move him again."

  Guillaume took Herr Benn's shoulders and Marguerite his feet. Suzanne, still shivering and staring vacantly, did not move an inch or react in any way.

  "Good. Now we'll start with this head wound." Marguerite bathed it gently and bound a pad of linen over it. The bandage covered most of his left eye, too, though it had sustained no injury. "He will have to use only one eye for a while. Heads are remarkably difficult to bandage," she added, trying to sound light-hearted. She looked round to see whether Suzanne was responding to her feeble quip. But she still had not moved.

  "Do you lift his shoulders, Guillaume, while I take off this bandage." The wrappings round his upper body were gradually unwound. Underneath, the pad was soaked with fresh blood. Marguerite said nothing. She cleaned the wound, applied a new and larger pad, and bound it in place. "Now we must make him comfortable and keep him warm." She rinsed her bloody fingers and rose. "Suzanne, I shall need the blanket you have there. Herr Benn is becoming chilled."

  "What?" Suzanne turned to face the bed, ignoring the blanket, which fell from her shoulders. She gazed wide-eyed at Herr Benn as if for the first time. "He is dead." Her face was more grey than white. Her eyes were filling with tears.

  Marguerite helped her sister to her feet. "He is not dead. Come and see for yourself," she said in rallying tones. She picked up Herr Benn's wrist, checking the pulse. "His heart beats strongly. He will soon recover."

  In a rush of emotion, Suzanne threw herself on her knees, clasped Herr Benn's hand in both her own, and carried it to her lips for a passionate kiss. Her tears were flowing strongly now, but the warm flesh seemed to reassure her a little. After a moment she looked up at her sister. "You swear he will recover?" It was the hesitant voice of a child seeking certainty from an all-powerful parent.

  "He was mending very well until now, my dear. I am certain that he will again." When a little of Suzanne's colour began to return, Marguerite risked a question. "Were you with him when it happened? How came he to be out of bed?"

  "It was my fault." Suzanne gulped and dug out a handkerchief to blow her nose. "I was telling him about Bonaparte's arrival in Lyons and about how the comte d'Artois rode off this morning with his tail between his legs. I thought no harm. Benn is a German, after all. What is it to him whether we have a king or an emperor to rule over us? But he became agitated. I tried to keep him in bed, but he pushed me away. He fell heavily and hit his head on the corner of the chest. He muttered something, and then he passed out. That is when I called for help."

  "Very wise, my dear. And by the sound of it, there was nothing you could have done to prevent this …um… unfortunate accident." Marguerite put a comforting hand on her sister's shoulder and squeezed gently. "You said he was muttering," she added, airily. "Could you make out any words?"

  "No, not really. It sounded a little like 'Jacques' but it was not that. He could barely speak, you see, for he was face down on the floor."

  Marguerite was in no doubt that Herr Benn had indeed referred to his travelling companion. He would know that, now Napoleon had entered Lyons in triumph, Jacques presented a very real danger. What had Herr Benn intended to do? There was no way of knowing. But it was certain that he would now be confined to bed for a considerable time. Marguerite sighed. She had hoped to be able to speed Herr Benn on his way as soon as Bonaparte left Lyons for Paris. There was no longer any chance of that. For all she knew, his whole mission might have been put in jeopardy by this new delay. Suzanne should have known better.

  "Suzanne, why did you tell him about Bonaparte? I thought we had agreed to say nothing to anyone about either king or emperor?"

  "I…I'm sorry, Marguerite. I'm afraid I didn't think about that. Herr Benn and I, we have become so comfortable together these last few days. He said he was bored, having to lie in bed all the time, and so I told him about the comte d'Artois in hopes of making him laugh. The comte may be the King's brother, but he is a ridiculous little man, and deserves to be laughed at," she added, with venom. "Benn became agitated, and asked me whether Bonaparte had actually arrived in Lyons. I could not lie to him, Marguerite. And then he pushed himself out of bed, and—"

  "Say no more, my love. You have had a shock. I suggest you return to your room and rest."

  "But I should stay to—"

  "Do not concern yourself about Herr Benn. Guillaume and I will look after him, I promise."

  Jack swallowed the last of the stewed meat from the spoon. "What was all that commotion I heard earlier? A woman's voice, screaming for help."

  Guillaume frowned but said nothing. He retrieved the gag from the dressing table. "If you have finished, sir, I'm afraid I must put this on again."

  Jack shook his head. "I need a drink. Surely you have some water, or some small ale?" He desperately wanted to avoid the gag for as long as possible.

  Guillaume poured water into a glass and held it to Jack's lips so that he could drink. "If you freed one of my hands, Guillaume, I could shift for myself. It would save you a great deal of trouble."

  Guillaume grinned briefly down at Jack. "Now that, sir, is what I would call a plumper. You know, and I know, that if I freed even one of your hands, you'd have your fingers round my neck before I could say a word."

  Jack laughed. He was beginning to think that the old man did indeed mean him no harm. But if Jack was not to be handed over to Bonaparte's agents, what on earth did they intend to do with him? "Perhaps you should experiment with releasing only a finger or two? I cannot strangle you without a thumb, you know."

  Guillaume raised an eyebrow. "Don't think I'd put anything past you, sir. 'Fraid I have my instructions. Bound and gagged at all times." He offered Jack more water but, when that was done, he made to replace the gag. He would do it with an apology, and a degree of gentleness, but he would ensure it was tight.

  "A moment, Guillaume. I have a bargain to propose."

  Guillaume stood in front of the chair, the gag dangling threateningly from his fingers. "Sir?"

  "You do accept that I am a gentleman?" He waited for Guillaume's nod before continuing. "If I give you my word of honour that I will not cry out for as long as you hold me bound here, will you not agree to forgo the gag? It is suffocating, you know," he added confidingly, "besides undignified for any man."

  Jack could see that Guillaume was already half-persuaded. Guillaume himself had a certain dignity. Jack's words had struck home.

  "You give me your parole that you will not shout, or call for help? You will not even call attention to the fact that you are in this room?"

  Jack's mind was racing. He must respond without hesitation. "I give you my parole that I will not use my voice to call attention to myself in any way, if you will agree not to restore the gag."

  Guillaume considered that, but seemed to detect no flaw. "I cannot see that Miss Marguerite would object," he said carefully.

  That was the first time Guillaume had admitted, in terms, that Jack was imprisoned by Marguerite Grolier's command. Jack had known it, and yet the confirmation settled like a lead weight in his gut.

  "I accept your parole, sir. I will leave aside the gag." He bowed and left.

  Jack listened for the sound of Guillaume's boots on the floorboards and then on the stairs. He needed to be absolutely sure there was no one within earshot before he embarked on his plan. It was the slimmest of chances, but he was not prepared to sit and wait for whatever fate Marguerite Grolier had decided to inflict on him. He wanted to meet her, face to face, and on equal terms. There would be no more lusting after her glorious body. It would be a battle. And only one of them would emerge victorious.

  After almost an hour of rocking methodically back and forwards in his chair, and banging the legs down on to the bare floorboards, Jack was beginning to lose heart. He had been so sure that he was above the room where Marguerite's sick mother was nursed. I
t stood to reason that someone would come up to find out who, or what, was creating all the noise and disturbing the invalid.

  Thus far, nothing. Jack had never set eyes on Marguerite's mother. Indeed, he had had only a few glimpses of old Berthe, the maid who looked after her. Berthe seemed to spend almost all her time on her nursing duties, though, just occasionally, Jack had seen her performing chores such as changing bed linen or sweeping floors. Obviously, the mother was a demanding patient who needed constant nursing. So, either Berthe was stone deaf, or she was out on some errand.

  Should he stop? It was a useful way of moving round the room, and he was now close enough to the window to be able to peer out through the chink in the shutters. On the other hand, if the invalid mother was lying downstairs alone, and unable to rise from her bed or to call for help, the noise could well be driving her to distraction. But perhaps she was not even there?

  Jack's conscience got the better of him then, and he stopped banging his chair. His plan was not working. Besides, even if the noise did bring someone upstairs to investigate, there was no certainty that it would help. Berthe might be part of the plot to hold Jack captive, as Marguerite and Guillaume were.

  And yet he wondered about that. Marguerite and Guillaume were very close-mouthed. Nothing had been said to suggest that even Miss Suzanne knew what was going on, far less Berthe and the invalid mother.

  Jack sighed. He would have to think of something else. Or he might try again later, after dusk, when the mother was sure to be back in her bedchamber.

  "I do think a gentleman should rise when a lady comes into the room."

  The voice came from behind him, by the door. It was a clipped, cultured voice that reminded Jack very forcibly of his French mother.

  He twisted his head round, but he could not see her. He had to rock the chair backwards and forwards several times before he turned it round far enough to see. His jaw dropped. There, in the open doorway, stood a lady who was an older version of Marguerite—the same features, the same height and neat build, and the same hair. Apart from the colour, which was grey. Marguerite's mother.