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

by Joanna Maitland

  Bonaparte had expelled émigrés, confiscated lands, and abolished all feudal titles. Guillaume had announced it as terrible news. Mama would agree, if she understood what it meant. But Marguerite did not care. A silk-weaver's family had no interest in such things.

  What mattered was that Guillaume refused to trust Mr Jacques. Jacques had given his word of honour not to escape, and had then broken it, according to Guillaume. No royalist supporter would do such a thing.

  It had taken Marguerite some time to convince the old servant that Jacques could not be a Bonapartist. If he were, he would have joined Bonaparte long since. And given up the Grolier family, to boot. Jacques had to be a royalist. It was the only explanation that fitted the facts.

  It was the only explanation that allowed her to love him without sacrificing her honour. It was the only explanation that gave her a chance to prove that she was worthy of him.

  Marguerite's mind was in confusion. Her thoughts kept revolving round that one fixed point—she loved Jacques with her whole heart. She had to protect him, as she had to protect Herr Benn. But she could not predict how Jacques would react if he learned Herr Benn was an English spy. Many Frenchmen, even ardent royalists, would be horrified at the thought of helping the country that had caused so many French deaths. Dare she trust Jacques with Herr Benn's secret?

  After much painful thought, she decided that she must not. Herr Benn could decide who was to share his secret. It was his neck, after all. And he might regain his wits sooner that anyone expected.

  She had sent Guillaume downstairs with orders to make sure she was not disturbed. Then she crept across to Herr Benn's door and put her ear against it. She had been right. She could hear men's voices, two of them. Herr Benn was conscious, and recovered enough to speak to Jacques.

  She was tempted, for a moment, to march into the room and order Jacques to leave, to insist that Herr Benn needed his rest. But the opportunity to discover exactly what was going on between these two proved irresistible. She leaned even closer against the panelled wood and strained to hear every single sound.

  "I've got the devil of a headache, Jacques." That was Herr Benn's voice. "Do we have to keep speaking French? It would be so much easier on my poor wits if—"

  "You must stick to French." Jacques sounded very forceful. "Please keep trying. Your …er… native tongue might be easier on your cracked pate, but it could be dangerous. Walls have ears, you know."

  Herr Benn mumbled something but Marguerite was barely listening any more. Herr Benn's plea had started a wild train of thought in her brain. Did Herr Benn wish to revert to German, or to English? And if to English, did that mean that Jacques spoke English too, and knew Herr Benn's identity? What if—?

  This was all becoming so convoluted and confusing that she could not unravel it without time alone to think. Better she should concentrate on listening. She bent back to the panel.

  "—told me it was an accident. Is that true?"

  "My own stupid clumsiness again. When you did not return, I suspected something was wrong. Then Suzanne told me that Bonaparte had arrived in Lyons, and I knew something must have happened to you. Must say I'm not totally sure what I intended to do once I got out of this room, but…" Herr Benn's voice tailed off ruefully.

  "Thank you for trying. As it happens you were right. I was …er… unavoidably detained. But I am free now. Since we cannot go on together, I must complete the mission alone."

  Fear ripped through Marguerite. There could be no doubt. Jacques and Benn were collaborators. Jacques was a spy for England, too. He was intent on fulfilling their mission, whatever it was, by himself, in spite of the huge risks. If he were caught by Bonaparte's men, he would be sent to the guillotine, or shot. They might torture him, too. They would always be harder on a Frenchman than a foreigner, for betrayal cut deep.

  It was too dangerous. He must not go alone.

  She had put her hand to the latch when she heard a soft laugh. It was Herr Benn. How could he?

  "Why not enlist with Bonaparte, Jacques? No reason why you shouldn't pass for one of his supporters. You always were a plausible rogue. The army will certainly be accompanying their precious Emperor to Paris, so you would have plenty of opportunities to gather information. Once you reached Paris, you could melt away. It's a good plan, don't you think?"

  "Another one of your hare-brained schemes. Still, it might work if—"

  Marguerite flung open the door and marched into the room. Hands on hips, she glowered at the two men, "No, it is not a good plan. It is a ridiculous plan. Have you no idea how the army operates? Soldiers who 'melt away', as you call it, are shot as deserters."

  Herr Benn looked thunderstruck. Jacques rose lazily to his feet and bowed to her. He was laughing.

  Still furious, Marguerite tried to frown him down, but he continued to laugh. Herr Benn, however, was looking exceedingly embarrassed. He gulped and made to speak.

  Jacques lifted a hand to silence him. "It seems I was right to say that walls have ears, Benn," he said, fixing Marguerite with his fierce blue gaze.

  She refused to be cowed. "No, sir," she retorted. "Not walls. Doors."

  He really laughed then, though it had been a feeble sally. The tiny sun-kissed creases at the corners of his eyes folded together as crisply as the finest drapery. He was enjoying this. And, whatever lay before him, he was not afraid.

  Whereas Marguerite was terrified. Not for her family, not for Herr Benn, but for Jacques. There must be a solution. It was up to her to find a way of reducing the risk, for Jacques would never be persuaded to abandon his mission. She knew that as surely as she knew she loved him.

  Perhaps it was her love that provided the inspiration. "You cannot join the army, Jacques, and you cannot travel to Paris alone. It would be suicide. The roads are teeming with Bonapartists, all waiting for a chance to curry favour with their idol. Delivering you up as a spy could be extremely good for a man's prospects." She glared at him. "Not for yours, however."

  "No," he agreed airily, "I imagine my prospects would be rather …er… limited." He grinned at her. He seemed to be relishing this battle of wills. "I am grateful for your concern, Marguerite, but this is men's work." When she bristled, he added, "Forgive me. I know I can trust your discretion, and I know you will protect Benn, but I must do my duty. I will take no unnecessary risks, I promise."

  It was not his reassuring words that soothed her heart, but the way he was gazing at her. As if they were the only two people in the whole world. As if their spirits had touched, and lingered, and held. He reached out to her heart like a shaft of sunlight reaching down to warm the cold earth after rain. And her heart sang.

  "If you are determined to go to Paris, Jacques, I shall go with you."

  "No. You cannot. You—"

  She dared to reach out and silence him with a finger across his lips. She had the obvious solution. She could see it all so clearly. "We shall travel to Paris together, as silk merchants. We shall be carrying the Duchess of Courland's silk."

  "The Duchess of Courland supports King Louis," Jacques growled against her finger.

  She smiled at him, shaking her head. "We shall make clear, to anyone who enquires, that our only interest is in selling our wares. We make no distinction between royalists and Bonapartists, provided their coin is good. Believe me, there will be no difficulty. I have done this before."

  He took a step backwards, but not before he had placed a tiny parting kiss upon her skin. Or had she imagined it? No. It had been real. Her finger tingled, still.

  "The times are too dangerous. It is out of the question. I forbid it."

  Marguerite opened her mouth to demand by what right he sought to order her life, but Herr Benn forestalled her. In the most reasonable of tones, he said, "I think you should listen to her, Jacques. Oh, don't turn your temper on me. I'm an invalid. And immune." He grinned mischievously. "The truth is that you are thinking about your own sense of chivalry, of obligation, to Miss Marguerite, when you should b
e thinking about our mission. It has to come first. If Miss Marguerite is prepared to help us, for the cause that we all believe in, we must consider, coolly and rationally, whether her plan is more likely to succeed than yours."

  "We cannot—"

  "I have to tell you candidly, my friend, that I think she is right. You should travel to Paris together."

  The argument continued for some time. In the end, Jacques was persuaded to agree to Marguerite's plan. "But, at the first hint of danger, you will place yourself under my orders. You will do as I say. Do I have your word on that, Marguerite?"

  She bridled at the thought. He would decide there was danger whenever he wanted her to do as she was told. "Why should I agree to such a thing, when—"

  "One of the things I've learned, working with Jacques," Herr Benn drawled, "is that there are times when it is best not to argue with him. Occasionally, he actually does know best. I think, Miss Marguerite, that this is one of those times."

  "Oh." She glanced up from Herr Benn's bland countenance to see how Jacques would react. For a fleeting moment, she fancied she saw tenderness in his face. Then it was gone, and his expression became unreadable. "Very well," she said quietly, holding his gaze. "On Herr Benn's advice, I agree to your terms."

  Chapter Twelve

  It was decided. They would leave on the morrow, at first light. They would have to carry the fabric for the Duchess of Courland's gown, and enough samples of silks and velvets to give the appearance of silk merchants, but they would not carry enough to need the lumbering old coach. They would travel post. Jacques, it seemed, had plenty of ready money. Were spies always so well endowed?

  The key to their success, Jacques had admitted once he had come down from the boughs and begun to confide in Marguerite, was to be out of Lyons before Bonaparte. By all accounts, the man was relishing his return to absolute power; he was certainly issuing decrees right and left. He would need to appear in Paris soon, but he would remain in Lyons for a day or two yet. He was very sure of himself now. It was rumoured that he had summoned his wife and son to his side.

  Marguerite had finished packing the samples in their protective oiled paper. They were waiting in the store room next to her bedchamber, ready to be carried downstairs in the morning. Now she must decide what to take for herself. How long was she likely to be from home? Where were they likely to go? She had no idea. The only certainty was that she would have to wait on the Duchess of Courland. For that, Marguerite would need to be dressed in her best. She took down her favourite evening gown from the clothes press and folded it carefully. It was more than a year since she had sewn it, but its cut was so simple that it would never look out of fashion. It was the fabric itself that drew every gaze, a figured silk in a deep vibrant blue that brought out the colour of her eyes. She knew it became her. Would Jacques admire her when she wore it?

  There was no time for daydreaming, she reminded herself sternly. She must finish her packing and then she must talk to Suzanne. And her mother. Marguerite was not looking forward to that encounter. With Suzanne, it would be a question of ensuring she was content to take charge of the business during Marguerite's absence, and that she would protect Herr Benn. Marguerite had no more doubts on that score. The danger was that she would protect him too well, and lose her own virtue in the process. Marguerite ought to have stern words with Suzanne before she left.

  But what would their mother say? Would she remember that Marguerite had planned to travel to Paris to deliver the Duchess of Courland's silk? Would she assume that Marguerite would travel with Guillaume, as she usually did? It would be best if Mama learned nothing at all of Jacques. Mama was the most passionate royalist of the whole family, and she would not willingly do anything to harm a man so closely linked to her cause, but her mind was increasingly fragile. Often, she hardly knew what she was saying.

  Marguerite laid the last few items carefully into her valise and placed it on the floor by the bed. In the morning she would add the final things—her nightrail, her hairbrush, her tooth powder. There was no more to be done now.

  She straightened and tried to ease the tension in her shoulders. The interview she dreaded would have to be faced tonight, whether Mama was lucid or not. But first, she would speak to Suzanne.

  She went along the landing and knocked on Suzanne's door, but there was no reply. She should have known. There was only one place where Suzanne was likely to be.

  With a slightly grim smile, Marguerite knocked on Herr Benn's door. As she had expected, her sister was there. For once, she was not sitting on the bed, but Marguerite was almost sure that something improper had been going on, since Suzanne was blushing. Perhaps they had been holding hands? Marguerite doubted it could have been anything more, for Herr Benn was still unable to sit up, and much too weak to indulge in anything at all strenuous, like kissing.

  Jacques, on the other hand, was certainly strong enough to indulge in kissing. But would he wish to? The two of them would be closeted together for hours at a time in a small post-chaise. The thought of being close to him, being near enough to touch, sent shivers down her spine. It was a chance, however slim, for her to win his regard, perhaps even his love. She would take it, for she would never have another opportunity. He had kissed her before and, if she encouraged him enough, he might do so again. Oh, she fervently hoped that he would, for it had been glorious. She knew there were risks attached. She was not a complete innocent. Berthe had explained exactly what happened between man and wife, and Marguerite had seen for herself that men could be driven by their passions. Was Jacques such a man? She found that she was hoping, daringly, that he was.

  "What is it, Marguerite?" Suzanne's blush was fading.

  "If you will excuse us, Herr Benn, I need a private word with my sister."

  He smiled up at Marguerite. She sensed that he had said nothing to Suzanne of their plans. He would understand that Marguerite needed to tell her sister herself.

  Suzanne nodded and came round the bed. "Shall we go to my bedchamber?"

  "No. It's too cold in there. Let us go downstairs and sit in front of the fire." Marguerite smiled at a sudden memory. "It will be only the two of us, as it was in the old days."

  Suzanne smiled too, but it was directed back at Herr Benn.

  Marguerite's explanation did not take long, for Suzanne barely spoke. Her eyes widened, and gleamed with pride, when she learned Herr Benn's true identity and that she was to have the responsibility for his care, but she was not in the least disconcerted at the thought of taking charge of the weaving business.

  "Are you sure, my dear?" Marguerite asked. "Guillaume will be here to advise you, and there are unlikely to be many new customers while the times are so uncertain."

  "If they should come, I shall deal with them," Suzanne said firmly. "I have taken charge before. I can do it again."

  "But that was for a few days only. This time, I might be gone for—" She stopped. In truth, she had no idea how long she would be away. And what was the point of saying things that could undermine Suzanne's new-found confidence? "I am sure you will cope extremely well. I know you to be very capable."

  "Thank you." It seemed that Suzanne had accepted the compliment as no less than her due. Marguerite's shy little sister was coming out of her shell.

  "About Herr Benn." Marguerite sucked in a deep breath before continuing. "It is not appropriate for an unmarried girl to nurse him, especially without a chaperon. Guillaume can—"

  "No. Benn needs gentle care. Guillaume has too much else to do, and Berthe's hands are rough and clumsy. I am the only one able to dress his wounds properly when he is so weak. He is no danger to my virtue, Marguerite. Even you must be able to see that."

  "Even I?" Marguerite repeated, shocked.

  "You do not understand, do you? I love Benn, and I am sure he loves me in return. I know I am in no danger from him. But, even if I were, I would be prepared to take the risk. For love. For me, it is all that matters now. But you, Marguerite, you have too much s
ense to allow yourself to fall in love. Once, I used to wish I was as rational, and as clear-sighted, as you are. No longer." She smiled a faraway and faintly superior smile.

  There was nothing Marguerite could say in response. She had always prided herself on her sound common sense, but where was it now? Suzanne might not see the change, but Marguerite knew her own failings. She had tried so hard to keep her feelings within sensible bounds, but in the end they had won through. It was as if Jacques had stolen away her ability to reason.

  She was not about to parade her hidden love before her sister's critical gaze. It was a fragile thing, and private. It might never see the light of day, for Jacques might never be able to forgive the things she had done. If that was his verdict, she would learn to bear it. For as long as they remained together, she would be able to see him, to thrill to the sound of his voice, perhaps even to touch his skin. It was not much, the merest crumb to a beggar, but it would be something she could hoard against the cold, bleak future when she would be without him. This was for her alone. No one would learn of her feelings, not Jacques, not Suzanne, no one.

  Her behaviour was the complete opposite of her vaunted common sense. She had agreed to be quite alone with Louis Jacques, a man she barely knew, but loved beyond reason. She had told herself that she was accompanying him out of duty, but it was only a pretext. If Jacques were lying here wounded, and Herr Benn were about to take post for Paris, would she have volunteered to go with him? Duty should have prevailed, but she suspected that, like Suzanne, she would have chosen to stay behind, to nurse the man she loved.

  She reached out her hand and laid it over Suzanne's. Her sister was gazing into the fire, her thoughts far away, but she turned at Marguerite's touch and smiled lovingly at her. She was about to speak when the door opened.

  "Mama!" Suzanne jumped up and helped her mother into her own place, closest to the fire.