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

by Joanna Maitland

  No one replied.

  "Of course, she's not a Frenchwoman, which might explain it. Courland is in Germany somewhere, is it not?"

  Marguerite gasped and jerked upright.

  "Know her, do you, dearie?" The fat woman leaned forward to smirk at Marguerite.

  "I—"

  "My sister is about to enter a convent, ma'am," Jacques said gravely, reaching out to lay his hand over Marguerite's tightly clasped ones. "She knows nothing of court ladies, whatever their allegiances. In the convent, everyone is equal in the sight of God."

  Marguerite closed her eyes again and allowed Jacques's strength to flow into her. She heard the fat woman mutter something and then silence fell in the coach, like a blessing.

  Jacques gave her fingers a final tiny squeeze of encouragement and removed his hand. He had no choice, obviously. They were travelling as brother and sister. But the loss of his touch left Marguerite feeling bereft, and alone.

  She raised her head. Opposite her, the young Bonapartist was scrutinising her with narrowed, piercing eyes. And his left hand was abstractedly fingering the Bonaparte snuff box in his pocket.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jack pushed the bread basket towards Marguerite. "You must eat," he said, trying to sound encouraging rather than worried. "You have not had even half your bowl of soup." He took another spoonful of his own. "It is excellent, you know, and warming for the journey ahead."

  He watched as she made a half-hearted attempt to eat. He thought he knew precisely why her appetite had vanished. That episode in the diligence had terrified her. And no wonder. It was supremely unlucky that that fat gossip should have mentioned the Duchess of Courland. Marguerite had betrayed herself there, though only for an instant. He did not blame her. He had been shocked, too.

  He reached across the table to take her hand. Although he knew he should not, for the merest touch of her silken skin was enough to arouse him, he felt he had to do something to reassure her. And what else was there? He did not dare to talk openly about what had happened, not until the diligence and its passengers had left Beauvais and were safely on the way to Calais. It should have left already, since the stop was supposed to be only an hour. Why the delay? It might seem that he and Marguerite were safe here alone in the coffee room, but there was no knowing who might be listening outside the door, or who might walk in on them.

  They dare not take any more risks. That gossiping woman would certainly repeat whatever she overheard. And then there was the man with the snuff box. Jack was far from sure about him. He might be simply a young man who hero-worshipped Bonaparte. Many did. On the other hand, he might be something much more dangerous.

  Marguerite put down her spoon. At first, she gazed at his hand, where it lay over hers. Then she looked up into his face. There was hope in her eyes now, he decided, and determination had replaced her understandable fear. He smiled slightly and squeezed her hand. The glow was returning to her face and her eyes had softened. He had thought her pretty before, but now, with the low, flickering light of fire and candles catching the pale mass of her hair, she was radiantly beautiful. He caught his breath and allowed all his senses to fill with the look, the touch, and the scent of her.

  "Jacques, that man—"

  Her words jerked him out of his dangerous reverie. He tightened his grip on her hand and put an urgent finger to his lips. He managed to resist the urge to shake his head in warning, in case someone was watching them from the shadows.

  She was quick to catch his meaning. She did not say another word, but she lifted her chin in that resolute way he had noticed before. It was one of the many things he so admired about her. She had understood the danger and would act on it.

  "I wonder whether the diligence has left yet," Jack said nonchalantly, in a voice that would carry to any eavesdropper. "Must say, I do not envy them the rest of the journey. It was exceedingly cramped."

  "There will be much more space now," Marguerite answered, taking her cue from him. "After all, there will be only four persons inside, instead of six."

  "True, sister, true. But I had much rather travel post, where we can take care of our own comfort. The chaise should be ready soon, the landlord said."

  Marguerite's response was drowned by the noise of the diligence outside the coffee room window. Relieved, Jack rose and went to look out. He was in time to see it turn out of the inn yard and disappear into the gathering gloom. The next stage of its journey to Calais would be in the dark.

  "It has gone," he said, in something more like his normal voice. "You need not worry any more, Marguerite."

  "Thank God," she breathed. Some of the tension seemed to leave her body as she spoke. She even began to eat her soup.

  Jack returned to the table. This time, he resisted the lure of her fingers, though he could not avoid inhaling her subtle scent. It was part of what she was—delicate, beautiful, and immensely desirable. Did she add lavender to the water she used to rinse her curls? He fancied she must. During all their time in the diligence, her hair had been only inches from his face. He had been itching to reach out to wind one of those silken ringlets around his fingers, to touch it to his cheek, to test it against his tongue. Being so close to her, for hour after hour, had been almost more than his body could stand.

  "That man, Jacques, the one in the diligence. He seemed to be watching us. And he had no luggage. Did you notice?"

  Jack nodded. He had wondered about the man from the beginning. Showing that portrait of Bonaparte had been no accident. It had been intended to provoke a reaction. And it had.

  "I think that someone must have suspected us as soon as we reached Paris. That man outside the pension. He was a spy, I think."

  "What man?" Jack said sharply.

  "You saw him. You spoke to him. The one-legged soldier with the tin whistle. I'm sure he was at the pension again last night, when you went to the Tuileries."

  "Oh, that man." Jack laughed and relaxed back into his chair. "Yes, you are right. He was there. I paid him to keep watch when I was not with you. I did not think you would notice him. Obviously I underestimated you."

  Marguerite glowered at him.

  "Poor Marguerite. If he frightened you, I apologise."

  "I am not your 'poor Marguerite' and I was not frightened," she snapped. "Except for you, you idiotish man. Oh, Jacques, why will you not trust me?"

  "I have told you everything I can. I need to keep you safe." His protestations were making no impact on her. She still looked mutinous. He shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps she had earned the right. "What more do you want to know?"

  She bit her lip. And she had started to twist her fingers together. "I know you are a royalist. And I know you are taking information about Bonaparte back to England. But who are you really, Jacques? I don't believe—"

  Her question was cut off by the sound of the door opening. Jack leapt to his feet, putting his own body between Marguerite and the newcomer. He strained his eyes. In the gloom beyond the candlelight, it was impossible to make out more than a shadowy figure. "Is that you, landlord? Is our chaise ready?"

  "It is, sir."

  Jack tensed. The voice was too young to be the landlord's. "Who is there?" he said sharply. "Come forward. Let me see you."

  The man took a single pace forward. Jack recognised the young face and the threadbare clothes. There was a tiny pistol in the man's right hand. The metal on the barrel caught the candlelight as he levelled it.

  And then he fired.

  Marguerite screamed and flung herself on top of Jacques's body. It was ominously still. She could feel blood, warm and sticky, on his face and in his hair. There was a great deal of blood. "Jacques. No. Oh, Jacques, please don't die." She must do something, bandage him, stop the bleeding. She jumped to her feet and grabbed the napkins from the table, balling them into pads.

  "I should save yourself the trouble, ma'am," the young man said coolly. "Head wounds are generally fatal. Especially when they are intended to be so."

 
; Stunned, she stared at the little pistol in his hand. How could such a tiny pop have done so much harm? Yet Jacques's body lay lifeless in front of the hearth. Lifeless. "You have killed him!" Her voice was part-gasp, part-scream. She seized the carving knife from the table and launched herself at him. He had killed the man she loved, and she would make him pay the price.

  He caught her easily. He was slight, but he was strong, and quick on his feet. He grasped her wrist and twisted it up her back until she cried out in pain and dropped the knife. He kicked it casually aside. Then he pushed her roughly into her chair. It rocked back with the sudden impact, but then righted itself.

  Marguerite's body was frozen. Her limbs refused to move. She cursed him.

  He paused in the act of stowing the pistol in his pocket. "Yes, I thought as much. You, madam, would make a very inadequate nun." Very deliberately, he walked across to where Jacques's body was lying and stared down at it. "So perish all the Emperor's enemies," he said quietly.

  His icy certainty roused her to boiling fury. "Who gave you the power to act as judge, and executioner?" she spat.

  "You did. When you proclaimed him an English spy in this very room. Did it not occur to you that someone might be listening?"

  His words pummelled her like blows. Marguerite crumpled into her chair, wrapping her arms round her body and burying her head to shut out the pain. She gulped for breath, but she had no tears. She had no right to weep. It was her fault. Jacques was dead and it was her fault.

  The man turned to leave. He did not seem to care that he was turning his back on Marguerite, that she would kill him if she could. "Do not try for the knife," he said coldly over his shoulder. "I prefer not to kill women, even when they are enemies."

  His words stung her out of her stupor. She cursed him again, even more foully.

  He turned back to face her. He was smiling. "Perhaps it will help your peace of mind, ma'am, if I tell you that the fault was not all yours. Your friend brought suspicion upon himself, by asking far too many questions at the Tuileries last night. Your role was to confirm what I already knew." He paused. "It is a pity that a proper trial was not possible, but these are difficult times. I'm sure you will understand." He spoke as coldly as if he were apologising for arriving late at a very inferior dinner party.

  He dug into his pocket. Had he changed his mind? Was he going to shoot her? Marguerite knew, in that instant, that she did not care whether she lived or died.

  "The Emperor is a man of honour. He would wish even his enemies to have a decent funeral. Here." He held up a single coin so that it gleamed in the firelight. It was a twenty franc piece. A gold Napoleon.

  Without another word, he tossed the coin on to the floor by the body and stalked out of the room. He was gone.

  And her beloved Jacques was dead.

  She threw herself to the floor and crawled across to the body, putting her hands to his poor lifeless cheeks and her lips to his forehead. She had so longed to kiss him. Now she could, but he would never be able to return her love. It was too late. He was gone. The River of Death now flowed between them. She could not reach across its icy waters to the warm, vibrant man he had been. All she could do was to cradle his body. And mourn.

  Vaguely, she heard the sound of horses in the yard. She touched her lips to his mouth and began to weep.

  "Apologies for the delay, sir. Your chaise is ready. It—" The landlord's mouth dropped open. "Good God. Madam, what has happened?"

  Marguerite raised her head. She felt totally exhausted, too drained to attempt any real explanations. "He is dead," she said.

  The landlord flung himself to his knees by the body. "But he is bleeding, ma'am. Why did you not call for help?"

  "He is beyond mortal help. Apart from prayers."

  The landlord frowned crossly. "He is bleeding, ma'am. He is alive."

  "Alive? But it's impossible. He—" It was probably the landlord's snort of disbelief that brought Marguerite to her senses. Dear God, she had been stroking his cheek and kissing his mouth when she should have been looking to his hurts. If he died now, it truly would be her fault. "Be so good as to fetch me some clean cloth for bandages. And a basin of hot water," she ordered crisply. She pulled Jacques's coat from the back of the chair and began to roll it into a pillow. "And I shall need more light. Bring candles. And send someone to build up the fire."

  The landlord leapt to his feet surprisingly quickly for a man of his bulk. "At once, ma'am. Shall I have a bedchamber prepared? Your husband would be better in a proper bed than lying here on the floor."

  "My hus—? Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Pray do."

  "And I will send for the surgeon immediately."

  There was no help for it. Marguerite nodded her agreement. Only a surgeon could remove the ball. Only a surgeon could say whether Jacques would live or die. His confounded mission was of no consequence compared with his life.

  "Your husband, ma'am, has a very hard head." The surgeon accepted the towel Marguerite held out to him and began to dry his hands. He was a much cleaner man than the surgeon who had removed the ball from Herr Benn's shoulder. This man inspired confidence, in ways that the other had not. Or was it that Marguerite herself was more confident, having already dealt once with a wounded man? She was not sure. No injured man had ever mattered as much to her as this one did.

  She looked yet again at the motionless figure on the bed. "Will he recover?" She had to know the truth.

  "I think so, yes. There was very little damage from the bullet itself. It merely grazed his temple. The real harm was done when he fell against the edge of the hearth. There was a lot of blood, but that is only to be expected with head wounds. I cannot find that he has damaged his skull. It will probably take him some time, perhaps even days, to come to himself, but with rest, and your devoted nursing, ma'am, I dare say he will be as right as ninepence. Eventually."

  "Are you sure, sir?"

  "Sure, ma'am? It is impossible to be absolutely sure in such cases. But I have seen men recover well from much worse falls. Their heads ache, and their tempers flare, but you are probably well used to dealing with that. Most wives are, in my experience."

  "As you say, sir," Marguerite replied automatically. Her thoughts were in turmoil. Questions and ideas were crowding in on her, elbowing aside the heartache and the guilt. What was she to do? If they remained here at Beauvais, that young killer might return. She must protect Jacques. So far, only the surgeon knew that a shot had been fired. The landlord must continue to believe Jacques's injuries were accidental, the result of a fall. Any mention of a gunshot would be bound to arouse suspicions. And to increase the danger to Jacques.

  "I shall call again tomorrow, ma'am, if you permit, to see how our patient does."

  Marguerite did not think she dare stay in Beauvais another day, even to secure the services of a first-class surgeon. "Pray do, sir." She was managing to sound like a competent but anxious wife. And now she had to spin a story he could believe. "However, I should perhaps warn you that we may not be here tomorrow. We have already been much delayed on our journey. If my husband should be well enough in the morning, we must leave. It is a matter of urgency, you understand. My husband's father is dying. In Caen."

  "I quite understand, ma'am. My sympathies." He hesitated. "Perhaps it would be convenient, in the circumstances, for me to tender my bill now?"

  Marguerite agreed that it would be very satisfactory. The surgeon named his fee. Marguerite crossed to the chair to delve into Jacques's coat for money. "You will understand, I am sure, sir, that this incident has been most disturbing. It would be particularly distressing if any word of it were to reach my husband's family, especially while his father is so ill." Encouraged by the surgeon's murmur of sympathy, she continued, "The young man who fired the shot was obviously deranged. He accused my husband of having debauched his sister." The surgeon exclaimed in horror. "Quite so. I can assure you that he was mistaken. My husband has never even met his sister."

  "You will have
this man arrested, ma'am?"

  "No, for that would increase the scandal and the gossip. He will not threaten anyone else, I am sure. Besides, he has fled. The landlord told me he had hired a horse and set off back to Paris." She returned to stand beside the man. "Sir, these are troubled times and I would do much to keep my family safe. May I rely on your discretion?" She was counting out twice his fee as she spoke. She pressed the money into his hand.

  "You may depend on me, ma'am." He pocketed the money with a satisfied smile. "And I shall return tomorrow, as I said."

  Marguerite escorted him to the door. For the moment, they were safe. But she had made up her mind. If Jacques should be well enough in the morning, she would hire a carriage and have them driven to Rouen. From there, she could take him to Father Bertrand's house. Jacques would be much safer there than at any posting inn on the Paris road.

  And if Jacques were not well enough to travel, she would have to find a way of defending him here in Beauvais. This time she would not be reduced to wielding a carving knife. Jacques had two pistols. And Marguerite was more than prepared to use them against anyone who threatened the man she loved.

  Someone had split his head with an axe.

  There was no other possible explanation for the stabbing pains. His body was heavy as lead. Every limb ached. His eyes would not open, either.

  "Jacques."

  Someone was calling his name. A woman's voice, with a foreign accent. He thought he ought to recognise it, but somehow he could not quite place it. Perhaps if he turned towards her?

  Pain shot through him like a bolt of lightning. He swore.

  "If you must swear, Jacques," said that gentle voice in immaculate French, "perhaps you would be good enough to do so in French?"

  That was when he remembered where he was.