by Jane Feather
He rode the pathetic nag back to the livery stable, his plan now shaped in his mind. He walked back to the house, fetched the carriage from the mews, and brought it round to the front door.
Meg was waiting for him, dressed in filmy jonquil muslin, a high-crowned silk hat perched atop her red curls. She was still paler than normal, and with a knowing eye he could see that she had powdered her freckles rather more than usual, but he could also detect a resolution, a hardness in her that showed in the tight smile she gave him, the set of her shoulders, the swing of her hips as she walked to the carriage.
They said nothing. He left her at the Beauforts’ and went to his own apartments to check and double-check the weapons on which his life would depend. He chose his knives, sharpened them, practiced sliding them smoothly and swiftly out of the sheath. He cleaned his pistol. Now he was not thinking of anything but what his hands were doing. And when he was satisfied, he sat down and wrote to Meg.
It was a letter he hoped she would never have to read. But if he did not come back for her, then she needed to know how to get out of Toulon to rendezvous with the Mary Rose.
By the time his preparations were complete, it was time to return to the Beauforts’ for his mistress.
Meg emerged from the house looking wan, leaning on the butler’s arm. “Madame is not feeling very well, Charles,” the butler informed Madame Giverny’s coachman as he helped the ailing lady into the carriage.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Meg said weakly. “I find the heat so oppressive.”
“I’ll have Madame home in no time,” her coachman said, sending a curt nod in the butler’s direction. He snapped the reins and the horses started off at a brisk trot.
“How are you?” Cosimo asked quietly, for once risking a personal conversation in the public street.
“I don’t know,” Meg said candidly. “This day is interminable.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But it’s always like that.”
Always. Meg felt as if her breath had stopped. How could he say that so casually? Always. How many assassinations had he accomplished, for God’s sake? How many days had he spent like this? She let her head fall back against the seat and closed her eyes. This was not her world. She had yearned for adventure, for passion . . . and she had found both. But sweet heaven, at what a price.
When they reached the house, Cosimo helped her down from the carriage and then said in a bare whisper, his lips hardly moving, “I will not see you again until this is over, Meg.” He put a paper into her nerveless hand. “If I am not in the stables when you get there, then follow these instructions to the letter. Do you understand?”
“I understand.” She scrunched the paper in her hand and began to walk away from him up to the front door. Halfway she stopped, looked back to where he stood beside the carriage. The sun glinted off the silver streaks in his gray hair and seemed reflected in the sea-washed blue of his eyes. She wondered if she would ever see him again. She lifted her hand in a tiny gesture of farewell, then went into the house.
The remainder of the afternoon Meg spent in the relative cool of her bedchamber. She could find no peace. Whether she paced the carpet, or tried to read, or lay down and closed her eyes, images, red and twisted and violent, rose relentless in her mind’s eye. She thought of taking a dose of laudanum that would at least grant her a few hours of sleep, but knew she didn’t dare risk muddling her mind.
Where was he now? What was he doing?
Cosimo reached the cottage at eight that evening, more than two hours before Bonaparte would arrive for the rendezvous. It would give him ample time to make his preparations.
“Shall I go now, m’sieur?” the lad demanded eagerly as they stood a hundred yards down the pathway in the deep shadow of a plane tree.
“In a minute,” the assassin said, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He’d found the lad on the beach, searching for driftwood, and it hadn’t taken more than the promise of five sous to persuade him to deliver an urgent message.
The boy danced impatiently, anxious for his payment, anxious for his supper. At last Cosimo said, “Now, you remember what you’re to say?”
“Yes, baby’s coming. They have to hurry,” the child said, holding out his hands. “I can do it, m’sieur. Honest I can.”
“I know you can,” Cosimo responded, reaching into his pocket and carefully counting the coins into the grubby palm. “Now go.” He gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder and watched as he scampered away to the cottage.
The lad was back in minutes and gave his paymaster a cheeky grin as he ran back along the path towards his own home. Cosimo swung himself into the branches of the plane tree and settled down to wait. He didn’t have long. The old man and his wife hurried out of the cottage, each carrying a bundle, and without a backward glance set off up the path.
Cosimo waited in the tree until they had disappeared from sight. They had a five-mile walk ahead of them for which he was sorry, but at least they were out of harm’s way. And once they realized there was no emergency they would not walk back tonight.
He moved stealthily to the cottage, circling it once. The goat was tucked up in its shed, the chickens put to bed away from the fox. Conveniently there was no dog. And neither was the door locked. He lifted the latch and entered the cottage. They had extinguished the cooking fire but a lantern stood upon the table with its wick freshly trimmed and its oil chamber filled, flint and tinder beside it. The old couple had not forgotten their august visitor.
The assassin went up the ladder to the loft. It smelled of lavender and apples. The linen on the straw mattress that formed the couple’s bed was clean and fresh. A flagon of cider and two cups stood on a wooden crate beside the bed, and, most touching, two apples had been placed on the bolster, a gift for the lovers.
Cosimo exhaled on a long slow breath. Then he retreated down the ladder and slipped into the inglenook, where he waited, his body so calm and still now that he barely needed to breathe. His hand rested on the rapier knife in the sheath strapped to his thigh, and every sense was stretched into the silence, listening for the first hoofbeat on the sandy path.
_______
Meg heard the front door knocker soon after eight o’clock. The loud, insistent sound made her heart jump. She went out onto the upstairs landing. Cosimo was not there to open the door, he’d told the staff that Madame Giverny had given him the night off, and the head footman did the honors.
Meg listened, stunned, as Alain Montaine’s voice rose from the hall below. “Tell Madame Giverny that General Bonaparte’s equerry wishes to speak with her.” There was something about the tone, an insolent edge, that set her teeth on edge, but that also screamed danger.
Her first thought was that he had been sent by Napoleon with a message to cancel the assignation. But that arrogant, importunate tone was not that of a messenger. Had they discovered something? Was Cosimo even now in their hands?
She slipped back into her chamber and sat down at the dresser, examining her reflection in the mirror. A touch of rouge, a dusting of powder, and in the soft light of candles her pallor would be less noticeable. She glanced over her shoulder as Estelle burst in.
“Who’s that at the door, Estelle?” Meg was astounded at her calm detachment. She felt not a flicker of panic. Her mind was working fast but with absolute clarity. She would greet Montaine with a haughty indignation at such an unceremonious intrusion on an evening she had intended to spend in peaceful solitude. If she had been keeping her rendezvous with Napoleon, it would be more difficult to carry off, but as it was she would merely be telling the truth about her evening’s plans. Or at least, the first part of the evening.
“General Bonaparte’s equerry, madame.” The abigail twisted her hands in her apron in her agitation. “He said he wants to see you.”
“Indeed?” Meg sounded incredulous. She turned around, her eyebrows raised. “Come now, girl, I cannot believe he would have made such a demand.”
“Oh, but he did, madame. He
said to tell you that he wants to see you.”
“Well, he must wait in that case,” Meg said, turning back to the mirror. “I’m not yet dressed for dinner. Run down and tell Denis to put our visitor into the salon. He may tell him that I will be down shortly.”
Estelle, breathless, bobbed a curtsy and went to do her mistress’s bidding.
Meg drew several deep breaths, and held out her hands. Not a quiver. She touched her forehead. Dry and cool. She would not think about Cosimo. If she allowed the slightest chink in the fortress she’d built around her imagination, the whole structure would tumble into ruin. She would simply play the part she had to play and trust Cosimo to take care of himself.
She touched the hare’s foot to her cheeks and opened the jewel casket, taking out a string of matched pearls. She was fastening them around her neck when Estelle reappeared, closing the door at her back with a dramatic click.
“Colonel Montaine, madame. He said he’d wait, madame.”
“So I should hope,” Meg said, rising from the stool. “Bring me the ivory negligee, Estelle. If the colonel insists on disturbing the peace of my evening, then he must take me as he finds me.”
Dishabille was perfectly acceptable dress for an informal evening at home, and the colonel would find he had rudely interrupted a lady enjoying such an evening. A dainty lace cap and a pair of satin slippers completed her outfit, and thus attired, Meg made a stately descent of the stairs.
She caught her breath at the phalanx of soldiers ranged in the hall, then lifted her chin and sailed past them into the salon.
“Colonel, delighted though I am to see you, I must protest at such a martial display in my hall.”
The colonel bowed and gestured towards the sofa. “Madame Giverny, you will be pleased to seat yourself.”
She frowned. “Unless I am much mistaken, sir, this is my house. If I choose to sit, I will. If I choose to invite you to do so, I will. However, I find I do not so choose.”
“You may not leave here tonight, madame,” he stated.
Meg indicated her negligee with an airborne hand. “I had no intention of doing so, Colonel. As it happens I have not been feeling too well. I was intending to take a light supper in my boudoir and retire early.” She turned back to the door. “I trust you have no objections to my doing that.”
“Madame, I insist you remain in this room,” Montaine said, trying not to show his discomfort at the lady’s composure. He had expected to catch her preparing herself for her assignation, not lounging around in a negligee complaining of ill health.
Meg very slowly turned around. She gave him a look that would have stopped a charging elephant in its tracks. “Colonel Montaine, do you have any reason for treating me with this discourtesy? Have I committed some crime? Has General Bonaparte authorized such an outrage?”
“You were expecting to meet with General Bonaparte this evening,” Montaine said, at last given an opening.
Meg shook her head. “Not to my knowledge, Colonel.” She went to the fireplace and pulled the bellrope. “You must be mistaken, but I have to tell you, sir, that it is an even greater mistake to treat me with such rudeness.”
Montaine was now truly uncomfortable but he was sticking to his guns. He’d started this, and whatever the consequences, he had to complete it. He moderated his tone. “Madame Giverny, forgive the discourtesy, believe me I meant none. But I must ask you to remain within doors this evening.”
She gave a light laugh. “Colonel, that is no hardship. As I’ve been trying to explain, that was my intention all along . . . Ah, Denis, it appears that the colonel wishes to be my guest this evening.” Her eyebrows flickered in disbelief at the entire ridiculous business and the head footman bowed his understanding.
“Make Colonel Montaine comfortable. I shall take dinner in my boudoir, as I had instructed earlier.” She glanced at the colonel. “Do make yourself at home, Colonel. My staff will take care of you, I’m sure. I shall be in my boudoir.”
It was such a masterly performance that for a moment Montaine was unable to think of a response, but then he remembered the general preparing for an assignation in a deserted cottage. He knew it was a trap, knew it in the core of his soul. Madame Giverny must not be given the opportunity to send a message to her partner, whoever he might be.
“I am desolated, Madame Giverny, but I must ask you to remain in this room.”
“By whose instructions?” she demanded, her hand already on the door latch.
“By the authority invested in me by the Republic of France.”
Nothing could counteract that invocation, Meg thought. She inclined her head in faint acknowledgment. “Then I trust you will do me the honor of dining with me, Colonel Montaine . . . Denis, I will dine downstairs after all. In the small parlor, since we are being informal, is that not so, Colonel?”
“I am honored to accept, Madame Giverny.” What else could he do? Montaine bowed and assumed the role of invited guest in the house of the woman he had intended to hold under house arrest.
Chapter 26
Cosimo was aware of the passage of time merely as a mental process. He had no timepiece and the inglenook was almost pitch black, but he knew that it was soon after nine o’clock when he heard the first hoofbeats. But it was not one horse. He listened intently. Three, he thought. Had Bonaparte brought an escort after all? Or was this an advance guard intended to sweep the place before the general’s arrival? If so, he could only hope they would leave when they found nothing.
He reached up into the chimney and his fingers found purchase on a shallow ledge. He pulled himself up until his legs were in the chimney, then leaned his back against one side of the shaft and flattened his feet against the other. It was hideously uncomfortable but he was confident he would be invisible to anyone below.
The door opened and a shaft of lamplight penetrated the inglenook. Cosimo held his breath; even his heartbeat had slowed so that it was barely perceptible. Footsteps moved around the single room downstairs. He heard others on the ladder to the loft, then the sound of feet overhead. Only one man spoke and he issued instructions in a curt undertone. A lamp was thrust fully into the inglenook, the light sweeping the deep recess. Cosimo was motionless, hanging just a few feet above the bent head of the searcher with the lamp. Then the light receded and he inhaled slowly.
It didn’t take long to complete the search of the cottage. Another curt order was issued and they trooped out to search the grounds and outbuildings. But they left one man behind. Cosimo heard the scrape of a chair, the clink of a sword as the man sat down heavily.
His muscles were shrieking from the cramped position but he ignored the pain as he had long ago taught himself to do, and concentrated his mind on the present problem. Was Bonaparte going to come at all? Or had the plot been discovered?
He couldn’t imagine how that could have happened. Only he and Meg knew of it.
Meg. If he was cowering in a chimney to avoid detection, what was happening to her? If they suspected enough to search the cottage ahead of the general’s arrival, then Meg too must have fallen under suspicion.
But maybe this was just a routine search. They would leave, certain that the location was safe, and Bonaparte would arrive as planned.
He heard the door open again and listened as one of the men said they’d found nothing but a goat, a handful of chickens, and a nest of spiders in the privy.
“All right, we’ll take up positions around the building and down the path,” the man in charge said. “Keep the general covered from the moment you see him. Charlie-boy’s not in here and not outside, so I’m guessing he hasn’t arrived yet. When he does he’ll get the surprise of his life,” he added with a grim chuckle.
“Aye, Sergeant.” There was a short silence, then the same voice said, “You really think the general’s in danger, sir?”
The other man snorted almost derisively. “God knows, but Colonel Montaine’s got some bee in his bonnet. You know what a fusspot he is, always muttering
that the general takes unnecessary risks. Well, he’s convinced himself this time that Bonaparte’s love nest is a nest of vipers and the lady waiting with her legs spread is as poisonous as Cleopatra’s asp.”
“The lady ain’t here, though, is she?” commented his companion.
“No, and she won’t be, neither. Montaine’s got her sewn up tight as a nun’s arse.”
Both men laughed coarsely and left the cottage, banging the door behind them.
Cosimo let himself down slowly, clinging to the shadows in the rear of the inglenook. They wouldn’t search again. They’d be watching from outside and if they saw no one enter they would assume the place was as empty as they believed it to be. At this point he had but one thought. Bonaparte was going to keep the appointment. All was not lost. He would complete his mission.
He reached down to remove his boots, sliding the short dagger out of the sheath nestled against his calf. Then he crept soundlessly on stockinged feet to a position behind the door. A small unglazed window was set into the wall to his right, the shutters fastened back to let in the evening air. He cradled his pistol in his right hand, balanced the knife in his left. He could throw as well with either hand, but was a better shot with his right. When Bonaparte rode up he would have a clear sightline. He would fire first, and then throw the knife. He was confident enough in his marksmanship to know that both weapons would reach their target.
His inner sense of time warned him that it was close to ten o’clock, and his instinct told him that his quarry would arrive early, eager for his tryst. Cosimo waited, motionless in the shadows behind the door. He could hear nothing of the men outside but they too were waiting in hiding.
He heard the sound of hooves, at first so faint he guessed they must be several hundred yards away down the path. His grip tightened on the pistol, his eyes fixed upon the moon-washed garden beyond the window.
Bonaparte rode up on an unremarkable gelding. Clearly taking anonymity to heart, Cosimo reflected, before he banished all thought from his head, concentrating only on his target.
