Swept Away

by Marsha Canham

  Emory merely leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “As outlandish as the idea sounds, Captain, might I nevertheless suggest you extend an invitation to the general to join us? If I am wrong, I will offer my wrists for the shackles. But if I am right, you will be saving the British government an embarrassment of such magnitude it may never be overcome.”

  “Invite him here to verify his identity? Damn me, sir, but you are mad, not to mention insolent in thinking he would even deign to leave his quarters to acknowledge such lunacy firsthand. ”

  “Invite him here to share a glass of brandy with an old friend. Tell him a lady by the name of Madame Muiron has come to pay her respects and you will be surprised how quickly he accepts.”

  “Who the devil is Madame Muiron?” Maitland demanded, glancing instinctively at Witherspoon and Barrimore, both of whom responded with imperceptible shakes of their heads.

  “Muiron is the name he used during his six year affair with the actress, Mademoiselle Georges. He has no doubt heard by now that a young lady has come on board under strange circumstances, and since Miss Fairchilde matches the general description...”

  “He would believe the British admiralty has allowed his courtesan on board? Really, Althorpe, this is too much!”

  “I doubt the real Bonaparte would believe it, but the man posing as him might be nervous enough to show some curiosity. And his advisors, if they are intent upon keeping up the masquerade, would not wish to have Mademoiselle Georges cause too much of a stir if her request for an audience is denied.”

  Maitland’s complexion was fairly ruddy by now. He refilled his empty glass but left the brandy untouched while his free hand tapped out a muted drumbeat on the table. “Barrimore tells me you recently took a severe blow to the head, sir. One that caused you to lose your memory along with most of your faculties.”

  “I assure you, sir, apart from an occasional headache, my senses are fully restored.”

  Maitland only tapped and contemplated. “I am also told of the recent apprehension and arrest of a certain Franceshi Cipriani, a Corsican patriot known for his affinity for slitting throats in the dark. He was found bound and gagged in a house in Torquay, beaten and severely mutilated, which nearly caused him to bleed to death before he was transported to the hospital. Since then, he has lapsed into fever and delirium, claiming he was shot by a woman. I’ll not repeat the precise adjectives he used to describe her, though the general attributes also appear to match those of Miss Fairchilde.” He focussed once again on Annaleah and his hand stilled. “Is any of this true?”

  “He was trying to kill us,” she said evenly. “He had been sent to kill Mr. Althorpe and he made no secret of his intentions to kill me as well.”

  Maitland’s frown deepened. “I hold a passing acquaintance with your father, young lady. Is he aware of your recent activities?”

  Anna clasped her hands more tightly in her lap. “I have not had an opportunity to see or speak to my father in several days, sir.”

  “Your brother is here in Torbay, were you aware of that?”

  “Anthony? Here? But how--?”

  “Out of necessity, I am informed almost hourly of the comings and goings in the vicinity. Viscount Ormont arrived from London early this morning with Lord Wessex and Colonel Rupert Ramsey.”

  “They must have ridden straight through,” Barrimore murmured.

  “There was a certain air of urgency in the communication I received. Ramsey, in particular, informs me the garrison at Berry Head is on full alert and vows to me that neither Althorpe nor his ship will get within a hundred yards of the harbor. No doubt he has seen the Intrepid by now and is likely being rowed from shore as we speak.”

  “I have never met the fellow personally, but he sounds enthusiastic about his work,” Emory mused.

  “Wessex was equally flattering with regards to your ingenuity, sir. He says--” the captain fixed Emory with a cold stare-- “you had the brass to intrude upon a masquerade at Carleton House uninvited, to cause bullet holes to be made in the Regent’s offices, and to walk out again as if a royal guard of two hundred marksmen was a trifling inconvenience, nothing more.”

  Emory brushed his fingertips across the scabbed scratches on his cheek. “I assure you it was not the trifling matter he may have implied.”

  “And stealing your ship out of Gravesend? Another exaggeration of your talents?”

  Emory’s expression mirrored the captain’s earlier one of grudging admiration, for the naval officer was indeed, well informed. “I am not here to steal your prisoner. As for the Intrepid, my second-in- command has orders to take her out full-and-by at the first sign of trouble and to keep her running before the wind until she is well away from England.”

  Maitland stared and resumed tapping out a silent litany of reasons why he should not believe any of this. Forged documents, assassins, impostors...proper young ladies dressed like common tars, rogue captains who squandered their god given gifts on subterfuge and intrigue...

  “Damn and blast,” he muttered. “I find myself believing the hoax being played out here today is the one on me. Lieutenant Witherspoon, fetch me the stoutest pair of leg irons we have on board.”

  “Yes sir!”

  “Then convey my compliments to General Bonaparte and ask if he might spare us a few moments of his time.”

  “Sir?” The young officer looked astonished.

  “Just do it, Mr. Witherspoon!”

  “Yes sir. Right away, sir. And, ah, if he refuses?”

  “Then use the leg irons on him, damn it to hell. He is still a prisoner on this ship, not a prima dona.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The lieutenant hurried out of the cabin and the captain’s gaze relented long enough to drain his glass and set it with exaggerated care on the table. “You had best hope I do not regret this, sir,” he said with quiet vehemence, “or the few scratches on your face will seem a trifling inconvenience.”

  He would have elaborated on the threat, but the shrill sound of a whistle topside announced the arrival of new visitors on deck.

  When the captain excused himself, the two lieutenants who had been stationed outside the door were invited inside to maintain their guard. Annaleah tried very hard to take strength from the reassuring smile Emory sent her way but it was poor solace at best. All she could think about was the utter improbability of his belief that the prisoner on board the Bellerophon was not Napoleon Bonaparte. No wonder he had not told either Barrimore or herself his suspicions! She seriously doubted they would be here now if he had.

  Emory stood and walked behind her, electing to lean against the wall next to where the two midshipman watched him with wary eyes. Wondering if he had sensed her unwitting betrayal in faith, Anna looked down at her hands. The palms were clammy and damp. Her stomach was turning somersaults and she wished there was some socially acceptable way to ask the two stone-faced naval officers where she could go on a ship of war to throw up in private.

  Barrimore was standing against the window, his hands clasped behind him his face as remote as she had ever seen it. From her angle she could see where he clenched and unclenched his fists, but outwardly he appeared as aloof and unmoving as a statue. She looked down at his hands again and frowned, wondering what was different, and after a moment realized his fingers were bare. The heavy gold ring he habitually twisted to vent his disapproval was not there, leaving him nothing to do but flex his fingers. She dearly hoped he had not lost the ancestral ring in the harbor at Gravesend; it would just be something else to hold against Emory when the final tally of his sins was compiled.

  A faint commotion sounded outside in the companionway and a moment later the captain ducked his head beneath the lintel followed by Lord Wessex, Colonel Ramsey, and a very distraught looking Anthony Fairchilde.

  “Sweet bleeding Jesus,” he exclaimed, hastening over to Annaleah’s side. She had half risen to her feet already, but he lifted her the rest of the way, hugging her so tightly he nearly th
rottled her. “You foolish, foolish girl, have you any idea what we have been going through these past few days? I tried my damedest to keep the worst of it from Mother, truly I did. I lied through my britches by telling her you were ill and had to remain with Aunt Florence another week, but nothing, nothing could spare her from hearing about your escapades at Carleton House! The gossips and wags were lined up fifty deep, drooling in their eagerness to offer their commiserations and within the half hour she had to be carried home on a litter. By morning the news had spread through all of London like another great bloody fire and Father had to put her in restraints to keep her from hurling herself out a window.”

  “I am so sorry, Anthony. I--”

  “And what is this? What is this?” He demanded, pushing aside the folds of her jacket. “A gun! You have a gun!”

  “I can explain--”

  “A gun, by Christ! My sister is carrying a gun!” He jerked it out of her waistband and waved it wildly about for a moment before his outraged gaze found Barrimore. “Did you know about this, sir? Did you know about this?”

  The marquis spread his hands but there was hardly anything he could say to placate the enraged viscount.

  “You leave me no choice,” Anthony declared, his voice shaking, “but to demand a settling of accounts!”

  Lord Wessex reached up quickly to prise the gun from Anthony’s hand and set it on the table, pushing it out of reach. “I am certain there must be a very good explanation for all of this, if you will only wait to hear it.”

  “Oh yes, Anthony, please,” Anna cried, “just listen to what Emory has to say--”

  “Emory, is it?” He rounded on her again, cutting the protest short. “Rest assured I shall deal with him too, and long before the courts ever get a chance. Where is the bastard? Indeed, where is he?”

  He whirled around, his eyes wild with fury and before anyone could stop him, he launched himself across the room, swinging out with his fist and catching Emory high and hard on the cheekbone. There was enough force behind the blow to send Althorpe staggering back a step and in spite of a sharp command from the captain, two more punches followed in swift succession, one of which split Emory’s lip and sent a spurt of blood down his chin. Emory did not even try to block the punches, nor did he show any reaction when the hard pressed Wessex finally managed to drag the enraged young lord away, other than to blot the back of his hand across his mouth and stare down at the smear of blood.

  “Enough!” Maitland was incensed. “There will be none of this on board my ship! If you wish to avenge the insult to your sister’s reputation, you have every right to do so, Ormont, but you will not do it here and you will not do it now.”

  “Nor will you do it until a judge and jury have taken their pound of flesh,” Colonel Ramsey declared, brandishing a folded document in his hand. “I have here a warrant for the arrest of Emory Althorpe on charges of treason, sedition, piracy, and murder! What is more, I have arrests for every man-jack on board his ship and I insist, Captain, that after you have clapped him in chains and transferred into my custody, you train your guns on the Intrepid and demand her surrender!”

  “Whereas I insist he be transferred into my care,” Lord Wessex interjected, producing yet another folded sheet of official-looking parchment. “And since my warrants come straight from Whitehall, they most certainly take precedence over all others that may be outstanding.”

  “I am transferring him nowhere for the moment,” Maitland said harshly. “Nor do I have any intentions of training my guns anywhere other than where they might cause the occupants of this room the greatest discomfort. Mr. Witherspoon! Where the devil have you been?”

  The lieutenant was standing ashen-faced in the doorway. “I...ah...that is, the general wishes to pay his compliments, sir.”

  Behind him was Napoleon Bonaparte and two of his aides, the former grand marshal, Henri-Gratien Bertrand and Colonel Charles-Tristan de Montholon.

  “Have we come at a bad time, Captain?” Bertrand inquired, clearly amused by all the shouting and waving of documents. “I expect we can return when you have a quieter moment.”

  “It will be absolutely quiet from this moment on,” Maitland said, glaring around the room. “Please, do come in.”

  The marshal waited until Anthony had stalked back to stand beside his sister. He then stepped aside and bowed to the shadow behind him. General Napoleon Bonaparte, the erstwhile Emperor of France and Master of the Continent, strode imperiously into the cabin, his hands clasped behind his back, the buttons of his dark green uniform stretched over the protruding expanse of his belly.

  Annaleah’s first reaction was surprise, for in spite of the frequent cartoons that depicted him needing a ladder to climb up onto his horse, he was even shorter than she had imagined--barely five feet tall. Moreover, he had bloated cheeks and double chins that did little to compliment the natural pout of his lips. His hair was more red than brown, combed forward in front so that a single silky curl fell forward over his brow.

  The piercing slate eyes, known to cause grown men to melt in their boots, circled the room once before seeking out Annaleah. She had moved to stand by Barrimore when the fisticuffs had broken out, and with the glare from the windows behind her, the darkness of her hair glowed with fiery red and gold highlights.

  Marshal Bertrand leaned forward to whisper something in Bonaparte’s ear, but the general raised a hand, cutting him off .

  “I was told I had a visitor, a Madame Muiron-- a very old and dear friend--but I see only this...this woman of questionable origin before me. Is this your idea of a poor jest, Captain?”

  “Unfortunately, the situation is far from amusing, general. I invited you here in the hopes you could clear up some questions pertaining to your arrest.”

  “My surrender, Captain, was conducted with strict adherence to the codes of war. What is more, not only do I find this an odd time to be questioning such a thing, but I hardly expect you have the authority to be doing so on your own. When you have finished playing your games, feel free to address me again. In the meantime, I left an extremely tasty leg of mutton chilling on my table.”

  He turned to leave and his gaze skimmed past the lone figure standing by the door. It stopped...skipped back again and settled with a shocked jolt of recognition on Emory Althorpe. Emory’s lip was still leaking blood down his chin and drops had stained the front of his shirt. In a remarkable display of recovering his wits, the general offered up a weak smile.

  “You should try to remember to duck the next time, m’sieur.”

  “Excellent advice, Colonel Duroc,” Emory said quietly. “I shall endeavor to take it to heart the next time I am ambushed.”

  There was a second flicker of surprise--or was it panic?--in the gray eyes before Marshal Bertrand stepped between the two men. “You are plainly and stupidly unaware to whom you are speaking, m’sieur.”

  “Ah, yes. Forgive me, my mistake. After you abdicated the Spanish throne, you were still permitted to retain the rank of general, despite your brother’s displeasure at the way you allowed Wellington to chase you out of the Penninsula.”

  Bertrand stared a moment, then swelled his chest with indignation. “We shall not even dignify such an outrageous insult with a response, m’sieur. Kindly step out of the way that His Excellency might pass.”

  “If it was His Excellency, I might be inclined to do so,” Emory said, moving parallel with the marshal to firmly establish himself as an obstacle in the doorway. “Granted, he is a little heavier than he should be to play the part, but his brother’s girth has been expanding steadily since he crowned himself emperor of France. The hair is a shade lighter, the chin rounder, but if your only exposure to the man was across a battlefield and through a spyglass, you would not know you were in the company of the wrong Bonaparte.”

  “The wrong Bonaparte?” Maitland gasped.

  “Indeed, Captain. Allow me to introduce General Joseph Bonaparte,” Emory said evenly. “Older by a year than Napoleon, b
ut sharing enough of a likeness to have generated more than one mistaken report concerning the emperor’s whereabouts.”

  The blood had drained from Bertrand’s face with the swiftness of an avalanche. “You are mistaken, sir,” he rasped.

  “And you are a fool, Bertrand, to think you could get away with such an outlandish deception.”

  “Captain--” the French officer whirled around. “I insist you remove this madman at once.”

  “What were you planning to do?” Emory asked. “Wait until you had word your brother was safely in America before you threw off the pretence and revealed the hoax to the world? How much did you pay Le Renard to guarantee you would be kept on board a ship in the middle of a harbor where access to visitors would be severely limited and the chances of being discovered dramatically reduced?”

  Barrimore, standing quiet until now, as stunned as the others in the room, looked hard at Lord Wessex. “That was your idea,” he said tersely. “You were quite vehement, in fact, in insisting he remain isolated.”

  “Isolated, yes, and his movements restricted,” Wessex replied, startled by the implied accusation. “But only because we dared not risk another escape! Not with--” he glanced at Emory-- “not with Althorpe’s whereabouts unaccounted for. Good God, man, you are not suggesting...!”

  “I am suggesting there is a fox in the henhouse, sir, and he must be flushed out,” Emory said quietly. “Thanks to documents now in Captain Maitland’s hands, we have established Le Renard is someone who has access to the foreign office and is more than passingly familiar with the codes used in secret dispatches.”

  Wessex looked genuinely desperate for a moment before he turned suddenly and stared at Colonel Ramsey. “Renard. By Christ...we went to Oxford together,” he whispered. “You were nicknamed the fox because of your ability to sneak women in and out of your rooms at any hour of the day or night. And right up to a month ago, you were in London, working out of the foreign office.”