In the Commodore's Hands

by Mary Nichols

  There was so little in the positive column, except a tenuous defence which the prosecuting counsel would easily demolish. She had added Lord Portman to that side as well as Jay’s earlier success at freeing her father. On the opposite side The list was much longer. Michel was in a secure prison, closely guarded and not allowed visitors. The Revolutionaries were intent on doing away with the nobility, especially anyone who was loyal to the King. Michel had been with Louis when he tried to flee and had stayed at his post even after his Majesty had been sent to the Temple. He had fought with Henri Canard and Henri Canard was not one to let the matter drop. Lastly, no one could be found to defend him in court.

  It made her so miserable, she screwed the paper into a ball and threw it in the fire. If only Jay would come home. She needed him. Even if they were quarrelling, it was better than sitting alone dwelling on what seemed insurmountable problems. One of the biggest was that Jay did not love her. What his motives were for offering help, she did not know, but it was certainly not love.

  She picked at a frugal supper, then went to bed, where she lay awake, trying to think of ways of freeing her brother without Jay Drymore’s help. The only way she could think of was to throw herself on the mercy of Robespierre or Danton, but how could she do that without telling them her real name and betraying Jay?

  She heard low voices in the corridor outside her bedroom and then the sound of something being dropped with a thud, followed by an oath. She crept to the door and flung it open. Jay was in the act of bending to pick up the shoe he had dropped and Sam was creeping past, his shoes in his hand. Both were dressed very shabbily in black suits going green with age and the red cap of the Revolution. Their faces were dirty, their hair matted. She burst into laughter.

  ‘You find us comical, no doubt,’ Jay said, as Sam continued on his way and disappeared into his own room.

  ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Learning to live like a citoyen of Paris.’

  ‘With Lord Portman?’

  ‘Yes. Please go back to bed. You are not decent.’

  He was unsmiling and brusque. She retreated and banged the door shut. It wasn’t fair of him to make her love him so, when there was no hope of a happy conclusion. She was just as unmarriageable as she had always been and this pretence of theirs only heightened that.

  Jay went on to his own room and stripped off the filthy clothes. Harry might take easily to being one of the sans culottes, but he was not comfortable in the garb. But if it helped to get Michel out of gaol and all of them safely back to England he would have to heed Harry’s lessons, because the sooner that happened the better for all concerned. How convincing could he make himself? Not very, if Lisette’s reaction was any measure; she had laughed at him.

  Had she realised that the nightrail she was wearing was almost transparent? He had been given a tantalising glimpse of womanly curves and firm breasts which had roused him as nothing else had done since he had last shared a bed with Marianne. And his wife had been deceiving him even then. How she must have been laughing at him. And now Lisette laughed. It was for a different reason, it was true, but it had been enough to bring it all back. If only he had not drunk so much of that rough wine…

  He was woken next morning when Sam brought water for him to wash and shave. ‘You are awake at last,’ he said. ‘Seems to me late nights do not suit you, if you cannot rouse yourself before noon.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve stood many a night watch as you well know. It was that rotgut wine they serve at the Cross Keys.’

  ‘You have me there. I was feeling decidedly queasy myself when I woke. A glass of Calvados soon cured it. Shall I fetch you some?’

  ‘If you please. Where is Miss Giradet? Has she had her breakfast?’

  ‘Hours ago, Commodore. Then she went out.’

  ‘Out? Where?’

  ‘Shopping, so she said.’

  ‘With Madame Gilbert?’

  ‘No. Madame is cooking your breakfast.’

  ‘Fetch my clothes, Sam, and be quick about it. Heaven knows what mischief the woman will get up to out on her own.’

  He flung himself into his clothes and left the house without having anything to eat or drink except a hastily swallowed glass of brandy.

  Lisette was standing outside Monsieur Duplay’s house, wondering if she dare knock on the door. Her hesitation was not fear for herself, but the knowledge that if she took the next step she would be betraying Jay. He was an exasperating man, so cool-headed, so convinced he was always right, so blind to her feelings, that she ought not to hesitate. If he did not care for her and thought of her as an encumbrance, then he had no one to blame but himself if she took steps to free her brother herself.

  The morning was cold—frost clung to the bare branches of the trees and on the bodies that still swung from the lamp posts—but it was not the weather that was making her shake, it was the thought of what she was contemplating. Unable to bring herself to do it, she turned, intending to walk away, when the door opened and Gerald Wentworth came out. He evidently did not think it necessary to hide his rank; he was immaculately dressed in a silk coat with silver buttons and striped breeches with ribbons at the knees.

  ‘Mrs Drymore,’ he called, doffing his hat. ‘Good morning to you.’

  She could not ignore him. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘You are out and about early.’

  ‘Yes, I felt like a walk.’

  ‘But you have been standing outside this house for the last ten minutes, I saw you from that window.’ He waved his cane at an upper window. ‘Is there someone there you wish to speak to? Monsieur Robespierre, perhaps?’

  She had to think quickly. ‘My husband and I dined with him two nights ago and it is the custom to call on one’s host and thank him for his hospitality, but I realised it was too early in the day and no doubt he was at his breakfast.’

  ‘I believe his repast is done, I have just left the gentleman. Would you like me to escort you inside? I am sure he will see you.’

  ‘No, I do not think I shall trouble him, after all.’ She began to walk away.

  ‘Come now, you are not afraid of him, are you?’ he asked, falling into step beside her.

  ‘Why should I be afraid? He is a man like any other.’

  ‘Not like any other, Mrs Drymore. He is one of the most powerful men in France, he can command the life and death of thousands with a flick of his fingers. He is the most admired and the most feared of all men.’

  ‘I am aware of that.’

  ‘You were—are—agitated. He is also, I believe, very fond of the ladies, so could it be you had an assignation and were having second thoughts about the wisdom of it?’

  She stopped and turned angrily towards him. ‘How dare you, sir? How dare you? My husband could call you out for that.’

  He laughed. ‘It would not be the first time.’

  Curiosity got the better of her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ah, I see he has not confided in you. I am not surprised; it is not something he can boast of and especially he would not want a new wife to know about his unsavoury past.’

  ‘Unsavoury,’ she echoed. She ought to turn and walk away from him, she ought not to listen to him, but if Jay would not tell her why he hated this man, then he could not blame her if someone else chose to do so and she listened.

  ‘Oh, yes. He was responsible for the death of his first wife.’

  ‘How can you say that? He loved her and mourned her passing.’

  ‘That is what he would like the world to think, but in reality the case is very different. He treated her abominably. She stuck it as long as she could for the sake of her children, but in the end his cruelty became too much to bear and she fled on horseback and came to me because she knew I was aware of what he was like and had promised to protect her. He chased after her and in her desperation she tried to jump a hedge that was too high. She was thrown and landed in a ditch with the horse on top of her. The horse struggled up, bu
t by that time she had been badly trodden on. I found her and took her home and cared for her, but sadly she died next day.’ He gave a soft chuckle. ‘Drymore had the effrontery to challenge me over it.’

  ‘You fought?’ She ought not to heed him, but he was very sure of himself and she did not seem able to help herself.

  ‘Yes. I overcame him, but I decided to spare his life. He has never recovered from the humiliation.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I think it is something you ought to know. After all, how can you be sure the same fate will not befall you? He is a violent and ill-tempered man—I would advise you to take care.’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘Is it?’ He paused. ‘Does he know you are out and about alone?’

  ‘I do not have to ask his permission to leave the house, Mr Wentworth.’

  ‘Ah, so he does not. But if it was not an assignation, what was so urgent about visiting Monsieur Robespierre that you had to creep out early before you were missed?’

  ‘I did not creep out. I can come and go as I please.’

  He laughed. ‘You know, you are extraordinarily like Marianne, both of you headstrong and independent. It does not bode well for your continued existence.’

  ‘I have heard enough of this, Mr Wentworth. Pray do not speak to me on the subject again.’

  ‘I do not need to. You have the facts—what you do about them is your affair.’

  She began to walk very fast, but he was not ready to leave her yet. ‘Tell me, what were you going to see Monsieur Robespierre about? It wasn’t just to thank him for giving you supper, was it?’

  ‘It is not important.’

  ‘Anything that upsets you is important to me, Mrs Drymore. Pray, confide in me, I might be able to help.’

  She hesitated, but then she thought of Michel, her beloved brother, incarcerated in prison and likely to be executed, and the effect that would have on their father, and took a deep breath, deciding to tell him the story that she had concocted for Robespierre. ‘There is a French Comte and his daughter staying with Lord and Lady Drymore at Blackfen Manor and when the young lady heard that I was to accompany Commodore Drymore to Paris, she begged me to use my best endeavours to see her brother and persuade him to return to England with us. Unfortunately I have discovered he has been arrested and I am at a loss to know how to fulfil the promise I made to her. I thought Monsieur Robespierre might help.’

  ‘What has the young man been accused of?’

  ‘Nothing that I know of, except that he was in the King’s service.’

  ‘I see,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘And your husband was not to know of your visit to Monsieur Robespierre?’

  ‘My husband is in Paris on a diplomatic mission, Mr Wentworth, he cannot compromise himself or Britain by involving himself with one prisoner in the hands of French justice.’

  ‘I am glad you told me, Mrs Drymore. If you tell me the name of the young man, I might be able to help. I have the ear of Robespierre and Danton, too.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, not questioning how he came to know those gentlemen so well or why he should choose to help her. ‘His name is Michel Giradet and he is being held in La Force.’

  ‘Giradet,’ he repeated. ‘How strange. I have heard that name.’

  Of course he would know the name, his sister had married her father! ‘Perhaps you read it in the London newspapers,’ she said, thinking quickly. ‘The Comte’s arrival in England was hailed as a triumph.’

  ‘Yes, that must be it. If my memory serves me, he was taken out of France by two Englishmen.’

  Only then did she realise the damage she had done. It would not be difficult for him to fill in the whole story with what she had told him, James Smith’s real name, the names of Lord Portman and his friends, not to mention her own and the fact that she and Jay were not married. If he hated Jay as much as Jay hated him, there could be terrible repercussions. ‘You do not need to tell Monsieur Robespierre about that, do you? It would be an ungrateful way to repay those concerned for saving the Comte and his daughter from almost certain death.’

  He smiled. ‘You may trust me to do what I can, Mrs Drymore.’

  ‘And please, do not say anything to my husband.’

  He laughed. ‘My dear, you may depend on that. I have no wish to converse with that gentleman.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She looked up to see Jay striding towards them, his coat open and flapping out behind him. She turned to bid her companion good day, but he had disappeared down a side road leading to the Tuileries Gardens.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Lisette, was that Gerald Wentworth?’ Jay asked when he reached her.

  ‘Yes, we met quite by chance and passed the time of day.’

  He turned to walk beside her. ‘Speaking of time of day, what are you doing out so early and without an escort? Don’t you know how risky that is?’

  ‘Why is it risky? I am an Englishwoman, a stranger to France, who speaks no French. Who would be interested in me?’

  ‘Wentworth, perhaps? Did you tell him who you really were?’

  ‘Certainly not. That would be madness.’

  ‘I am glad you realise it. Did you have breakfast before you left?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then let us go back to the Embassy and have it together.’ He took her hand and tucked it beneath his elbow. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘About your wife? About Marianne?’

  ‘No, why did you say that?’ he asked in surprise. ‘What has Wentworth been telling you?’

  ‘He told me you had driven your wife away with your cruelty and that she fled to him and died falling from her horse.’

  ‘I told you how she died myself.’

  ‘So you did, but you did not tell me about Mr Wentworth.’

  ‘It is not something I wish to talk about or even remember. I beg you to refrain from bringing up the subject, we have more important things to discuss if you wish to free your brother.’

  He had become once again the ice-cold man she had met in Honfleur. ‘You know I do.’

  ‘Then let us concentrate on that.’

  She gave up. He was not going to tell her his side of the story, but perhaps that meant there was some truth in what Mr Wentworth had told her and he was ashamed. She looked sideways at him, wondering if she ought to be afraid of him, but found she was not. He might belay her with words, but he had never once threatened her person. Apart from taking her hand now and again, he had never even touched her. Sometimes, during that long journey from Calais to Paris she had wanted him to take her in his arms, to make her feel that she meant something to him, but he never had, not even when they had shared a bed. Ought she to feel glad of that? Why, oh, why were her emotions so confused?

  They entered the ambassador’s residence and Sam joined them for breakfast. He was dressed in the dreadful garb of the night before. ‘I am going to La Force,’ he told them while eating the unappetising grey bread, butter and plum conserve which was all Madame Gilbert said she could obtain. She had put the food on the table together with a pot of coffee and gone off to do her housework, grumbling that she only had one pair of hands and could do with some help. Jay had promised to see what he could do.

  ‘Are you going to try to see Michel?’ Lisette asked Sam. Her early morning jaunt had made her hungry and she was obliged to overcome her distaste of the food to eat.

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘Tell him I am thinking of him and am doing my utmost to have him released.’

  ‘I will if we can speak without being overheard.’

  ‘What are you going to do, Commodore?’ she asked.

  ‘I am to meet Lord Portman. We are going exploring. I need to learn the geography of Paris.’

  ‘May I come?’

  ‘No. We will be going into some unsavoury quarters and your presence would cause curiosity and suspicion.’

  ‘Why am I always to be excluded?’

  He sighed. ‘Do I nee
d to explain that all over again, Lisette? You are here under sufferance and this is not work for ladies. When the time comes I will tell you how we plan to effect your brother’s release, but until then I beg you to contain yourself in patience.’

  ‘Very well, but I hope it will be soon.’

  When the meal was finished, Sam left the house and Jay changed into the shabby clothes he had worn the night before and went out again. If he had ever imagined that rescuing Michel Giradet from prison and carrying him in triumph to England under the noses of the Revolutionaries would be an adventure to be savoured, he thought it no more. It was fraught with difficulty and danger, made worse by the presence of Lisette. He worried that her independent spirit and penchant for going out on her own could lead her into trouble. Her meeting with Wentworth, however innocent, was worrying, too. If her true identity were discovered, they would all be in trouble.

  She had denied giving it to Wentworth and, whatever else she was, she was honest, so that was something to be thankful for. But had the man guessed? Had he waylaid her in order to confirm his suspicions? How did he know where she would be and at what time? What did the man know about how Comte Giradet had arrived in England? What was his game? He might trust Lisette, but he definitely did not trust her uncle and the more she knew of the escape plans, the more vulnerable she was. He had to hold her at arm’s length and try to keep her in check for her own good, though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

  Harry, Nat and Joe were waiting for him at the Cross Keys. None seemed any the worse for the previous night’s carousal. They were all dressed in the rough garb prevalent in Paris at that time. They had glasses of wine on the table in front of them and were studying a map of Paris. ‘I don’t know how accurate this is,’ Harry said when Jay joined them. ‘We will have to test it out. Our escape route must be planned, every inch of road, every corner, every alley.’

  ‘We have to get the man out of gaol first.’

  ‘What is the good of that if we don’t know what to do with him when we have him? No, my friend, we have to work backwards.’