His Silken Seduction: A brotherhood of spies in Napoleonic France (The Aikenhead Honours Book 4)

by Joanna Maitland

  Marguerite shook her head sadly. "I sincerely hope that I am wrong to harbour doubts about them. But I do know that we are right to take care, with anyone and everyone. We both know that men need little excuse to fight. Royalists will attack Bonapartists who will attack royalists. If we appear to have no sympathies either way, no one will have grounds to molest us. You know how vulnerable we are here, Suzanne, with so many other houses ready to pounce on Grolier's. If they suspected the truth about papa, they would have swallowed us long since."

  Fear gripped Suzanne. Herr Benn would never betray her, she was sure, but others might. And it would take only one ill-judged word. If the Groliers lost their independence, they would lose everything. And they had so many secrets to keep. She hung her head. "You are right, Marguerite. I am sorry. I promise."

  Chapter Two

  "Ben. Ben. For God's sake, man, wake up."

  The low, urgent whisper—and the fact that the voice was speaking English—penetrated Ben's uneasy doze. He managed to half-open one eye. Even that hurt. "Jack." His voice cracked on the single word. His throat was almost too dry for speech, but he had to know what was going on. "What on earth—?"

  In reply, Jack clamped a brutal hand over Ben's mouth. The message could not have been clearer. Silence. Ben nodded his head a fraction, to tell his friend that he had understood, though in truth his mind was full of fog.

  Jack removed his hand, but he was still frowning. "Listen," he hissed, in French. "We are in Lyons, in the house of Bonapartists. They are good people, but if they find out who we are, they are bound to have us arrested. So you must speak no English. Only French. Anything else will give us away. Do you understand, Ben? Ben? Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

  Ben understood pretty well, but Jack's grating whispers were hurting his head. He let it fall sideways on to the pillow and closed his eyes. For a second of respite. Then, recalling his duty, he opened them again and croaked, in French, "I could do with a drink."

  Jack chuckled and gave him a mouthful of water.

  Ben registered that his friend's frown had disappeared. Good. "Tell me what happened to me," Ben said, still in French. "I was having such terrible nightmares. Daggers in my flesh, and black pits, and I seemed to be trapped in a fiendish thicket of twigs and brambles. I couldn't free myself."

  "Poor old Ben." Jack glanced over his shoulder. The bedchamber door was safely shut. "Very well. But Miss Suzanne will only be gone for a few minutes. She is fetching hot water so I can clean you up a bit. We must not talk about anything important while she is here. We might let something slip." He waited for Ben's nod of agreement before continuing. "You collapsed after you were shot. Miss Grolier—Marguerite Grolier, that is, the silk-weaver I rescued from those ruffians at the inn—helped us to escape in her coach. She was very brave. She faced down five armed men, all by herself. It was astonishing. Especially from a bourgeoise." He shook his head, gazing vaguely into the middle distance, as if at an image that only he could see.

  Ben muttered impatiently. He didn't want to hear about Miss Marguerite. He wanted to know about himself. And about the beautiful Suzanne.

  "We hid you on the floor of the coach, under the parcels of silk. We had to tie you down so that you wouldn't roll about. And—I'm sorry, but it was necessary—Marguerite dosed you with laudanum." Jack shrugged. It was almost an apology. "We had to keep you quiet."

  "I suppose so," Ben admitted. Tied down and sedated with laudanum? No wonder he'd had such appalling dreams. The stuff had always disagreed with him.

  "I'm afraid that we weren't able to get the ball out of your shoulder until we reached Rognac. It was too risky to stop earlier. And the surgeon I found there was a bit of a butcher. You'll have a nasty scar." Jack was now looking a bit guilty.

  A butcher of a surgeon. That accounted for the daggers in his flesh, too. Ben sighed. "You only did what you had to do. What matters is the mission, remember?"

  "Yes. And it's more urgent than ever. Bonaparte has escaped from Elba. He's back in France. No doubt he's planning to reclaim his throne."

  "But King Louis—"

  "Louis is not loved. Bonaparte is. And he is clever. There's no knowing what he'll be able to do. So I'm going to ride south today and see what I can discover about his movements. That means leaving you alone here, though. In a Bonapartist house. Can you cope with that?"

  "Yes," Ben said stoutly. "As long as no one gives me any more laudanum." He managed a grin, which Jack returned. "Are you really sure the Groliers are Bonapartists? How do you know?"

  Jack nodded. "You didn't hear how enthusiastically Marguerite cried 'Vive l'Empereur!' when we learned of the little tyrant's escape from exile. If you had, you'd be in no doubt. I had to pretend that I'm a Bonapartist, too, or I might have been rumbled. I fancy most of Lyons supports the man. If he ever gets this far north…" Jack shrugged again and sighed. They both knew the risks. If Napoleon Bonaparte raised an army, Europe could go up in flames, all over again.

  At that moment, Ben heard footsteps outside the door. Jack heard them too, and put a finger to his lips. Ben nodded and lay back on his pillows. He needed to think about all this, to work out what he must do, but he was so very tired. And he ached, everywhere. At the sound of the door opening, he gave up the struggle and allowed himself to drift off into sleep.

  In the days following his whispered exchange with Jack, Ben did little but worry, during almost every waking hour. He worried about Jack, riding off on his own through enemy territory, hoping to glean intelligence about the tyrant's progress. He worried that if Jack said a word out of place, he could be arrested and shot. And should he not have returned by now, in any case?

  Ben worried about his own position, too. He was so damnably weak. He still could barely move. He certainly could not travel—Suzanne was insisting on that—and so he was useless as a spy, besides being a burden to Jack. If Jack made it back to Lyons safely, Ben would insist that he carry on alone, for the information they had was vital. Their mission mattered above everything. Jack had to carry the intelligence to London. And if that meant leaving Ben alone in Lyons, surrounded by the enemy, so be it.

  No matter how much Ben tried, he was not able to convince himself that Suzanne was a Bonapartist. She had given no sign of any interest in politics, in all the hours she had spent tending his wound.

  Ben now knew quite a lot about this little household but nothing at all about where its loyalties lay. The mother was an invalid, and somewhat unstable, following a terrible carriage accident some years before. Privately, Ben suspected that Madame Grolier had been sent stark mad by the blow to her head, though no one ever used such words to describe her. The father was abroad, Suzanne said, travelling to find buyers for Grolier silk and velvet. Suzanne had shown Ben samples of the beautiful, and costly, products of their looms. The fabrics were finer than anything to be had in London, he was sure.

  In the father's absence, Marguerite was in charge of the weaving house. The two sisters did most of the weaving work, too, for there were only two elderly household servants plus a simpleton kitchen boy. Ben suspected that the family was living hand to mouth. Not surprising, on reflection, given the fact that France had been at war for so many years. Who would have the money to buy precious silk in a country where the price of food was so high?

  Whatever their politics, the Groliers were good, generous people and Ben wished he could help them. He owed them his life, that was certain. Perhaps, if King Louis's forces defeated the upstart, things would quieten down? Perhaps Ben would be able to tell Suzanne the truth about himself? He hated deceiving her. She deserved better of him in return for all the dedicated care she had given him.

  It was astonishing how quickly they had fallen into the way of being easy with one another. Several times a day, Suzanne would come to Ben's cramped little chamber on the first-floor landing to check the dressing on his wound. She always seemed to find an excuse to linger and to talk. And he was in no hurry to persuade her to leave.
<
br />   She was a gentle, kind and beautiful girl. And she had the speech and manners of a lady. If he had not known the truth of it, he would never have dreamed she was only a bourgeoise.

  The bedchamber door opened very quietly. Ben's head jerked up. He had not heard a knock.

  "Oh!" Suzanne cried, springing up from the bed where she was sitting. Her hand had been so close to Ben's. Almost touching, but not quite. In another few minutes, he might have been holding her hand, for the very first time.

  "Good evening, ma'am," Jack said from the doorway, bowing. "I trust I see you well? I clearly have no need to enquire after my friend here. I can see that, under your tender care, he has improved beyond measure while I have been away."

  Suzanne, now scarlet in the face, dipped him a tiny curtsey and fled past him.

  "Oh, dear," Jack said, looking anything but remorseful, "I seem to have frightened her away."

  Jack had always loved to play the wicked rogue with women. It was not fair on Suzanne, but Ben knew it would be unwise to scold him. That would only make him even more suspicious of what Ben and Suzanne might have been doing. So Ben grinned back and said, "Looking like that, you would frighten anyone." It was true. Jack was filthy. And he smelt. "What on earth have you done to yourself, Jack?"

  Jack tapped a finger against his nose and went to close the door securely. Then he came back to take Suzanne's place on the bed. "You would be equally disreputable if you'd ridden as many miles as I have, these last few days. But I can tell you, I watched the most astonishing sight of my life. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it."

  That was too much for Ben. "Tell me," he urged. "Tell me all of it."

  Jack described how he had ridden south and found royalist soldiers massed in every town and a whole regiment in Grenoble. Finally, hiding behind rocks in a narrow pass on the Gap road, he had seen a regiment of the King's soldiers blockading the road, muskets at the ready. Facing them, just out of range, was the Imperial Guard. "Their formation was immaculate. They had been struggling over mountain passes for days, but no one would have known. They looked formidable. And even I could tell they were spoiling for a fight."

  "And Bonaparte? You saw him?"

  Jack nodded. "I missed him at first. I'd expected more splendour. His horse was nothing remarkable and his dress certainly wasn't—a plain grey coat and a broad black hat, like a merchant's. He sat his horse in front of the Guard while the two sides stared each other out. The silence was uncanny. He was scrutinising the ranks of royalist troops as though he were reviewing them on the parade square. When he'd done with that, he walked his horse forward, cool as you like, until he was well within musket range. No one made a move to shoot. Then he dismounted, quite casually, and walked towards the guns. One small vulnerable figure facing certain death. Such supreme confidence. Such courage." Jack swallowed audibly.

  Ben held his breath.

  "He looked at each man in the front rank and addressed the regiment as if he recognised them. When all their eyes were on him, he even smiled. And then he put his bare hand over his heart and challenged them. 'Soldiers of the Fifth! If there is any man among you who would shoot his General—his Emperor—let him do it!' By God, it was magnificent." Jack's eyes were shining.

  "I take it they didn't shoot?" Ben put in acidly.

  Jack gave a snort of laughter. "No. There was a long silence, as if everyone was holding their breath, and suddenly the whole of the Fifth was yelling 'Vive l'Empereur!' and surrounding him. I tell you, Ben, the Emperor Napoleon has truly come into his own again." He paused and shook his head. "He may be only a puffed-up little Corsican, but I cannot fault his courage. Or his understanding of men. They love him, and everything he stands for. I'm sure they are all ready to die for him."

  Ben sighed. "It's a very potent mixture. Wellington is admired and respected, but he is not loved. We have no one who inspires such devotion."

  "I fear you're right," Jack agreed. "The man's recreating his old legend. I'd wager the troops in Grenoble will fall under his spell the moment he gets there. Probably Lyons as well."

  Ben closed his eyes and let out a long breath. This was really important information. If only he were not so weak and helpless…

  Jack was starting to look anxious. "I know you're not really fit to travel yet, Ben," he began tentatively, "but we've got to get this news back to England. They'll have to muster the Allied armies again. And quickly, too, or else—"

  Ben was having none of it. With a huge effort, he pushed himself up off the pillows. "I'm not fit to go, Jack. We both know that. You must go on alone." He seized Jack's arm. "The mission comes first."

  "No. We'll manage. We can—"

  "Stubble it, Jack. You know we can't. You're the leader. You have to leave me." Exhausted, he fell back.

  Jack grimaced. "You're right," he admitted, at last. "I'll have to go alone. Tomorrow. But I'll see you before I leave and get you to somewhere safer. If you stay here among the enemy, you'll probably end up being shot."

  Ben smiled and shook his head. "You know, Jack, I honestly think that the Grolier household is the safest place in the world for me at present."

  "What?" Jack frowned for a moment. Then, "Oh, so that's the way of it? Well, I wish you joy of her. But make sure you don't end up in parson's mousetrap with a French bourgeoise you daren't present to your grandfather." He rose and made for the door. "And make sure you get home in one piece. too. The Honours need you. If you don't appear, I'll be back to fetch you, pretty French mistress or no."

  By the time Ben had gathered enough wits to swear at his friend, Jack had gone.

  Chapter Three

  Suzanne felt as if her whole body was glowing. She glanced across at Herr Benn. They had become so comfortable together and, now that he was definitely on the mend, she did not need to worry quite so much about his recovery. She allowed herself to relax, to savour this precious time with him. Eventually, she would have to stop being alone with him—had she not promised Marguerite that these visits would cease once Herr Benn was well enough to get out of bed?—but he could not compromise her as he was. He was still much too weak to rise.

  She refused to think about what would happen once he was well enough to leave, for she could not bear to think about losing him. She had to keep living in the moment. With him. Seeing him. Touching him. She gazed round the tiny box room where he was kept hidden. It seemed bigger and brighter than usual. The colours were more vivid and the scent of her lavender water was surprisingly tangy. Was that what love did to the senses?

  Benn flapped his good arm and groaned.

  Suzanne turned back to him in concern. "Are you in pain?"

  "No." He grinned up at her from his pillows. "But I'm bored, lying here trussed up like a parcel. I'd so like to be up and about. To find out what is going on."

  She immediately responded in the same light-hearted tone. "Oh, I can tell you that, sir. It seems we missed a great spectacle. You've heard of the Comte d'Artois, the King's brother? Well, he ordered the regiment here in Lyons to muster at first light this morning. He wanted to hold a formal review." She chuckled. "Apparently, it was a shambles. Instead of saluting him, half the regiment made faces at him. He's a ridiculous little man, and he deserves to be laughed at, but—"

  "The troops rebelled?"

  "They started shouting for their emperor. The moment the count saw it was all up with him, he turned tail and rode off for Paris." When Herr Benn began struggling to sit up, she protested, "Please, Herr Benn, you must not exert yourself." She put a hand on his good shoulder and tried to push him back onto his pillows.

  He shook her off, though it clearly caused him pain. "Bonaparte," he gasped. "Is he here in Lyons?"

  That was when Suzanne remembered her other promise to her sister. Every word was dangerous, Marguerite said, even to a German like Herr Benn. And Suzanne had failed her.

  "Tell me." Herr Benn was almost shouting. "Is Bonaparte here?"

  "I…" She cou
ldn't move. His fierce stare was pinning her in place. "Yes," she admitted at last, in a tiny voice. "He is here. And the army has gone over to him."

  Herr Benn's face changed in an instant. She had never seen such bleak determination. "Jacques. I have to go," he muttered, using his good arm to throw back the bedclothes.

  "No." Suzanne tried desperately to hold him down, but he pushed her off. In his agitation, his strength seemed to have increased tenfold.

  "I have to go," he said again. He swung his bare feet to the floor and pulled himself up. For a moment, he stood there, swaying. Then he muttered something Suzanne could not catch and forced his way past her, even as she leapt up to stop him.

  He rounded the corner of the bed, making for the door. For a moment, he stood straight and strong, but then he stumbled and fell forward.

  His head hit the corner of the chest. Suzanne heard a crack like a pistol shot. "Benn!" she screamed, throwing herself towards him. She was too late. His head was already covered in blood. And he had passed out. He might even be dead. She screamed again, in panic. "Marguerite! Guillaume! Come quickly!"

  Suzanne was still kneeling helplessly by Benn's inert body when Marguerite and Guillaume arrived. Marguerite took one look and sent Guillaume back downstairs for hot water and fresh bandages.

  "Don't look so concerned, my love," Marguerite said calmly, dropping to her knees to check Benn's pulse. "He's alive. And head wounds always bleed like this." She used her handkerchief to mop the blood away so that she could examine the wound more closely. "It's not all that deep. Herr Benn probably has a very hard head. I'm sure he'll soon mend."

  How could Marguerite make jokes at a time like this? Could she not see that Herr Benn was in great danger? His shoulder wound had opened again. His bandages were getting redder and redder. He might die at any moment. Suzanne clasped her hands even more tightly together and prayed desperately.

  Her prayers were answered. Guillaume returned unbelievably quickly.