Madalena

by Sheila Walsh

  Janine de Marron was much envied for her major-domo. She had first come upon him during her stay in America, in the service of a wealthy New Orleans family and had been much intrigued by this young slave with the magnificent physique and quiet demeanour, who had been educated by a sympathetic padre. She had prevailed upon the family to sell him and having given him his freedom, had offered him the position in her household which he had now filled for many years to their mutual satisfaction, though many had sought to lure him away.

  In a luxuriously, appointed bedchamber Samson supervised the bringing of warm water and soft towels so that their guest might rid himself of his grime, before assisting him into a shirt of finest lawn, with more lace and ruffles than he was accustomed to wear.

  ‘I believe this will fit; monsieur’s own shirt will be freshly laundered for the morning.’ By no hint had the major-domo ever betrayed that he knew Devereux’s true rank. He said now: ‘Monsieur has no objection to wearing one of my shirts?’

  Devereux looked down and then quizzically at the other’s frankly dandified dress. ‘I doubt I shall do it justice,’ he murmured.

  There was the briefest answering glimmer in Samson’s eye and then a lackey was bringing in Devereux’s boots, now buffed to a gleaming perfection and his coat, freshly sponged and pressed. Samson helped him into the coat, smoothing it almost lovingly across the superb shoulders.

  ‘And now, if monsieur would care to step downstairs, there is a particularly fine claret that we have recently purchased. I would value monsieur’s opinion …’

  Monsieur’s opinion having been duly given in favour of the vintage, he stretched himself out in Janine’s most comfortable chair to await her arrival.

  Over a dinner tenderly prepared by Janine’s Monsieur Choumil, of which the chef-d’oeuvre was a Matelote à la Bourguignonne which defied description, they talked freely and with the ease of old friends.

  Janine, like Serena Fairfax, understood Devereux and she had sensed at once the difference in him. Could it be that someone had at last succeeded in piercing the impenetrable fortress of his heart? Yet she sensed also that he was not happy. She knew a momentary stab of jealousy, even of anger ‒ could it be that this woman did not appreciate her good fortune? That would be ironic indeed, for until now Dev had only to lift his finger!

  He would not be drawn, however, and continually steered the conversation away from his own affairs. They discussed at great length the discontent that was rife in both countries ‒ stemming in France from Bonaparte’s ever-growing ambition which was bleeding the country of both its manpower and its resources. England likewise was suffering; the continuing blockade of Continental ports had now been aggravated by rumours that America would declare war on Britain at any moment. The damage to trade was already bringing disaster to industry and an alarming rise in the price of food.

  ‘Take the recent assassination of our Prime Minister, Perceval, in the lobby of the House of Commons. Though reputed as the random act of a madman, does it not seem symptomatic of the general unrest?’

  Devereux lay back in his chair and contemplated the glowing depths of his wine glass. ‘You know, my dear Janine, the sooner this war is at an end, the better pleased I shall be.’

  ‘Oh, but how is this, chéri? Until now, you have relished the challenge afforded you in the work you do.’

  He smiled faintly. ‘Perhaps I am growing old.’

  ‘Old? You?’ Her laugh trilled out. ‘I think you are in your cups! Listen ‒ and I will tell you something to make you sit up. There has been built a small harbour not many miles from where you come ashore, and there is much smuggling.’

  Devereux sighed. ‘There is always smuggling ‒ the Navy is powerless to end it …’

  ‘Ah, but this is different! It is not a matter of a few casks of brandy or a little tea, or laces for madame. No, I tell you, this is a much bigger enterprise ‒ and more sinister. Important men have been down from Paris and I have it on reliable authority that consignments are regularly imported of army overcoats ‒ boots, thousands of pairs of English boots, and arms!’

  Devereux whistled and sat forward. ‘You are sure about this?’

  ‘There is a colonel in the National Guard who seems to find me irresistible!’ Janine fluttered her eyelashes demurely. ‘Also he does not have a strong head for brandy ‒ you would be surprised the things I learn!’

  ‘Then we must ensure that his indiscretions are further turned to good account,’ said his grace softly.

  Paris was still snoring fitfully when Devereux rode in and turned his weary horse towards the poorer quarter of the city. Here the upper storeys of the houses leaned drunkenly over the narrow streets. In a few hours the squalid, cobbled ways would be jammed by a strident mêlée of men, horses and waggons that would send the less fortunate scrambling for their lives, but for now there was only the flotsam of the previous night ‒ an occasional prone body huddled for comfort against a wall and the garbage which drifted sluggishly as a capricious morning breeze began to roll back the clouds of night.

  The concierge poked a bleary head out of his cubby hole as Devereux climbed wearily to the room on the second floor which was his pied-à-terre when in Paris, and on recognising Monsieur Mornay, muttered a brusque greeting and withdrew.

  After a few hours’ sleep Devereux emerged again into one of the quieter back streets, refreshed and resplendent in a fine mulberry coat, buff pantaloons and gleaming black hessians. His steps led him unerringly in the direction of a small patisserie, lured by the fragrant smell of fresh baking. He ducked automatically beneath the lintel as he pushed open the door to the insistent jangling of bells.

  An enormously fat woman waddled through from the back of the shop, grumbling and wiping flour from her hands as she came. She threw up her hands at the sight of him and her ample bosom heaved beneath the all-enveloping apron; a chuckle began way down and gradually erupted until all her chins were quivering and the bright button eyes disappeared in a mass of creases.

  ‘Monsieur ‒ you have come back to us at last! Come in ‒ come in! Ah, I know why you are here ‒ heh?’ She wagged a playful finger as she propelled him before her into the back room. ‘You hope for some of Mama Bertha’s lobster patties. You have not broken your fast? Then you are just in time, bien sûr!’

  Under his nose the table was spread with a snowy cloth and the steaming patties placed before him together with a cold, truffled capon. From a cupboard she triumphantly produced a bottle. ‘See? I remember your likes, and for you, I keep always a small supply.’

  Devereux had been patronizing Madame Bertha regularly over the ten years since he had first acquired the room in the Rue Blanc. She had taken the fascinating and slightly mysterious Monsieur Mornay at once under her wing. On one occasion she had ventured surprise that so virile a young man was not taken for the Army, and had received for answer so significant a look that her affection thereafter had become tinged with awe.

  As he did full justice to the patties, he quizzed her as to the mood of Paris.

  It was not good, she told him with a heavy sigh and began to knead her dough with a fine fury.

  ‘It is not so much that money is short ‒ or food, for that matter; the people do not starve. But neither do they laugh any more. For more than twenty years, it seems, we have been a country at war and mothers have waited with hopeless eyes for the sons who will never return ‒ wives struggle to support their demanding families unaided, or with menfolk helplessly crippled.’

  Madame Bertha brandished her rolling pin. ‘And for what, mon fils? Heh? You tell Mama Bertha ‒ are we any the better for it all? I tell you that in the beginning the Emperor gave us back our pride ‒ and that was fine! But now, the Grand Army goes to seek greater triumphs ‒ and maybe disaster ‒ and we womenfolk see only that the “flowers of France” perish so that one man may pursue his dream of conquest! No, mon fils, if some of us now wish the Emperor dead ‒ who is to blame us?’

  It was a long speech.
She blew noisily into her handkerchief and glared at Devereux, bright-eyed. ‘And there is a fine treasonable statement for you, if you like!’

  He stood up from the table and laid a comforting arm about the shaking shoulders. ‘Courage, Mama Bertha ‒ you will have your peace yet.’

  The sun was high when Devereux reached the luxurious mansion on the Rue Saint Florentin. A small town carriage was just leaving and he caught a brief glimpse of bright curls beneath a charming chip bonnet.

  He was shown into a lavishly appointed library where he was presently joined by a slight, pallid-faced man of middle years ‒ elegant to the point of dandyism ‒ who leaned heavily on a jewelled malacca cane. This was Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, Prince de Bénevént ‒ ex Bishop of Auton ‒ and, without a doubt, the most dissolute, the wiliest, the most astute and devious man in all of France.

  He had kept his head through the Revolution, and after a prudent sojourn in America, had returned during the difficult days of the Directory, surviving unpopularity to make himself indispensable to the young Bonaparte and thereafter, to tread a dangerous path of intrigue, corresponding constantly with numerous heads of state, both friend and foe, under the very nose of his Emperor.

  He now extended a graceful, be-ruffled hand in welcome. He indicated a comfortable chair near the window and lowered himself slowly into the one opposite. An unfortunate accident in early childhood, when a nurse had dropped him from a dresser, had left him with an irremediable lameness, so that he was unable to stand for any length of time without great fatigue.

  ‘I had not expected to see you, Duc,’ he said in his thin voice. ‘I trust that all is well?’

  Devereux explained the nature of his visit and caught a fleeting glimpse of annoyance in the cold, almost fishlike eyes before the heavy eyelids came down to obscure all expression. There was silence in the room while the Prince’s subtle brain digested the news and its implications.

  ‘It is unfortunate,’ he said at last. ‘I do not believe I can replace Leclerc at the present time.’ The cold, piercing eyes looked full into Devereux’s. ‘Would you, Monseigneur le Duc, be willing to assume his role – temporarily?’

  Devereux was taken aback. ‘Would that be wise, highness?’

  Talleyrand shrugged his elegantly clad shoulders. ‘Who can say what is wise? It is essential that I have someone I can trust. Events are fast approaching which will be difficult …’

  ‘I was speaking with the Russian Ambassador before I left London. He was amazingly confident that Napoleon will come to grief in the great trackless wastes of his country ‒ that he will be lured farther and farther from his supply bases until he is decimated by the winter.’

  ‘He would not be told.’ Almost, Talleyrand smiled. ‘Yes, I do believe our “little man” is at last over-reaching himself! We must be ready for the consequences.’

  With an apparent change of subject, Devereux said casually, ‘I was not aware that Aimée de Coigny was known to your highness. I was not mistaken in seeing her leave as I arrived?’

  The bland expression never altered. ‘Ah yes ‒ Madame de Coigny! An impetuous young woman. She is endeavouring to win me over to the Bourbon cause, you know.’ A small, malicious smile touched the ironic mouth. ‘It does no harm to let her run on.’

  ‘And is there any case for the return of Louis XVIII, do you think?’

  ‘Who knows, my friend? The Emperor’s power is slipping. His day as a force against the revolution is long gone. It is all very well that he destroys equality, but we must still have liberty. We need laws. With him it is impossible.’ The voice had grown harsh. He stopped and then resumed obliquely, ‘I may count on you, then, may I not? Had Leclerc lived, I believe I should still have called upon you. One does not treat through the Aimée de Coignys of this world.’

  There was little Devereux could do but assent. He rose to leave. ‘Tell me, highness ‒ are you acquainted with Etienne de Brussec?’

  The hooded eyes widened a little. ‘I know Monsieur de Brussec, of course ‒ a most popular man with the common people ‒ though he does not count me among his friends.’ Again the elegant shoulders moved and he smiled thinly. ‘It seems he does not altogether trust me! Our worthy lawyer is that most dangerous and foolhardy of creatures ‒ a completely honest man! I fear it may yet be his undoing.’

  ‘So I am led to believe. Can you perhaps give me his direction?’

  Devereux sensed a certain reluctance and said hastily, ‘Do not alarm yourself, highness. My business with de Brussec is of a purely personal nature. His children, as you may know, are in England with their aunt.’

  ‘Quite so. Twins, are they not? And one of them a rather captivating girl child, as I remember.’ For an instant the cold eyes gleamed, before resuming their habitual enigmatic expression.

  ‘He lives out at Plassy, safe from the corrupting influences of the city. I will write his direction for you.’ Talleyrand grasped the malacca cane and came painfully to his feet. ‘Be careful, Duc! I have much influence it is true, but if Demarest’s Secret Police arrest you, there is little even I can do! And one thing more, Duc ‒ if you are in a position to do so, advise our worthy friend to caution. France can ill afford to lose such a man!’

  His business in Paris completed, Devereux made good time back to the coast. Finding himself with some hours to kill before Jason could be expected, and being strangely reluctant to re-visit Janine, he resolved to discover for himself the site of this supposed concealed harbour. If it indeed existed, and if he could pin-point the spot with some degree of accuracy, it would make the Navy’s job that much easier.

  He urged the tired gelding along a narrow track parallel with the cliffs and presently came to a place where an even rougher track meandered down towards the beach between high banks. He dismounted and tethered the horse before moving cautiously forward until he could see below. Halfway down a ramshackle inn clung to the cliff face, and below that was a small quayside bustling with activity.

  He had just determined to take a closer look when a soft nicker from the horse and a highly developed sixth sense alerted him. He spun round as a pistol ball smacked into the ground where he had been, and a second scorched his sleeve. There were two men advancing on him with knives and with no time to draw and aim his own pistol, he reached instead for the sword bayonet which he had wrested from the hand of a dead rifleman at Badajos in order to defend himself, and had found so useful a weapon that he had kept it thereafter.

  The next few minutes were spent fending off a particularly vicious assault, made the more unnerving by the total silence in which it was conducted, broken only by the hiss of heavy breathing. As the two men came at him in a concerted attack, Devereux shot out his foot and brought the nearer one crashing to the ground. This gave him vital seconds in which to dispose of his accomplice, who came on at him with renewed ferocity. It was his undoing, for at the last moment Devereux feinted and brought his blade up, spitting the man with deadly accuracy.

  He struggled to free the blade, aware that the second man was on his feet again. But it had jammed. He wrenched desperately at it, cursing its awkwardness, a cold sweat running down his back. When all seemed lost, a shot rang out and the second man staggered and fell.

  Devereux straightened, breathing hard, to see the elegant, imperturbable figure of Samson astride a pure white mare ‒ a smoking horse-pistol protruding incongruously from the heavy lace ruffles at his wrist.

  ‘My thanks!’ he gasped. ‘I don’t know how the devil you come to be here, but …’

  ‘I was returning from performing some small commissions for Madame.’ The big man pushed the pistol back into its holster and swung from the saddle. ‘I saw you ahead of me on the road ‒ and this canaille also. When you turned on to the cliff path and they followed, I took it upon myself to do likewise.’

  ‘As well for me that you did, man ‒ I believe I owe you my life.’

  The major-domo permitted himself a slight smile. ‘I doubt it would
have come to that, monsieur, but I am happy to have been of service.’

  Devereux stirred one of the bodies with the toe of his boot, rolling him on to his back. ‘Do you recognize either of them?’

  ‘No, monsieur, but they are not common brigands, I think. Observe the dress.’

  Methodically they went through the pockets of both men and straightened up at last with a neat pile of notebooks and documents. Their eyes met.

  ‘Not much doubt as to who they are,’ Devereux said curtly.

  ‘Secret police.’

  ‘So. What do we do with them? Before long someone will undoubtedly come looking.’

  Samson returned him a bland look. ‘If monsieur will assist me in getting them across the mare’s back, I will engage to dispose of their bodies where they will never be found.’

  Devereux grinned suddenly. ‘I begin to see why Madame de Marron values you so highly. You are obviously a man of many parts.’

  The job done, Samson took up the rein. ‘I think you should go, monsieur, if you would not miss the tide.’ He inclined his head courteously. ‘I wish you an uneventful crossing.’

  Devereux picked up his hat which had come off in the fight and swung into the saddle. He stretched down a hand to the man who was unprepared for such a gesture. A strange expression crossed his face; slowly he extended his own hand and found it firmly gripped.

  Devereux said warmly, ‘My thanks again, Samson!’

  For the first time Samson betrayed his knowledge of Devereux’s true rank. There was a moistness in his eye as he replied huskily, ‘No, Monseigneur le Duc ‒ it is for me to thank you!’

  Chapter Seven

  Madalena was late. When young Thomas, the footman opened the door to her, she rushed past him impetuously up the staircase without listening to what he was saying. The poor Duchess would be wondering whatever had become of her, but Phoebe was most insistent that she decide upon the patterns for the dresses she was to take with her into Wiltshire.

  Entering the bedchamber, she was astonished to see so eager a light in her dear friend’s eye ‒ and then her heart gave a great lurch and she leaned weakly against the door. From a chair beside the bed a figure unfolded itself ‒ a figure clad informally in shirt and breeches, with a crimson cravat knotted casually at the neck, whose glance encompassed her in so strange, so enigmatic a fashion that, remembering their last encounter, the blood came and went in her face.