by Jane Feather
Madame Farmier, hugely pregnant, had fussed over Jake, and Nathaniel intended that once Jake had recovered from the journey and was accustomed to the strangeness of this new existence, he would be absorbed into her unruly brood. No observer would notice one extra child running with the Farmiers.
Nathaniel pulled off Jake's shoes, his coat and britches, and tucked him into the cot in his underclothes. Jake flung his arms wide in an expansive gesture. Nathaniel grimaced. It was surprising how much space a six-year-old could take up. He edged into bed beside the child's warm body, rearranging Jake's limbs so that he occupied rather less of the narrow area. However, it was with no great confidence in a good night's sleep that the spymaster composed himself for rest.
Chapter 18
A lad brought a message to rue d’Anjou the following afternoon. He was a grimy urchin with his cap set crookedly on his unruly thatch of dirt-darkened hair. The footman surveyed him with a raised eyebrow and instructed him to go to the kitchen entrance.
The urchin sniffed and shook his head, thrusting a sealed envelope at the footman before he scampered back down the steps to the street.
The footman glanced at the envelope as if it were something nasty that had crawled out of the woodwork. However, it was clearly addressed in literate handwriting to the Comtesse de Beaucaire.
Gabrielle was sitting with Catherine in a sunny upstairs parlor when the message arrived on a silver salver. She recognized the writing immediately, and her heart jumped against her ribs, her stomach jolting with anticipation.
"Excuse me, Catherine." She smi'ed vaguely at her companion and left the parlor.
In her own room she tore open the envelope. The message, in the code she and Nathaniel had worked out together at Burley Manor, was similar in content to many she had received from Guillaume. She was given a channel of communication: the flower seller in the flower market whose stall was to the left of the center pump. She would be selling bunches of primroses. Gabrielle was to buy a bunch and with the three-sou payment she could pass on a written message using this same code.
There was nothing personal in the message, no greeting and no signature, only the handwriting to identify the sender. But that was only to be expected.
Gabrielle paced her bedroom, frowning. Nathaniel intended to keep his whereabouts secret from her. Why?
She could understand that he'd be extra cautious with Jake, but she needed to know where he was. For some reason, the idea of him somewhere in Paris, unreachable except through the medium of the flower seller, made her dreadfully uneasy.
Well, she'd just have to find out for herself where he was. She sat at the secretaire to compose a missive to the spymaster. Unfortunately she couldn't think of anything utterly compelling to tell him. She settled for the simple information that Talleyrand had returned from Prussia and was likely to be in residence in Paris for some weeks.
Slipping the sealed envelope into her reticule, she left the house, hailed a passing hackney, and drove to the flower market. It was as busy as it had been the previous day, the air moist and heavy with the scents of flowers, the cobblestones damp from the continual dousing the merchandise received from prudent sellers.
An old crone in black widow's weeds sat at the stall to the left of the central pump. She gave Gabrielle an incurious glance as she selected a bunch of primroses for her and held out a hand cruelly gnarled with arthritis for the three sous.
She took the envelope and the money without a flicker in the dull eves, and Gabrielle moved away, holding the primroses to her nose, inhaling their spring scent.
She took up a position beside a striped awning across from the primrose seller and waited. After a few minutes she saw a small boy run out from behind a cart and approach the crone. The lad grabbed the envelope and darted off through the throng toward the bridge that connected the small ile St. Louis to its larger cousin, the ile de la Cite.
Gabrielle hurried after him. She couldn't run without drawing attention to herself, but her long-legged stride kept the boy in sight as he raced along the Quai d'Orleans and disappeared round the corner of the rue Bude.
She stood at the end of the street, hidden in a doorway, inhaling the cold air that smelled of garbage and damp stone and mud from the Seine flowing sluggishly around the island. The lad stopped at number thirteen. She couldn't see who opened the door, but in a few seconds the lad was running back up the street. He went past her without seeing her, and Gabrielle walked briskly down the street, glancing casually at the door to number thirteen before making her way along rue St. Louis en l' ile, back to the dower market. At least she knew where Nathaniel and Jake were now. Not that it did her much good.
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Nathaniel swore vigorously as he looked at the letter Monsieur Farmier had brought upstairs. He'd instructed the baker to tell the flower seller to deliver any communications to Gerard's bar on the quay, where he'd arrange to have them collected. Farmier had obviously forgotten that instruction; presumably his brain had been fuddled with his midday tippling.
Gabrielle would have followed the lad. It was what he would have done in her circumstances, and she was always resourceful.
He went out into the street. There was no sign of a tall, black-clad redhead. But then, he wouldn't expect her to reveal herself either.
She wouldn't deliberately bring Fouche's men down upon him, not when he had Jake with him, but it was all damnably uncertain. And he couldn't afford uncertainty-not with Jake. He went back into the house and upstairs to his garret room. Perhaps he should change the safe house. Gabrielle could continue to believe he was still there and send her messages. But it was such perfect cover for the child.
Footsteps pounded on the stairs outside and the door burst open. "Papa-"
"It's polite to knock on a door before entering," Nathaniel said, regarding his son with a degree of irritation at this explosive interruption.
Jake fixed his eyes on his shuffling feet, and he became again the timid child of Burley Manor.
"What is it you want?" Nathaniel asked less sharply, catching the child's chin and turning it up. "What's that all around your mouth?"
"Toffee," Jake said, rubbing with the back of his hand. "It's sticky."
"Yes, I can see that. Come here." He drew the child to the dresser, dipped a cloth in water, and scrubbed vigorously.
"There's rabbits in the yard," Jake said, snuffling through the washcloth. "In a cage. Can I go an' see them? Henri has to feed 'em."
"How do you talk to Henri?" Nathaniel turned Jake's face side to side, examining it for any residue of toffee. "He doesn't speak English."
Jake looked confused by the question.
"I suppose actions speak louder than words," Nathaniel observed.
Jake didn't understand this either, but he could feel that his father's annoyance had disappeared. "So can I go, Papa?" He hopped anxiously from foot to foot.
"MayI?" Nathaniel corrected the child automatically.
"May I?" Jake repeated with ill-concealed impatience. "It's only in the yard outside the kitchen door.'
"I suppose so, but…" Nathaniel was left speaking to empty air, the sound of Jake's feet receding on the stairs.
Nathaniel smiled as he hoped that the child wouldn't associate furry bunnies with his dinner tomorrow. And suddenly he was swamped with longing to see Gabrielle, to share that thought with her, to hear her rich chuckle. He found himself wishing that if she had followed the lad, she'd have thrown caution to the wind and paid him one of her indiscreet visits.
But such thoughts were dangerous madness.
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"So, you believe you have gained the English spymaster's confidence, madame?" Fouche rolled an unlit cigar between his stubby fingers and regarded Gabrielle through hooded eyes.
"He has agreed to take me into lis service," she responded calmly, leaning back in her chair in Talleyrand's
office.
"And how did you travel back to France?"
"By fishing boat from Lymington to Cherbourg."
"And you traveled with Praed." It was not a question but a simple assertion.
Gabrielle controlled her features as her mind whirled. How did Fouche know that? Surely Talleyrand hadn't told him. She glanced at her godfather. His expression was inscrutable.
"Yes," she said.
Fouche's mouth moved in the semblance of a smile. "You seem uncertain, madame."
"No, I'm not in the least uncertain," she retorted. "But I'm wondering how you knew that."
"You were traveling on one of my laissez passer, madame. When you entered Caen, you showed the pass at the city gates. My men take note of such things."
"And they recognized Lord Praed?"
He shook his head. "No, but I was making a lucky guess."
Merde! He was a slimy, tricky bastard! But could they have seen Jake? He'd been asleep in the coach most of that first day, and she was almost positive the city guards hadn't looked inside the carriage. Nathaniel had been riding alongside, of course.
"So, perhaps you could tell me where we might find Lord Praed?" Fouche suggested. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and felt in his pocket for his sulphur matches. Catching his host's eye, he changed his mind and put the cigar on the table, reaching instead for his brandy goblet.
Gabrielle saw Guillaume's body, lying in her arms, the small crimson stain on the smooth, pale flesh of his back. She watched the stain spread and felt her arms grow heavy with his weight as the buoyancy of life left him. She heard again that strange little sound, half protest, half surprise, as the knife found its mark.
Nathaniel Praed had robbed Guillaume de Granville of life and Gabrielle de Beaucaire of a man she'd loved more than life itself.
"Madame?" Fouche prompted, leaning forward in his chair so that his face came close to hers.
"No," she heard herself say, her voice sounding distant, as if it were coming from the rustic pavilion all those months ago. "No, Idon't know where he is. He wouldn't tell me. He said Iwould be contacted."
"And have you yet been?"
Gabrielle had an image of the flower seller in the hands of Fouche's policemen. She shook her head. "Not as yet."
"I see." Fouche was frowning. "Forgive me, madame, but you seem a little uncertain of your answers."
"I detect no uncertainty, Fouche." Talleyrand spoke for the first time during the interview. His smile was urbane as he refilled his guest's glass. "Gabrielle is always one to weigh her words."
"I am also somewhat fatigued," Gabrielle said. "It was a long journey. I've told you as much as I can about the situation in England, and what I discovered among Lord Praed's private papers. If there's nothing else…" She rose from her chair.
"No, you've been most helpful, madame," Fouche said, rising with her, his eyes skimming over her face with a glitter that made her shiver. "You will, of course, inform me the minute the English spymaster makes contact."
"Bien sur," she said.
"Well, I must take my leave, Talleyrand." Fouche bowed. "I'll use the rear door, as usual. No, no…" he protested as Talleyrand reached for the bellpull. "There's no need to summon a servant. I can find my own way."
"I'm sure you can, my friend, but I wouldn't dream of it," Talleyrand murmured with his calm smile. "Escort Monsieur Fouche to the door, Andre," he instructed the footman, who'd appeared so fast he must have been standing outside the door.
The door closed and Talleyrand shook his head with a grimace of distaste. "As if I'd be fool enough to let him wander unescorted through my house. He'd probably steal the silver."
Gabrielle's smile was a feeble attempt. "Do you think he believed me?"
Her godfather shook his head. "No. He took you by surprise, as he intended, and I'm sure he learned a lot more than you wanted him to. It's his way."
"But if he doesn't believe me, why did he let it go?"
Talleyrand shrugged. "You're a private citizen with powerful friends. He can't haul you off to his dungeons unless you do something overtly treacherous. I'm sure he'll try to discover why you lied, and you can be certain he'll be watching you."
"Yes." She turned to the door. "I'm sure he will."
"Just as a matter of interest, why did you lie? Because of the child? Even if Fouche' captures the spymaster, I can protect the child. He'll be of no use to Fouche anyway, once he has Praed in his clutches."
"I know… and I don't know why I lied. I didn't think I was going to, when I thought of Guillaume, and then I just did." She shrugged. "I'll have to warn Nathaniel that Fouche knows he's somewhere in the city."
"You will be endangering yourself by protecting him," Talleyrand pointed out.
"But Nathaniel's still more use to you alive than dead, isn't he?"
"Most certainly. But I can always find another conduit."
"And another seductress?"
"If necessary."
"It is a dirty business."
"That can't come as a revelation, ma fille."
"No, of course it doesn't. Bonne nuit, monparrain."
In the quiet of her chamber, Gabrielle lay open-eyed in bed on her back, arms folded behind her head. The room was lit only by the glowing embers of the dying fire. Why had she lied? Guillaume would have condemned Nathaniel Praed as coldly as Nathaniel had condemned him. Why had she passed up the opportunity to do the same? It would have been a perfectly fitting revenge, and a few short weeks ago she would have jumped at it.
But when she stirred the coals in her heart, searching for that clear, bright spark of hatred and vengeful determination, she found it was no longer there. She hadn't been aware of its passing, so when had it died? She'd told Talleyrand she was still prepared to use Nathaniel to further her godfather's political machinations. How true was that, now? Whether it was true or not, she could no longer imagine causing him direct harm.
Her grief for Guillaume was still a living flame, but it had become somehow detached from the everyday world. Instead of being intrinsic, the one fact through which she filtered everything else, it was now a totally separate emotion that had nothing to do with anything else.
And nothing at all to do with her passion for Nathaniel Praed.
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"So where did you find him?" Fouche regarded the sniveling lad held between two burly policemen with an air of mild curiosity.
"In a tavern behind the flower market, monsieur. He's got more money on him than he could expect to earn in an honest lifetime." The speaker backhanded the youth, who cringed, blood already flowing from a split lip, one eye swollen and purple.
"We've been watching the market ever since that tip from One-Eye Gilles."
"Ah, yes." Fouche pulled his chin. "He said he'd heard about some strangers who were throwing their money around rather freely, didn't he?"
"Yes, monsieur. Not that we've seen any signs, and you know old One-Eye. He's so far into the drink, he'd see goblins if he thought you'd pat him for saying so."
"Mmm. So, what have you got to say for yourself, boy?" He turned to the prisoner with a ferocious stare, his voice rising almost to a shout.
"I ain't done nothin' wrong,":he lad whispered, trying to back away from the hands gripping his elbows. "I just runs errands for the old besom who runs the flower stall."
Fouche looked with calculated incredulity at the leather purse in his hand. Deliberately, he shook the contents onto the table. A small pile of gleaming silver caught the light from the tallow candles. "Well, well," he murmured. "A few errands for an ancient crone who sells flowers? It seems we have amillionairess in our flower market, gentlemen."
There were dutiful guffaws, and amid them the lad fell to his knees beneath astunning blow from one of his guards. "He chucked some piece of paper in the river, monsieur, when we nabbed him." A booted foot made contact with the captive's shin.
"Easy, easy," Fouche reproved his me
n mildly. "Let's not get carried away now." He approached the prisoner and deliberately aimed akick into his belly. "How about you tell me the truth, before there's any more unpleasantness?" he suggested in the same mild tone.
The lad lay curled in the fetal position on the floor, gasping for breath.
"Pick him up." Fouche lit a cigar, watching as they hauled the youth to his feet. He hung from their hands, his eyes streaming, his mouth half open with pain and shock.
"The truth now." Fouche drew deeply on his cigar and blew the smoke into the prisoner's face. "Tell me about these errands."
"I takes messages," the lad wheezed. "Messages from the flower seller"
"To where?"
"Rue Bude, rue Gambardin, sometimes rue Vallancaires… please, monsieur, that's all I does. Really," he gabbled. "It's the truth, I swear it."
"And what do these messages say?"
The boy shook his head miserably. "Don't know. I can't read."
"No, I suppose you can't. And who receives these messages."
The boy wiped blood from his mouth with his sleeve. His eyes were wild with terror. "Whoever opens the door, monsieur."
"And who pays you?"
"Whoever opens the door. Ordinary folks."
Fouche glanced again at the glittering coins. The inhabitants of the streets the youth had cited were unlikely to possess such riches.
"And where were you supposed to deliver your last message, the one you managed to lose in the river?"
"Rue Bude." The lad looked as if he knew he'd just signed his own death warrant. "But I didn't know it was important, honest, monsieur."
Fouche raised an eyebrow. "Presumably that's why you felt it necessary to dispose of it. What number rue Bude?"
"Number Thirteen, monsieur. Please, I ain't done nothin' wrong. Please let me go, monsieur. You can keep the money, please let me go."
"Are you trying to bribe one of his imperial majesty's ministers?" demanded Fouche. Dear me, lad. Take him away." He jerked his head to the door, and the two guards dragged their captive out of the small bare room that served Napoleon's Minister of Police as his office.
