by Jane Feather
“I don’t know about that,” Alec said, leaning forward a little. “What narrow escape?”
“Yes, indeed, what narrow escape?” Hero’s voice preceded her as she emerged from behind a tapestry screen that concealed the door to the butler’s pantry beside the dining room. “You cannot have interesting conversations like this that exclude me. It’s really not just.” She helped herself to a glass of port and resumed her seat at the table, looking at the three men expectantly.
“Have you abandoned Emily?” Alec asked.
“No, of course not. She decided she had a headache coming on, a touch of her neuralgia, so I persuaded her that you would not consider her in the least discourteous if she took herself to bed in the capable hands of Harper,” his sister informed him. “And since I have no interest in sitting alone behind the coffee cups, I came to join you.” She sipped her port. “So what happened in Austria?”
“The Duc d’Enghien is raising an émigré army to go back into France and attack the Directory,” William explained, reflecting that there was no time like the present to do what he had already resigned himself to doing. If Hero was going to be involved willy-nilly, then so be it. “We were in Austria, gathering supplies and revenue for the émigré army. The Lizard was not there, but his agents were all over Vienna, ferreting about for information about the size and efficacy of the army, whether it would become strong enough to invade France. The Royalist uprisings in Paris were being put down savagely whenever one raised its head aboveground, so any force strong enough for an invasion had to be massed and supplied from beyond the borders.”
“French agents were crawling all over Vienna and the surrounding countryside,” Marcus put in. “William discovered a plot to capture the Duke and three other leaders of the army when they gathered one night in an inn close to the French border. We managed to warn Enghien and his men and got them out of the inn just as the French agents entered the inn through the back way. It was something of a mad scramble,” he added with a rueful headshake. “William and two others fought hand-to-hand while we got the Duke and his retinue into the surrounding forest. By the time I got back to help, the French agents had fallen back, licking their wounds, and we just made it out of Austria into Italy ahead of them.”
“I wish I’d been there,” Hero said.
“Well, I, for one, am very glad you were not,” William declared. “However, we could use your help now, but on one condition.” His golden gaze held hers with a hard steadiness.
“And what’s that?” Hero asked carefully. She took a macaroon from a platter and nibbled its edge, returning his stare.
“You confine yourself only to the task you are given,” he stated. “Once again, you will follow orders, my orders. Do we understand each other?”
“You drive a hard bargain, sir.” She dipped her macaroon into her port and savored the moist morsel, frowning thoughtfully. She had every intention of agreeing to his demands, whatever they were, if that was the price of admission, but a touch of stubborn pride kept her from capitulating for just a moment longer. Then she shook her head. “Oh, what the hell. Of course we do. So tell me how I can help.”
William crossed his arms and rested them on the table, regarding her with the same concentration. “First, I need you to make contact with certain émigré families in London and try to discover which of them would be prepared to support another Royalist uprising. We need money, and we need men. Second, I have the names of some families already, and I need to discover if French agents have their sights upon them. Is the Lizard watching them? Or, indeed, have they noticed any untoward folk in their neighborhood? But you have to discover this subtly. If they are under observation by the Lizard, I don’t want them to run scared. They are all novices, frightened enough by events already and by the circumstances of their escape. Some have money; many do not.”
He paused and sipped his port, watching her expression all the while. “You should be able to accomplish this without drawing any attention to yourself. You will simply go about your daily round of calls, rout parties, balls, and visits to milliners, dressmakers, shoemakers. There are many émigrés among the latter, struggling to earn a living. They will know others. The circles of émigrés in different situations are quite tight. A word to one could well bring useful information from another.”
Hero nodded. “It seems simple enough.”
“Less so than you think,” he corrected a little sharply. “I would do it myself, but I don’t have the time. It’s a very important piece of work, Hero.”
“I would do it myself, Hero,” Alec put in. “But I want to take Marie Claire to the country, at least until after Christmas. The air in Hampshire is cleaner, and it’s so much more peaceful without the sounds of cart wheels rattling beneath her windows night and day. She and Fleur need to rest and grow strong.”
“Of course, love.” She put out a hand to cover his. “I think it’s a splendid idea. And you may be sure Nan will approve.” She smiled at him. “I wouldn’t leave the lights of London for anything at the moment. There’s far too much excitement, and I shall have Emily to chaperone me. And in addition,” she added, giving William her most brilliant smile, “I shall have the Viscount St. Aubery to guide my every move. You may be sure he will safeguard my reputation. Is that not so, sir?”
“Once again, dear girl, you are on perilous ground,” William said, draining his glass. “It’s never wise to seize the tiger by the tail.”
“Oh, I’ve always rather liked the idea of riding the tiger,” she returned instantly.
“D’you care for a game of billiards, Marcus?” Alec asked, pushing back his chair.
“Yes, of course.” Marcus followed suit, his amused gaze flicking between the clearly annoyed William and the somewhat flushed Hero. “We’ll leave you to it, shall we?”
“I beg your pardon,” Hero said. “I was forgetting for a moment that we weren’t in the kitchen in Rue St. André.” She shot a half-apologetic, half-conspiratorial look at William, whose expression was steadfastly impassive.
“Well, we’ll leave the two of you to reminisce in peace,” Alec stated, going to the door, Marcus on his heels.
“Oh, dear, you’re cross again,” Hero said as the door closed behind them.
William shook his head. “No, not really.” He rubbed the frown lines between his brows with a finger. “If only I could be sure you’d keep your indiscretion to the appropriate company.”
“You know perfectly well I can,” she said quietly. “I have never betrayed any of us with an accidental indiscretion.”
“No.” He reached a hand across the table to cover hers. “I know you would never risk anyone but yourself, Hero. And that is what worries me.” His fingers tightened over hers for a moment, before he said in a different tone, “And somehow I think you have further plans for this evening.”
“Oh, yes.” She rose, pulling him with her. “Be pleased to follow me, sir.”
NINETEEN
Everard Dubois entered the coffeehouse on Curzon Street with all the jauntiness of a man without a care in the world. He threaded his way through the tables to where two men sat over cups of hot chocolate. “Bonjour, mes amis.” He pulled out a stool and sat down, signaling to a waiter to bring him hot chocolate.
His friends responded with nods, and they exchanged a few words of small talk while they waited for Dubois to get his chocolate. The waiter moved away, and the Lizard leaned forward on his stool, his voice dropping. “So? Reports?”
“Does the name Bruton mean anything to you?” one of his companions inquired, breaking a sweet biscuit in half and examining it critically before taking a bite.
“Fanshawe, yes. He’s the Marquis of Bruton,” Dubois said, taking a biscuit for himself. “What of him, Luc?”
“Does the name St. Julien mean anything?” the other man asked, exchanging a quick complicit glance with his companion. It was ra
re to spring a surprise on Everard Dubois, who prided himself on being a step ahead of any of his fellow agents.
Dubois frowned, sensing that he was about to find himself at a disadvantage. “The family went to the guillotine,” he stated. “Do you know otherwise, François?”
“The girl’s head was not accounted for,” François responded. “The parents paid the price the day before, and the girl was scheduled for execution the following afternoon. Somehow, when the heads were counted, they were one short. The only name with a mark against it that was not accounted for was that of Marie Claire St. Julien.” He smiled at his clearly discomfited colleague.
“And Marie Claire St. Julien is now the wife of Alec Fanshawe, Marquis of Bruton,” Luc finished for him with a gesture of salute. “Something I venture you were not aware of, Dubois.”
Everard stared into his rapidly cooling hot chocolate. “No,” he admitted finally. “No, I was not.” He broke off another piece of biscuit, crumbling it between his fingers. “Are we to assume, then, that Fanshawe was in Paris with Ducasse?”
Luc shrugged. “It seems the logical conclusion that he was part of the effort to rescue the St. Julien girl from the guillotine, got her out of France, married her, and she is now here, in the Bruton mansion on Grosvenor Square.”
Everard considered this for a moment. “The Marquis has a sister.”
“Lady Hermione Fanshawe,” François responded. “A lady of . . .” He coughed. “Of somewhat eccentric reputation, as I understand it.”
“How so?” Dubois pushed aside his cup and leaned closer. Any hint of scandal was always fruitful ground.
“Nothing much . . . nothing concrete. She’s from such an impeccable background, has considerable wealth in her own right, very little scandal can stick to her. But she’s careless, frequents places that are not always socially acceptable.”
“In short, she has the name for being somewhat careless of her reputation, indiscreet, even,” Luc finished.
“Which makes her very useful to us,” Dubois murmured. He leaned back and beckoned the waiter. “Brandy . . . three cups.”
The waiter nodded and vanished into the throng. “So, if Ducasse was involved with the escape of the St. Julien girl, who is now the wife of Fanshawe, then it seems reasonable to conclude that Ducasse and Fanshawe are more than acquainted.” Dubois paused, leaning back as the waiter set three cups of brandy on the table. When the man had gone, he leaned forward again. “So that leaves the Lady Hermione as a possible crack to be opened. One has to assume she knows something of her sister-in-law’s history. It’s likely that she is acquainted with Ducasse through her brother’s connection.”
“We should set someone on her,” Luc said with a slight questioning inflection.
“Definitely. But I think I will take on that task myself. I will set Gilles to watch the house. He’s the best we have, and he already reports directly to me.” Dubois drank down his cognac in one deep swallow. “And since I have the right entrées to Society, I shall cultivate the Lady Hermione personally and see where that leads us . . . if anywhere,” he added, rising from the table. “Gentlemen, continue the good work. We shall meet as usual at the Fox and Hounds in Whitechapel next week.” He picked up his hat, tossed a handful of coins onto the table, and strolled away with the same casual ease with which he had entered.
“Bastard,” Luc muttered into his brandy. “Never credits anyone with anything.”
“Does he need to?” his companion asked with a dour smile as he gestured to the waiter to refill their brandy cups.
William awoke before dawn in Hero’s bed, aware of a sensation as delicious as it was unexpected. His body rose to full awareness as his sex flickered to life under the delicate, moist strokes of Hero’s tongue. She was lying alongside him, her feet close to his head, her mouth encompassing his penis. He ran his hands along her calves and thighs, palming her bottom, relishing the smooth, muscular curves, which tightened against his hand. He let his eyes close and gave himself up to pure sensation. As his climax approached, Hero clenched and flexed her feet in an involuntary movement as she intensified her attentions. His fingers curled into her buttocks as he yielded to the flood of delight, a low moan escaping him, and when the moment had passed, he lay awash in fulfillment, his hands flat upon her bottom as she rested her turned cheek against his thigh, one hand loosely enclosing his still-throbbing penis.
“Did you enjoy that?” Hero murmured with a mischievous little chuckle. “I think you did.”
“Yes, you wicked witch, I did. Come up here.” He patted her hip encouragingly, and she folded over to appear from beneath the covers with her flushed face against his shoulder.
“Indiscretion has its place,” she said, kissing the hollow of his shoulder.
“Indeed,” he responded. “And in a moment, when I’ve recovered myself, I shall return the indiscretion.”
It was still dark when Hero opened the side door for William. It led into the narrow cobbled alley, which gave access to the mews behind the house. He paused as usual, assessing his surroundings, then stepped into the alley. “Don’t make any attempt to contact me, Hero. I will contact you first. Later this morning, I will send you a list of the families who may be responsive to our needs and who may have other contacts we can follow up. But whatever you do, stay away from me until I say it’s safe. Is that clear?”
She nodded. “Crystal. But don’t wait too long, William.”
He smiled and touched his hat. “No, ma’am. Not a moment longer than necessary.”
Hero stepped back and closed the door, bolting it, before speeding up the back stairs to her own chamber. It had been a long and generally sleepless night.
William’s list arrived as promised much later that morning. Hero read through the names, looking for any that might be familiar to her. Some of the wealthier French aristocratic émigrés had been familiar figures in court circles in England during the years before the revolution, as comfortable among their English counterparts in the palaces of the English royal family as the English had been at Versailles, and many of them, those who had managed to get their assets out of France in time, were now established in London. But there were no familiar names on this list and no immediately recognizable addresses. William had probably approached the most obvious and accessible already, she decided. Finding these others was a task more suited to a lowlier member of his band.
The reflection didn’t trouble her any more than it would have done during their time in Paris. Viscount St. Aubery was the unquestioned leader of any enterprise he undertook. It interested her a little, though, that she actively disputed any authority he assumed in other areas of their unconventional relationship.
She decided to try an address on Holland Street first, where several names were grouped together. “Maisie, do you know where Holland Street is?”
The maid paused in her work of selecting gowns in the armoire that required the pressing iron. “Somewhere across the river, I think, m’lady. Cook was talking about a milliner there who does fine work and don’t charge an arm and a leg for it, neither.”
“Then I had best take a hackney.” Hero rose from her dressing stool. It would be a less conspicuous visitation than rolling up in the Bruton carriage.
“Should I be coming with you, ma’am?” Maisie looked a little alarmed at the idea of Lady Hero venturing alone into the foreign realms south of the river.
“No, there’s no need,” Hero said, reaching for a long hooded cloak at the back of the armoire. “I’m sure it’s not dangerous if Cook sees a milliner there.”
Maisie shook her head but didn’t attempt further dissuasion. “I’ll run down and tell the footman to fetch a hackney, then.”
“Tell him to ask the cab to wait at the corner of Brook Street.”
Hero examined her reflection in the cheval glass and decided she looked anonymous enough in the long dark cloak
, particularly when she put the hood up. A mysterious dark lady, she thought with a chuckle, enjoying the frisson of excitement afforded by the prospect of this little adventure. She hurried down to the hall where the footman waited to escort her to the summoned hackney. If he wondered why the cab had been ordered to wait on the far side of the square, he didn’t ask.
“Where should I direct the driver, ma’am?” He held open the carriage door for her.
“Sixty-two Holland Street,” she said blithely, settling gingerly against the cracked, stained leather bench. She kept back from the window as the hackney moved away down Brook Street. The precautions were rudimentary, she knew, but she had never had the sense of being followed in London and relied to a certain extent on her instincts. Simple watchfulness should be sufficient to alert her to anything suspicious.
“Tante Jeanne . . . Tante Jeanne . . .”
Jeanne turned from her cooking pots as Marguerite exploded into the kitchen. “What is it, petite?” She smiled at the flushed and excited child.
“Come and see.” The little girl grabbed Jeanne’s hand and tried to drag her from the kitchen. “There’s a man in the street . . . he has a pack and a tray with so many things on it. Ribbons and silvery things and dolls. And a spinning top . . . oh, come and see. He’s going to all the houses.”
Jeanne allowed herself to be pulled out to the front garden. The usually quiet lane was a hive of activity. Women and children crowded the lane, examining the peddler’s wares, the women arguing prices with the fierce determination of those who didn’t have too many halfpennies to spend on fripperies, the childen clamoring for the brightly painted toys. Marguerite tugged her to the gate.
“Please, Tante Jeanne, please, may I have something?” Marguerite pulled at the latch of the gate.
Jeanne hesitated. Every instinct told her that to step into the lane, to engage with a stranger, however seemingly harmless with his bright streamers and cheerful toys, made them conspicuous. But how could she deny the little girl such a treat when every child in the village was crowded around the packman, picking and choosing under the rarely benevolent eye of a harried parent?
