by Jane Feather
“He wrote,” Jeanne said flatly. “But he never received Isabelle’s letters. Our father had written himself to the ambassador and explained that his daughter and William were engaged in a clandestine correspondence of which he disapproved and asked that the ambassador ensure that William received no letters from anyone but himself. The ambassador, who had daughters of his own and presumably responded with paternal fellow feeling, did his work beautifully. William wrote nevertheless, but of course, our father merely burned the letters as they arrived. I had written myself, telling him to direct his letters to the nurse Isabelle and I had had as a child, but he didn’t get that one, either. So he wrote to the only address he knew.”
“What happened when he came back?” Hero asked, although she could guess the rest of the story, just as she now understood William’s seemingly illogical obsession with her reputation. It came from love, from the fearful reminder of his own loss because of Society’s judgment. And that judgment was real enough; she’d heard enough stories, seen the consequences among her own circle often enough, not to discount it. But since Tom’s death, she hadn’t cared twopence for the consequences of flouting the rules.
“When he was on his way home, he wrote to me at the convent where I had returned with Marguerite. I was looking after the baby there with the Mother Superior’s rather reluctant consent, although I knew I would have to make other arrangements soon enough. William’s letter was the answer to a prayer. I was finally able to write and tell him the whole dreadful story. He got my letter in Genoa, where he was staying with friends, and drove night and day to find me and his child. Since then, he has taken care of us both.”
She got up and took the dirty plates to the sink. “Of course, soon after his return, he threw himself into the revolution, at first on the side of the Fourth Estate, and then, when the Terror started, he turned his focus to rescue. His life has been in danger ever since he set himself up against the various regimes that have terrorized the country and still do. He worries constantly that anyone close to him is also in danger. He has stationed a guard to keep watch on the cottage even now.”
“Which means he’ll know I’m here,” Hero said with a wry grimace. “Even if I wanted to keep it a secret. He won’t be best pleased, that much I do know.”
“Tell me the whole.” Jeanne came back to the table. “Maybe I can help.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Everard Dubois had not enjoyed his night’s sleep at the inn. Despite the landlord’s insistence on the cleanliness of his bed linen, he was convinced there were vermin crawling among the feathers in the mattress. As a consequence, he was in a foul mood when he awoke just after dawn. He was breaking his fast in the taproom when Gilles and Alain arrived from town.
“Alain, go and check on Primrose Lane. See if anything’s changed. It was quiet enough when I took a look before going to bed,” Everard instructed, his tone curt. He looked with distaste at the plate of fat bacon in front of him.
Alain went off without a word, and Everard gestured to Gilles to take the seat opposite him. “The coffee’s vile; you’d do better with ale,” he stated, waving at the landlord. “Two tankards of ale.” He pushed aside his untouched plate with a shudder. “Barbarous nation. I’ll never get used to the food. So, no movement in Grosvenor Square? Did she go out last night?”
Gilles shook his head. “Luc was on watch in the garden all night, said no one came in and no one went out. The curtains at the window of what we believe is her bedchamber were still drawn when he was relieved an hour ago.”
Dubois nodded and took a draught of the ale the landlord set down in front of him. “I made a few discreet inquiries about the woman and child, but no one seems to know much about them. They arrived in the village about nine months ago, renting the cottage from a farmer. They keep themselves to themselves, occasionally have a visitor . . . a gentleman visitor.” A smile flickered across his thin lips. “Ducasse, one assumes.”
“No other village gossip?” Gilles asked. “Villagers love to gossip.”
“Not this village,” Everard responded. “All I gathered was the gentleman only ever stays for a couple of hours, and he’s often seen outside playing with the child.”
“Is the woman his mistress?” Tentatively, Gilles took a piece of cooling bacon from the Lizard’s discarded plate.
“One would assume so. But the nature of their relationship is immaterial . . . Is that edible?”
Gilles shrugged and took another piece. “I’ve not broken my fast this morning.”
Everard shook his head before returning to his subject. “Lovers or not, she’s clearly important to Ducasse, and that’s all that matters. The woman and child make him vulnerable, so we take them, and we have him . . . Ah, here’s Alain.”
Alain hooked a stool over to the table with his foot. “The woman’s there,” he stated, thumping down on the stool.
“She lives there,” Gilles said through a mouthful of bacon.
“Not that one, the other one.” Alain was a man of few words.
“Lady Hero?” Everard’s expression offered no sign of the quick thrill of anticipation. “The Fanshawe woman, is that who you mean?”
“Aye. That’s the one.” Alain took up the tankard the innkeeper had brought over. “There’s a horse tethered in the back. The woman’s inside. I saw her through the kitchen window.”
“How did Luc miss her leaving?” Gilles muttered.
“That doesn’t matter now.” The Lizard brushed the issue aside with an impatient gesture. “We have all three of them together.”
“Only problem, there’s a guard on watch,” Alain said. “In the orchard.”
“One man?”
Alain nodded and absently took the last piece of bacon. “Well armed, as far as I could see.”
“Did he see you?” Dubois asked sharply.
Alain shook his head. “Dozy bugger was nodding off. I slipped around him in the trees.”
“No problem, then,” Gilles stated. “Even if he’s one of Ducasse’s best, one against three is no match.”
Dubois nodded. He was thinking, and his companions knew better than to interrupt the master’s reflections. It couldn’t have been more perfect, Dubois thought. Hero, the mystery woman, and the child, together, just ripe for the plucking. “There’s a back entrance, you say.”
“All the cottages have one.”
“How do we get them out in broad daylight without alerting the neighbors?” Everard mused. “We have no time to waste. There’s no knowing how long the Fanshawe woman will stay, and I want all three of them. What a gift.” Unconsciously, he rubbed his hands together, his evil mood vanished. “Gilles, there’s an apothecary in the village. I need you to get laudanum. Alain and I will deal with Ducasse’s man while you do that. Pay the shot here, and bring the carriage outside the lych-gate of the church. We’ll meet you there when we have them.”
“All three of them?” Gilles frowned. “The carriage only has seats for two.”
“We take the child and the Fanshawe woman. The other will provide a most eloquent ransom note.” Dubois was already on his feet. “We need rope. Alain, find some in the stable yard.”
He strode from the taproom and up to his chamber, where he assembled his armory. Two stiletto knives, a silver-mounted pistol, his rapier sheathed at his waist. Gilles and Alain would both have knives and pistols. The Lizard preferred knives for such operations, as they did their work silently. He threw his thick riding cloak around his shoulders, dropped his heavy purse into the deep pocket of his coat, and left the chamber. Alain awaited him outside the front door, a coil of rope secured around his waist beneath his coat.
They strolled across the green to the church and entered the churchyard beneath the lych-gate. Again without apparent haste, they wandered around the church to the rear and slipped into the shadow of the hedge, keeping to the ditch as they made their
way the length of the lane to the orchard at the end. The day was uninviting, cold and overcast, and the morning was still early enough for there to be few people around. A woman opened the door of one cottage and shook out a rag rug before returning inside. An elderly woman with a kerchief around her head walked in a stoop along the lane, picking up twigs for kindling.
When they reached the orchard, Alain stopped and gestured to a group of pear trees close to the edge of the orchard. It was a position that offered a good view of the cottage. A man sat with his back against one tree, half concealed from the Frenchmen by a black currant bush. His eyes were half closed, but he was far from asleep. He’d seen the other woman arrive some half hour earlier, and despite his sleepy appearance, he was alert and waiting to see what would happen next.
Everard took a weighted string from his pocket and exchanged a look with Alain, who nodded in silent comprehension. They approached the tree from the rear, their steps muffled by the damp, mossy ground until a hidden twig cracked under Alain’s foot. The man under the tree jumped to his feet instantly and looked around. He didn’t see the string as it swung across his throat, the weighted ends held fast in Everard’s strong hands. William’s man was aware of a blinding flash of terror as the garotte cut into his throat; then it jerked hard once, and a strange noise escaped him.
Alain lowered the body to the ground as Everard released the garotte. They rolled the man into the ditch and kicked fallen leaves over him. Everard had no intention of hiding the body properly; he wanted it to be found by the man’s relief as soon as he arrived. But he didn’t want any villagers tripping over it by accident before then.
Still in silence, they crept through the orchard around to the back of the cottage. A horse was tethered to the fence, grazing contentedly on the grass. The child was staring into the water butt, intent on the antics of a water beetle. She didn’t hear the small click as Alain opened the gate, but something made her straighten and look over her shoulder. As she did so, she was smothered in darkness, thick, musky-smelling blackness. She tried to cry out, but a hand clamped the heavy material against her throat as she was lifted off her feet, the folds of Everard’s cloak trapping her legs as she fought against the stifling blackness.
Alain pushed open the door into the kitchen, where two women sat talking across from each other at a pine table, mugs of coffee between them. They both turned, startled at the sound of the door.
“Quiet,” the Lizard snapped. “Make a sound, and the child will suffocate.” He pressed the cloth harder against Marguerite’s mouth, and her frantic kicking accentuated the threat.
Jeanne felt the shaft of pure terror push deep inside her, but she fought for outward calm, and when she looked at Hero, she saw that the other woman, although now very pale, was showing no sign of panic. Neither of them spoke, and they both gazed at the small bundled figure struggling in the Lizard’s hold.
“Good . . . now, tell the child to be still and keep quiet, and I’ll loosen the cloak.”
Jeanne stepped forward, placing her hand on Marguerite’s back. “Be still now, petite, it’s all going to be all right. The man is going to let you go, but you mustn’t make any noise.” Marguerite stopped kicking, and Jeanne looked coldly at Dubois, who relaxed his hold a little and loosened the cloth around the little girl’s face. She emerged red and gasping, panic filling her eyes as they looked for Jeanne, who touched her cheek gently and whispered, “That’s a good girl, now. Be still, and don’t make a sound.”
A little sob escaped Marguerite but nothing else. Dubois looked closely at her. “What is she to Ducasse?”
When Jeanne did not answer, Alain swung his hand in a vicous backhanded slap against her cheek. She stumbled against the table, and Hero rushed forward to steady her. Marguerite gave a little cry of terror. Jeanne sat down unsteadily, her cheek already swelling.
“She’s his child,” Hero said. There seemed little point in denying the truth and subjecting all of them to more brutality. Marguerite was their weak spot; the Lizard knew it, and they knew it. Somehow they had to protect her. Oddly, she had felt pure panic for only an instant when the two men had burst into the kitchen. She was afraid, very afraid—she knew too much about the Lizard to feel otherwise—but a curious calm, a cold detachment from that fear, was giving her strength.
“Ah.” The Lizard held the child away from him a little, examining her. “Yes, I see it now. How very interesting. And are you her mother?”
Jeanne shook her head, still mute, her hand cradling her cheek.
“Even more interesting,” Dubois said. “But not particularly important. Alain, tie the woman to the chair. If she makes a move, hit her again . . . knock her out if necessary.” He turned to Hero. “Are you going to cooperate, Lady Hero, or do I have to persuade you?” He glanced pointedly at Marguerite.
“Cooperate how?” She looked at Alain, who had uncoiled the rope from his waist and was binding Jeanne to her chair. Jeanne stared straight ahead, unresisting, as he tied her hands at her back behind the chair.
“You’re going to walk out of here with the child. I shall be behind you, Alain will be next to you. I shall have a knife at the child’s back. One false move, and I shall use it.”
Hero couldn’t see any alternative to obedience. Maybe an opportunity would show itself once they were on the move, but she was in no doubt that the Lizard would do what he threatened without compunction. She looked at Jeanne again, and the older woman nodded in silent agreement.
“As you wish,” Hero said without expression.
Jeanne spoke finally. “Please take some things for Marguerite, Hero. Her favorite doll, she won’t sleep properly without it, and her nightgown, a change of clothes . . .” She fell silent abruptly as Alain took a menacing step towards her.
“It would be better to keep the child as comfortable as possible,” Hero said swiftly. “She will be much easier to handle if she’s not as fearful.”
Dubois shrugged. “It matters not to me. Alain, go with her to get whatever she thinks the girl needs. Only bring what the woman can carry easily.” He shifted Marguerite against his shoulder. She was no longer struggling, but her little body was shaking with sobs. “Hurry,” he said harshly. “I’m tired of holding her.”
Alain gestured with his knife to Hero that she should precede him out of the kitchen and up the narrow flight of stairs to a bedchamber that Jeanne shared with Marguerite. Hero looked around rather helplessly. She had no idea where to look, but there was a rag doll on the small truckle bed, which she presumed was Marguerite’s. She found a nightgown and clean undergarments, stockings, and a dress with a holland smock in the armoire. Alain stood to one side of the window, looking out on the lane, the knife still in his hand. He growled at her to hurry up.
She gathered the garments up with the doll and went back to the kitchen, Alain and his knife at her back. Dubois was waiting, tapping his booted foot. Jeanne was holding herself upright in her chair, her cheek badly swollen, her eye half closed. But despite the bindings, she held herself rigid.
The Lizard set Marguerite on her feet, the cloak still wrapped around her. “Take her hand,” he instructed Hero. “And remember, one false move . . .” He unwound the cloak from the small figure and then walked to the chair where Jeanne was tied. He stood looking down at her for a moment, then took a handkerchief from his pocket.
He leaned over her, taking her chin between finger and thumb, forcing her to look at him. “I trust you are not too uncomfortable, madame, but I’m sure you won’t be here for long. When you see Ducasse, you may tell him he will hear from the Lizard soon. Make sure he understands the situation fully.” He took the handkerchief and deftly used it to gag her, before dropping her chin and straightening.
Marguerite gave a deep, shuddering sob and tugged Hero’s hand, trying to reach Jeanne. Instantly, Hero knelt and held her tightly. “Hush, sweetheart. We mustn’t make any noise. Jeanne will
be all right, I promise. I’m going to look after you now. Hold my hand, and be very quiet.”
Stunned, the child did as she was told, and Alain opened the door, pushing Hero out with a hand on her shoulder. She twitched away from him and stepped out into the garden. “My mare?” she said.
Dubois merely shrugged and said nothing. His knife gleamed for a moment before it slipped up his sleeve, and his hand rested at the small of Marguerite’s back. “Move.”
Holding the child’s hand tightly, Hero walked out of the garden and followed instructions to enter the orchard. They picked their way through the trees and then along the hedge to the churchyard. Marguerite was silent except for the little sobs that escaped her, shaking her fragile frame as if she were icy cold. Hero whispered to her, nonsense words for the most part but all she could manage as she thought frantically of a way to get away from the knives at their backs.
But it wasn’t possible, not now, and all too soon, they were out of the churchyard, where a town carriage waited at the lych-gate. Gilles jumped down from the box as the little party emerged. Hero and Marguerite were on the street in plain sight for barely thirty seconds before they were bundled up and into the two-seater carriage.
She tried to hear the brief exchange between the Lizard and the driver, but their voices were too low, and within a couple of minutes, he stepped up into the carriage. “Take the child on your lap.” He slammed the door behind him, sitting in the seat next to her. The carriage began to move instantly.
“Where are we going?” Hero ventured after a few minutes.
“You don’t need to know that,” was the curt response.
“What about my horse? What about Jeanne?” she persisted, driven by a perverse desire to irritate him. She didn’t really expect any answers to her questions. Marguerite began to cry in earnest.
Dubois took a small vial out of his inside pocket and uncorked it. “Hold her tight,” he instructed, leaning over Marguerite with the vial.
