by Jane Feather
“No . . . no, what are you giving her?” Hero exclaimed, trying to push his hand away.
He caught her wrist with his free hand and twisted it back so that she cried out with pain, and when he let her wrist go, her hand flopped into her lap like something broken. She didn’t think it was broken, but it was numb and without strength. She could do nothing now to stop him forcing the vial between the child’s lips as Marguerite struggled and coughed. Dubois clamped the girl’s mouth shut, and she was forced to swallow, tears streaming down her eyes.
“That’ll keep the brat quiet for an hour or so,” he said, recorking the vial and tucking it back into his pocket. He regarded Hero with narrowed eyes. “I strongly suggest, my lady, that you do exactly as you are told in future. I will not be so gentle with you the next time.”
Hero closed her lips tight and gave Marguerite the doll, rocking her as the drug took hold, singing a few words of the only lullabye she could remember from her own childhood. Dubois stared ahead at the paneling opposite, one hand resting on his knee, the tip of the knife showing through his turned-back cuff. Hero wondered where Alain was. Until now, she had found him more frightening than the Lizard, although she knew that the other man’s overt brutality only made him seem more dangerous, but Dubois was by far the deadlier. He gave the orders; his minions merely obeyed them.
Hero knew she would ask no more questions. She understood that she and Marguerite were hostages and William was to be the price of their ransom. She wondered what had happened to the guard William had put on the cottage, but it wasn’t hard to guess if he had encountered the Lizard and Alain. Presumably, he would be found by the man sent to relieve him, who would then discover Jeanne, and William would get the message with brutal clarity.
There was some comfort in knowing that William would soon know what had happened and the full strength of his considerable resources would be devoted to their rescue. But how could he do that without endangering Marguerite? Or herself? Hero acknowledged the bitter truth that she had walked into the Lizard’s trap of her own volition, against all the warnings, and she probably deserved to be in her present predicament, but she was also responsible for Marguerite’s present danger. She had to have been the weak link that led the Lizard to Knightsbridge and William’s deeply held secret. It was, therefore, her responsibility to see that no harm came to his daughter from her own recklessness, just as it was unthinkable that William should be forced to give himself up to his enemies to ensure his daughter’s safety because of that same recklessness.
Hero could feel the change in the road’s surface beneath the wheels as they reentered the city and steeled herself for what was to come next. She didn’t dare move aside the leather curtain to see where they were, but they would surely reach their destination soon, and maybe an opportunity would show itself.
But the carriage did not stop. They were surrounded by the sounds of the city, but the wheels continued to roll over the cobbles. After a long time, the sounds outside changed; the atmosphere beyond the curtained windows seemed different. It was definitely quieter, and the motion of the carriage became smoother. Hero felt another stab of fear. Where was he taking them? Somehow she had thought that on familiar ground, she might find a way to escape. She could find her way around the streets of London, but if they were going somewhere unknown, that changed everything.
She had money, at least, and they would have to stop somewhere soon. The horses would be tiring, and she was acutely aware of her own need for a privy. Marguerite was breathing noisily against her chest, still deep in the drug-induced sleep. The Lizard was still and silent, his arms folded across his chest, but his body was close enough to hers for her to feel how alert he was, how ready to move at a moment’s notice.
“I have need of the privy,” Hero said into the continued silence. “Could we stop?”
The Lizard turned his head against the leather squabs and regarded her narrowly. He knocked on the ceiling, and after a few minutes, the carriage came to a halt. He leaned over her and pushed open the door on her side. “Get down, and do what you have to beside the carriage. Be quick. If you attempt to run, the child dies.” He pulled Marguerite onto his lap, and Hero saw the flash of his knife in his free hand.
She weighed her desperate need for relief with the grim knowledge that she was to have no privacy, then closed her mind to the humiliation and clambered down. The carriage was drawn up close to a hedge, with a small ditch that would give her an illusion of privacy, and at least she was invisible from any traffic passing on the other side of the vehicle. As far as she could tell, they were on a country lane, but she thought she could smell the sea. The city was somewhere behind them, that was clear enough.
A horn sounded in the distance, and she frowned, wrestling as swiftly as she could with her skirts and the britches she wore beneath for riding. It was a sound she recognized, a coach blowing its horn as it approached a toll. The smell of the sea, the presence of tolls . . . there was only one possibility.
They were on the road from London to Dover. And Dover meant the English Channel, boats, France. If the Lizard succeeded in getting her and Marguerite onto a boat to France, their chances of escape would be nonexistent. And for the first time, Hero felt her courage ebb, her natural optimism fade.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Marcus Gosford arrived at Grosvenor Square in his phaeton to take Lady Hero for a morning carriage ride, or that was how it was to appear. He expected her to be ready for him, following William’s instructions, as he swung down from the driver’s precarious perch, handing the reins to his groom. An anticipatory smile of greeting was on his lips as he climbed the steps to the house and lifted the brass knocker.
Jackson opened the door himself and bowed. “Sir Marcus, good morning.”
“Good morning, Jackson. I’ve come for Lady Hero. She’s expecting me.” He smiled at the majordomo, glancing over his shoulder into the hall, looking in vain for Hero.
“Come in, sir.” Jackson held the door wider, stepping back.
Puzzled, Marcus accepted the invitation, observing, “Perhaps she is not quite ready. I’ll wait here.”
Jackson coughed. “Lady Hero has not rung for her maid as yet this morning, sir. If you’d care to step into the library and take a glass of sherry, I will send Maisie to inquire.”
Marcus frowned, but he walked into the library, drawing off his gloves. Jackson spoke in an undertone to a footman, who scurried off into the back regions of the mansion, and the majordomo poured a glass of golden wine for the visitor. He presented it with a bow and faded out of the room, closing the double doors softly behind him.
What the devil was Hero playing at? Marcus took his glass to the fire. William’s instructions had been perfectly clear, and he himself had agreed that there was no better solution to ensuring Hero’s present safety. She would have understood that, so why wasn’t she ready?
The door opened softly again, and he spun around. “Well?” He was aware his voice was unnaturally sharp, the question almost discourteous, and he had to remind himself that to all intents and purposes, this was purely a social engagement. Hero, as instructed, would have ensured that her chaperone would not worry about an extended absence, but the servants didn’t need to be informed in person of her ladyship’s plans. If Lady Emily was satisfied, then they would not question the situation.
Jackson bowed. “Forgive me, Sir Marcus, there appears to be some confusion. Lady Hero is not at home. I understand from her maid that she intended to go for an early-morning ride. She directed Maisie not to attend her this morning until she rang.” He coughed into his white-gloved hand. “She has not as yet done so, sir.”
Marcus set down his glass, saying easily, “Thank you, Jackson. I expect our engagement slipped her mind. When she returns, please tell her I called.” He walked past the majordomo, pulling on his gloves, his mind in a turmoil. If Hero had set herself up against William, then the fu
r would fly. But perhaps she had intended to be back in time and something had kept her. And in that case, there was serious trouble afoot.
René Lacroix crept through the orchard just before noon. He pursed his lips and gave a soft, trilling imitation of a blackbird’s call. He paused, listening. There was no answering call. He moved stealthily from tree to tree, pausing to repeat the sound. It was a small orchard and impossible to imagine his fellow agent would not hear the signal. A premonitory chill ran up his spine as he reached the last line of fruit trees without sight or sound of the man he had come to relieve. With the same stealth, he retraced his steps, examining the ground with all the attention of a bloodhound. At the base of a group of pear trees, the ground was scuffed a little, the leaves disturbed. He bent closer to the ground, moving slowly, and then his eye caught a glimmer of white in a shallow depression a few feet away. He stepped closer and sat back on his heels with a deep sigh of regret, brushing aside the scanty covering of leaves over the body.
He scrutinized the ugly neck wound carefully, reflecting that at least the garotte would have been mercifully quick. Judging by the marks and the lack of other injuries, the executioner had been an expert. Only what one would expect from Dubois or one of his agents, René thought, his nostrils flaring with apprehension as he straightened. What had they done with the woman and child?
He moved quickly now, speed, not stealth, uppermost in his mind. He approached the cottage from the rear and examined the horse tethered in the kitchen garden. The mare whinnied with a note of distress, moving restlessly, clearly uneasy. The back door yielded to his touch, and he stepped into the well-lit kitchen.
The woman bound and gagged at the table signaled frantically at him with her eyes, making a strangled sound from behind the handkerchief. René cut the ropes and untied the gag. “What happened, madame? Where is the child?”
Jeanne tried to moisten her dry mouth enough to speak. Her cheek throbbed; her wrists and arms ached from the bindings. She had been there for almost two hours, according to the grandfather clock in the corner of the kitchen.
“Take your time, madame.” René filled a cup of water from the jug on the sink and brought it to her. Jeanne drank gratefully.
“The Lizard,” she said. “Does that mean anything?”
He nodded grimly. “Everything. He has the child?”
“And Lady Hero. They took them about two hours ago. He said Guillaume would hear from him soon.” She passed a hand over her eyes, realizing her head was aching more than her cheek now.
René dampened a cloth in the cold water in the jug and handed it to her. “Hold it against your cheek. It will help the swelling.”
“I have arnica upstairs, but we must get to Guillaume now, at once.” In agitation, Jeanne struggled to her feet and swayed as her knees seemed unwilling to support her. She grabbed the edge of the table.
“There is time, madame. There is always time.” René spoke in soothing tones. “You said they. How many were there?”
“I saw two. The Lizard and one other, a man he called Alain . . . Hero was worried about her horse . . .”
“The mare is tethered in the garden. She looks well enough, and we’ll take her back with us.” He frowned, looking down at the woman, assessing her strength. “Could you ride her back to London?”
“Of course,” Jeanne said instantly, pressing the damp cloth against her cheek.
“I’ll fetch my horse from the livery stable. Stay here and rest a bit. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” René hurried out, wondering what was best to do with his dead colleague. The body needed to be taken back to London. He couldn’t carry a body over his saddle in broad daylight, but neither could he risk its being found in the orchard. He decided to go back to the orchard and do a better job of concealing the body in the ditch, and then Guillaume would decide how to retrieve it later. For the moment, the need to get the woman and her news back to London was paramount.
When he returned to the cottage with his own horse, he was relieved to see that the woman was dressed for riding, and despite her ashen pallor, she looked determined. She carried a small portmanteau, offering in explanation, “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
Privately, René doubted she would return to the cottage at all, but he merely took the bag and strapped it to the rear of his own horse before helping her onto Petra. The mare was still skittish, but Jeanne calmed her, taking a firm hold of the reins, feeling herself steadier, now that she was no longer helpless. Hero, at least, was with Marguerite, and that was as far as Jeanne was prepared to think.
The ride to London was an ordeal. Her body was stiff from having been bound so tightly in one position, her mouth was still painfully dry, and her cheek and her head ached abominably, but Jeanne managed to stay upright, aware of the anxious glances her companion gave her every few minutes. Petra seemed relieved to be returning to the familiar sounds and smells of town and settled down beneath her rider.
René didn’t hesitate but directed them to Half Moon Street. The worst had happened, so it mattered nothing now if the Lizard’s men were watching Guillaume’s house and saw their arrival; they were probably expecting it, anyway. Jeanne was swaying a little in the saddle as they drew rein at the house, and he half lifted her to the ground, holding her up as he hammered on the door.
It was opened by André, who took one look and then supported Jeanne into the house, calling for his master. “Tell him the Lizard has the child,” René said urgently, before turning to see to the horses. As he did so, he caught the eye of a man leaning idly against an iron railing across the street. The man raised a hand in an almost mocking gesture of greeting, and René knew it was one of the Lizard’s men, confirming what they had expected to happen. They had killed Guillaume’s man, left the woman as a messenger, and everything now was going exactly as they had planned. It infuriated René, but he mounted his horse, took up Petra’s reins, and took the horses to the mews without so much as a glance at the enemy.
William had been in his study at the back of the house but came out at a run when he heard André’s urgent summons. “Jeanne.” He helped her into a deep armchair before the fire in the parlor. “Your face,” he murmured. “How else are you hurt?”
Jeanne managed a stiff smile, appreciating, despite everything, that he was thinking of her when she knew he would be desperate to know about Marguerite. “Nothing much—”
“René said the Lizard has the child,” André interrupted.
“And Hero, too,” Jeanne added faintly. She rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. The sharp smell of sal volatile beneath her nose brought her around almost immediately, and William pressed a glass of brandy to her bloodless lips.
“Drink a little,” he urged. “Take your time, and tell me everything.” His voice was soft and patient, concealing the roiling urgency of his thoughts.
Jeanne sipped the brandy, and a little color returned to her ashen cheeks, the bruise across her cheekbone darkening against her pallor. Her voice steady, she told him what had occurred from the moment of Hero’s arrival at the cottage.
William’s face was expressionless as he listened quietly, asking no questions until she fell silent. René had returned to the house during Jeanne’s account and stood against the door, waiting.
“What happened to the guard?” William turned towards him as Jeanne’s voice faded.
“Garotte, it looked like. Mark of the Lizard, I would have said. It’ll take two of us to bring him back.”
“Take André . . . Who the hell’s that?” he demanded with an unusual note of irritation at the sound of the door knocker.
André went to answer it, and Marcus strode into the room. He looked startled at the sight of the bruised woman in the chair. He had never met Jeanne, and William, while not disguising from Marcus that there was an aspect of his private life that required him to be extra vigilant,
did not encourage questions about it. “Who . . . ?”
“In a minute,” William said dismissively. “Hero’s not at home, I gather.”
“No . . . how did you know?”
William sighed, shaking his head. “The Lizard has her.”
“Sweet heaven,” Marcus murmured.
“I doubt we’ll get much help from above,” William stated with a caustic smile. “Damn the woman. Why can she never do as she’s told?”
“Perhaps if you did more than give her orders without an explanation, she might,” Jeanne said, sounding stronger. “Be grateful she’s with Marguerite.”
William made no answer to the unanswerable. He stood for a moment tapping his fingers against his mouth.
“He said you’ll hear from him soon,” Jeanne reminded him.
“Yes . . . but I’m not sitting here waiting for that reptile to call the cards. André, you and René get back to the orchard and bring Jean Claude back. The least we can do is give him a decent burial.”
“One of the Lizard’s agents is on watch outside . . . thumbed his nose at me,” René said.
William frowned. There would have been time since the abduction for Dubois to get a messenger to Half Moon Street. “Get him in here. Perhaps he has something to say.”
André and René slipped away and Marcus went to the window, looking out onto the street. He saw the man waiting in full view across the street and watched as William’s men approached him. The man seemed to object to accompanying them back to the house but he thrust a piece of paper at them, then strolled away down the street, whistling.
André returned to the house. “He said to give you this, sir.” He held out the message. “René’s gone to the livery stable to hire a gig. Not too conspicuous for bringing back Jean Claude.”
William nodded but his eyes were on the paper in his hand. The Black Gull, Dover. Before the evening tide. Make sure you’re alone, or the child dies first.
