by Jane Feather
Short and to the point, he reflected. He knew the inn, knew that the Lizard intended that he should deliver himself up on the quayside, practically on the deck of whatever vessel the Lizard had comandeered to take him and his prisoner across to France. So easy, no fuss, no need for secrecy, no need for all the messiness of an abduction. It was one thing to spirit a woman and child away from a sleepy country village without drawing attention to the exercise, quite another to take a grown man and an experienced swordsman from a public place without a fight.
“From the Lizard?” Marcus inquired.
William merely nodded. “It seems I am riding to Dover.”
“We are riding to Dover,” Marcus corrected.
“That is certainly my intention, if not the Lizard’s,” William said. “But it requires some subtlety as I’m sure there’ll be watchers en route. We have maybe an hour.” He turned to Jeanne. “My dear, will you be all right to stay here alone, just until André returns? I know it’s a lot to ask after what you’ve been through today, but I think the Lizard has done his worst with you. I doubt he has any further interest in you.”
Jeanne smiled somewhat painfully. “In truth, a little peace and solitude would be the most wonderful thing, Guillaume. Much as I love you, nothing would please me more than a dish of tea and a quiet bed.” She pushed herself up from the chair. “Where is the kitchen? I’m sure you have some tea there.”
“I’ll make your tea,” Marcus said swiftly. “Please sit down again, ma’am.” He left the room before she could argue, and Jeanne sank back into her chair with a little sigh of relief.
“I have to gather some things.” William settled a cushion behind her head. “Rest here, my dear.” He left her and went upstairs, his brow furrowed. Hero and Marguerite were his top priority. He had to ensure their safety before making any attempt to save himself from the Lizard’s trap, but he was not walking into that trap unprepared.
TWENTY-NINE
Hero strained all her senses in the gloom of the carriage, trying to guess what was happening outside, wondering how close they were to their destination. The child was heavy in her lap, her head lolling against Hero’s breast, her face pale, her breathing stertorous. Hero touched her brow. It was clammy. She had no idea how much laudanum the Lizard had forced down Marguerite, but any amount could not be good for such a small child.
“I assume we’re going to Dover,” she finally ventured.
“It doesn’t matter to you where we’re going.”
“I beg to differ, sir. It matters a great deal to me,” she returned.
The Lizard turned his head against the squabs to regard her with his pale eyes and an air of supreme indifference. Then he resumed his original position as if she hadn’t spoken at all. The silence continued until she heard voices and carriage wheels outside, and the atmosphere changed. She could smell the sea more strongly and was certain they had entered a town. She raised a hand to lift aside the curtain, but the edge of his hand chopped against her wrist. The pain was appalling, and she blinked back unbidden tears, cradling her wrist against her breast.
“You have a short memory,” her captor said. “You will make no moves unless instructed to do so.”
Hero bit her lip and turned her head away from him. The carriage seemed to be slowing, turning, and then came to a halt. Beyond the curtain, she could hear running feet, voices calling, wheels rattling over cobbles, all the sounds of a busy stable yard. But she didn’t move.
Marguerite, however, stirred in her lap, moaned, and blinked. She tried to push up against Hero’s hold, and the Lizard swiftly withdrew the vial of laudanum from his jacket, uncorking it. “Hold her still.”
“No,” she stated, her own fear for the moment forgotten. “You cannot give her any more.” She fixed him with an unyielding stare. “Look how small she is. You will kill her with that stuff, and if you kill William’s child, he will hunt you to your grave. Don’t you understand? I mean nothing to him beside this child . . . a mistress, yes, but there are mistresses aplenty. He will not put himself in your hands for me. Kill me if you have to prove the power of your intention, but the only bargaining counter you have is the child. Make no mistake.” Her green eyes held every spark of determination she could muster as she tried to force her words into his brain. “I mean nothing to him. Now, let me get her into the air.”
For a moment, the issue hung in the balance, the tension in the small space almost palpable, while his cold eyes held Hero’s intense and unmoving gaze and she held her breath. Then he said, tight-lipped, “At some point very soon, I shall enjoy teaching you to mind your tongue, Lady Hero.” He opened the carriage door and jumped down. “Get out.”
Emboldened by his capitulation, Hero felt a renewal of optimism. What would happen if she stayed where she was and screamed for help? She would attract attention, the last thing the Lizard would want. But even as she hesitated, the door on her side was opened, and rough hands hauled her out of the carriage. She felt the prick of a knife in her back, and Marguerite, tumbling with her, suddenly threw up helplessly over the cobblestones.
“God damn it.” The Lizard came around from the other side of the carriage and looked in disgust at the vomiting child.
“Laudanum,” Hero almost spat at him, supporting Marguerite as she bent double, retching miserably. “What do you expect when you give it to such a tiny child?”
Gilles, who had yanked her out of the carriage and still stood with the point of his knife pricking her side, looked for guidance. He was accustomed to manhandling prisoners, but vomiting children were beyond his ken.
“Bring the woman into the inn,” Dubois instructed. “Don’t hesitate to use the knife if she makes a sound.” He swirled his cloak around Marguerite, who was crying softly against Hero, and scooped her up into his arms, swaddling her in the folds of the cloak. He strode into the inn with his burden, Gilles and Hero behind them.
The innkeeper greeted them, bowing. “Welcome to the Black Gull, sir, ma’am. Oh, the poor little one.”
“Travel sick,” Dubois explained curtly. “She’s sick from the motion. I need a private chamber on the highest floor you have . . . the air is fresher,” he added.
“Yes . . . yes, of course, sir. I have a nice, airy chamber at the top of the house, lovely view over the harbor, lovely sea breezes, just the thing for a touch of travel sickness. My wife will attend madame and the child.” He hurried ahead of them up two flights of stairs and flung open the door onto a small bedchamber. “This will do the trick, I’ll be bound. I’ll just open up the window, let the sea air in.” He bustled to the leaded casement and flung it wide.
“Give her to me.” Hero took Marguerite, limp and unresisting in her swaddling folds, and sat down on the bed with her. She loosened the cloak. The little girl seemed to have fallen asleep again, exhausted by her bout of sickness.
“I’ll fetch my wife, ma’am.”
The innkeeper hastened to the door, but the Lizard spoke sharply. “There’s no need for that. The child’s mother knows well enough what to do.”
“But perhaps some tea for the lady after the journey, a little refreshment for you, gentlemen. A tisane for the child?”
Dubois controlled his irritation; it would only draw even more attention to them. “We will ring when we’ve decided what we need, I thank you.”
The man bowed and departed. Hero laid Marguerite on the bed, smoothing her damp hair from her forehead. “So what now?” she demanded. She had felt a shift in the situation in the last five minutes. The Lizard found himself wrong-footed for once. No doubt, he had had his plan clearly formed in his mind, but they had made no allowances for a sick child. Their entrance to the inn had been conspicuous, and Hero guessed that was the last thing he wanted. Now she wondered how best to exploit the situation.
Dubois ignored her question, however. He drew Gilles over to the window, and they spoke in low tones
for a few moments. Then the Lizard walked out of the chamber, and Gilles locked the door behind him. He pocketed the key and sat down in a chair by the window, his pistol across his lap, his knife on the table beside him. He regarded his prisoners with a somewhat jaundiced air.
“I would like to get some water for the child,” Hero said after a moment. “There’s a jug on the washstand.”
He glanced at the washstand, then back at the child, inert on the narrow bed, and nodded. There was only a little water at the bottom of the jug but enough to moisten a washcloth. Hero wiped Marguerite’s mouth and cheeks. The child was once again sleeping heavily, her breathing noisy, and Hero realized that whatever desperate plans she might form that might give her a chance to overpower Gilles, she could not make an escape with Marguerite as a dead weight. The stress of the morning was taking its toll, and she felt an overwhelming surge of fatigue. She lay down on the bed beside Marguerite and closed her eyes. There was nothing to be done for the present, and maybe a short sleep would clear her mind.
The sun was low in the sky as Marcus approached Dover. He had ridden fast, and his horse was tiring, but he himself was as alert as if he’d slept the clock round. It was a sensation he knew well, and it would last until their present work was done. The well-traveled London-to-Dover road was well paved, the tolls paying for its maintenance. It was a popular stagecoach route and well served by inns.
The sign of the Fox and Hounds appeared as expected about five miles outside Dover, and Marcus took his weary mount into the stable yard behind the inn. He dismounted and unstrapped a small cloak bag from the saddle as an ostler ran to take the animal. He led him off to water and a well-earned bag of oats while Marcus strolled into the inn with the bag. He ordered a bumper of porter in the taproom and sat down in the window embrasure, idly flicking his gloves against his knee. The man who came in a few minutes later was dressed in a plain black coat and britches, a stiff white collar, and a broad-brimmed black hat. He looked like a man of the cloth, and his request for a small glass of watered wine did nothing to alter the impression. He stood stiffly against the bar counter, as if its very proximity might taint him, and looked hesitantly around the taproom. A flicker of a glance passed between him and Marcus.
Marcus drank his porter, left a handful of coins on the table, and wandered back to the yard to fetch his horse. Ten minutes later, he rode out of the yard and once more took the road to Dover.
The man at the bar counter took his small glass of watered wine and went to sit at the table Marcus had vacated. His foot touched the cloak bag beneath. When he stood up to leave, the bag was no longer there.
The Black Gull was a prominent landmark on the quay, a whitewashed building with a red-tiled roof. Marcus left his horse in the yard and entered the taproom. He leaned on the counter and rapped his fingers on the stained wooden counter.
The landlord turned from a group of sailors he was serving at the far end and came over with an unhurried air. “What can I do ye for, sir?”
“D’you have a room for the night?”
The man regarded him with more interest. “Catching a packet to France, are you?”
“No, waiting for someone. My sister and her child.” Marcus rolled a coin between his fingers. “They’ll need a room and a bed to rest from the voyage.”
“I’ve got summat at the back, quiet enough away from the quay,” the landlord said, his eyes following the gyrations of the coin. “Funnily enough, we’ve got a woman and child here already. Poor little one was sick as a dog from the coach. Don’t get too many families in here, deal more with the rougher kind, sailors and the like . . . Anything I can get you?”
“Porter.” Marcus spun the coin towards the man, then turned so that his back was resting against the counter, looking around the room. A fisherman came in after a few minutes, glanced around, and walked out again. Marcus drained his porter and gestured to the landlord. “Have my saddlebags taken up to my chamber. I’m going to the outhouse.”
In the noisome darkness, the fisherman awaited him. “Not the most salubrious meeting place,” he remarked. “But I doubt we’ll be interrupted.”
“The landlord said there’s a woman with a sick child in the inn.” Marcus tried not to breathe through his nose.
“Sick?” The note of anxiety thrummed in William’s sharp question.
“Travel sick, he said.”
“You stay in the inn and watch for any sign of them. I’m going to the quay. If the Lizard’s been negotiating for a boat, I might pick up some information.”
“You don’t think he’ll recognize you if he’s there?”
“He might, but he’s never managed it before. I’ve changed clothes twice since leaving London, so I’m sure there’s no tail on me. He can’t know for sure that I’m here.” William gave an easy shrug, implying a confidence he didn’t feel. He was used to worrying about the safety of people he didn’t know and about his own to a lesser extent, but now he had hostages to fortune, and it had altered his perspective in a way that didn’t enhance his confidence.
“I’ll change my own clothes now. I daresay I can turn myself into a sailor every bit as convincing as you, my friend.” Marcus slipped out, conscious once again of the thrill of the chase. The stakes were as high as any they had encountered in France, but that knowledge merely sharpened his senses and quickened his wit.
William remained in the reeking dark for a few minutes, then sauntered out himself, whistling.
Marguerite awoke with a cry, and Hero, who had been only half asleep, sat up instantly, cradling the child against her. “My head,” Marguerite sobbed. “It hurts . . . I’m thirsty.”
“It’s that filthy laudanum,” Hero said furiously to the seemingly indifferent Gilles, who was picking at his fingernails with the tip of his knife. “She needs water, and there’s none left in the jug. If you won’t send for some, then you must go down yourself and fetch it.”
“Can’t leave you,” Gilles declared, barely looking up from his knife.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hero snapped. “How in the world do you think I’m going to escape from a locked room on the third floor with a sick child? She’s thirsty because the laudanum has made her sick. If she doesn’t get water at once, I won’t answer for the consequences.”
Gilles stood up and came over to the bed. He looked down at the child, lying inert against Hero’s breast. Marguerite was waxen, her hair limp, a blue tinge to her lips. Tears seeped from beneath her closed lids, but she seemed too weak now even to cry out. He debated with himself for a moment, before turning on his heel and heading for the door. He unlocked it, let himself out, and then locked it behind him.
Hero listened to the sound of his retreating steps on the stairs and gently laid Marguerite on the bed again. “Stay still, sweetheart. It’ll be over soon.” She couldn’t tell whether her words had penetrated the child’s stupor but went swiftly to the window. The quayside lay immediately below, fishing boats moored along the pier. The sun was almost disappearing below the horizon, and the lighthouse at the end of the jetty that guarded the harbor entrance winked slowly. There was a lot of activity along the pier and the quay as boats were prepared for the evening tide. Hero leaned as far out of the window as she dared, her eyes searching the busy scene.
Suddenly, her gaze focused. A fisherman was walking along the jetty, stopping at the various boats. He looked just like every other man on the boats, in a thick woolen jerkin, leather britches, and high waterproof boots. At one boat, it looked as if his conversation was more productive than at others, because he stood for a few minutes, leaning against a bollard, talking animatedly to a sailor who had just come up on deck. A lock of hair fell across the fisherman’s forehead as he talked, and he brushed it aside in a gesture so familiar that Hero thought her heart had actually stopped for a second.
He was here. Relief filled her, but then reality intervened. William was on t
he dock, but she and Marguerite were marooned in a third-floor chamber. She wondered if she could attract his attention, but he was halfway along the pier, too far to hear her voice, however loud she shouted.
Where was the Lizard? She searched the crowds again and made him out at last. Just beyond where William was standing, still in conversation with the sailor, two men appeared on the gangplank of a fishing boat, rather more substantial than many, with a roofed cabin. One of them was the Lizard. As she watched, she saw him hand something to the other man before turning to leave.
Hero heard steps beyond the chamber and flew back to the bed, bending anxiously over Marguerite as the key turned in the lock and Gilles came back with a jug of water and a cup. He cast her a suspicious glance, but she didn’t seem to have stirred from her place with the child. He set the jug and the cup on the washstand. “There.” Then he returned to his chair in the window.
Hero filled the cup and took some herself, aware that she was both hungry and thirsty; it seemed an eternity since Jeanne had cooked breakfast for them all that morning. She brought the cup to Marguerite, holding her up against her as she pressed the cup to her bloodless lips.
“Take a little, sweetheart, it’ll help you feel better.”
Marguerite drank thirstily and seemed to perk up a little. When the cup was empty, she gave a little sigh and slumped against Hero again, her eyes closing. Hero felt a moment of despair. If an opportunity arose for them to break away, Marguerite would be unable to do anything for herself. She could barely sit up unaided, let alone run.
But William was here, she told herself. And he would not be alone. He would have a plan. All she could do for the moment was to be alert and ready to move the instant she saw an opportunity or William gave her a signal.
There was a sharp rap on the door, and Gilles rose instantly, the key in his hand, to let in the Lizard.
