by Liz Carlyle
Bessett smiled thinly. “I take your point, DuPont. One begins to wonder if the political upheaval in France will ever end.”
The Frenchman lifted one thick shoulder. “Non, not in my lifetime,” he answered evenly. “And all your fine efforts here in London will never change that fact.”
“Aye, sadly, you may be right,” said Bessett. “As to the house—the St. James Society, it is called—any brother of the Fraternitas Aureae Crucis who passes through England is welcome to quarter with us—even those who do not support the unification.”
“Merci, but I must not linger.” The Frenchman rolled his shoulders uneasily. “So, my new Fraternitas brother, do we walk? Have you a carriage?”
Bessett jerked his head toward the public house adjacent. “The Society has come to you, DuPont. They wait within.”
Just then, the Prospect’s door flew open and a pair of garishly dressed nightingales burst out, laughing, a hapless young naval lieutenant hooked arm-in-arm between them. He looked wealthy, besotted, and thoroughly foxed—the prostitute’s holy trinity.
The Frenchman watched them go assessingly, then gave his disdainful grunt again. “Ah, mon frère, life is the same the world over, non?”
“Aye, he’ll be pissing pain till All Saints’ Day with that pair,” Bessett muttered. “Come, DuPont. The brandy here at the Prospect is passable, and the fire is warm.”
Inside, the front taproom of the public house was abuzz, with every scarred and beaten table surrounded by men of the dockyards, with tavern maids swishing and weaving between them, trays and tankards hefted gracefully aloft. Lightermen, shipwrights, sailors of every nationality—even the occasional shipping magnate—all of them came, eventually, to the Prospect, where a hot meal and a fairly pulled pint might be had in companionable good spirits.
Bessett waded through the human morass, the man called DuPont on his heels, and made his way round the bar and into a quieter room where the tables sat along a row of small-paned windows overlooking the Pool.
His three colleagues rose at once, shaking DuPont’s hand with outward welcome. But Bessett knew them well, could see the tautness in every move of their muscles and sense—in an ordinary, human way—the age-old wariness each exuded. Even if DuPont was Fraternitas, he came as an agent of the Gallic Confederation, a stubborn and secretive sect.
“Welcome to England, monsieur.” Their Preost, the Reverend Mr. Sutherland, motioned toward the empty chair. “A pleasure to meet one of our brethren across the water. My associates, Ruthveyn and Lazonby.” Handshakes were exchanged, then Ruthveyn snapped his fingers at one of the girls, sending her scurrying for a bottle of brandy.
“So, DuPont, I hear from my Catholic compatriots in Paris that trouble is afoot,” Sutherland began once the bottle and glasses had been situated. “Is that what brings you?”
DuPont sipped at his brandy, his scarred mouth twisting even further at the taste. He set it down at once. “Oui, a child has fallen into the wrong hands,” he said. “We require your help.”
“A child?” Ruthveyn’s dark visage hardened. “A Gift, you mean?”
The Frenchman scrubbed his hand round what looked like a day’s growth of stubble. “It seems so,” he admitted. “Though the child is young—not yet nine years of age—the circumstances are . . . troubling.”
“Troubling how?” Lord Lazonby, an inelegant, broad-shouldered man, had thrown himself casually back into his chair, set his booted legs wide, and was absently turning his glass round and round on the scarred oak table. “Can the Guardians of Paris not keep up with their charges?”
DuPont bristled. “Ours is a nation in turmoil, you may recall,” he snapped. “Our King now resides here—in utter exile—and even in these modern times, we can barely keep the rabble from rolling out Madame la Guillotine again. No, my Lord Lazonby. We cannot always keep up with our charges. Indeed, we often fear for our heads.”
Ruthveyn planted his dark, long-fingered hands wide on the table. “Enough,” he commanded. “Let us be civil. Tell us, DuPont, what has happened. And be quick about it. We mightn’t have much time.”
“Aye, you are to be married, old boy, in a few days’ time,” said Lazonby dryly, entirely unperturbed by the scold. “And home to Calcutta thereafter. I believe Bessett and I can guess who will be charged with this task.”
“Precisely.” Ruthveyn’s voice was tight. “Now, what is the name of this child, and how strong is your certainty of the Gift?”
“The child is called Giselle Moreau. About the other, we are certain enough to fear for her. The Gift is strong in the father’s blood. Her mother, Charlotte, is English.”
“English?” said Ruthveyn sharply. “Who are her people?”
“Impoverished gentry near Colchester,” said the Frenchman. “They found enough money to send her to school in Paris and she thanked them by falling in love with a lowly clerk in the royal household—a bastard nephew of the Vicomte de Lezennes. She has had little contact with her family since.”
“They disowned her?”
“Oui, so it appears so.”
“Lezennes?” Lord Bessett exchanged uneasy glances with Mr. Sutherland. “I’ve heard the name. He’s often found near the center of court intrigue, isn’t he?”
DuPont nodded. “Always near, oui, but never close enough to be blamed,” he said bitterly. “He is a clever devil, our Lezennes. He has survived the fall of Louis-Philippe, and now endeared himself to the Bonapartists—even as it is whispered that he is in truth nothing but a Legitimist, secretly seeking to restore the Ancien Régime.”
“What do you think?” Bessett demanded.
The Frenchman shrugged. “I think he is a cockroach, and cockroaches always survive. His politics scarcely matter to me. But he has taken this Englishwoman under his wing in order to use her child, and that matters to me very much. And now he has removed them to Brussels, where he serves as an emissary to the court of King Leopold.”
Bessett’s hands fisted involuntarily. “From one political uncertainty to another,” he murmured. “I cannot like the sound of this. This is the very thing we wished to avoid, DuPont, with the Fraternitas’s unification.”
“I understand, but this is France we are talking about,” said DuPont calmly. “No one trusts anyone. The Fraternitas in Paris—such as we still exist—is uneasy. Lezennes is not known for his charitable nature. If he has taken this child, it is for a purpose—his own purpose, and a bad one. That is why they have sent me. You must get the child back.”
“Of course we wish to help,” said Sutherland gently. “But why us?”
“As I said, the mother is English,” said DuPont. “Your Queen wishes her subjects abroad to be protected, does she not? You have some rights in this, I think.”
“I . . . don’t know,” said Ruthveyn warily.
The Frenchman crooked a brow arrogantly. “You are not unknown to us, Lord Ruthveyn,” he said. “Nor is your work in Hindustan. You have your Queen’s ear, and your Queen’s favor. The King of the Belgians is her beloved uncle. You have influence. Would you truly punish the Gallic Confederation merely because we keep to ourselves, when all we ask is that you use your influence to save our Gift from being raised by a devil? From being used for nefarious purposes?”
“Of course not.” Ruthveyn’s voice was tight. “None of us wants that.”
“But what of this woman’s husband?” Bessett demanded.
DuPont pressed his misshapen lips together for a moment. “Moreau is dead,” he finally answered. “Killed but a fortnight after the King’s abdication. He was summoned late one night to his office near the palace—by whom, we are not sure—but somehow, the draperies caught fire. A terrible tragedy. And no one believes it was an accident.”
Lord Ruthveyn’s expression stiffened. “The dead man—he was a Guardian?”
“Oui.” The word was but a whisper. “A man of little Gift, but of good heart and much bravery. He has been sorely missed amongst our number these many months.”
“He was close to his uncle?”
DuPont’s bitter smile deepened. “Scarcely even acknowledged,” he said, “until rumor of little Giselle’s talent began to stir through the court.”
“Good God, she was discovered?” said Bessett.
The Frenchman sighed deeply. “What is your English expression?” he murmured. “Out of the mouths of babes? Little Giselle predicted Louis-Philippe’s abdication—blurted it out very innocently, but alas, very publicly—in front of half his courtiers.”
“Oh, dear.” Mr. Sutherland’s head fell into his hands. “How could such a thing happen?”
“A court picnic at the Grand Parc,” said the Frenchman. “All the royal household and their families were invited—commanded, really. The King, of course, came out for a few moments of noblesse oblige with the masses. Regrettably, he ran straight into Madame Moreau, and decided to catch Giselle’s chin in his hand. He looked her straight into the eyes, and would not look away.”
Bessett and Ruthveyn groaned in unison.
“It gets worse,” said DuPont, the truth spilling from him now. “He asked why her eyes were so sad on such a lovely day. When she did not reply, he teased her by saying he commanded her as King to speak. So little Giselle took him literally, and foretold not only the fall of the July Monarchy, but went on to say that his abdication would be followed by a second terrible loss—the death of his daughter, Louise-Marie.”
“Good God, the Queen of the Belgians?”
“Aye, and that was Louis-Philippe’s doing, too, ’tis whispered,” DuPont continued. “He wished his daughter to be made Leopold’s queen in exchange for France’s acceptance of Belgian independence.”
“I thought that was just a rumor,” Ruthveyn remarked.
“Eh, perhaps.” The Frenchman opened both hands expressively. “But the French army stood down, Leopold’s morganatic wife was cast aside, and Louise-Marie was ensconced on Belgium’s throne. But now ’tis said the Queen grows weaker by the day.”
“So the child’s prediction is again coming true,” Bessett murmured.
“Consumption, it is whispered,” said DuPont. “The Queen will not likely last the year, and already the King’s mistress is wielding some influence.”
But a sense of ice-cold dread was already creeping over Bessett. This was the very thing Guardians of the Fraternitas most feared: the exploitation of the weakest amongst the Vateis—their ancient sect of seers—most of whom were women and children.
Throughout history, evil men had sought to control the Gift for all manner of selfish gain. Indeed, it was the very reason for the organization’s continued existence. Whatever the Fraternitas Aureae Crucis had been at its shadowy, Druidic inception, over the centuries it had evolved into an almost monastic militia, devoted to guarding their own. But modernity had worn away their edges—and their structure. This child—this Gift—was at great risk.
It was as though DuPont read his mind. “There are a thousand dangerous things Lezennes could do, mon frères, to gain power and influence for himself,” he said, his voice pitched lower still. “Conspire with the old Bourbons, fan the flames of further revolution on the Continent, perhaps even drive a wedge between England and Leopold—ah, the mind boggles! And it will be all the easier if he can divine the future—or have it done for him by some unsuspecting innocent.”
“You think he killed his nephew.” The ice-cold dread hardened in the pit of Bessett’s stomach until it felt more like an icy rage.
“I know he did,” said the Frenchman grimly. “He wanted possession of Giselle. Now she lives beneath his roof, subsisting on his charity. Our man in Rotterdam has sent his spies about, of course, but no one inside as yet. Still, Lezennes is grooming the child, depend upon it.”
“You are working with van de Velde?” asked Sutherland. “He’s an old hand.”
“Most dependable,” the Frenchman agreed. “And, according to his spies, it looks as if Lezennes is courting his nephew’s wife.”
“Good Lord, he thinks to marry the English widow?” said Ruthveyn. “But . . . what of affinity and canon law? What does your Church say?”
Again, the Gallic shrug. “Lezennes will care little for the Church’s opinion,” he returned. “Besides, Moreau was illegitimate. What papers exist that cannot be burnt or forged? Who really knows the truth of his birth? Perhaps not even his wife.”
“Worse and worse,” said Sutherland. The Preost sighed deeply and looked about the table. “Gentlemen? What do you propose?”
“Kidnap the bairn, and be done with it,” Lord Lazonby suggested, his eye following the swaying hips of a nearby barmaid. “Bring her to England—with the Queen’s permission, of course.”
“Expedient—but extremely foolish,” said Ruthveyn. “Moreover, the Queen cannot sanction such a blatant breach of diplomacy. Not even for one of the Vateis.”
“It won’t matter if we aren’t caught, will it, old chap?” But Lazonby’s voice was distant, his gaze fixed somewhere near the front door. Abruptly, he shoved back his chair. “Your pardon, gentlemen. I fear I must leave you.”
“Good God, man.” Bessett cut his friend a dark look. “This child matters rather more than the sway of some barmaid’s arse—fine though it admittedly is.”
Seated at the end of the table, Lazonby set a hand on Bessett’s shoulder and leaned nearer. “Actually, it now appears I was followed here,” he said quietly, “and not by a willing wench. You have my proxy. I’d best go lead the hound from our scent.”
With that, Lazonby skulked from the room, and melted into the sea of crowded tables.
“What the devil?” Bessett looked across the table at Ruthveyn.
“Bloody hell.” Ruthveyn watched only from one corner of his eye. “Don’t turn around. It’s that infernal newspaper chap.”
Even Mr. Sutherland cursed beneath his breath.
“From the Chronicle?” Bessett’s voice was low and incredulous. “How can he have learned about DuPont?”
“He didn’t, I daresay.” Eyes flashing with irritation, Ruthveyn turned his face deliberately away. “But he has become entirely too curious about the St. James Society for my liking.”
“And too curious about Rance by half,” Bessett complained. “For Rance’s part, I often wonder he hasn’t begun to enjoy this game a little too well. What must we do?”
“Nothing, for the nonce,” said Ruthveyn. “Rance has insinuated himself into a game of dice by the fire, and dragged one of the wenches onto his knee. Coldwater is still quizzing the tapster. He has not seen any of us.”
“Let Rance lead him a merry chase, and ensure he does not,” Sutherland suggested. “Back to the crisis at hand—DuPont, tell us what, precisely, you would have us do?”
The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed. “Send a Guardian to Brussels to fetch the girl,” he said. “None of you are known to Lezennes. We have taken the liberty of leasing a house not far from the Royal Palace—very near Lezennes—and put it about that an English family is soon to take up residence. Servants have been put in place—trusted servants from our own households in Rotterdam and Paris.”
“And then what?” demanded Bessett. “Lazonby’s suggestion aside, we cannot very well snatch a child from its mother. Even we are not so heartless as that.”
“Non, non, persuade the mother.” The Frenchman’s voice was suddenly smooth as silk. “Befriend her. Remind her of England, and of the happy life she might live here. Suggest a reconciliation with her family is possible. Then, if all else fails—if she is already too far under Lezennes’ thumb—kidnap them both.”
“Kidnap them?” Sutherland echoed.
DuPont leaned across the table. “Already my private clipper goes to anchor at Ramsgate, armed with a crew of good, strong men. It will take you to Ostend in utter secrecy, and await your escape.”
“This is madness,” said Bessett. “Besides, if Lezennes means to marry the woman—and if he is as conniving as you suggest—then he won’t let one of us
befriend her.”
“Not one of you,” the Frenchman said wearily. “Your wife, perhaps? Someone who can—”
“But none of us is married,” Bessett protested. “That is to say, Ruthveyn here will be shortly, but he is leaving.”
“A sister, then. A mother.” DuPont waved his hand with dismissive impatience. “Mon Dieu, what does it matter? A female to gain her trust, that is all we need.”
“Out of the question,” said Ruthveyn. “Bessett’s sister is little more than a child. Mine scarcely passes for English and has two small children. Lazonby is a soldier, and hasn’t the subtlety for such a mission. We only use him when someone needs to be beaten into submission.”
“What about hiring an actress?” Mr. Sutherland interjected. “Or perhaps Maggie Sloane? She’s a bit of a—well, a businesswoman, isn’t she?”
Bessett and Ruthveyn exchanged glances. “Trust a padre to suggest hiring a high-flyer,” Bessett said dryly. “But it’s true Maggie sometimes does a spot of acting.”
“Yes, every time Quartermaine beds her, I don’t doubt,” said Ruthveyn sardonically.
“Damn, Adrian, that’s cold.” Bessett flashed a grin. “Even Ned Quartermaine doesn’t deserve that, even if he does run a gaming hell at our front doorstep. And he won’t loan us Maggie. But yes, someone like Maggie . . . how hard can it be?”
“Ah, tant mieux!” DuPont, looking relieved, thrust one of his big paws to an inside coat pocket, then withdrew a thick fold of papers. “Here is all the information you will require, mon frères. The address of the house. The list of servants. Details of the story we have put about. Complete dossiers on both Lezennes and Madame Moreau. Even sketches.”
Bessett took the fold and shuffled through the papers, Ruthveyn and Sutherland looking over his shoulder. It was thoroughly done, he would give the Guardians of Paris that much.
“The art and architecture of Belgium?” he muttered, reading aloud. “That, ostensibly, is your Englishman’s purpose in going to Brussels?”
The Frenchman shrugged. “Are not many of the English dilettantes?” he said. “Politics would have been too complicated—and too threatening. A man of business? Bah, too bourgeois for Lezennes. Alors, what could seem more harmless than a rich, bored aristocrat who comes to look about and make a few pretty sketches, eh?”
