by Liz Carlyle
After so many years, Anaïs could understand her feelings. “Charlotte,” she whispered, “what do you know of Lezennes’ plans for Giselle?”
Charlotte’s eyes filled with pain. “At first I was too stupid to realize he had plans, or that he even understood Giselle’s Gift,” she confessed. “What kind of mother could be so foolish?”
A desperate one, thought Anaïs. “But he did understand, Charlotte,” she said certainly, “and he wanted control of her. Do you know why, specifically?”
“I think he wanted to bring her up as his own,” said Charlotte, “to have her completely under his thumb. He wanted to force Giselle to use the Gift to see into the future—so that he might turn it to his advantage, politically and economically—or try to alter it entirely.”
“Do you know who Lezennes was working for?”
Charlotte’s gaze flicked up, wary and uncertain. “For the French government, I assumed,” she said, “but late one night . . .”
“Yes?” Anaïs urged.
Fleetingly, Charlotte covered her mouth with her hand. “A man came to the house,” she whispered. “A man I knew from Paris—an agent of the old Bourbons, it was whispered. Anaïs, there are many amongst the French nobility who will never stop trying to return them to the throne. They wish to turn history back sixty years! The old monarchy. The old cruelties. And Lezennes is one of them. I know. I put my ear to the door. I had to know. And it was then that I knew I could never marry him. That we had to flee.”
It was just as Geoff had suspected, then. Suddenly, another question occurred to Anaïs. “Charlotte,” she asked, “what did the vicomte know of your family? Did he know where you were from?”
“No,” she whispered. “And I told him what I told everyone—that I had no family. It seemed easier than the truth. That I had been disowned.”
That was a bit of good fortune. Anaïs tried to relax.
It was Geoff’s plan to drive straight through, stopping only to change the horses. Once they arrived at the port, he meant to put it about that the Jolie Marie was bound for Dover. That would make sense to Lezennes. With any luck, if he dared follow, he would head in the wrong direction from Ostend. Perhaps he would not dare follow at all.
Ah, a faint hope, that.
But nothing could be done about it now. Lezennes was not apt to catch them on the road. Nonetheless, Anaïs could not keep herself from extracting Mr. van de Velde’s carriage pistols and checking them for about the fifth time as Charlotte looked on, her eyes wide in the moonlight.
“It will be all right, Charlotte,” she said reassuringly. “You’ll be home in two or three days.”
“C-can you use that?” asked Charlotte.
“If I have to, yes,” said Anaïs softly. “But it won’t come to it. Now try to get some rest.”
Charlotte nodded, set her head against the wall of the carriage, and closed her eyes.
The guns returned to safekeeping, Anaïs settled back against the banquette. Then she, too, let the carriage lull her into something vaguely like sleep. But her senses would not entirely quiet, and when she dreamt, it was of Geoff. Geoff in a damp, pitch-black alley, his hand boldly snaring her assailant’s knife. Caught in that place which was halfway between wakefulness and oblivion, Anaïs gave a soft, inward smile, feeling oddly safe, oddly comforted.
Chapter 19
It is essential to seek out enemy agents who have come to conduct espionage against you.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Geoff pushed his way through the surge of humanity that surrounded the port of Ostend, Giselle set high on his hip, her arms still round his neck and her mood eager, as if she understood what was about to happen. This morning when he had lifted her down from the carriage at one of the inns, she had begun to talk to her mother in whispered French, giving what had sounded to his ear like assurances.
He prayed the child knew something he did not, for his every nerve was on edge.
Behind him, Anaïs followed with Charlotte, who today looked pale and drawn. Anaïs still wore her masculine attire, her hair covered by a beaver hat. Had anyone looked closely, however, they would not likely have been long fooled. But no one bothered; another young family at portside was of interest to no one.
Up ahead, passengers were swarming around the Dover ferry. Geoff waded into the morass, carried Giselle to the ticket window, and in his most booming voice, bought a passage for four. Then they melted into the crowd again, and passed out the other side.
Under the reign of the new Belgian monarchy, the port was in the process of being modernized and expanded by the widening of channels, a fact that merely added to the press of people. Surrounded by the ceaseless racket of this construction, Captain Thibeaux had been occupying a berth near the commercial basin, and his crew taking their ease. But by the time Geoff stepped on board, all hands were on deck, a faint breeze was coming in off the North Sea, and the gulls were wheeling and crying above.
Despite some ominous clouds gathering to the north, Geoff decided to take it as a good omen.
Thibeaux saw them and hastened forward. “Bonjour, Bonjour!” The captain paused just long enough to tweak the little girl’s chin as Geoff set her down, then motioned for his cabin boy. “Étienne,” he bellowed, “viens ici!”
The lad scrambled up from the pile of rope he was working and hastened toward them.
After casting a faintly dubious eye over Anaïs’s attire, now badly rumpled from having been slept in, Thibeaux bowed to her and to Charlotte. “My nephew Étienne will take you below to refresh yourselves,” he said. “Monsieur MacLachlan, if you will please come with me to inspect the ship?”
Geoff caught Anaïs by the wrist, however, and spun her around. Only then did he realize she had slipped her knife from the sheath up her sleeve, cleverly palming the handle. She, too, was uneasy.
“Keep them below till we’re well out at sea,” he said, his voice low. “Too many people have seen us board.”
Anaïs nodded, her gaze sweeping the wharf again, then she fell into step behind the others. He turned at once to the captain. “Thibeaux, we’ve no time to spare, I fear,” said. “Just get us under way.”
The captain nodded. “Oui, we have been preparing the sails,” he said. “To Harwich, Monsieur Petit says?”
“Aye, and run hard,” said Geoff grimly. “I think Lezennes is on our heels.”
“Alas, monsieur, the wind is not what one might hope for,” said Thibeaux a little grimly. “But at the very least, we can get you away from Belgium.”
But Geoff could not rest, and paced the clipper’s deck as Thibeaux’s crew hurried to make ready to sail. The afternoon, however, was well upon them, and up and down the wharves the crowds were growing; the same sorts of crowds one saw along waterfronts all over the Continent. Coopers and longshoremen. Prostitutes and pie men. And the ubiquitous clerks rushing to and fro in their long, dark coats, heads bent to their ledgers.
Geoff’s gaze picked carefully through them all, seeing no one he recognized. He turned his gaze to the other ships nearby and saw nothing out of the ordinary save for a sleek, three-masted barque. It was a small vessel built for a lean crew and plenty of speed, but it flew no flag. With the lightest of wind, the barque could have run down any other vessel in port, and if ever the term motley crew could have been fairly applied, the handful of men stirring above decks fit the phrase.
Geoff motioned for one of Thibeaux’s men. “What do you know of that vessel?” he said with a jerk of his head.
The Frenchman gave a sort of Gallic sneer. “Bah, eet eez just smugglers.”
“Smugglers?” said Geoff. “In Ostend?”
The Frenchman tapped the side of his nose. “J’ai du flair,” he said knowingly. “They have lain here two days, doing nothing but drinking and whoring. Moroccans and Spaniards and a couple of Bretons. They speak to no one. Ask no questions. What else could they be?”
What else indeed.
“What sort of flag do they fly?”
asked Geoff as the man walked away.
The Frenchman turned back and grinned up at him. “Vive le France,” he said, winking. “We are all equal now.”
Even then, Geoff knew to heed the sinking feeling in his gut. Or perhaps it was something more than just a feeling. He was not sure. But he went below all the same, knocked on the cabin door, and motioned Anaïs out. Her hair was down now, twisted into a long, thick braid down her back, her coat and wilted cravat cast aside. She carried a steaming mug of something in hand.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
Anaïs smiled, but her eyes looked tired. “Giselle is starting to chatter like a magpie,” she said. “And young Étienne has made me a mug of ginger tea and God only knows what else—not opium, he assures me.”
Geoff managed to smile back. “Perhaps it will help.”
“So he swears.” Anaïs did not look hopeful. “How are things on deck?”
He shrugged, and set one shoulder to the door. “There’s a French barque berthed near us,” he said pensively. “I don’t like the look of it.”
Her dark eyes widened. “You think it could be Lezennes’?”
Geoff shook his head. “I can’t see how,” he muttered. “But I have a bad feeling.”
“That’s nothing to be ignored,” said Anaïs. “What can I do?”
Geoff shrugged. “Nothing different,” he said. “Thibeaux’s second mate says they’re just smugglers cooling their heels, and he’s likely right.”
“Perhaps, but what’s more opportunistic than a crew of bored smugglers?” Anaïs pointed out.
Geoff considered it. He was suddenly glad Anaïs was down here, and a little disconcerted by how much he’d come to depend on her. To trust her. He was oddly confident he could count on her to keep Charlotte and Giselle safe until they were under way.
He dragged both hands through his hair. “We should have kept van de Velde’s carriage pistols,” he muttered.
“I’ve got my pocket pistol,” Anaïs assured him. “Just stay above deck, and don’t worry about us for now.”
Geoff nodded, and came away from the door frame. “All right,” he said. “But I’m going to go board that barque. Perhaps . . . perhaps I’ll get a feel for something.”
He moved as if to go, but her hand caught his arm, her hard gaze softening as it searched his face. “Geoff, I—”
He set his head to one side. “Yes?”
Her eyes fell. “Just be careful,” she whispered.
A few moments later Geoff was strolling casually past the French ship’s gangplank. He kept going for another fifty yards, then turned around and doubled back. In the fading afternoon light, one could plainly see the ship’s name written in gaudy script across the escutcheon.
Le Tigre Doré.
The Golden Tiger. A man Geoff took to be the boatswain was cleverly balanced on the port gunwale, feet spread wide, bellowing orders up at a sailor who had climbed into the rigging to hammer at something. On impulse, Geoff bounded up the plank. The half dozen men topside stopped what they were doing and glowered. The boatswain, a hulking chap in a greasy leather jerkin, stepped down and growled something at him in a mix of Dutch and French.
“I’m just looking for Captain Reynard,” Geoff answered in badly broken French. “He is an old friend. Is he aboard?”
The boatswain’s face further darkened, but he shifted at once to English. “You are mistaken, mon ami,” said the man, his lip curling. “You need to go.”
Geoff lifted one eyebrow, all the while focusing on the man, on the emotions surging round the deck. Animosity. Suspicion. He was being summed up—and they didn’t like what they saw.
Across the deck, a lean, pockmarked chap reached inside his waistcoat as if for a weapon. “Sabot,” he called. “Puis-je t’aider?”
“Non, Navarre,” said the boatswain, holding up a hand. “No help is needed. Our friend, he is leaving. Oui?”
Navarre stood down, his face dark with disappointment. Geoff forced himself to relax, to look amiable and a little sheepish. “I do beg your pardon, Monsieur Sabot,” he murmured. “Is this not Reynard’s vessel? The Silver Tiger?”
“Non,” said the boatswain, jerking a thumb aft. “Wrong ship, mon ami. And I am the captain here. Now take yourself off.”
Geoff backed up a step. “Ah, my apologies, sir. My French . . . it is not so good.” He extended a hand, trying to lock eyes with the fellow. Tried to open his mind and focus. “I bid you good day, then.”
“Umph,” said the captain—who scarcely looked the part. But he took the extended hand and gave it a quick, halfhearted shake.
At that instant, something flashed through Geoff’s mind in a blaze of color and light. Shards of thought, flickering in his brain like sun dappling through trees. And yet there was nothing he could make out, nothing save that awful sensation in his head, a shaft of something that was not quite pain, but something near it.
“Merci, monsieur,” he managed.
Then, lifting his other hand as if to block the sun, Geoff stepped backward onto the gangplank, then turned and strolled—with a nonchalance entirely feigned—in the opposite direction of the Jolie Marie.
The journey out to the North Sea was not a swift one, for the channel was choked with traffic and the wind still feeble against the Jolie Marie’s sails. As the ship finally entered open water, Thibeaux set a course north-northwest, but a layer of high clouds was fast choking out what little was left of daylight.
Cursing their luck, Anaïs stood on the poop deck, following the line of the horizon with her eyes. Though she had found Belgium beautiful, it felt suddenly as if she could not escape it fast enough. She wished the wind would pick up. At least she was not ill. Not yet.
Or perhaps young Étienne knew what he was doing after all?
Geoff stood below, scanning Ostend’s vanishing seafront through Thibeaux’s telescope, his bronze hair tossed into disarray by the wind. His worry had deepened, she realized, and not without reason.
Just as the Jolie Marie had cast off, a man in a dark frock coat had boarded Geoff’s suspicious barque and commenced a heated discussion with the fellow who appeared to be the ship’s captain. The two had gone below, according to Geoff, and come back up again ten minutes later shaking hands. In short order, the ship was being made ready to sail.
The crew of Le Tigre Doré was certainly headed somewhere. Anaïs had a bad feeling.
Gingerly she leapt down to stand beside Geoff.
He dropped the glass from his eye and set an arm about her waist. “Feeling all right?” he murmured, tilting his head to look at her.
“Well, I’m not seasick yet,” she confessed. “But these high clouds and still air make me uneasy. And I’m a little afraid we made a mistake in Ostend.”
“Aye?” he said. “How so?”
“Perhaps we should have brought Charlotte up to look at that fellow who boarded the Golden Tiger,” she finally said. “What if it was one of Lezennes’ henchmen?”
Eyes narrowed against the sun’s rapidly dropping angle, Geoff shook his head. “Not a risk worth taking,” he said calmly. “He might have seen her. Still, if anyone asks around port long enough, they’ll figure out which ship we were on. But they will have expended precious time doing it.”
“And so we wait,” said Anaïs.
“And so we wait,” said Geoff. Then, after a quick look around, he brushed his lips across her cheek.
“What are you thinking?” she murmured.
He made a sound, a sort of wry laugh. “That I’m tired of waiting,” he said. “Seriously, I’m thinking that half of me wishes you were safe at home in England, whilst the other half is bloody glad you’re here.”
She crooked her head to look up at him. “And I’m glad you are here,” she said. “Very glad.”
He flashed her an almost wistful smile, tucked a wayward curl behind her ear, then dropped his arm. Geoff returned to his vigil, pacing along the bulwark, the glass at his eye. Anaïs leapt b
ack up, intent on keeping sight of dry land as long as daylight held.
They did not have long to wait. The sun had no more than dropped below the horizon when Thibeaux’s lookout in the crow’s nest shouted down. “French vessel to starboard, sir!”
Anaïs heard Geoff curse beneath his breath as he adjusted the telescope.
The lad shinnied down and a few moments later and after conferring, Thibeaux hastened toward them. “It might be the French barque,” he said, his voice grave. “It will soon be too dark to tell.”
Geoff collapsed the glass and dropped it in his pocket. “Any hope of outrunning them?”
“Non, monsieur,” said Thibeaux, his voice grave. “The wind is all but gone—which means it will take them some time to catch up with us. What do you think they will do?”
“If they have fallen in with Lezennes, they will try to board us,” said Geoff, his voice calm. “They want the child. They will do nothing to put her at risk—nor will we.”
“You do not wish the guns loaded?” asked Anaïs, looking up at the two small cannon mounted on the poop deck.
Geoff’s mouth thinned. “Too dangerous,” he said. “Besides, they are flying the French flag. Thibeaux could pay a great price for it—assuming any of us survived. No, I think it better to bide our time.”
“Monsieur, they are smugglers,” said the captain.
“Aye, so they are greedy and venal,” he agreed. “But they just want to snatch the child—and possibly Madame Moreau. We must make it inconvenient for them to do so. And they will realize soon enough that they do not have much of a bone to pick with us.”
“Very wise, monsieur.” Thibeaux sounded relieved.
But Geoff was still staring out to sea, as if working out a strategy in his mind. “What sort of crew will the barque run with?” he asked the captain.
Thibeaux scrubbed a hand round his chin. “Very few, I think,” he said pensively. “Twenty at most, and ten can do it. I’ve not seen above six or eight on deck these last two days.”
“And what size is your crew?”
