My Surrender

by Connie Brockway

  “Here’s a farthing.”

  The woman’s hand shot up, snagging the coin. “There.” She jerked her head back over her shoulder. “Standing right in front of it, ye be.”

  “Thank you.” Charlotte climbed the steps to the indicated door, looking up at the tilting rooflines. Were the messenger pigeons Toussaint used to communicate with Father Tarkin in Scotland up there?

  She rapped sharply on the door. She did not have to wait long. The door swung open and a hard-looking man stood before her. “Miss Nash. I am so grateful that you have come. Please.” He stepped aside.

  She ducked her head under the low lintel emerging into a windowless room lit by a single lantern. Inside, it was stiflingly hot and dark, the single window having been boarded up. Still, she was greatly relieved to see that it was more tolerable than the outside of the building suggested. True, the floor rolled beneath her feet and the walls bore several large cracks but someone had recently scrubbed it well, for the unmistakable scent of lye stung her eyes and filled her nose.

  “Won’t you be seated?” Toussaint said, a hint of French accent in his voice.

  Charlotte shrugged the simple cloak from her shoulders and sat down on the edge of the chair, studying the soldier-monk who’d summoned her. When she’d met him some months ago her first impression was that he was older than he looked. His brown hair was only lightly touched with gray at the temples and his face, though weathered, possessed a firm jaw and strong throat.

  Her second impression had been that he would make a most uncomfortable sort of monk. She could almost feel the hum of purpose driving him. He moved with staccato precision, as though only the greatest of efforts kept his movements in check. Even his hands, at his sides, closed and opened like the mouth of a beached fish. She was certain he was unaware of the spastic motion. But it wasn’t only this ill-contained energy. Though his mouth wore a smile, the keen eyes boring into her were merciless. His quick assessing gaze stopped abruptly at her modest neckline.

  “Is that…could that be one of the yellow roses from St. Bride’s?” Disapproval invested his voice. “One of those that the boys brought your family?”

  “Yes,” she answered. She’d forgotten she’d pinned it to her bodice this morning. “I suppose you think that dreadfully sentimental?”

  “Sentiment can destroy a person. Or a cause. Be careful.” His pensive expression faded. “Thank you for coming. The news regarding Mrs. Mulgrew is most distressing. Most alarming.

  “This tragedy may well hold far-reaching repercussions. Ones we may not be able to counter or offset. We cannot afford to lose that letter,” he said in a hollow voice. “Tell me the extent of her injuries. Tell me if Mrs. Mulgrew might recover sufficiently to go north at some later date.”

  He sounded desperate.

  “I am afraid I cannot do that. There is no chance she will recover sufficiently to go forth with the plan as proposed.”

  He released a hiss of breath and his eyelids fell shut. He opened his eyes and seeing Charlotte’s expression, rose to his feet, looking down at her. “I cannot overstate the importance of this letter. It is not only the sender who stands in grave danger should his identity be revealed and it is not only his nation which shall feel Napoleon’s wrath upon discovering his betrayal. The papal city, too, will suffer. More priests, so recently allowed to return to their dioceses, will suffer.”

  “Sir?”

  He leaned over her, his fierce gaze compelling her to understand. “Napoleon and the Pope are at odds. Each month Napoleon’s greed and mania for power swells. He has begun to resent the pope’s refusal to join his embargo against Britain. If this letter is revealed to have been bound for the papal offices and opened…” He shook his head. “It will be the excuse Napoleon has been looking for to break all ties with the Church and declare the pope his enemy.

  “You see now why I am so distraught. I never approved of Mrs. Mulgrew’s plan, but only a fool could not see it stood the best chance of succeeding in retrieving that letter. Now…” He gestured in the manner of someone throwing something away and turned, his shoulders so tightly bunched she could see them shivering. “We must retrieve that letter. No matter what the sacrifice. No matter who makes the sacrifice. We must. We must!”

  He looked around at her and she realized he was holding his breath, his emotions so strong a little drop of foam had developed in the corner of his mouth. His eyes pleaded with her for understanding. His hands twitched.

  “I understand,” Charlotte said, a little revolted, a great deal moved by his dedication and his moral quandary. “Completely. And I must admit that I am relieved that we are in accord with one another on this subject.”

  The monk straightened, turning to face her completely. “What do you mean?”

  “I intend to go in Mrs. Mulgrew’s place.”

  His eyes grew round with amazement. His mouth fell open a fraction of an inch and snapped shut. “What? I should forbid it,” he whispered.

  The monk was being disingenuous.

  “Brother Toussaint,” she said mildly, “that is why you asked for this meeting, is it not? To ask me if an alternative might be found to take Mrs. Mulgrew’s place? And who would that alternative be if not me?”

  His eyes widened with offense. “I…I wasn’t certain…That is, I hadn’t thought you would—”

  She took pity on him. “You do not want me to do this. I understand. I’m not too keen on it myself. But you knew that I was the only viable substitute. It’s unworthy of you to pretend otherwise.

  “Please,” she continued before he could renew his protest, “allow me to finish. You had made the difficult decision to suggest this but then, when I arrived, you were struck anew by how very young I am, how inexperienced in the ways of the world. So you thought better of your original, impossible decision. But your original impulse was not wrong.”

  He did not attempt any further remonstration, instead saying, “But how can you hope to carry off such an impersonation?” His face lit with sudden inspiration. “I can—”

  “You needn’t do anything, Brother Toussaint,” she reassured him. “I will impose on Dand Ross to aid me.”

  “Dand? Here? Now?” She had the impression she had utterly flummoxed him. He blinked, as though trying to clear his vision. “My God…it is Providence then,” he murmured, his hand forming the sign of the cross above his heart. “It was meant to be.”

  “I suspect Providence has little to do with the comings and goings of Dand Ross,” Charlotte said dryly. “He came to report the missing letter. A fact with which we were already acquainted. He must return to France in a few weeks. But by then, I shall no longer need his aid.”

  “Is he coming here? To see me?” Toussaint asked.

  “No.” Charlotte shook her head. “He doesn’t even know you are his contact.”

  Toussaint smiled apologetically. “No. Of course not. I…It is just that…I helped mold him, you know.” This last was said with touching pride.

  Charlotte regarded him with sharpening interest. “What was he like?” She could not resist asking. “As a boy?”

  “Dand?” Toussaint mused a moment, lost in some reverie he found pleasant, for a gentle smile curved his lips. “Limb of Satan, the monks called him. Always doing what he oughtn’t, sneaking out of the dormitory to go adventuring, inciting the other lads to get up to some misadventure or other and then as glib as the devil in wiggling his way out of the proceedings when they were caught. The old herbalist Brother Fidelis used to say that God made the switch for boys like Dand Ross.”

  Aye. She could well believe that. “And the other lads?” she prompted.

  Toussaint smiled, and for the first time, Charlotte saw a hint of warmth in his chill gaze. “Ram was just as refined and tempered as a lad as he is a man. And Kit,” he frowned, “as strong in his convictions as he was in body.”

  “There was a fourth,” Charlotte said, “the one who was killed in France.”

  “Douglas Stewart.
” Toussaint nodded, his face filled with inexpressible sorrow.

  “Kit said once that Douglas was their core. The glue that bound them together. He must have been quite extraordinary.”

  Toussaint frowned, as though searching his mind for an image to fit the word. “Extraordinary? I don’t know. He was a bright enough boy. As athletic as some, not as athletic as others. High-minded. Earnest. But earnestness hardly qualified one to be a fit leader.”

  Charlotte had never heard either Ram or Kit express any sentiment about Douglas Stewart that wasn’t steeped in reverence. She was fascinated. “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, Ram had address and poise. Kit had strength and determination.”

  “And Dand?”

  “Dand was the brightest. And he had charm. But a darker side, too, that even the best of them must find enticing. Douglas had…nothing.” Whatever momentary mood had held Toussaint abruptly disappeared. “Enough. It is over and done and hardly matters anymore. What does matter is that you say Dand is willing to assist you in your plan? In what manner?”

  At this, heat climbed into Charlotte’s cheeks and she was glad of the relative darkness in the steamy little room. “Brother Toussaint,” she said, “your conscience is troubled enough as it is. Let us not test it any further, shall we? Be content that Dand’s assistance will bring me no harm and will go far to establishing my credibility as the sort of woman the comte will feel he can safely compromise.”

  Toussaint’s brows pulled together in a scowl. “My child—”

  “Credibility, Brother Toussaint, not authenticity.”

  6

  Northern Scotland

  Christmas 1788

  “I DIDN’T SAVE yer from getting yer throat slit only to see ye shot by the militia. It don’t matter what Geoff says, I seen the redcoats meself marching up the great north road.” The bull-shouldered, grizzle-haired man stretched on his tiptoes and peered over the thick hedge lining this portion of the road. Seeing nothing, he dropped flat to his feet and turned around, regarding the boy with an ambivalent expression.

  “Time to cut bait and run, and I ain’t runnin’ too fast or too far with a lad taggin’ along. It’s been a bonny treat bein’ yer guide and companion, young sir, but time to part ways.” He squinted down nearsightedly, his broken jaw pulling his lips into a perpetual grimace. But after nearly a month in Trevor’s company, the boy recognized the expression as being as close to affection as a thief, smuggler, and very possibly murderer, was likely to achieve.

  “Yer a fair dab hand with a pick and lock and might keep that in mind fer the future. But not yet. Lads as young and tender as you—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Yer fate wouldn’t be much to yer likin’ on the road. Nah. Better ye go to St. Bride’s Abbey than take yer chances out here. Abbott come along here from town every other Wednesday. He’ll be along soon.”

  “I don’t want to go to an abbey.”

  The man nodded. “ ’Course ye don’t. But ye got nowhere else to go and the Father Abbot ain’t bad as men of God go, and there’s others like ye at the abbey, too. Orphans.”

  The boy didn’t say a word.

  “Ye know,” Trevor said thoughtfully. “Ye could tell me who ye are and I could maybe find some folks what might be lookin’ fer ye.”

  “I’ve told you,” the boy said with an elaborate sigh, “I’m a lost son of the House of Bourbon, but since your friends drowned everyone who knows my true identity and left me without a penny or a voucher to support my claim. I’m likely to stay lost for a good while yet.”

  “Cheeky bastard,” Trevor chortled. “That’s what saved ye, ye know. Ye made Black Sam laugh with yer tall tales of noblemen and palaces and he decided to spare ye. As fer who ye are—well, if ye thought there might be someone ye could make yer way to, I ’spect ye’d do it without me.”

  “You’ve been decent to me, Trevor,” the lad said. “Thank you for not killing me.”

  Trevor stared at him again and sighed. “Like me own son might have been. Clever hands and stubborn as a sinner with a prayer. Right good company, too.

  “Now, I ain’t sayin’ I’m a clever man. But I know a few things and I’m giving the gift of them to you, lad. Ye can take ’em or spit on ’em fer all I care after ye hear ’em, but hear ’em ye will. So here it be. It don’t matter who ye were before ye washed up on them rocks I found ye hid in. Whoever ye were in France died on that shore.”

  The boy nodded. If he felt any animosity toward the men—including Trevor—who had been responsible for the death of his once-illustrious future—as well as his companions—he kept it well hidden.

  “Don’t be a fool, lad. World has too many of ’em as is. Be smart. Ye can spend yer days cryin’ fer what ye want or ye take what ye can get. Ye have a bonny tongue in yer head and a winning way when ye’ve a mind. Make good use of those things what no sea can drown nor smuggler steal. Keep them skills I taught ye fresh. Ye—”

  The sound of a horse whinnying stopped Trevor mid-sentence. He crouched down behind the hedge, his hand hard on the boy’s shoulder. “That’s the abbot’s carriage. Go on. Get out into the road and wave him down.”

  “But—”

  “Fer the love of God, lad,” Trevor said in exasperation. “I done one good thing in me life when I took ye off that shore. Now, let me do two. Who knows, maybe it’ll be enough to let me slip through the gates come Judgment Day.”

  The boy grinned broadly. “Oh, I rather I doubt it,” then, without a backward glance, he scrambled into the dirt road and hailed the approaching carriage.

  Culholland Square, Mayfair

  July 18, 1806

  “Don’t be absurd!” Dand declared, standing over Charlotte as she sat calmly embroidering violets on a new pillow sham.

  Her butler had shown him in to the little walled garden. True to her supposition, Dand had returned this morning with a note for Toussaint. True to her expectation, he had not been happy about what she had then told him about their change of plans.

  But she had not expected his reaction to be so strong nor to so alter his demeanor. Indeed, she hardly recognized in this stranger the cocksure and imperturbable rogue she’d thought she’d known. His normal ironically amused expression had turned into a forbidding one and his stance was wide-legged and combative.

  “I am not being absurd,” she replied evenly. “Stop acting like some overprotective big brother.”

  “Oh, I can assure you,” he said in a low velvety voice that was all the more unnerving for its softness, “my emotions right now are far from brotherly.”

  She swallowed, refusing to be intimidated. “If you would remind yourself that we have a goal to accomplish, this would be a great deal easier on all of us.”

  “No,” he said roughly. “There is no way this could be easy. There is no way this is going to be anything but ridiculous. A harebrained scheme bred of one feverish mind and one romantic imagination. I leave it to you to claim whichever role you deem best suits you and leave the other to Mrs. Mulgrew.”

  “You cannot really accuse me of being a romantic?” Charlotte asked in quelling tones.

  “I wouldn’t have said so yesterday, but your present intentions leave little room for any other interpretation. You have decided to be a heroine.”

  “Not I,” Charlotte said tightly. “Fate.”

  “Fate or Mrs. Mulgrew?” Dand asked suspiciously. “Where is the accident-prone Mrs. Mulgrew, by the way?”

  She shook her head in bemusement. “It is a source of continuing amazement to me that you were raised amongst a Benedictine order of monks, an order known for their hospitality and sympathetic treatment of the ill and injured.”

  “I slept through the lessons on charity. Now. Again. Where is she?”

  “If you must know, she is upstairs in bed.” She braced herself. One…two…

  “Dear God!” He closed his eyes, struggling to marshal the expletive she could almost see forming on his lips. Though why he should bother now, when
he’d already treated her to an impressive inventory of profanity, she could not think.

  “Tell me, Lottie,” he said through barely moving lips, “did the notion of living as a social outcast just one day seem so appealing you could not conceive of any other lifestyle? Or was the decay of your reasoning a slower process?”

  She carefully placed the embroidery hoop beside her. “You don’t have to be insulting.”

  “Yes. I do. Especially when faced with such wrong-headedness, errant self-destructiveness!” he shouted.

  “Stop bellowing. The servants will hear. Ginny is here because the accident caused her leg to be fractured in several places,” she explained, waiting for him to show some sign of remorse for his lack of sympathy. There was none. She tried again.

  “She may well never walk properly again. If she survives at all, that is.” Not a flicker of compassion. “She is in extreme discomfort. The doctor has dosed her with something to alleviate the pain, but she is unable to care for herself. That is why she is here.”

  “That is why one has servants.”

  “No,” she stated succinctly. “That is why one has friends. And I do count Ginny as a friend. As well as an associate. As should you.”

  “I neither know nor do I trust Mrs. Mulgrew. She and I work for different masters. It is a rare person who can serve two.” He paused for a telling second. “Which means, I suppose, I must compliment you on your talents in this area.”

  She smiled sweetly. “You can’t shame me into doing what you want, Dand. Or giving up what I want.”

  “Damn it!”

  “Now, then,” she went on calmly, “I suggest we discuss our current situation and how we can salvage the original plan to reacquire that letter.”

  “My God,” he muttered to himself, a study in frustration as he raked his hair back with his hands. “She can’t even say the word ‘steal’ and yet she is determined to—no.” He shook his head, glaring at her. “No.”

  “Yes,” she stated just as firmly. “And would you please have a seat?”