“Others?” Beechem asked, suddenly interested. “Other relatives?”
“I do not think so. They were English and these two here—well, from their garments they were French, and some on this lane had seen them about and heard them speak, so. . .”
“Did these men go inside the shed?” Kendale asked.
“Oui. A moment only. It is foul inside, of course, and—”
“Did she speak with them?”
“I do not know. Perhaps. I think so. The men did not leave the garden at once.”
“But she did soon after them?”
“It was getting dark.”
“Describe these men,” Beechem said.
“No, describe the woman,” Kendale interrupted.
The tailor described both. His memory of the woman far exceeded that of the men. The latter had been rough, with the appearance of laborers, and of no interest. The woman, however, had been pretty enough to be memorable down to the shape of her nose.
Medium height, very slender, golden brown hair down around her shoulders, elegant fingers and face, and a long, old, patterned silk shawl that hung to her knees—the tailor all but glowed as he painted a picture of Marielle Lyon.
“So sad she was,” he said again. “So sad and pretty as she sat in that garden, so still, as if lost in her memories of her dear cousin.”
Cousin, hell.
“Wish he had noticed more about those chaps who came by,” Beechem said after they left the shop. “Sounds a bit like West and Garrett, but not so close as to be able to do much with it. They do a bit of smuggling, and I’m thinking they were wondering what happened to their runners who bring it inland. The two rotting corpses in there were known here in Dover, sounds like, but did not seem to have ties to this town, so they may have been in the employ of West and Garrett, seems to me.”
With no one to swear down information, least of all the pretty cousin, there was nothing Beechem would do with his suspicions, Kendale knew. If anything the disruption of a smuggling ring would be welcomed by the authorities, even if it were brief and two men got murdered in the process.
As for the mourning cousin . . .
“Where would I find West or Garrett?” Kendale asked. “Since I am not an official, I can ask questions that you cannot.”
Marielle wished Monsieur Garrett would hurry up. He took forever to tie his horse. He walked slowly down the quiet lane with a loose but tired gait. A wiry man with sandy hair, he still had a bit of youth in him that showed in the way he moved his body.
She waited for him in front of a weathered house covered in graying whitewash at the southern edges of Dover’s outskirts. He noticed her and stopped while he examined her, his body suddenly tight and alert. Then recognition unwound him again and he walked on with a big, flirtatious smile.
“You don’t take your time,” he said. “I said I’d be here today, but you arrived first. You must be very eager to see me.” His thick eyebrows wiggled with insinuation while he opened the door. “Have you been waiting since sunrise?”
“I have not been here long. Let us talk out here.” She would be stupid to enter this house alone with a man she knew to be a criminal, especially one with such a hungry look in his blue eyes. “I need to know this will get to the boat.” She slid her shawl away to reveal the roll of prints.
“More of those, eh? I looked once. Seems to be an odd thing to pay to get into France. But maybe there are secrets in ’em that I can’t see.”
“Would it matter to you if there were?”
“Not to me. To some, perhaps. This ain’t my war, and it is bad for trade, is how I see it.” He reached for the roll. “Tomorrow it will be on the boat.”
“You need to bring it to its destination. They will not know to meet you this time.”
“Well, now, that makes it more dangerous, don’t it? I’m not fond of staying there overlong. Will cost you.”
“I will pay. If you put in north of Granville, the bookseller is only a few blocks away at the end of the main lane.” She gave him the shop’s location and name.
“I’ll not be walking even a few blocks until night.”
“He will not care if you rouse him at night.” At least she hoped not. She dug into her pocket and withdrew six shillings. “This is twice what I would pay Éduard and Luc, and they in turn kept much of it before paying you, so it should be more than enough.”
Garrett laughed while he took the coins and prints. “Must be some secrets after all, if you pay that much not to mention the cost of the journey here.”
“I am paying for more than your transporting those papers. I also want information.”
He leaned against the door frame, curious and cautious. “Men in my trade don’t last long if they talk too much.”
“I do not care about your trade, or about who helps you. I seek other information. Do you know who did that to Éduard and Luc?”
He shook his head. “I’ve a mind to return the favor if I find out. They had their uses and could be trusted. Not easy to find honest men. I felt real bad when I saw what is left of them and knew it was them for sure.”
“Did you ever see two other Frenchmen with them? One fat and dark haired and the other tall and lean.”
“Not with them, but I may have seen the ones you mean. A few weeks ago a French boat came over with some of those fancy types. We keep an eye on those. Don’t want it to become a habit on our coast and don’t want ’em taking goods back and stealing our trade, do we? Those two were with them, as I remember. Not so fancy as the others, so they stuck out.”
“Were they alone, or with another man?” She tried to keep the desperate worry out of her voice. “Maybe a fancy one.”
She held her breath while she waited for his reply.
“Nah. We watched them get out and walk up the beach. Those two were alone then. Not talking to others, or even walking alongside another man.”
A heaviness lifted off her heart. It was not proof that Lamberte had not come to England, but it was enough to allow hope that he had not.
“I wonder if—” She sought the right words for her next query. “The fancy man I speak of may have come before or after. He is noticeable. Taller than most, with thick dark hair.” She tried to picture Lamberte now, years after she had last seen him. Had he thickened? Had he cropped his hair? “He is very fond of wearing coats with a military cut. He might have a beard, but well groomed in its shape and length. Have you seen such a man on other boats, or in any villages or taverns?”
“Nah.” He wiggled those eyebrows again. “If I do, should I let him know that you seek him?”
“No.” She said it too forcefully. Garrett raised his eyebrows. “I would like to know if you see him, however. I will pay well for the information.”
He looked at her differently, as if she presented some risk he had not realized before. “If I see him, I’ll send word with whoever comes to get your next roll of images. We should have the net repaired by the next time that is due.”
“Three weeks. Monsieur Farmen said you were going to use English in the future.”
“We use who we can trust. Those two weren’t killed on our account, that I know. There should be no danger for any others.” He began to open his door, but stopped. He held up the prints. “You give your word there are no secrets in these?”
“No secrets. They are only what they appear to be.”
“I hope so. ’Cause someone beat those two good, for a reason, probably for information. I’d not like to think I am helping a spy with these.”
“I am not a spy. Do I look like one?”
He laughed. “You look like a woman who is pretty enough to have me doing something my gut says I shouldn’t.” With a little wave of the roll of prints, he crossed his threshold.
Kendale watched Marielle speak earnestly to the man outside the house. That w
ould be Garrett, whom Beechem said lived here when he wasn’t on a galley crossing the channel. Fortune had led Kendale to seek out this man instead of the other. He had remained in this alley since noticing Marielle waiting in front of the door.
Their conversation ended. Marielle took a step away from the door and man. Garrett laughed and gestured farewell with the roll of papers in his hand. The door closed on him.
Marielle walked only a few steps before stopping. She stood still, lost in thought, her shawl wrapped close to her body beneath her crossed arms.
He wished he had seen those papers better. Had it been another roll of prints? He could not be sure they contained nothing suspicious, of course, but at least then it would not be maps or letters or the sort of information that a spy might send across the water.
Worse, she had paid Garrett, not the other way around. That implied nothing of value to Garrett had changed hands. She was not a source for goods he smuggled. Garrett was a packhorse who carried what she required.
The evidence against Marielle had just ceased to be ambiguous.
He should inform Beechem at least. He should really alert the Home Office. One of their agents monitored affairs right here in Dover. If he described what he had just seen, both Marielle and Garrett would be in gaol being questioned within an hour.
He had always known what she was. He had not spent a year without good cause proving it. Now he had as much proof as was needed to have her arrested. This was one duplicitous Frenchwoman who would not ply her lies and deceptions. He had won.
He felt no triumph. Seeing her at Garrett’s house had sickened him. Watching the exchange of money and documents dulled his mind and wit, rather than sharpened it. Now he watched her standing on a deserted street, out of sight of Garrett’s house, looking so alone. She appeared a person who did not know where to go now. She looked lost and very frail.
Images forced themselves into his head, of what was done sometimes to encourage spies to talk. He did not know if they violated women the same way. Probably so, if necessary. His mind recoiled from picturing Marielle subjected to those pains. There was no point in contemplating it overmuch. Such things happened in war, along with so much else that debased humanity.
She moved finally. She came alive and strode on with a determined expression. He moved too.
He wished she had not come here. He wished he had not followed. He would have liked many things about the last weeks to have been different. They were what they were, however, and it had all led to this lane and this day. Now his duty was clear, and he could not pretend it was not.
While she walked back into Dover, Marielle listed the things she must do.
Garrett had not seen Lamberte, as best she could determine. She would go to that tailor and ask him as well. Then she would find a way to meet others who lived on the streets where the French congregated, and quiz them. As long as she had come all this way, she would use the inconvenience to her benefit.
Even if no one had seen Lamberte in England—and she prayed not—some of them might know more of his recent actions and movements in France. A lot of gossip made its way over the water, as if it traveled on the wind.
Then she would return to London. Three weeks, both Farmen and Garrett had said. The schedule of handoffs would resume then, on the day used before, in the same alley. She would prefer not to go there again, after what had happened. Once she returned home she would write to Monsieur Farmen and give him another meeting place.
She had time to make more prints. A new image was in order now. She would make it quickly, and arrange to hire out the press at night.
Having plans always gave her heart. How much better than being Lamberte’s victim, and being paralyzed by fear. She had outsmarted him once, when only a child. She would do so again, as often as necessary.
Knowing some relief, and even a bit of joy, she smiled to herself as she turned a corner.
Abruptly she could move no more. Not one step. She almost bumped right into a wall of blue superfine and white linen. She looked up into green eyes on fire with righteous fury.
She did not have to ask why he was here. She did not think much at all. He had followed somehow. He had just seen her with Garrett. He thought he knew everything and he now had the proof he had long sought.
It had been a mistake to forget who he was. What he was, and why he pursued her.
“Lord Kendale! Such a coincidence to see you here in Dover.” She tried a flirtatious smile. It did not soften his expression one bit.
She pivoted and started to run. He was upon her at once, his arms closing around her body like iron clamps. He lifted her up and the lane moved past her eyes while he carried her away.
Squirm though she might, she could not break his hold. She kicked the legs behind her, but he seemed not to care. She managed one scream but then his hand sealed her mouth. She saw his coach waiting down the lane and bucked and squirmed more.
His coachman held the door open as calmly as if Lord Kendale dragged unwilling women into his carriage all the time. Kendale threw her in and slammed the door shut. She scrambled up from the floor, sat on the bench, and glared at his face on the other side of the window.
“Coward,” she spit while she righted herself.
“Do not try to get out,” he warned.
“Cochon.”
“If you do, I will tie you up.”
“Imbecile!”
“Give me no trouble and you will not be hurt, I promise.”
Her head wanted to burst. “And when you hand me to them? Will you stay and watch, to be sure your word is kept?” She turned her head so he would not have the satisfaction of seeing that she wept. “Go away, Stupid Man. Do not try to ride in here with me. I will tear your eyes out if I have the chance.”
Chapter 10
Lord Kendale was not taking her to London. She realized that when in the morning they made a stop at a coaching inn south of the city. It was not one her coach had used on its way to the coast. They were taking another route that circled around through the countryside.
He rode his horse alongside. She could see him out there, his back straight and his command of his animal complete. He did not look in the carriage window. Not once. Silent and stern, he transported her like a criminal.
He waited outside the necessary when she used it. He brought her food and waited while she ate it. He did not let her out of his sight, but he refused to acknowledge she existed as anything more than baggage that happened to possess human needs.
“You must promise to let Dominique know what has happened,” she said when they stopped again near midday. “She will worry. She may as well worry about the truth than whatever her imagination creates.”
He did not even nod. He merely took the crockery on which he had brought some stew and bread, and turned away.
She spent the rest of the day wondering what she would say to her inquisitors once they arrived at whatever prison he took her to. It would be someplace obscure, no doubt. Far from a village or farms, so that its prisoners would be lost should they ever escape.
Perhaps she would explain it all and tell them the truth. Would anyone believe her? She sifted through her story, deciding what could be proven, if anything.
The coach-and-four moved at a good speed. The land sped past. In such a conveyance, with such an escort, she might have been a princess, not a prisoner suspected of a crime punishable by death.
Another stop came in the middle of the night. The coachman changed the horses. This time Kendale climbed into the coach after she entered. He sat across from her and said not a word. She noticed that he favored his side while he settled in.
“Is your wound hurting you?”
“It is rebelling at so much riding. Go to sleep. I will not bother you.”
She had not thought he would bother her, or bother with her. “I should have remembered y
our wound and let you ride in here.”
“Your preference had nothing to do with it. I chose not to ride with you. Now, go to sleep, Marielle.”
Be silent. Do not speak to me. Do not make me aware of you. He acted as if she had betrayed him. As if he had a reason to be wounded in other ways, and disappointed in her. She could not imagine why.
She did sleep, however. When she burst back to consciousness the sun shone overhead and tree branches formed a bower outside the window. Lord Kendale no longer sat in the coach.
She peered outside and saw him standing amid five dogs and three men. The dogs all looked at him like he was a god visiting earth. The men all looked at the carriage.
Past them the lane ended in a wide drive and circle. A very large house loomed beyond that. Its broken roofline said it had grown over the years. She judged it to be very old. It reminded her a little bit of the châteaus in France.
Kendale noticed the men were distracted from whatever he told them. He turned and saw her at the coach window. He walked over with his canine entourage and opened the door. Dog noses poked in at her, sniffing. He ordered the hounds away and they obediently trotted off.
He offered his hand so she could step down.
“Where are we?”
“This is Ravenswood Park. It is my family estate. I brought you here while I decide what to do with you.”
“And where is Ravenswood Park?”
“Too far from anywhere else for you to run away. Come with me now. We will try to make you comfortable.”
She followed him to the house. The dogs followed her. The three men followed the dogs. She examined the façade of the big house as they approached.
As prisons went, she could do much worse.
“Where should we put her, sir?” Angus posed the query while he tried to act as valet. Mr. Pottsward would not be down until tomorrow, and they had to make do.
The problem was young, fair Angus was not a valet. He was a Scot swordsman of great talent who knew how to use his height and breadth to advantage. He possessed a good deal of intelligence but, when it came to women, no more understanding than his master. Kendale liked him a lot.
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