Leigh Sparrow

by In Pursuit of the Black Swan

  Alexandra rubbed her brow and her mind began to race. Restless foreboding flooded through her veins, making her shiver. “We should search for him. Where was he last seen?” She asked and rose to pace. She flexed her arms, then her hands, longing to punch something. “Obviously, he must have been sighted in France.”

  Ian stood and reached for her elbow, pulling her to a halt. “Alex, there is a war going on. We can’t glibly sail off to France, blindly searching.”

  Her eyes searched his face. “But what if he needs us? What if we can help him?” Her lower lip trembled.

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t even know where to start. It’s far too dangerous.”

  “Ian, I want to try. How long has he been missing?”

  He raked his fingers through his pale hair. “Officially, three months.”

  Alexandra gasped. Fearing she would wretch, her arms wrapped around her belly. “Three whole months? Officially? That means it could be longer!” She crumbled into a chair. “Ian, we must do something! I cannot simply remain idle, waiting to hear that Edward is…dead.” Her voice quivered and tears trickled down her cheeks.

  “I fear we have no choice at the moment.”

  Standing erect, she wiped a handkerchief across her face. “The devil, we don’t!” Her jaw tightened with stark determination. “I shall go to France to search for him. With or without your help, Ian, you know I must do this.”

  Ian reached into his pocket for his spectacles. He placed them over his eyes. Alexandra recalled how he always could think more clearly wearing his spectacles. His hand pressed to his brow and he closed his eyes as if her were in a silent moment of prayer. “I was loathe to tell you because I knew you would say that.”

  Finally, he looked up and peered into her face. “Allow me to search deeper. Edward may actually be fine. The couriers may have simply not gotten through with a message—it wouldn’t be the first time. But we haven’t received any word by carrier pigeon either.” He shook his head. “Usually we can at least count on that. I shall try to think of something.” With a weary sigh, he glanced at his pocket watch. “I must get back.”

  “Can you at least stay for tea?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he murmured. “I’ll call again soon…Don’t do anything rash.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and stared down at her. “I implore you, Alex! Wait until you hear from me. I will not have you dashing off to France at a moment’s notice, right into the middle of a battlefield. I promise to come up with a plan.” He hugged her and was gone.

  Alexandra stood alone in the salon. A sinking dread twisted through her, sending chills through down her spine. “Oh, Edward, where are you? Please be alive!” she murmured.

  She crumbled into the sofa, shivering, hugging herself. Edward had been her best friend and oddly her worst enemy. She had always been strangely obsessed with him. Whenever she pictured herself, she unceasingly visualized him beside her, however intriguing or infuriating.

  As a girl, he had never paid her much notice, despite their families being close friends and neighbors. One day when she was nine, she disguised herself as Ian and he treated her as an equal, just like the other lads.

  After the tragedy, with the loss of the duchess, it was even more important for her to have his friendship being disguised as Ian, because as Alexandra, she had completely lost him. So she enlisted one of Chesbury Manor’s grooms, to teach her to ride like a man. She persuaded Higgins to teach her to fence and shoot. All so she could keep up with Edward. Often Edward would teach her the required skills of boyhood himself, such as fishing or sailing toy ships. She continued to impersonate Ian throughout their childhood, just to be near Edward, until he left for Oxford.

  But now Edward could be lost forever, shot somewhere, injured or even dead. She closed her eyes, recalling how she told him she hoped he got shot and bled to death. She could not imagine a world without him in it. His mischievous brown eyes flashed in her mind. His ravenswing hair, tossing in the breeze. His brilliant crooked smile, that melted her to a puddle. Panic and dread washed through her like a storm. Her body shuddered. Her guilt rose like bile in her throat, threatening to strangle her. Oh, God, this was entirely her own fault!

  She covered her face with her hands and sobbed out loud for the first time she could ever remember.

  Chapter 7

  The prison cell had no windows. Edward was engulfed in a shroud of palpable darkness so black he couldn’t see in front of his face, much less the door. But that was nothing compared to the hot pain racking through his body. He slumped on the floor in a heap. Iron manacles chaffed his wrists and ankles, chaining him to the stone wall like a dog on a short leash. His clothes were shredded from the lash of the whip used in an attempt to extract information. His left shoulder was badly swollen from the last beating, and he was sure a couple of ribs were broken.

  Aware that his body or his mind were nearly broken, he wondered how long he would last, how long he had already endured this pit of hell. It felt like years, but must be a few months now.

  The rattle of scurrying rats echoed through the walls. Because of the darkness, his others senses were heightened, yet it was a curse when his only remaining hope was swift death. The coppery scent of his own blood flooded his senses as it oozed from the deepest gouges in his back. Demonic thirst plagued him, tempting him to sell his soul for a drop of water.

  At times he thought he saw his mother’s ghost hovering above him, her luminous eyes brimming with tears. “Come home, darling,” she would whisper.

  If he would not die, he hoped the pain would carry him again to the nether world of unconsciousness. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes and purposefully shoved his wounded back against the stony wall. Searing red agony racked through his body. A gravelly utterance burst from his parched throat and his fingers dug into the iron chains. Then he tumbled into blissful blackness.

  “Captain, wake up! Ye still alive?” Lieutenant McPhee whispered, gently patting his face while Jacques Fritte picked at the iron bands at his ankles which chained him to the wall.

  Edward’s brain was jarred awake. The pain tore through his back and around his head like a vise. If his belly were not so completely empty, if his tongue were not stuck to the bottom of his parched mouth, he would wretch. He wondered if he was still alive or simply in hell. Yet Hell could be no worse.

  The blurred voices sounded familiar but his foggy brain could not identify them. Somehow, though, their tone and cadence warmed him.

  His face twisted against the yellow brightness, most likely a small lantern or torch. The light hurt his eyes, but he welcomed it after the eternity of utter darkness pressing against him as if he were already entombed.

  “Captain!” McPhee whispered. His ruddy face was an inch in front of Edward’s, looking ghoulish in the torchlight. McPhee’s bushy brows were deep furrows of concern. “We’re getting you out of this stinking shithole.”

  A reluctant pang of elation rushed through Edward, momentarily overriding the pain. His pulse rose from an exhausted twitch. Yet he feared he was imagining it. He feared his mind had finally broken.

  The bands on his ankles sprang open. He sensed a pick methodically working at the iron around his left wrist, twisting inside the keyhole, searching for the small latch that would spring open the manacle. If indeed he was rejoining the living, the devil’s price would be required in the form of continued anguish from his injuries. His elation transformed to icy dread.

  “Deuce take it, Jacques, make haste!” McPhee grumbled, glancing repeatedly toward the door.

  “Sacre bleu, I am trying!” Jacque replied, frustration filling his guttural voice. “The bloody lock refuses to give way.” His picking and twisting grew more frantic. “If the iron doesn’t release, we’ll hammer the chain.”

  Edward realized their danger and was filled with horror. Hammering would create noise and attract the guards. They were due to make their rounds as it was.

  “Just leave me here,” Edward rasped.
His voice grated like sandpaper. “The watch will be coming. Save yourselves while you can.”

  “Not on yere life, Captain!” McPhee softly exclaimed. “Jacque will spring it, ye’ll see.” The fearful tone in his voice overpowered the reassurance of his words.

  Edward’s heart pounded. He listened warily for the slightest approach of the guards.

  The tugging and twisting on his wrist became more forceful. At last, the shackle released.

  “Very good, Captain,” Fritte said. “Now just one more to go.” He turned to Edward’s right wrist and began to pick again.

  “If this last iron doesn’t give,” McPhee added, “we’re chopping off your hand, but either way, we’re not leaving here without ye.”

  Oddly, Edward knew McPhee’s intention was to reassure him. Yet his words chilled him. Hopefully the forfeit of his hand was not the devil’s ultimate price. Fortunately, in the next instant, the other iron opened. He was free.

  Quickly and efficiently, Edward was lifted to his numb feet. His arms were slung around the two men’s shoulders. He moaned at the pain of his shoulder. Then he was being shifted through a black fog. The agony of movement was overpowering, but he had no strength to protest.

  “Do you ken you can walk, Capt’n?” Lieutenant McPhee whispered softly in his Scottish burr.

  Edward slightly nodded his slumped head. He tried to make a semblance of moving his feet beneath him in alternating motions.

  The cell door gave a slow creak and click as they closed it. Then they ushered Edward down a dark corridor through the maze of tunnels. Sometimes Edward could walk. Mostly, they just had to drag him.

  Death reeked in the air. Even in the darkness, he knew when they passed clusters of human remains.

  Then the shouting of the guards echoed through the corridor. Their careless guttural chatter grew louder as they came near.

  Quickly the small lantern was extinguished. Again the blackness engulfed him.

  “Feign to be dead!” McPhee whispered.

  Edward was shoved down against a wall. His back screamed from the rough stones jabbing against him. He bit his lip to keep quiet. The metallic tang of blood oozed in his mouth. He bit harder in a struggle to remain conscious.

  The stench of death was abruptly suffocating, nauseating. He must be hiding among dead bodies.

  The guard’s torches slowly brightened the corridor. Their footsteps rumbled against the stone floor. “Find him, you fools!” One of them screamed in French. “He cannot have gone far.”

  Then the watchmen were upon them. Their flaming torches chased away the shadows like fleeing wraiths. Edward forced himself to lay limp, his eyes squeezed shut. Fortunately, his skin was already as cold as a corpse. His head lay in an awkward position and it ached, but he prayed he looked convincing. After months of longing for death, a fragile flame of hope flickered inside him.

  He conjured in his brain the ones he loved: his father, his brother Winston, and Ian. Then Alexandra’s beautiful face, full of fury, flashed in his mind as if of her own accord, refusing to be forgotten. Her violet blue eyes leered at him. “You must live, damn you!” she seemed to say with her haughty taunt.

  One of the guards kicked his boot. Edward forced his foot not to flinch.

  “This wretched soul won’t be needing his fine boots in hell,” the guard said. Then Edward’s boots were tugged off.

  Edward remained completely still, not moving a muscle, not daring not to breath. He wondered if McPhee or Fritte’s boots would be pilfered as well. But then he decided to pray the guards wouldn’t notice he, McPhee, and Fritte were still alive. Finally, instead of praying to die, he was praying to live.

  Chapter 8

  Bertha was present in the salon when Ian returned the following Tuesday. She insisted on being present since Alexandra had informed her about how terribly worried they were about Edward.

  “There still is no news,” Ian said, pacing in front of the hearth.

  A lump of sorrow was permanently lodged in Alexandra’s throat. Her simple idyllic life of a week ago was gone. She hadn’t slept a wink, and even now she wanted to crumble to the floor with fear for Edward.

  “Edward was last confirmed at an inn between Paris and Calais,” Ian continued. “Lord Bank’s sources believe if Edward is alive, he most likely travelled back to Paris.”

  Alexandra clenched her teeth, mustering her strength. She forced her weary brain to focus. Edward’s life may well depend on it. “It would seem Paris is the most logical place to begin our search. How soon can we get there?”

  Ian’s eyes leveled at his sister’s. “Alex, are you absolutely certain about this? I cannot emphasize enough the inherent risks involved.”

  Lady Bertha listened in wide-eyed silence as if her voice was incapable of functioning.

  “Can we do it?” Alexandra asked impatiently.

  Ian hesitated, looking at Bertha and then back at Alexandra. He coughed nervously, and then cleared his throat. “There may be a way.” His voice lowered into a businesslike tone. “A courier route. We frequently send couriers, running coded messages to and from Paris. It is dangerous, but necessary. It’s how we collect much of our intelligence. The usual route is to catch a ship at Dover and sail to Calais or the Normandy coast. Once there, you must procure a sturdy horse and ride like hell to Paris. Then make a similar route to return.”

  He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blotted his forehead. “My duties in the War Office entail assisting the couriers, ensuring their connections are available, and such business. I could arrange for you to accompany a courier on his route.”

  “Ian, that’s brilliant!” Alexandra exclaimed.

  Ian’s face darkened. “Keep in mind, French snipers make sport of shooting them down. You would need to ride fast and hard and keep very low.” H pressed his lips together and looked at Alexandra. “My point being, in case you were in doubt, you must be the one to go, Alex. Given the way you ride, if anyone could get through, it would be you.”

  Alexandra’s eyes bore into Ian’s in unspoken understanding.

  “You cannot be earnestly contemplating Alexandra traveling alone unchaperoned to Paris!” Bertha said, gasping.

  Ian’s stone silence and clenched jaw confirmed to Bertha that this was true.

  She turned to Alexandra. “I thought you detested Edward.”

  Alexandra shrugged. “I don’t detest him. We merely have a difficult time getting along upon occasion. It doesn’t make sense for Ian to go when I’m the better rider, and I’m a crack shot with a pistol.”

  Bertha’s full cheeks flushed crimson and she shook her head. “I forbid it! This is far too dangerous. The duke would have my head on a pike if he thought I allowed you to be placed in such peril.”

  Alexandra swallowed. Her hands fisted with grim determination. “I truly appreciate your concern, Lady Bertha, and it is not my intention to gainsay your wishes, but in this case, Edward’s life is at stake.”

  “You must consider what Lady Bertha is saying, Alex. The only thing we may ultimately accomplish is losing you and Edward both.”

  Her brother’s fear and concern for her was etched in taut lines across his face. He tugged off his glasses to clean them with a handkerchief, which he always did when he was nervous, and her heart wrenched to see the deep hollows underneath his eyes. But she knew her twin understood her and would always stand beside her.

  Yet Lady Bertha was a considerable consequential force, sorely tempting Alexandra to waver. Bertha was the Duke of Ashford’s sister. And she was entirely correct that the duke would be utterly, completely, sodding furious.

  Weary exhaustion trickled through Alexandra. A small voice inside her whispered, Don’t go. Edward chose his own fate. He doesn’t even care about you. Why ever should you bother?

  But Edward’s beautiful face flashed in her mind. Panic sliced deep inside her like a jagged blade. A small voice in the back of her mind whispered an alarm: Edward’s life was in peril. Bumps ros
e on the skin of her arms. Her lungs constricted and she struggled to breathe. In her heart of hearts, she was certain that oddly Edward’s existence was inexplicably tied to her own, however fate deigned to set their stars. Her choice was inescapable.

  Trembling, she faced Lady Bertha and dredged her resolve. She pushed back her shoulders and steadied the wavering in her voice. “It is impossible for me to not act. I refuse to simply stand by and…and wait! I shall go to France to merely confirm Edward is well. I am a fully capable independent woman. I can take care of myself—with or without your assistance.”

  Bertha gave a judgmental huff. Her eyes flared, piercing Alexandra with a probing stare. Yet there was also a hint of admiration. “If word of this gets around, your reputation with be irreparable, even with Ashford and me at your side.”

  Silence filled the room. Alexandra pressed a finger to her brow and forced herself to calm her breathing. “Do continue, Ian.”

  Ian gaze held hers. “It is more advantageous with me monitoring things from the War Office. If changes or complications occur, I would be in a better position to alert or send assistance.” His voice sounded strained and saddened. “The alternative would be for us to just go over blindly, and unfortunately I could become a liability for you, Alex.”

  “Oh my,” Bertha said. “You still suffer from those dreadful lung seizures, don’t you, Ian?”

  Ian grimaced and looked back to Alexandra. “I suggest you wear dark clothes and disguise yourself as a man, at least until you reach Paris.” He gave a melancholy smile. “I brought a pair of my trousers for you and my old coat. . . You should darken your hair and wear a plain hat so you won’t stand out so much. Use some horsehair to make a beard.”

  He put on his spectacles and pulled a small list out of the inner pocket of his jacket. “One of our contacts is Madame Marche, who runs a boarding house in Paris. You may stay there for a short while and keep your eyes and ears open.”

  He quickly scanned his notes. “The upper crust of Paris still holds their soirees and balls. The masked balls are especially good at flushing out the politicals. I can obtain a few invitations for you. Be sure to take money, lots of it. And don’t keep it all in one place. You will need to travel light; take only what you can easily carry, and bring one plain dress. You can purchase more clothing once you’re there.”