Moonlight Masquerade

by Ruth Axtell

  Lady Wexham disappeared into the carriage without a backward glance.

  She was departing his life as simply as she had entered it, with no fanfare, no warning of the effect upon him.

  He should be glad.

  Instead, his worry only deepened. If she planned to flee to France, she might very well be heading to even greater danger. She didn’t realize what the decades of war had done. Chaos was coming, if Bonaparte fell.

  Wellington had advanced as far as Vitoria, Spain. It was only a matter of weeks—perhaps days—before he reached the French frontier. In the meantime, the Prussians and Austrians were closing in on Bonaparte’s armies in Germany.

  Would she look back one last time? He shook his head bitterly. The last thing he wanted was for her to see him like this—staring out the basement window like an unwanted dog being left behind when the master went on a journey.

  But he couldn’t tear himself away until the postilions climbed aboard the horses, one on the lead horse and one on one of the wheelers behind. The fact that she had hired two teams of horses meant speed was of the essence. Where was she going? France, Scotland, America? He had to know.

  With a blow of the horn, the groom behind gave the signal and the horses were off.

  Once the vehicle was out of sight and the sound of the wheels and hooves had faded from the street, Rees left his watch post and headed back to his cot.

  He sat against his pillows, unseeing for long moments.

  What now, Lord? Go back to the Home Office, end my assignment officially, and report to Oglethorpe at the Foreign Office? Tell them the countess has left the country?

  Instead he felt a sudden urging to take up the note in his hand once more and continue working on it. He rubbed the edge between his thumb and forefinger. So far he had made little headway. Perhaps he’d lost his knack for discerning patterns.

  But if the Lord was quickening him about it, perhaps he should ask for wisdom. Dear Lord, if this is important, help me see what it means.

  With a renewed will, he studied the numbers.

  And he knew what one of the words was.

  About an hour later, he had cracked the code and read the message in French:

  When you read this, I shall be gone. It was an unforgettable experience making your acquaintance, Mr. MacKinnon.

  He stared at the letters. She’d known. All along she’d known.

  She’d never by sign or word let on. Yet she’d let him continue his game. Why?

  His thoughts jerked to a stop at the night of their kiss. Had she known then that he was the pirate?

  She must have.

  The realization filled him with fierce elation, hope—and fear. Fear of what it could all mean.

  He read the message again. She had known the danger she was in.

  France. The word formed instantly in his mind. He would bet his life she was headed across the Channel.

  If there was any chance Lady Wexham had fled to France, Rees mustn’t dawdle here conjecturing. He would go after her, he decided in that moment—if nothing else, to ensure that no one stopped her flight, his mind picturing de la Roche and Lady Agatha, even Castlereagh himself.

  He stood, the paper crumpled in his fist, and went once more to the window. She had an hour’s lead on him, and before he could leave, she’d have another hour. But a good horse was always faster than a coach-and-four.

  He must think . . . plan. The closest port was Dover, but it was also one of the most heavily fortified against a French invasion and patrolled for smugglers.

  If she were heading to one of the tiny harbors along the southern coast, it could be like looking for a needle in a haystack. But with a hired chaise and postilions, she would likely stop at all the posting houses on the Kent Road.

  He gathered a few things for a journey and stuffed them in a satchel, his mind already on what he would say to the other servants. He’d ask Jacob for a horse—the fastest one available. And he’d arm himself. With his butler keys, he would select one of the late earl’s fine pistols and get enough shot for the journey.

  It would be the last liberty he’d take as Lady Wexham’s butler.

  21

  Rees crossed London Bridge into Southwark and took the road southeastward toward Dover. As he paid his fourpence at the first tollgate, he glanced behind him, realizing he was leaving London without letting anyone know. He had given Jacob the rather flimsy excuse that Lady Wexham had left something behind and he would endeavor to catch up with the carriage. No one knew he was heading southward.

  Jacob had offered to go himself or send a footman, but Rees was adamant and silenced Jacob’s protests over his gunshot wound with a sharp word, using his authority as butler for the final time.

  He left the last houses behind him and rode through open fields with only an occasional inn or posting house along the way.

  The journey gave him plenty of time to think. Going over all Lady Wexham had said and kept hidden since his gunshot wound, he marveled anew at her audacity. Knowing she housed a British spy under her very roof, yet she had not confronted him or dismissed him but befriended him! He shook his head. She’d even taken him to Hartwell—into the lion’s den.

  She must have suspected him since Valentine had found him outside Gaspard’s room. He thought about the night he’d followed Valentine to the tavern. Had it all been a ruse? Likely.

  Lady Wexham had proven one step ahead of him all the way.

  Even her final move showed her cool head in the face of ever-growing peril. What a perfect way to disguise her escape to France. Make preparations for her usual sojourn to the countryside, where she did not reside in any one place but traveled all over for several weeks, even months.

  News traveled slowly. Her servants here would have no reason to communicate with her or expect any news from her until the end of the summer. All they cared about would be making their own getaways to their various families.

  Only Lady Agatha would remain for a short while in London, and likely would not suspect a thing until Lady Wexham did not appear at the earl’s country seat sometime well into August.

  Lady Wexham had covered her tracks well.

  He frowned, wondering at the timing. Had Lady Wexham been warned of some impending action? Or was it merely that since the holdup on the road, she knew her time was limited? He had not spoken with Bunting since the night he’d dragged himself to his lodgings.

  He sobered, knowing tonight he should have gone to report instead of running after her half-cocked.

  At the third tollgate, he left Surrey and entered Kent, soon afterward reaching the town of Deptford. There he stopped at a posting house to refresh both his horse and himself, banking on the fact that if Lady Wexham were heading anywhere on the southeast coast of England, she would likely stop at the same posting house.

  He hadn’t been in the saddle since the gunshot, and after five miles, he was already sore. He rubbed his shoulder, his wound throbbing, and prayed it hadn’t reopened.

  He followed a stable lad who led his horse to a watering trough, then handed him an extra coin and asked if a post chaise had stopped there in the last few hours.

  After receiving an affirmative for one carrying a single lady and her lady’s maid, Rees remounted with renewed energy and will. She couldn’t be too far ahead of him.

  He spurred his horse on, hoping to overtake the chaise at Shooter’s Hill. Many a carriage had a difficult time on the steep rise. But first were the miles of Blackheath. He pressed on past the farms and fields until the road began to climb. It was a well-traveled highway, so he passed several wagons, farm carts, and an occasional rider on their way to London. All of these would surely slow her chaise down.

  As the incline grew sharper, he made out the dusty cloud of a carriage a mile or so ahead of him. He frowned, seeing no outriders. What had happened to Gaspard? The road entered a wood, so the carriage disappeared from his view.

  He slowed his mount’s pace, keeping well behind. By the time he
arrived at the top, he had a good view of London and the Thames in the distance behind him. He peered forward but saw no signs of the coach ahead of him. It must have entered the next wooded stretch.

  Hoping it was Lady Wexham’s coach, Rees began his descent, wondering if they would stop somewhere for the night or change horses and ride all night to Dover.

  Céline sat viewing the miles pass by the carriage window. In a day or two, depending on tide and weather, if all went well, she would be in France.

  She had not been on her native soil since she was seventeen. What would it be like at eight-and-twenty, as a widowed countess? No longer the girl who had fallen in love with a handsome French lieutenant.

  But perhaps just as foolish.

  When and how she’d allowed herself to fall in love with a man whose identity she didn’t even know . . . it was beyond belief.

  “Regrets, madame?”

  She turned to Valentine and attempted a smile. “Perhaps, but—no.” She shook her head. “My life was useless, going from party to ball, before Roland contacted me.”

  “What will you do in France?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to think about it.”

  Valentine knotted her thread and picked up her sewing in the swaying coach. “Roland will find you something to do.”

  Céline smiled. “And where will I flee when my life is once again in danger?”

  Valentine shrugged. “You will not be in danger in France.”

  “You think not? And if the royalists come to power?”

  “Bah! That fat old man? He can’t even rule those parasites at Hartwell.”

  Wishing she had her maid’s certainty, Céline fell silent. She didn’t want to think of her future across the English Channel, not when she felt as if she had missed the present somewhere along the way . . . not while she felt so adrift.

  With a mental shake, she smiled at Valentine. “And you, do you have any regrets leaving England?”

  The Frenchwoman didn’t hesitate. “That foggy island full of ignorant bêtes? Certainement pas!”

  When they stopped at one of the posting houses, the postilion came up to her. “Are you up to riding through to Dover?”

  She felt weary to the bone, and the prospect of jostling along on the rutted road for several more hours held little appeal, but Gaspard had urged her to push on.

  “Yes, we must continue our journey.”

  Hours later, exhausted and dusty, Rees entered the village of Sittingbourne. As he followed the boy who came out to take his horse, he exchanged some pleasantries as he had at each stop, then handed him an extra coin with the question about a post chaise carrying a fine lady.

  “A half hour or so ago,” he replied promptly. “Changed horses and stopped for dinner then went on.”

  It wouldn’t be long now. He had time for a quick meal in the taproom. He needed to keep up his strength.

  He changed horses in Canterbury. Between tolls, tips, and arranging for the stabling of his horse, his expenses began to mount. Thankfully, he had recently been paid his wages. Lady Wexham had also added an extra amount, ignoring his protests, as compensation, she told him with a droll look in her golden eyes, for getting shot.

  By the time Rees arrived at the last tollgate before Dover, he was hunched over his saddle in exhaustion. It was nearing midnight, but the sky had only just become fully dark a short while ago. He eyed the inn beside the tollgate with longing, wishing for nothing better than a bed to fall upon.

  Instead, he dismounted and rang the bell to alert the toll guard.

  As soon as the gate was opened, he pushed on, pausing only at the top of the hill overlooking the port. A few streetlights twinkled in the distance below him. He had ridden this road many years before on one of his leaves during his time in the navy.

  He knew Lady Wexham had not broken her journey along the way. So, she was somewhere down there in one of Dover’s six inns. Because it was wartime, the city didn’t receive as many travelers as it had been accustomed to in peacetime. With the blockade, almost all traffic from the Continent had ceased.

  He decided to head for the center of town and find an inn near the harbor. With a weary sigh, he nudged his horse forward, having to pick his way along the dark, rutted road.

  He ended up at the Golden Lion. After seeing his horse stabled, he resisted the urge to lie on the inviting bed in the room he was shown. He made his way back down the stairs. The taproom still held a few drowsy patrons—some sailors, a couple of soldiers in uniform, and a local citizen or two.

  The port was a garrison town as well as the headquarters for the preventives, the branch of customs officers in charge of patrolling the coastline. The worry that had been hovering under the surface throughout his journey, which had driven him onward despite weakness and fatigue, grew as he realized the risk Lady Wexham was taking if indeed she was leaving from Dover. And if Gaspard had left her, she and Valentine had no male escort.

  She was in a town with a military barracks in the medieval castle on the cliffs to the north and another newly constructed barracks on the cliffs to the south. The harbor was filled with customhouse cutters and man-of-war ships.

  She might as well have entered a pit of vipers. What was she thinking? She could have gone to a smaller village farther down the coast and had a better chance of getting across the Channel.

  Rees left the inn and walked down the narrow, crooked streets toward the waterfront. A mist had risen and the few street lamps cast a glow but did little to illuminate beyond their small sphere.

  It was a dark night. He had to find where Lady Wexham was staying. Would she lodge or leave tonight? It all depended on the tide, unless she was not sailing across. He knew some smugglers rowed the twenty miles in the “guinea boats,” carrying the gold needed by Napoleon to finance his war—gold in exchange for the tons of goods smuggled across from the Continent, from hogsheads of brandy to bolts of lace and silk.

  Rees heard the lapping of water against the beach before he arrived at the enclosed harbor. Very little was visible on the water, only a scarce light here and there marking the cabin of a vessel farther out in the bay.

  He turned back and made his way to the most prominent hotel on the waterfront, the Ship Inn.

  A clerk was dozing at the front desk. Rees slapped his hands on the desktop, causing the clerk to jump.

  “Yes!” The man blinked groggily.

  “Good evening. I have an urgent message for Lady Wexham. Is she a guest here?”

  The man rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Lady Wexham? No one here by that name.”

  “A lady traveling with her abigail, a Frenchwoman.

  The man shook his head. “No, no Frenchies here tonight.”

  Rees took a step back. “I must have been mistaken in my information. This is where she usually stays when in Dover. Pardon my disturbing your slumber. Good evening, sir.”

  Leaving the man staring at him openmouthed with another yawn, Rees backed out of the inn. Well, she wasn’t at the most likely hotel for a lady of quality. Where could she be? Would it be better to wait until morning to make his inquiries? But she could be gone by then.

  And if she wasn’t? What did he hope to do if he found her? His brain too muddled with weariness to know what to do, he stood a moment in the silent street, debating.

  Dear Lord, show me where she is. I’ve come this far . . . and I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do. All I know is I want to see her again. I need to know she is all right.

  After praying some moments more, he felt a calm in his spirit. Slowly, he turned around and headed for his own inn. If Lady Wexham departed in the night, he must trust to God to take care of her.

  If she were still here in the morning, he must trust that the Lord would show him where she was.

  Rees fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow and didn’t arise until midmorning. He panicked when he saw how high the sun was in the sky, but he remembered his prayer of the night before. A
fter a hearty breakfast, he emerged and began his hunt.

  The day was a fine one, a light breeze blowing off the Channel—good for sailing across to France. He frowned at the sight of navy frigates, customs cutters, and a few English merchant ships filling the harbor.

  He walked the length of the wharf, down the ropewalk to North Pier and all the way around the harbor to the other end to South Pier, two jetties protecting the harbor. Where would Lady Wexham find passage across the Channel? Two French persons would arouse immediate suspicion.

  His next step was to inquire at every inn. Most likely she had gone to a smaller fishing village farther down the coast.

  Smugglers would do anything for the right price.

  He went methodically to each hostelry, choosing the most frequented and closest to the harbor first. After a brief refreshment at the inn, he braced himself to continue his search. If Lady Wexham was in Dover, he didn’t think it would take too long to locate the party of two travelers, one of them with a noticeable French accent.

  It was at the third inn that he stopped short on the threshold at the sound of a masculine French accent ahead of him.

  “Yes, I am to meet a lady here. She is French by birth but sports an English title. Has she booked her room yet?”

  “No, sir. No French lady here.”

  Rees drew back, recognizing Monsieur de la Roche from Hartwell House.

  Rees exited the inn and crossed the street, wrapping his cloak more securely around himself. He found the alcove of another doorway where he could watch the Frenchman.

  So, de la Roche was on Lady Wexham’s trail as well. Rees waited until he came back out. He walked away and entered the next inn, one Rees had been to. Would the Frenchman discover that someone else had been inquiring after Lady Wexham?

  Rees had to find her first.

  He finally located her at the last inn, the smallest, meanest one on the western end of town. There was no one by Lady Wexham’s name, but there was a guest, a lady by the name of Mrs. Avery, accompanied by a French maid.