Spyfall

by Carter, Elizabeth Ellen

  A plan that kept him active, and kept his nerves under control, was one he could get behind.

  Nate quickly outlined the rules of the game. It was similar to boules but using painted iron discs instead of balls. A player tossed painted iron discs, concave on its underside, onto the wooden board. The board they examined was scarred with crescent shapes made by the edge of the disc which bit into the wood after being tossed.

  Adam nodded his understanding and picked up six discs, the chipped red paint showing the patina of pitted iron beneath. Nate picked up six green discs and tossed the smaller yellow painted jack onto the board to start.

  Nate found Adam to be a quick study and a good aim. Within a few rounds, they were evenly matched – and beginning to draw a crowd. Some started making bets on the side.

  At the beginning of a new round, Adam gave Nate a particular look. His first throw was right off. Nate quickly took advantage to win the round in spectacular fashion.

  Adam threw his hands in the air. “Bah! J’ai fini!” he announced in his basic French.

  Nate laughed. He knew what to do. He thumped his chest and yelled boastfully: “Je suis invincible! Qui va me prendre?”

  *

  Adam withdrew from the crowd and reclaimed the back table near the window and the kitchen once again. Payne’s quite the showman, he mused. Let’s see how long he can entertain a crowd. He ordered another cider and observed the people.

  He quickly identified the regulars; they were garrulous but stayed in their own groups. Then there were the strangers – newcomers into port who were here only long enough to fill their bellies with food and drink, and perhaps to take a bed either alone or in company.

  A whoop from Nate suggested he had won another round. Adam looked around for the clock. It was getting toward eleven. He would only risk staying for another hour before he’d pull them both out for the night.

  The later the hour, the greater the risk, as men grew more drunk and tempers frayed.

  He had just finished his beer and risen from his seat when a group of five men, all the worse for booze and two of them singing a bawdy song, carelessly careened into him. For a moment, they were a stumbling tumble of arms before the drunks recovered and went on their way. But Adam was near certain his pocket had been dipped.

  If that was the case, they would be disappointed. He only had a few copper centimes in a leather pouch. He touched his coat pocket. The pouch was still there. He reached inside to confirm it and found a slip of paper that had not been there before. He glanced at it.

  Tante Hilda, nous sommes prêts à rentrer chez nous.

  He knew enough French to roughly translate.

  Aunt Hilda, we are ready to come home.

  *

  The following afternoon at Le Pomme d’Eve, they were joined by two men. The pair seemed comfortable with Adam but they regarded Nate with suspicion. Dark rings around their eyes and thinned lips hinted at the strain they were under. How ironic that they had to listen to him as he translated instructions.

  And they weren’t too happy about what they heard either. They would sail out close to midnight. The men, Ignace and Guillaume, wanted to be away from Brittany right away. Their disappointment was ill-disguised but, being disciplined men, they said nothing more.

  “You may as well get some sleep,” said Nate. “It’s going to be a rough crossing when we leave sail.”

  Yvette had found them a disused warehouse to hide out at. One by one, over the space of two hours, they left Le Pomme d’Eve, watching for anyone taking special notice of them.

  Although Nate was one of the first to leave, he was the last to arrive near the warehouse in the late evening. Before going there, he ran a check across the Sprite. Again, the activity kept him focused. When he returned to the deck, he cast his eyes out across the wharf. Braziers every thirty feet kept the chill away and provided light to the fishermen who would soon be going out for a night’s haul. And the Sprite would be hiding among the fishing fleet.

  So far so good. They had seen nothing of the soldiers from Fort St. Pierre. Years of smuggling had made Nate cautious, aware of anyone who followed or who stared for too long. So far, he had experienced nothing of that. So why did he feel as edgy as a cat?

  He started whistling along to a folk tune he could hear being played in one of the taverns and disembarked the Sprite.

  He walked along the waterfront mindful of a group of men some distance behind him. Out of an abundance of caution, he slipped down an alleyway between two warehouses well short of his destination.

  Below him, he could hear the gentle lapping of the water on the pylons. The faint strains of a violin from the tavern reached him even here. The men who had been following slowed as they approached his hiding place.

  “Where did he go?”

  “Merde! He must have gone down one of the alleys in the darkness.”

  “Never mind, we know which boat is his. We will wait for them there.”

  Nate heard three distinct voices, but it was the last one in particularly formal French which stood out. He never thought he would recognize a voice heard only the once, but now, as he closed his eyes, he knew not only did he know the voice, but he could also see the speaker in his mind’s eye.

  It was the man who had been at the prison fort. The Englishman. The man he was certain Adam was looking for. He returned to the warehouse at ten o’clock to find it in total darkness and silence.

  Was he too late? Had Adam and the spies been captured? Had they been forced to relocate?

  He continued whistling the chants de marins quietly and worked his way around the warehouse until he approached a pile of crates and barrels in one corner.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are…” he said softly in English.

  A lamp, which had been hidden, emerged and spilled light, revealing the shadows of spectral figures emerging from their hiding places.

  “I have some bad news,” he said in English.

  “What is it?” answered Adam, his voice grim, matching Nate’s in tone.

  “I think your friend Bickmore is on to us.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I heard a voice, and I’m certain it was the man I heard in prison. They have the Sprite under watch.”

  “How many?”

  “They were at least three, including Bickmore.”

  Hardacre looked thoughtful. “They’re odds we can work with. Tell our friends here we may need to fight our way onto the Sprite.”

  The translation was quickly made and the two men grunted their assent.

  “They’ll be waiting for us at the dock.”

  He turned to Guillaume who was about his height with dark hair.

  “Have you ever sailed a boat?”

  “We both have,” the young man replied, “we’re old hands.”

  Nate nodded. “That’s good. You and me – let’s exchange clothes. At a distance, you’ll pass as me. Get on board and pretend you’re making ready to disembark. That will keep the attention of at least one of them on you. They won’t try anything until they think they have all of us. We three should be enough to deal with them.”

  After he had finished, Nate belatedly realized he should have deferred to Adam. After all, this was his operation. He explained what he’d said – this time in English.

  The blond-headed man simply nodded in agreement. “Then that’s our plan. But remember, Bickmore is mine.”

  When the four of them returned to the dock around midnight, they saw a group of about a dozen men huddled around the brazier closest to their berth, close, but still fifteen yards away.

  “Damn,” Nate grunted. “I thought they were only three.”

  “Wait,” said Adam as they hung back in the shadows. He watched them intently for over a minute, then nodded toward the group. “See the three with their backs to us? See how they’re standing slightly apart from the others? One of them keeps looking about. They are only three. The rest are probably just workers and fisherm
en.”

  Nate pointed out the Sprite to Guillaume and the young spy, dressed in Nate’s clothes, made his way down the pier to the vessel, hands in pockets. One of those hands clutched a knife. He stepped over onto the Sprite and lit a lamp, taking it with him below deck.

  Nate held his breath. There was a chance the men looking for them were already on the boat. But a few moments later, Guillaume emerged onto the deck. He whistled along with the tune that spilled out from the tavern. It was their prearranged “all clear” signal.

  Nate watched him go down into the body of the boat.

  The three men Adam had pointed out now started to peel away from the group of others at the brazier. As they did so, the fire showed one man’s face clearly. Adam muttered a curse under his breath.

  “That’s your friend?” Nate asked.

  Adam nodded the once. Nate didn’t need to look any closer to see the hostility radiating from the man.

  “Ready?”

  Adam stayed his hand. “I want to take Bickmore with us.”

  Nate nodded. “It will be crowded onboard, but we’ll manage.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Save it until we’re back in England.”

  Nate slapped Ignace on the shoulder.

  “Your turn, mon ami. Walk confidently as you approach the boat. Don’t run. As soon as you get to the Sprite, you and Guillaume loosen the lines and prepare to weigh anchor.”

  “Oui, merci beaucoup.”

  The man did as instructed. As he neared the boat, the trio near the brazier unexpectedly began to walk quickly after him.

  Adam and Nate broke cover. Coming up behind the men, Nate grabbed the shoulder of one and wrenched him around. He punched him in the face and a fist fight ensued.

  Ignace turned at the sounds behind him and faced the man who advanced on him.

  *

  Adam Hardacre’s attention remained solely on the third one – Bickmore.

  His old lieutenant was startled at first, but smiled as Adam closed on him.

  “Well, if it isn’t the old man,” Bickmore sneered. “Are you going to beat me up like your thuggish friends over there?”

  Adam caught a glimpse of Nate kicking his man as he cowered on the ground. Ignace was raining blows on the other and clearly establishing the upper hand.

  “Don’t tempt me. All I want are answers.”

  “Who I’m working for? Why the hell did I involve you in The Society for Public Reform? Why I wanted you in France?”

  “They’ll do for starters.”

  “What Wilkinson told you was right, Adam. You were going to be a clarion call. Men would have rallied around you. Men were beginning to rally. I do have to say this for the English, their sense of justice is very well developed.”

  “And you have no qualms about using mine. For what end?”

  Adam glanced over at the sound of a splash as Nate rolled his man off the wharf and into the water. Guillaume had joined Ignace beating the other man.

  Adam yelled. “Get on the boat! Get ready to sail!”

  He then addressed Harold. “Tell me. Why?”

  “Do you remember a shore leave two years ago? We stayed at a tavern in Corsica and we caroused with one of the local men.”

  “We were dicing as I recall.”

  “You won a particular bet.”

  Adam shook his head. His memories of that night were foggy. “Did I?”

  “I’m sure with a proper incentive, I could make you remember.”

  Bickmore’s calm cruelty chilled him. “You’re not the man I thought you were, Harold.”

  “You think you will shame me? Remember my duty to England? I hate my country, an evil pox and stain on the world. Napoleon will have her on her knees soon enough, and in a way you will never conceive.”

  In the distance, a whistle blew. Most of the locals around the brazier had merely watched the fight between these strangers with interest but no desire to get involved. But someone had called for the guard.

  “Come on! Let’s go!” Nate yelled from the Sprite.

  The sound of the whistle grew louder, and the fishermen, emboldened by the arrival of the authorities, were more attentive.

  “Le garde va vous battre bien, rozbif,” called one man with a smirk.

  The guard will beat you well, ‘roast beef’.

  Damn! The chance to subdue and take Bickmore with them was gone. Oh well, there was still time for this…

  Adam slugged Bickmore in the jaw. The traitor went down like a sack of potatoes. He looked up at Adam, obviously hurt by the blow. But instead of looking rueful, he simply rubbed his jaw and sneered as Adam started to back away.

  “Leaving are you?” he said thickly, blood on his lips. “Do say hello to that lovely governess of yours for me, won’t you? I still have that fantasy about her, you know.”

  Adam took a step back toward the man and spat on him.

  “Come on!” shouted Nate.

  Adam turned and sprinted. He leapt aboard the Sprite as it was shoved away from the dock.

  “Keep your eyes to the skies, mon ami,” Bickmore yelled after him. “We’ll be seeing each other again soon. Sooner than you think.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Susannah tried on a new pair of brown leather gloves lined in cashmere. They were just the thing to keep her warm this coming winter. She added them and a new glove box to her purchases.

  By the time she finished her errands, the sky was closing in. There would be rain before the end of today. As she was preparing to make her way up to the third-story room at the White Hart, one of the maids dropped a curtsy and told her there was a letter waiting.

  For her here? The only people who knew her plans to come to Truro were back in St. Sennen.

  From Robert Lawnton? The thought was fleeting but it was enough to send chills through her.

  She made her way up to her room and opened the curtain to allow the light from the clouded-in sky to spill across the desk and the floor.

  But this letter was not travel-stained and the paper itself was heavy, expensive stock in the brightest shade of white she had ever seen.

  Susannah snatched it up and even though her hand shook, she could see the address was in a distinctly feminine hand and sealed with red wax impressed with a crest of some sort.

  Then who? Surely not Lillian Doyle.

  She broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

  Lady Abigail Ridgeway cordially invites

  Mrs. Susannah Linwood

  to join her for an at-home

  Bishop’s Wood

  Tomorrow, the 15th-inst. At 11am

  If convenient, leave an acceptance with the innkeeper of the White Hart Inn.

  Lady Abigail Ridgeway? The wife of Sir Daniel Ridgeway?

  She recognized the Ridgeway name, of course. Adam Hardacre had used Sir Daniel Ridgeway’s credentials to enlist their aid but that was no reason why the peer’s wife should take an interest in her.

  She was barely above the notice of someone like Lillian Doyle – and even that was only because of her interest in Nate.

  When she informed the innkeeper of her acceptance, she was told a carriage would be sent to pick her up.

  The following day at the appointed hour, Susannah saw the liveried driver enter the White Hart Inn. He stepped into the waiting room, smart in his uniform of forest green, and glanced down at a card in his black-gloved hands.

  “Mrs. Linwood?”

  “I am she.”

  Susannah duly followed him, not out to a coach, as she thought would be the case, but to a rather impressive-looking curricle with two matched white horses in harness.

  They made an easy pace through the streets until they left the outskirts of town. Here, the driver urged the handsome white beasts to a canter. The acres of farm land whizzed by, slowing only as they crossed a creek downstream of a mill on a tributary.

  Not long after, the curricle passed beneath a stone archway. It opened up to a wide gravel drive and sweepin
g lawns designed to showcase an impressive-looking building, a perfectly formed Georgian house rendered in a cream wash. A peacock idly crossed the path in front of them, unconcerned about the oncoming vehicle.

  As the curricle slowed toward the front entrance, Susannah patted her hair, shoving in a few pins that had worked loose from her chignon, and dusted down her skirts. She had been perfectly happy with what she had put on this morning, but now she doubted herself.

  After all, it was not every day one was invited to tea with a titled lady. Or driven there in such a smart and speedy vehicle, for that matter.

  The large entrance doors to the house were opened immediately by a man and a woman – a butler and a maid, she assumed by their uniforms.

  The butler gave a small bow and the maid a curtsy.

  The butler was an imposing man, tall and large of build with hair as black as the ace of spades.

  “Welcome to Bishop’s Wood,” he said. “I am Musgrave and at your service. Molly here will show you where you may wish to repair yourself.

  “Thank you, that would be most kind,” replied Susannah, feeling a little breathless from the journey.

  The anteroom, just off the impressive entrance hall with its marble-tiled floor, was painted in a soothing seafoam green. A chaise longue in a complementary blue and silver brocade beckoned. As did an iron and marble dressing table on which was set a selection of cosmetics.

  She availed herself of a spritz of lightly scented toilet water and addressed her appearance in the mirror. When the maid returned about ten minutes later, she felt presentable once more.

  The maid escorted her across the hall and knocked on the ajar door of what appeared to be an elegant drawing room in lavender, white, and green.

  “Mrs. Linwood, my lady.”

  The maid stepped aside.

  There were three in the room, but Susannah didn’t need to be told who was her hostess. The elegant woman in her early forties rose from her chair. Her white-blonde hair was, surprisingly, not her most striking feature; rather it was her grey-green catlike eyes. The day gown she wore was simple in style, but made from expensive cream fabric and was expertly styled for her.