Playing With Fire

by Jayne Davis

  Beyond the beauty, an older man in plain black sat next to another young woman in a shabby gown. All Alex could make out of this woman was a roundish face and a wide mouth, with some red curls escaping from beneath a simple cap, their colour clashing horribly with the orange of her gown. These two must be servants, allowed to eat with their mistress and her daughter, but kept at a proper distance.

  Crossing to an empty table, Alex pulled a chair out and sat with his back to the wall. Brevare stood staring at the golden-haired woman until Alex leaned over, nudging his elbow. Brevare looked down at Alex and took his seat.

  Once the table was finally arranged to the older woman’s satisfaction, she sat down and dismissed the waiting women. The golden-haired beauty whispered something to her; the older woman looked in their direction, her brows drawing together.

  “This is a private parlour,” she said, her French oddly accented and her tone as sharp as her expression.

  “It is the only parlour, citoyenne,” Alex said. “Where else do you suggest we eat?”

  “That is not my concern.” She glared at them before turning back to the meal and transferring several slices of meat from a serving dish to her plate. The golden-haired one nudged her arm, and the older woman looked around again, her eyes widening as she saw that the two men had not moved.

  “I am the Comtesse de Calvac,” she announced. “Have some respect for your betters and leave us!”

  “It is not wise—” The low voice came from the redhead, addressing the comtesse.

  “I insist you leave the room.” The comtesse’s voice was louder and, if possible, more shrill than before.

  Alex took a mouthful of ale, not stirring from his slouched position. He and Brevare were trying not to draw attention to themselves, but these aristos were not the people they needed to avoid. Another burst of raucous laughter from the taproom reminded him that this was still the best place to eat.

  “How dare you defy me?” the comtesse demanded, getting to her feet.

  “Surely you have heard, citoyenne?” Alex put deliberate insolence into his voice. “The abolition is nearly three years old. There are no more titles in France, and you are the comtesse of nothing at all.”

  The comtesse flushed an unbecoming red and tilted her head so she appeared to be looking down her nose. “I demand—”

  “You do not own this inn.” Alex cut across her words. “Nor have you paid for this parlour.”

  At that moment a serving woman entered with the meal Alex had ordered, setting the dishes out on their table.

  “Ignore her and eat,” Brevare said, picking up his fork.

  The comtesse watched them, her lips set in a thin line. She turned her gaze away when Alex’s eyes met hers, helping herself to more meat with jerky stabs of her fork.

  Alex pulled his chair round to face his meal. The stew was hot, tasty, and filling, dispelling the last of the chill in his bones. After the long ride, both he and Brevare had second helpings, followed by a plate of cheese.

  When he’d eaten his fill, Alex leaned back in his chair and studied the other table. The comtesse and her golden-haired daughter were playing cards. The redhead bent over a book on the table in front of her—drawing, perhaps. The older man’s head rested on the back of his chair, his eyes closed and lines of fatigue clearly visible on his face.

  “Brandy?” Brevare asked.

  Alex shrugged. “If you want some.” The sounds of a drunken song reached them from the taproom. “It might be some time before someone comes.” He helped himself to more cheese.

  Brevare stood, muttering a curse under his breath, then left the room.

  The comtesse looked up as the door closed behind Brevare. “As you have finished your repast, surely you will allow us some privacy now?”

  Her words were conciliatory, but her expression held the same disdain as before.

  “This is not your inn, citoyenne. You do not have authority here,” Alex said calmly, wanting only to sit in peace. His attic room would be cold and possibly damp.

  “Please leave us. I am not used to using common dining rooms.”

  “New experiences keep life interesting, do they not?” he said, as if making polite conversation. There was a muffled sound from one of the comtesse’s party. Alex glanced at the others at the table, but could not tell who had laughed.

  The comtesse stiffened her back and threw down the cards she was holding. “I am the Comtesse de Calvac, whatever the upstart government of this country says, but I am also—”

  “Aunt!” This time the interruption was sharp and loud, from the redhead. “Please—we should retire.”

  “Mama? Can we leave this room?” The soft voice of the golden-haired beauty had more effect, and the comtesse stood up.

  “Very well.” Moving round the table, she caught the arm of the woman in orange and pulled her to her feet. “I will not be told what to do by you. You should be seeing to my comfort, not forever scribbling in that book!” She snatched it up and threw it into the fire.

  Alex saw a fleeting expression of dismay cross the younger woman’s face before it became a blank mask. The comtesse kept a firm hold of her arm and swept her towards the door. The man in black moved to the fire, but was stopped by a hissed command from the comtesse, and reluctantly followed the rest of the party out of the room.

  Alex got up and used the poker to push the book away from the edge of the fire. The cover had become somewhat scorched at the edges, but the comtesse’s aim had been as poor as her manners. He dusted it off and was about to set it on the table when curiosity drove him to open it.

  It was full of drawings, ranging from images of flowers and birds, intricate in detail and colouring, to sketches of trees, houses, and landscapes. Caricatures of the comtesse and her daughter almost made him laugh aloud—it was just as well the comtesse had attempted to burn the sketchbook, rather than confiscating it and finding those.

  Mixed in with the realistic drawings and caricatures were what surely must be imagined scenes of ships on stormy seas, tropical islands, and mountains. The redhead was a dreamer, perhaps? A letter fell out as he turned the pages but, although curious, he tucked it back without opening it. Perusing her sketches without her leave had already been a violation of her privacy. He put the book into his pocket.

  Brevare returned with a bottle and two glasses, glancing at the now-empty table by the fire. “I wonder what they’re doing here,” he said. “The comtesse is a harridan, but the daughter… she reminds…” He shook his head and poured a generous amount of brandy into both glasses, biting his lip.

  “They are courting danger,” Alex replied flatly, picking up his glass. “Flaunting their wealth and announcing their nobility.” It was lucky for all of them that only he and Brevare had heard the comtesse.

  They sat in silence for a while, Brevare staring morosely into the fire and Alex wondering what Brevare was thinking about. Finally, with the level of brandy in the bottle considerably lower than before, Brevare stood.

  “I’m going to see if that serving wench fancies a bit of company.” He picked up the bottle and took it with him.

  There was more than one serving maid, but all Alex wanted now was a good night’s sleep, so he headed upstairs to his room.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, Phoebe woke well before dawn. She washed using the now-icy water left in the jug, then dressed and crept out of the room without waking her aunt or cousin. Downstairs, Anson was already in the taproom, attempting to make the innkeeper understand the comtesse’s requirements. Jeanne had finished her breakfast, so Phoebe asked her to take coffee and rolls up to her aunt and cousin and get the two women dressed.

  “I’ve asked for the coach to be ready in an hour,” Anson said, keeping his voice low. “Could you check they understand? And do you think we should ask for some food to take with us, instead of stopping for lunch?”

  “That would be wise, yes,” Phoebe agreed, not looking forward to another day of trying t
o persuade her aunt to behave with more circumspection. She made the request to the innkeeper, who nodded and went off to the kitchen.

  In the parlour, the two men from the previous evening ate at the same table, the smell of their coffee and rolls making her stomach rumble. Phoebe sighed as she saw the fire already blazing—she had hoped to rise early enough to see if any of her book had survived the flames. There was no sign of it, even in the ashes. Although she hadn’t really expected to find it, she still felt a stab of disappointment. She was sorry to have lost the sketches, but more importantly, her latest letter from Joe had been tucked between the pages. She had read it so many times she knew most of it by heart, but as well as enjoying his descriptions of the distant lands he’d visited, handling the letter made her feel closer to the only immediate family she had left. Taking a deep breath, she resolved not to let the comtesse see she was upset by its loss.

  Their breakfast arrived, and she sat down with Anson to eat, surreptitiously glancing at the other occupied table. Last night she’d been too worried about the comtesse’s lack of discretion to pay much attention to the men. In the thin morning light, with no distractions, she had a better view. The taller one had blond hair tied back neatly, and features that resembled a Greek statue, with a firm chin and blue eyes. A tired Greek statue, going by the lines beside his mouth.

  The other—the one who had upset the comtesse—had a stockier build, with a square, rugged face, brown hair, and brown eyes beneath straight brows. He slouched in his chair, looking into his cup of coffee, his eyelids drooping. Tired, she wondered, or worried? Perhaps both.

  They were dressed for riding, their coats and breeches bearing splashes of mud and dirt. She turned her gaze to the fire as the second man looked up and spoke to his companion. Their voices carried in the quiet room as they discussed finding an inn for a midday meal and to rest their horses. From the corner of her eye she saw them stand and reach for their greatcoats. The blond one left the parlour, but the other approached Phoebe.

  “Citoyenne,” he said, with none of the derision he’d put into that term when addressing her aunt the previous evening. He placed something on the table and made a small bow. “I wish you a good journey.”

  He smiled, nodded at Anson, then turned on his heel and followed his companion before Phoebe could say anything. She looked down. Her sketchbook lay in front of her, barely singed.

  “Best not to let Madame see that,” Anson said, his lips curving up.

  “Indeed.” Phoebe smiled as she flicked through the pages, checking that Joe’s letter was still safely inside before putting it in her pocket. All of a sudden, the day did not seem quite so bad.

  “We need to get further today,” she said. “We must try not to stop so early. Do you think…?”

  “What?” Anson prompted when Phoebe didn’t continue.

  “Do you think Masson could be persuaded to take orders from you only? You will be the one giving him his pay, after all.”

  “I’ll try,” Anson said doubtfully. “It’s not Masson, really. I would have to ignore her instructions. Still, I would rather be alive at the end of this.” He squared his shoulders and reached across the table to pat her hand. “I’ll see what I can do. I am as keen as you to be safely back in England. We should be able to reach Tours today, if we don’t stop.”

  “Should we stay out of the city?” Phoebe asked. “In fact, the smaller the village, the better.”

  Anson nodded his agreement, and they finished their meal in silence, Phoebe wondering if Anson felt the same miserable knot of tension in his stomach as she did.

  * * *

  They were making good progress, Alex thought with some satisfaction. Even his aching rear didn’t bother him as much as it had the day before. It wasn’t raining, the wind was behind them, and the road, although potholed, was not too muddy.

  His horse started to limp.

  “Merde!”

  He dismounted and inspected the animal. It had lost a front shoe.

  “Ride it anyway,” Brevare suggested.

  Alex glanced at the stony surface of the road, then up at Brevare. “Won’t do it any good. We passed an inn not long ago. I should be able to hire a horse there.”

  Brevare frowned. “We should press on,” he said. “It can’t be far to the next one.” He eyed the puddles in the road. “I’ll ride on, shall I? I can come back with another horse.” He kicked his mount into motion and rode off without waiting for Alex to answer.

  Alex swore again. Not only was there definitely an inn a mile or so behind them, but he’d be able to buy something to eat there as well. Now Brevare had gone on, it would waste more time if he went back than if he remained here. It was too cold to stand and wait, so he set off along the road, the horse limping behind him.

  The countryside here was sparsely populated, the hedges standing stark and bare beneath still-grey skies. The gloom was relieved only by occasional clumps of snowdrops along the verge and pockets of pale slush from yesterday’s sleet.

  Damn Brevare. Had he deliberately chosen the option that would waste the most time? It seemed that way, but Alex couldn’t work out why he would do so. Brevare’s story that he’d been sent to recall Alex wasn’t true; Brevare hadn’t used the code word, and Alex was due to return within a week or so in any case. But apart from that, Brevare had done nothing suspicious other than seeming a little too helpful when offering to carry Alex’s bag when they arrived at each inn.

  As he trudged on, he regretted agreeing to travel with Brevare at all, but at the time he’d thought it was safer to keep his eye on the man. He regretted his boots, comfortable enough for riding or for walking around town, but not made for long distances along rutted roads. And he regretted the winter spent in inns, coffee houses and offices; the lack of exercise meant he now had sore legs as well as blistered feet and the aches and pains caused by spending several days in the saddle.

  In an effort to divert his mind, he contemplated the redhead with the orange dress. He’d taken her for a servant at first, until she called the comtesse her aunt. A poor relation, then, but an interesting one, judging by the mixture of drawings he’d looked at last night.

  A cart passed. Alex asked about a lift, but the man was only going his way for less than a mile. Several coaches trundled past in the opposite direction, one spraying him with water as its wheel dipped into a puddle. Alex cursed, and limped on.

  * * *

  Phoebe sat in the parlour for well over an hour before Hélène and her aunt came downstairs, and it was mid-morning by the time Masson and Dubois had the luggage loaded onto the coach roof and everyone was settled inside. As before, the comtesse and Hélène took the forward-facing seats, with Phoebe and Anson facing backwards and the basket of food filling the space between them.

  As the coach jolted into motion, Hélène took a bundle of fashion plates from a little bag, fanning them out and selecting one. “What about this, Mama?” she said, holding out a drawing of a walking dress in pastel yellow.

  Phoebe tried not to listen as Hélène and the comtesse discussed ribbons and trimmings, necklines and lace. Colours, too—the comtesse pointing out that any gowns that did not suit Hélène could be passed on to Phoebe. Yet more clothing that clashed with her hair and made her skin look pasty. Visits to mantua-makers and shops would start in earnest when they returned to London. Recalling numerous such appointments last autumn, Phoebe wondered how many gowns Hélène needed.

  She was not looking forward to the coming season. The comte had insisted she would be attending balls and other functions with Hélène, in spite of her aunt’s protests. The life her cousin was destined for—a brilliant match, her time filled with social calls, balls and gossip—held no attractions for Phoebe. A loving marriage, as her parents’ had been, was more important than a title or wealth. If she could also have a useful role, as her mother had in supporting her father’s work, so much the better.

  Going to society events would introduce her to a lot of young
men, she supposed, and perhaps one of them would have some interests beyond the usual gambling and drinking. Picking up the novel she’d borrowed from Hélène, she tried to put these thoughts out of her mind.

  They made good time during the remainder of the morning, and Phoebe persuaded her aunt and cousin of the unsuitability of a small inn not long after midday, when they stopped to eat from the basket and rest the horses. She lost interest in the book, distracted by her cousin’s constant prattle and the jolting of the carriage, so she stared at the passing hedges and trees instead, idly wondering about the destinations or the business of the people in carts and carriages going the other way.

  It was still early afternoon when she saw a man leading a horse. Both were moving slowly, both were limping. As the coach rattled past, she recognised the man who had rescued her sketchbook, weariness evident in his face.

  She had no idea who he was, but he had been kind. Amusement returned at the memory of the way he had stood up to her aunt, and she pursed her lips against a smile. But that meant there was no point suggesting that the coach could stop and offer him a ride on the roof. Leaning back in her seat, she recalled a flash of talk that morning, that the two were planning on stopping at an inn for lunch. Perhaps there was some way she could repay his kindness. She sat upright and clutched her stomach.

  “Is something wrong, Miss Deane?” Anson said in concern. “Are you unwell?”

  Phoebe nodded, turning the corners of her mouth down. “Perhaps something I ate disagreed with me.” She heaved realistically, putting one hand over her mouth. Anson banged on the roof with his stick and called to Masson to stop. Phoebe gave one more heave for effect, then picked up the lunch basket and climbed onto the rutted road, walking around the back of the coach until she was out of sight of its windows. There was not much left in the basket, and she hoped her aunt and cousin would be too self-absorbed to question why she had taken it with her.