Playing With Fire

by Jayne Davis

  He waited until the sounds of their revelry faded, leaving only the noise from inside the tavern. She checked that her bump was still in place as he pushed himself away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  There was enough light from the tavern windows for her to make out his expression. He looked particularly grim.

  “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

  “You didn’t have a choice,” she said, as briskly as she could manage in a whisper. “It’s certainly expanding my vocabulary!”

  His expression softened, one corner of his mouth lifting.

  “Is Trasker in there, do you think?” She needed to concentrate on their plan, not on how her heart was racing, or the way his breath had felt warm on her cheek.

  “I can’t tell. We’ll listen outside the other one. This way.”

  Phoebe lost her bearings as they walked, but Westbrook seemed to be familiar with the town, leading them confidently down a series of narrow alleys.

  They came to a halt by the window of another tavern, listening to the raucous laughter and raised voices. This time it was only a moment or two before Westbrook whispered that he could hear Trasker’s voice. He put his eye to a gap in the ill-fitting shutters, but shook his head when Phoebe asked him if he could see anything.

  “I think there are a couple of soldiers inside,” he explained. “I caught a few words. They may be keeping a watch on the Lily’s crew.”

  “Can we wait until they return to the boat?”

  “They could be in there all night, but the Lily needs to leave within a few hours to use the high tide.”

  “So we have to get Trasker out of there?”

  “Yes. If the soldiers are watching the Lily’s crew, that might make them suspicious, but I don’t see what else we can do.” The grim look was back on his face.

  Phoebe’s stomach knotted. This was what she had come here for, what she had volunteered for, and she hadn’t expected it to be easy. She didn’t know what Trasker looked like, so she couldn’t just sneak in and talk to him quietly.

  She hitched up the shawls, and an idea flashed across her mind. Someone being hunted would not go into a tavern and announce their presence, so doing so might allay the suspicions of the soldiers. Bold and fast would help to reduce the chance that she would be accosted by the other drinkers.

  “Trasker, is he quick to grasp things?”

  “Yes—he’s been successfully dodging revenue men for ten years. Dumont sent Anson to find him, so he should be expecting someone to contact him.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” she whispered. “Give me a name—a name he knows, but someone who could not possibly be here, in France. A French name, if possible.”

  Westbrook thought, then his brow cleared. “There’s Michel Paquet, one of his crew, drowned a few years ago.”

  “Other people here won’t know he’s dead?”

  “I don’t think so. Well, only his crew. Paquet came from Dieppe.”

  “What’s Trasker’s first name? What does he look like?”

  “Dan. Or Danny to his… er… lady friends. He looks nothing out of the ordinary, unfortunately. About my height, black hair. Fond of rather bright waistcoats. From the noise he’s making, he’s not far from this window.” He peered at her in the near-dark. “What are you planning?”

  Phoebe closed her eyes and recalled a time, six years ago now, with her father on his rounds. It had been a tavern brawl, tables and chairs overturned, and three men leaning on the bar, all looking much the worse for wear. One of the miscreants was being scolded by his wife when they arrived, and she heard again the accusation in the woman’s voice.

  Bracing her shoulders, she opened her eyes and checked that the shawl and petticoats were still giving her a respectable bump in the right place. Westbrook was looking at her, waiting for her answer.

  “I’m going to demand Danny makes an honest woman of me,” she whispered in his ear, then took a deep breath and headed for the tavern door.

  Westbrook cursed, but made no move to stop her. Turning before she pushed the door open, she caught a brisk nod, noting with a shiver that he now held a pistol in one hand.

  In the taproom, Phoebe tried not to wince at the din and the rank smells of ale, smoke, and fish. On the opposite side of the room two soldiers sat at a table by the fire, the tavern’s other patrons leaving a clear space around them. She was only a few steps inside the door, looking for Trasker, when she realised the noise had quietened and several sets of eyes were running over her. She couldn’t see a bright waistcoat anywhere.

  “Danny Trasker!” she shouted into the room, her voice shrill with nerves.

  The room became silent. Now every eye was on her, faces filled with curiosity, disapproval, or salacious interest. The reality of this taproom full of men was more terrifying than she had expected. Perhaps the shrillness was all to the good.

  “Danny Trasker, you lying bastard,” she called, forcing her voice to remain steady. “I saw Michel Paquet in Avranches—he said you’ve been here for days.”

  Some men began talking to each other, a few laughed, and one or two pointed towards the window with suggestive winks.

  There. A man in a red and blue striped waistcoat, looking her way with a quizzical expression. Phoebe took another breath and started again, facing him directly this time.

  Don’t think about what will happen if he’s not Danny Trasker.

  “Days!” she carried on with determination, her voice rising in pitch. “Why haven’t you come to see me? Quel salaud!”

  Some of the men snickered and one of the soldiers got to his feet. The man in the gaudy waistcoat started to make his way towards her. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on him, pretending not to see the soldier approaching. “You promised you’d take care of me, but I have to come here to find you!”

  “I’ll look after you tonight, cherie,” said a voice beside her, and a hand squeezed her bottom. Keeping one arm firmly under the bump, she turned and dealt the man a ringing slap to his face. His friends cheered as he pushed his chair back and stood up with an oath, but by then the man in the waistcoat had reached her.

  “Danny.” She grasped the collar of his jacket.

  Trasker glared at the man she’d slapped, and Phoebe breathed a sigh of relief as he turned away.

  “Who’s this?” the soldier said.

  Trasker put one arm around her waist. “Why, this is Colette,” he said, planting a smacking kiss on her cheek. “What’s it to you?” Even the smell of ale on his breath was welcome, she decided, her racing pulse slowing a little.

  “We’re watching for some women.”

  “Well she’s not one of them.” He pulled her closer. “The love of my life, she is.” Trasker’s smile was more of a leer, but the soldier’s gaze went from the brown curl escaping her cap down to the bump, then he shrugged and moved a few steps away.

  “Danny, my love, we need to talk.” She pulled on his collar, pitching her voice to a wheedling whisper, loud enough for the men nearby to hear. “Please! We can’t do it here!”

  To her relief, Trasker nodded, walking with her to the door and ignoring shouted remarks about living under the cat’s foot. Once outside, they walked along the alley, his arm still on her waist.

  Phoebe attempted to pull away, but Trasker’s arm was unyielding. “They might still be watching,” he said, his voice only a murmur. “Where’s Westbrook?”

  “Nearby.” He had to be. He would not have gone far.

  Trasker guided them around the corner and Phoebe glanced back towards the tavern door. There was a soldier watching them.

  “You can let go of her now, Trasker,” Westbrook hissed from the shadows, taking Phoebe’s arm and pulling her from Trasker’s grasp. “Let’s get further away.”

  Alex led them around another corner, one hand against Phoebe’s back to guide her. He could feel her trembling, hear her breath coming in gasps.

  “This’ll do,” he said in her ear, ducking into the do
orway of a closed shop. “It’s done now; you’re safe. You were very brave.”

  “What’s the plan?” Trasker asked.

  “Get the Lily to sea,” Alex said. Was Phoebe cold? He pulled her gently towards him, opening his coat and wrapping it around her.

  “Westbrook!”

  Alex returned his attention to Trasker. “Pick them up at the beach near the hut. Henri and I will make a fire a mile up the coast, as a decoy. If you drop a boat near the hut, you can sail on a bit before you signal, in case anyone’s watching, then head back for the boat.”

  “How many people?”

  “Miss Deane, here.” She’d stopped trembling, but he was in no hurry to release her. She would be warmer under his coat, he told himself.

  “And…?”

  Concentrate!

  “Er, Pierre, Gwen and the children, Miss Deane’s aunt and cousin, and Hugo de Brevare, the ci-devant Vicomte de Brevare.” He almost spat the last name.

  “There’s a story there?”

  “Miss Deane is carrying something for me. Make sure the treacherous bastard doesn’t bother her, either on the voyage or on the way to London. Choose your destination by the wind, but check with Miss Deane.” There was enough light for Alex to see Trasker’s eyebrows rise, but he made no protest.

  “The Lily’s ready for sea,” Trasker said. “Tide’ll be high enough by the time I get the crew on board. Pick-up at eleven o’clock?”

  “Fine.”

  Trasker gazed down the street, brow furrowed. “We’ll need a good diversion to keep the soldiers occupied.” His teeth showed white in a grin. “A little goodbye present for Clothilde and Suzette, perhaps,” he said. “Enough to buy them some brand new gowns.”

  “Ha, yes, that should do the trick!” A fight involving clothing being torn would certainly attract attention.

  “Right, then.” Trasker clapped Alex on the shoulder, and vanished down the alley.

  “Phoebe?” Alex asked, ducking his head to try to see her face. “Phoebe, are you feeling better now?”

  Phoebe nodded, then realised that he probably couldn’t see her at all. “Yes.” Standing beneath his coat had been comforting; she was beginning to calm down.

  “I’m so sorry I got you into this.”

  “I volunteered, remember?” She took a deep breath—it was time she pulled herself together.

  “Yes, but you didn’t know—”

  “It’s done now.” Thank goodness. “How will we know when Trasker’s distraction is ready?”

  “We’ll know.” There was a smile in his voice.

  “What’s he going to do?” Was she talking too much? He didn’t seem to mind. “New gowns—oh!” A giggle rose in her throat as she worked out the implications. “To guarantee the full attention of their audience?”

  “Exactly! How’s the baby?”

  The change of topic made her chuckle again. “About to keep my neck warm!” She took a step back and away from him, shivering as she left the warmth of his coat, and wound the shawls around her neck. She leaned on the wall beside him as they waited for Trasker’s friends to start their diversion.

  It was only a few more minutes before two women began screaming at each other, the shrill sounds echoing in the narrow streets.

  “Let’s go,” Westbrook said, and led her through the town, avoiding streets with taverns or too many people. Phoebe hurried to keep up, glad to be leaving. A few men moved towards the source of the noise, but took no notice of the pair of them.

  Back in the field, Westbrook checked the saddle girths on the horses and made a step with his hand to help her to mount. Clumsily, being used to a side-saddle, she swung one leg over the horse and found the stirrups, cold air biting her legs as Gwen’s skirts bunched uncomfortably beneath her thighs.

  “All set?” Westbrook asked.

  “Yes.” She dug her heels in, thankful the horse seemed to be a placid animal, and followed Westbrook’s mount into the lane. Beside her, his face showed pale in the moonlight as he turned in her direction.

  “Can you manage a trot? Best we’re not overtaken if anyone comes after us.”

  “Yes.” She sounded more confident than she felt. Riding astride was much more secure than using a side saddle, but it was over a year since she’d been on horseback. Urging the horse faster, she was relieved to find it easy to control, and soon settled into the new rhythm.

  The landscape was featureless, reduced to silhouettes of trees against thin clouds, lit from behind by the moon. At last they turned into a track through woodland, and Westbrook slowed the horses to a walk, then dismounted in the same clearing as before. She slid off her mount and stood beside him, both using the horses to shield them from the wind.

  It was time to say goodbye.

  Chapter 17

  “Can you remember the plan?” Alex asked. “There won’t be time for any private talk when we get to the hut.”

  “Yes.” Her voice held certainty.

  “Be careful, Phoebe,” he said forcefully. His feelings told him he should never have involved her further in this business, but the rational part of him acknowledged that she was a valuable ally. Albeit an inexperienced one. “They won’t all be as inept as Brevare—and Brevare himself could be dangerous, for all his lack of observation. Don’t expose yourself to danger; abandon the plan if you have to. Remember, the main thing is for the list not to fall into the wrong hands. Destroy it if—”

  “I know,” Phoebe said. “I will.”

  “And if you need help with anything else, go to Lady Carterton, in Brook Street.”

  “You told me. I do remember.” She sounded impatient and he smiled in the darkness. That was why he’d thought it was a workable idea.

  “Sorry, it’s… oh, hell!” He took her by the shoulders. “When you went into that tavern—I… well, I knew I shouldn’t have got you into all this. It’s too dangerous. Just burn the damned message!”

  “I will if it becomes necessary,” she promised. “But if I don’t even try, we’ve wasted months of your time.”

  “Better that than—”

  “You saved all of us. At best we’d be in prison now, or being held somewhere for ransom. By someone who would intend to collect.”

  He saw the pale oval of her face as she looked up at him, but there was not enough light beneath the trees to make out her expression.

  “And this plan is worth trying, isn’t it?” she asked.

  He sighed. “Yes.” But he’d made the plan before he’d had to wait outside that damned tavern. Fear like that for someone else, made worse because he was powerless to act, was new to him. “I still don’t like it. Be careful.”

  “You be careful too!” She sounded almost indignant now. “You will be taking far more of a risk than I am.”

  “It’s my job. I volunteered.”

  “So did I.”

  “It’s not the sa—” A movement behind Phoebe caught his eye; Henri, with a lantern. He swore under his breath, a suppressed little snort from Phoebe indicating that his curses hadn’t been as quiet as he’d thought.

  “It is arranged?” Henri asked, in French.

  Alex cursed again, silently this time. He hadn’t realised he’d been talking to Phoebe in English. That was dangerous—if he couldn’t remember something that simple, perhaps it was time for a rest.

  “Yes, Trasker will do as we planned. We leave in half an hour.”

  Henri nodded. “Good. Gwen has some coffee and food. Come.” He led the way back to the hut. Inside, the comtesse and Hélène sat in one corner, keeping a disdainful distance between themselves and the Dumont family.

  “Phoebe, where have you—?” The comtesse’s sharp enquiry was silenced by a glare from Pierre.

  “Brevare?” Alex asked.

  Pierre jerked his head towards the door. “We told him to watch for the Lily.”

  “But she’s not due for another couple of hours.”

  Pierre shrugged, and Alex shook his head. “You’d better relie
ve him soon. After Henri and I have left,” he added.

  Gwen handed him a piece of day-old bread and a cup of coffee, and he ate and drank gratefully, leaning against the wall. Phoebe sat next to Gwen and removed her cap. She unpinned Gwen’s lock of hair and took down her own hair, smoothing it with her fingers before twisting it up into a knot. What would it be like to run his own fingers through it? Looking away hastily, he stepped closer to Pierre to run over the plans once more.

  While Henri fixed new candles in a couple of lanterns, Gwen handed over wrapped packets of bread and cheese, and Alex pocketed them with a word of thanks.

  “We’ll get some wood together,” Pierre said, following his brother out of the hut.

  Alex went after them, but stopped outside the door. Phoebe followed him, although he hadn’t given any indication that she should. He thrust his doubts away as he faced her.

  “Be careful,” she said. Had that been a faint tremor in her voice? “You should soak that bandage off in a day or so. See if you can find some honey to spread on it, then put a clean bandage on. And find someone to take the stitches out for you.”

  She sounded more business-like now, but he could see a crease in her brow, a twist of her lips that was not quite a smile.

  “Yes, doctor,” he said quietly.

  Good, that looked more like a proper smile. She hadn’t put that enveloping cap back on, and her hair curled about her head, a few strands slipping down onto her shoulders.

  Her smile turned into something more intimate—inviting even—and he did what he knew he should not. He raised one hand to tuck a loose curl behind her ear, then rested it on the wall beside her. The memory of adopting a similar position in Granville sent his heart beating faster; he dipped his head down towards hers, brushing her mouth lightly at first, giving her plenty of time to pull away.

  She didn’t. Instead, she leaned into him, winding her arms around his neck. He brushed her lips again. Wanting—needing—to be closer, he moved one hand to her waist and pulled her gently towards him.