by Jayne Davis
Georges’ chatter broke the relative peace, and Phoebe headed back towards the gate. Green and Ellie followed Alice Bryant and her charge into the gardens, and Georges soon had Green bowling for him and Ellie running to fetch the ball. Alice stood watching, and Phoebe went to stand next to her.
Alice Bryant’s arrival last year as Georges’ new governess had made Phoebe’s life more pleasant. Unlike the previous woman, Alice was only a few years older than Phoebe. Although her light brown hair was always pulled tightly into a chignon, her ready smile, and the twinkle often in her eyes, removed any hint of severity. Phoebe had joined her on some of her outings with Georges, enjoying trips to the parks as well as excursions to museums. Alice was also someone she could talk to easily, the governess’ background as the daughter of a landed farmer being close to Phoebe’s own.
“I’ve heard you had some trouble in France?” Alice said, keeping her voice low.
Phoebe sighed. Ellie’s presence in place of the comtesse’s former maid must have made it plain that the journey had not been straightforward. She gave Alice the same pared down story she had told her uncle at breakfast. She wished she could say more, but most of it was not her story to tell.
“Phoebe, come and play!” Georges called.
Alice gave her an apologetic glance at this interruption, but Phoebe shook her head and smiled. “I’ll supervise if you’d like some time to yourself,” she offered.
“Thank you.” Alice returned Phoebe’s smile and went back into the house.
Green bowled well, ensuring that Georges had to make some effort to hit the balls. Phoebe and Ellie dutifully attempted to field Georges’ hits, Phoebe tossing the ball into the air in glee when she caught Georges out.
Phoebe, running for the ball again, slowed to a halt as she noticed a man in labourer’s clothing approaching them. He was not one of the regular gardeners. Green, too, must have felt uneasy, for he pushed Georges behind him. She let out a breath of relief when the man merely asked if one of the women was called Deane. She nodded, and the man thrust a note into her hand, then turned and walked off.
The note was sealed with a blob of wax, but with no impression in it. “I think we’d better go back in,” Phoebe said. “Now, Georges, please,” she added, as Georges opened his mouth to complain. “If your mother hears that rough men have been in the square she may not let you play out here again.”
That was enough to make Georges comply, and they made their way indoors. Unfortunately the comtesse was descending the stairs as they crossed the hall. She compressed her lips in disapproval but, for once, did not say anything.
Phoebe went to her room to read the note. It was from Brevare, as she’d suspected. The scrawled text told her to meet him in Hyde Park at four o’clock, bringing the message. It gave detailed directions, and finished with the statement that he would call in person at Berkeley Square to collect it if she did not meet him as instructed.
Phoebe’s heart sank. Brevare must not come to the house—there would be too many explanations required, and her task would be secret no longer. The plan had been for her to contact the Earl of Marstone first—the real earl, not the make-believe one she and Alex suspected that Brevare would take her to see. Brevare had organised the meeting much sooner than she’d expected.
If only Alex were here, she could talk over the situation with him. That was a nonsensical idea, though. If he were not still risking his life in France, none of this would be happening.
She was on her own, and she must do the best she could.
The clock on the mantelpiece showed it was just after one o’clock. It would take less than half an hour to walk to the park, so she had time for something to eat first. She had just started using her last empty sketchbook, so if anyone asked her where she was going, she could truthfully say she needed to go out to buy drawing materials.
Chapter 20
Phoebe climbed the area steps with Ellie behind her, hoping her aunt wasn’t looking onto the street as they hurried away. She was wearing her oldest pelisse and bonnet. And, after thinking about what Brevare might do when she refused to hand over a message, she had put only a few items in her pocket.
“Where be we goin’, miss?” Ellie asked. “I’d love to see the sights while I be ’ere.”
“Nothing very exciting today, I’m afraid, Ellie.” She hoped that was true. “But we’ll see what we can do another day.” Phoebe stopped at the corner of the square, out of sight of the house. “I’m going to buy some sketching paper, and I have another errand to do as well. If anyone asks, we went to lots of different shops until I found the paper I wanted. Do you understand?”
Ellie nodded. “This baint about a young man, miss?” she asked warily.
“No.”
“Best say no more, then, miss.”
“You don’t seem surprised?”
“Mr Trasker said he thought you needed a maid who could keep ’er mouth shut.”
“Is that all he said?”
“Yes, miss. I’d rather not know more. But should you be ’avin’ Owen Jones along as well?”
“Owen? He didn’t go back to Ashcombe?”
“No, miss. I’m to send a message to the Crown if ’e’s wanted. It’s only a few streets away.”
Phoebe suddenly felt a lot less nervous about the coming encounter. Owen wasn’t Alex, but his presence would be reassuring nonetheless. She scribbled a short note on a page torn from her sketchbook and Ellie took it to an urchin lurking nearby.
Once Owen joined them, Phoebe felt safer. He and Ellie were obviously trusted by Trasker—they might be able to get a good look at whoever Brevare had summoned her to meet, in case this was the only chance. If her idea worked, though, she should be able to meet the man again with some of Lord Marstone’s men nearby to observe.
She told Owen and Ellie her plan as she walked between them towards Hyde Park, explaining that the man she was seeing thought she was a servant. They were all brisk walkers, soon making up the time they’d spent waiting for Owen. It was refreshing not to have to dawdle along at the slow stroll adopted by the comtesse and Hélène when they visited the park.
Stopping outside the park gates, Phoebe peered around the gate posts, but Brevare was not in sight. She would just have to follow his directions and hope he had not picked too secluded a spot.
On Phoebe’s nod, Owen and Ellie set off arm in arm, walking slowly and giving a good impression of lovers enjoying their half-day off together. Watching them, Phoebe clenched her hands together, hoping she didn’t look as nervous as she felt. A rueful smile accompanied the realisation that it didn’t matter—a servant entrusted with delivering an important paper might well look ill at ease.
Phoebe set off as Owen and Ellie turned into the path leading towards the Serpentine, passing them just before they reached the copse described in Brevare’s letter. Brevare was there, holding the reins of a pair of matched greys harnessed to a plain landau with the top down. An older man sat in the vehicle, his coat encrusted with lace and his wig heavily powdered. Brevare’s anxious expression turned to one of relief as he saw her approaching. The other man did not get down from the landau, forcing Phoebe to peer up at him.
“This is the woman with the message, my lord,” Brevare said.
“You are Miss Deane?” the man asked.
“Yes, my lord.” Phoebe bobbed a curtsey. “You are the Earl of Marstone?”
“I am. Thank you for bringing the message, although it would have been more convenient if you had given it to Brevare here, as he asked.”
“I was given specific instructions, my lord,” Phoebe said, dropping her eyes.
“Well, girl, let’s have it then,” he said impatiently.
Phoebe looked up at him. “No, my lord. Mr Westbrook told me to give it to you at the Foreign Office. If you tell me when you’ll be there, and where I must go, I will give it to you then.”
Brevare cursed under his breath. The man in the landau shook his head slightly, his brows dr
awing together. Phoebe noted his expression with interest—he appeared confused, rather than angry or annoyed.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brevare said. “He cannot possibly have meant you had to actually be in the Foreign Office. He was only telling you where you would have to find… his lordship. You do not need to go there now that I am helping you.”
“I’m only doing what I was told,” Phoebe said, trying for the stubborn determination of a not terribly bright servant. “He said I was to take it to the Foreign Office. He never said anything about handing it over in a park!”
Brevare swore again, more loudly this time. He let go of the horses and moved towards her. “Give me your pocket.”
Phoebe fumbled beneath her skirts to undo the strings, and handed it over. He emptied its contents onto the grass, her small sketchbook falling next to a comb and a few coins. Brevare flicked the pages of the sketchbook, finding nothing. Muttering a curse, he put a hand inside the pocket and drew out a handkerchief.
Phoebe wished she’d blown her nose on it before they set out.
“Where is it?” he demanded.
“I have it safe, sir,” Phoebe said, opening her eyes wide in what she hoped was a gaze conveying bovine incomprehension.
She kept her face as expressionless as she could, watching a frown gathering on Brevare’s brow. At the edge of her vision, Owen and Ellie strolled past. Phoebe struggled to keep her eyes on Brevare’s face as his gaze appeared to look through her. Although he was standing uncomfortably close, he made no move to touch her. Was he trying to work out what to do?
“Very well,” Brevare finally said through tight lips, holding her pocket out. “I will send you a note to tell you when his lordship can see you. Make sure you bring the message with you next time.”
Phoebe curtseyed as Brevare swung himself up into the landau and flicked the reins. She picked up her pocket, watching the landau until it was out of sight behind some trees.
“All right, miss?” Ellie’s voice came from behind her, and she turned.
“Yes. Yes, thank you Ellie.” Phoebe went to sit on a nearby bench. She made a rapid sketch of the man in the landau while she could still remember his face, Owen and Ellie peering over her shoulder.
“Did you manage to see him?” she asked, as she added the finishing touches.
“Not very well, miss, ’e was too far away. But that’s a right good likeness, far as I can tell.”
“Thank you.”
She could try to see Lord Marstone directly, but Alex had thought it would be easier to keep her visit secret if she asked Lady Carterton to help. She could call on the way home.
“I need to buy something to explain where I’ve been this morning,” she said. “Owen, can you go and buy me another sketchbook? Take this one, so you get something similar.” She tore out the picture of the man in the landau and handed him the rest, together with a few coins. “I have another call to make on the way back, but I should be safe with Ellie now.”
“Right, miss.”
* * *
Alex lay on the lumpy bed, hands behind his head, trying to ignore the screaming argument from the room below. The grimy windows blocked most of the light provided by the feeble February sun. A foul stench from the yard behind the tenements permeated the whole building.
His lips twisted as he looked at the damp stains on the ceiling. This was a far cry from what most people imagined of Paris—the former city of fashion, favoured destination for the aristocracy. Damn Brevare, he thought, not for the first time. If it wasn’t for him, he’d have travelled back on the Lily, standing on deck with Phoebe, strands of her hair whipping in the wind. She should be safely on English soil by now, all being well.
He half wished he hadn’t thrown that novel into a field in Normandy; it would have given him something to do with his time while he waited for Henri to return. Whoever thought the life of a spy was exciting had not endured the long stretches of tedium and discomfort that were always involved. He hadn’t really minded the boredom when he began making these expeditions to France, but now the periods of inaction seemed to be getting longer. And lonelier.
Alex sat up and swung his feet to the floor at the sound of footsteps approaching. A muttered “C’est moi” accompanied a tap on the door, and he relaxed as Henri slipped in.
“Any luck?” One of Alex’s old contacts, an apothecary, had found the address of the Brevare townhouse in the Marais district. Henri had gone to find out if it was still occupied.
“Some. My contact didn’t know anything about it, but he has sent someone to investigate.”
That was fair enough—Henri’s acquaintances in Paris were past investors in the smuggling operation, not spies. He and Henri could watch the house themselves, of course, but it was quicker if someone local could ask around in the area—someone who would not arouse suspicion.
“He will report this evening, in Le Chat Gris. I gave him your description. I’m going for some food now—want anything?”
Alex shook his head, and Henri left. Another vision of red hair and smiling eyes flashed into his mind, and he tried to dismiss it. Phoebe probably knew little more about Paris than he did, although he could at least have talked things over with her. He suppressed the thought that talking things over could be the least of the benefits of Phoebe’s presence. She was a lady, or as near to it as made no difference, and ladies did not deal in espionage or reside in filthy garrets like this one. Nor did they consort with men like him.
He was safer alone, and he should keep it that way.
The alley leading to the inn stank of rubbish, rotting food, and worse things that Alex did not care to imagine. Thankfully the darkness hid most of the details from sight. The steady drizzle did not improve his mood, nor the cold wind funnelling between the tall buildings. The interior of Le Chat Gris was warm, but smelled little better. Slipping inside, he pushed a coin across the scarred and sticky wood of the bar, then took his ale to an empty seat in one corner. He sprawled back in his chair and tipped his hat forward over his eyes, cradling the tankard in his hand as he prepared to wait. The last thing he wanted at the moment was to be drawn into conversation.
“Leon?” The man addressing him was unshaven, his clothing worn, blending in well with the rest of the clientele. He held a tankard of ale in one hand.
“Oui.” Alex gestured, as if the man had just asked if he could take the seat beside him.
The man sat down. “House is empty apart from one old man and his wife. Caretakers.”
“How long?” Alex asked.
“Months, perhaps longer. The family—the ci-devants—have not been seen there for four or five months, at least.”
“Does anyone know where they are?”
“There’s a château half a day away—they could be there. It’s a few leagues north of Beauvais.”
That was all the man had, but it was enough. Phoebe had found out only that the château was somewhere north of Paris—now he knew where to look.
Alex slid the agreed payment onto the table and the man pocketed it, drained his tankard, and left without a backward glance. To Alex, it seemed rather obvious they’d had an assignation, but no-one else was taking any interest in his corner of the room. He contemplated leaving too, but this place made a change from their dismal rented room. He waved at the bartender, and the man brought another ale.
“I’ve got a nice, quiet room,” a husky voice said.
Lifting his eyes from his drink, Alex took in a red skirt, remarkably clean considering the clientele in here. Above that was a generous bosom, then a face with scarlet lips and a knowing gaze.
“You look like a man who needs a bit of pleasant company,” the woman said, raising one shaped eyebrow and curving her lips into a smile.
Alex pushed his hat back and inspected her more closely. She had the kind of figure and blonde prettiness that he’d always found attractive, and she was young enough to not yet be showing the ravages of her way of life.
His ga
ze slid sideways, taking in the tavern’s other occupants. “This can’t be your usual location.”
“My last customer brought me here.” She took a step closer.
At any other time, that would have been the signal for Alex to allow her to sit on his knee and wind her arms around his neck.
He didn’t move, still holding the tankard in front of his chest. She inched forward, then made a moue of disappointment and moved on.
Alex watched as she propositioned an older man sitting a few tables away, wondering at his own actions. A month ago, he would probably have done what she wanted—enjoyed a night with her in exchange for a few coins, and parted in the morning with no regrets, no ties, no involvement.
He sat there until he’d finished his ale, then left. Outside he filled his lungs with the chill air then stepped out briskly—safer to be in their lodgings than wandering the streets, and safer alone.
No involvement, no ties, had been his life for years. It still was—but it was much harder when there was someone he would like very much to be involved with.
Very much indeed.
Chapter 21
The next morning Phoebe awoke early, and had the dining room to herself as she ate breakfast. She had to go to Brook Street this morning—Lady Carterton had not been at home to visitors yesterday, but the maid she’d talked to suggested she try after breakfast this morning. However it was not yet time for that, so she whiled away an hour or two in the library.
The shelves lining the walls overflowed with books, both the volumes that had been bought with the house and the ones brought over from the château at Calvac. The slightly worn carpet and leather armchairs were comfortable rather than fashionable. This was Phoebe’s favourite room in the house—she had spent many a happy hour here poring over atlases and accounts of voyages and explorations. It was also a room that the comtesse rarely visited.
The book she’d been reading before her aunt took them to France was a weighty tome, bound in leather, and too big for Phoebe to comfortably read on her lap. Setting it on the central table, she drew up a chair, found her page, and was soon lost in detailed descriptions of South Sea islands and native rituals. So absorbed was she that she didn’t hear her uncle enter until he spoke behind her.