Playing With Fire

by Jayne Davis

  Phoebe drew a deep breath, closing her eyes. That was the first time she’d given an earl a set-down.

  Her eyes flew open again as she heard a quiet chuckle.

  “My apologies, Miss Deane. I will have to rely on Westbrook’s judgement in this matter, but so far his trust appears to be justified.”

  Phoebe’s ire began to dissipate, a warm feeling spreading through her as she recalled that Alex had trusted her, from the beginning.

  “Kellet, could you first confirm that the decoy is, in fact, nonsense?”

  The secretary put aside the real message, turning his attention to the decoy. The earl regarded Phoebe for a few moments, until she felt self-conscious enough to speak.

  “My lord?”

  “My apologies again, Miss Deane. I was considering possibilities.” He leaned towards her, resting his forearms on the desk. “As I see it, you have a choice now. You have completed the main task you were entrusted with very competently, for which you have my thanks. At this point you could end the matter. If Brevare contacts you again you need only say your uncle has passed the message to me so you no longer have it.”

  “And my other option?” Phoebe asked. She should be glad to be done with the business, instead of feeling disappointed at missing its conclusion.

  “Your other choice is to continue with the decoy plan, or a variation of it.” The earl sat back in his chair, his head tilted slightly to one side. “I have recently discovered that there is someone passing information from… from within my department, as you suspected. Possibly the same person responsible for sending Brevare.”

  Phoebe nodded. “Should you…? I mean, this must be secret…”

  “Are you going to tell anyone else?”

  She stiffened. “No, of course not!”

  “Then there is no reason why I should not tell you, is there? Do you think you could bring yourself to continue?”

  “I… yes, I will help if I can.” Surely it could not be any riskier than that tavern in Granville.

  “No hesitation, Miss Deane? You are playing with fire—this could be dangerous.”

  “I… well, it is a novel experience to be useful.” She wasn’t accustomed to being asked to do something, either, rather than being told.

  “Very well,” the earl said. “Now, you have told Brevare you will only hand over the document when you visit me at the Foreign Office. It occurs to me that he is in fact more likely to arrange for the message to be stolen from you—probably when you are on the way to a meeting he has arranged.”

  “Yes, my lord. That is why I wanted to see you today.”

  “What did you think I could do?”

  “You could have me followed, then the watchers could follow the people who take the message. I would be sure not to try too hard to prevent them taking anything,” she added, her stomach fluttering at the idea.

  The earl was once again watching her over his steepled hands. “How successful do you think this plan would be?”

  “It could easily go wrong.” She tried to imagine the scene—a crowded street full of bustle and movement. “It cannot be easy to follow people who rob others—they must be used to avoiding attention or eluding pursuit.”

  “I agree. Nevertheless it is worth a try—there is nothing lost, after all, if the watchers lose track of them.”

  Unless I an injured.

  It was too late for second thoughts.

  “We could perhaps add another string to our bow,” the earl added. “Kellet?”

  Kellet looked up from his deciphering attempts. “The decoy message is indecipherable, my lord, but so—”

  “In a minute,” the earl waved him quiet. “Kellet, do you think we could compose a message that may make our traitor do something to betray himself?”

  The secretary scratched his head, his unfocussed gaze on the far wall. “It’s possible,” he said eventually. “It will take some consideration.”

  “Miss Deane. You are aware of the potential danger in this—are you sure you are willing to take part?”

  Phoebe swallowed hard. She could change her mind now if she wanted to, and no-one would think any the worse of her. She would, though. Alex and people like him were risking their lives daily to help protect England; she should play her part too. It wasn’t likely to be very dangerous, after all.

  “Yes, but…”

  “But…?” the earl prompted.

  “May I know who will be watching? So I know who I need not worry about?”

  “Certainly. Kellet, please ask Brownlee and Chatham to step in, then see if Lady Carterton has returned. Let her know we are nearly finished.”

  Phoebe toyed with the fabric of her gown. She hadn’t explained Brevare’s mistaken impression of her status.

  “A problem, Miss Deane?”

  “My lord, Brevare still thinks I am my aunt’s servant. Might it give away what we… what you are trying to do when he finds out I am not? My cousin is having her come-out this spring, so we may meet socially.”

  The earl considered for a minute. “That might even work to our advantage,” he said. “But let me think about it. Now, I will send you a replacement message early tomorrow. What is the best way of getting it to you?”

  “Have someone take it to the servants’ entrance, directed to Ellie Denton. I will warn her to expect it.”

  “And your… escorts?”

  “I will tell Owen to stay close, but not too close.”

  The earl smiled. “Good, good.” He indicated the two liveried footmen now standing just inside the library door. “Now, these men will be your watchers, wearing other clothing, naturally. Brownlee, Chatham, take a good look at Miss Deane. I will give you further instructions later.”

  Phoebe stood and returned their scrutiny. Would she recognise them again? Chatham did have a slightly bent nose—broken at some time in the past, she guessed. Other than that their appearance was not remarkable, although their direct gazes conveyed an air of purpose, of determination, that reminded her of Alex. She was glad they were on her side.

  The earl dismissed the two footmen as Lady Carterton came into the room. She handed Phoebe a package. “Is that the correct one?”

  Unwrapping the paper, Phoebe thought the book was the same edition as the one now mouldering in a field in France.

  “My lord?” Kellet tried to attract the earl’s attention. “The real message—?”

  “Mr Kellet might enjoy reading this,” Phoebe interrupted, handing the book to the earl and exchanging a smile with Lady Carterton.

  The earl read the title on the spine. “The Pirate’s Cavern—A Romance,” he said, a smile growing as he skimmed the first page. “The information was obviously even more secure than I thought. Thank you, I think Kellet will find this book… informative. Here, Kellet, try using this for deciphering.” He passed the book over. “Miss Deane, I apologise again for doubting you earlier.”

  Phoebe flushed with pleasure as the two women took their leave.

  Chapter 23

  Back home again, Phoebe took off her pelisse in the hallway and handed it to the butler. She needed to sit quietly for a while and think over what had just been said at Marstone House. Her heart sank as the comtesse emerged from her uncle’s study. Had she been waiting for Phoebe to return?

  “I don’t know where you’ve been all morning,” the comtesse said. “Wherever it was, you should have asked first. Your uncle wishes to see you.”

  A cold knot settled in Phoebe’s stomach. The comtesse must have given her husband more details of her version of events in France.

  The comte followed his wife out of his study, shaking his head. “Lavinia, I’ll see Hélène first. Phoebe, can you find Hélène and send her to me, please?”

  “No, no, Edouard, I’ll find her,” the comtesse said quickly, turning to face him. “Phoebe’s here, why don’t you find out what—?”

  “No, Lavinia.” The comte took her arm and led her towards the stairs. “I think you should go upstairs for a
rest. Phoebe can find Hélène.”

  Phoebe glanced from one to the other as her uncle looked around the hallway, the cold feeling beginning to dissipate. Whatever her aunt had said, it seemed her uncle was not going to take his wife’s word without corroboration.

  “Green, send Madame’s maid up.”

  Her aunt’s mouth turned down at the corners. “But Edouard—”

  “Now, Lavinia!”

  Phoebe had never heard him speak so sternly, nor seen her aunt look so shocked. The comte released his wife’s arm and made a gesture upwards. She started up the staircase, turning after only a few steps, but the comte was already walking back towards Phoebe.

  “Phoebe, I’d like to see you later. Please do not go out again. Now, can you send Hélène to me, please?”

  “Yes, sir,” Phoebe said, relieved at his polite tone.

  “Try the back parlour, Miss Deane,” the butler advised.

  Phoebe found Hélène, as Cookson had said, in the back parlour on the first floor, and told her to go to her father. Hélène didn’t meet her eyes as she put down her novel and left.

  Phoebe shrugged, too tired to puzzle out her cousin’s behaviour. She needed something to drink, so she rang the bell. The tea, when it came, revived her a little. Her uncle’s conclusions may well depend on what Hélène said, she thought gloomily. If Hélène confirmed whatever tale her mother had told the comte…

  Well, she would know soon enough. She resolutely turned her mind to what would happen when Brevare arranged the next rendezvous.

  When Phoebe was summoned back down to the study half an hour later, she found that Hélène had gone. Her uncle sat behind his desk, looking tired and rather grim, with the fingers of one hand pressed against his temple.

  “Sit down, Phoebe.”

  Phoebe settled into a chair facing him, her body tense. Her future could depend on what was said here.

  “Yesterday, you told me something of your journey,” the comte went on. “Now I want more details. No doubt it will be yet another different version of events,” he added, almost under his breath.

  “I will not lie to you, sir,” Phoebe said. Either her aunt or cousin must have already lied to him, if their stories were different.

  “I’m not accusing anyone of lying. Not yet,” he said wearily. “Begin with why this man…” He looked at some scribbled notes on his desk. “Why this man Perrault thought you should all be arrested.”

  Phoebe described the scene in the inn, giving only enough detail of her aunt’s actions and words to make clear how she had attracted Perrault’s attention. It would not do to paint too black a picture of her aunt.

  “That tallies more or less with what Hélène said,” he commented, when she had finished.

  Had the comtesse told a different story? That must be why she’d wanted to speak to Hélène before the comte saw her. Phoebe felt some of the tension leave her body as she realised that her uncle must have considered this possibility.

  “Now, your aunt refers to Westbrook as a common, rough fellow.”

  “I don’t think so, sir. I don’t know much about him, but he speaks like a gentleman, and always behaved towards me in a gentleman-like manner.” The few things she did know about him could not be passed on to her uncle.

  The comte said nothing, seemingly waiting for her to go on.

  “He… er… the part he was forced to play to prevent our arrest required that he treat our party with…” She wondered how to convey what Alex had done without making it seem worse than it was. “With less respect than Madame thinks is her due.”

  “A very diplomatic way of putting it,” the comte said. “Now, the next night, there was an argument between Westbrook and Perrault. Tell me about that, in detail.”

  In detail? Would he believe what his wife had done?

  “The truth, Phoebe,” the comte said. “I know that at least one of the three of you is prevaricating. I want to hear what happened, no matter how uncomfortable it makes you feel.” He kept his gaze on her, his mouth turning down at the corners. “Nor how uncomfortable you think it may make me feel.”

  Phoebe sighed, then briefly related what had happened up to the point when Hélène had said that a ransom would be paid for Phoebe as well. “Madame did not agree immediately, then Mr Westbrook had them taken out of the room.” That did not reflect well on Alex, she realised. “It was important for Mr Westbrook to maintain the fiction that I was a servant, otherwise Perrault would have been more suspicious of him, too.”

  She raised her chin—all her aunt had needed to say was ‘yes’, and she had not. None of it was Alex’s fault.

  “What happened next?”

  “Mr Westbrook fought Sarchet and won. He had pretended he… he wanted me himself as that was what Sarchet would understand. Afterwards…” She stopped and took a deep breath. “Afterwards, Madame and Hélène had been locked in their room. Perrault was watching and Mr Westbrook needed to continue to act the role he had assumed, so I stayed in the same room. I slept in the chair.” She met her uncle’s gaze squarely. “Madame assumed the worst.”

  “I see. And the following night?”

  Phoebe hesitated again.

  “Just tell me, Phoebe.”

  Describing her aunt’s attempt to prostitute her brought back the hurt of betrayal, as painful now as it had been at the time. Her uncle’s face grew steadily grimmer as she talked, one hand massaging his temple again. He looked more disappointed than angry.

  “And then?”

  “Mr Westbrook obtained a spare key to my room. I slept there, alone.” Admitting to spending most of the evening with Alex in a private parlour was not wise. Uncomfortably aware that omitting a relevant point was almost as bad as a lie, she told herself that nothing had happened, after all—at least, not the kind of thing her aunt was implying.

  The comte consulted his notes again. “You spent a lot of time with him during the day?”

  “You think we were… improper… on the box of a coach? In February?”

  “I did think that was rather unlikely,” the comte allowed. “But your aunt also mentioned something about going off together while you were waiting for the boat to arrive?”

  The tavern in Granville was not a place for respectable young ladies, but the details of that did not seem relevant to her aunt’s accusations. “He needed my help to arrange for the boat. He also gave me a paper to deliver to the Earl of Marstone.”

  The comte raised his eyebrows. “What is the connection between this Westbrook and the Earl of Marstone?”

  “I think Mr Westbrook works for him, sir.” Should she admit to already having seen the earl?

  “In what capacity? A steward? A business representative in France?”

  Although that last guess was close to Alex’s cover story, it would be best to say as little as possible. “I do not know the details, sir.” She bit her lip. “If I did, I am not sure that I should tell anyone.”

  The comte gazed at her for almost a minute. Phoebe tried not to shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny; her uncle was as astute as the Earl of Marstone, and must be aware that she had omitted some details from her story.

  “Very well. Go now; I need to think. Send Cookson in, if you would.”

  He nodded dismissal. Phoebe let out a breath of relief as she left the room.

  They were summoned to the study again an hour later. Phoebe was surprised to see all her gowns draped over a couple of chairs brought in from the dining room. The comtesse and Hélène followed her in, their gazes sliding away from the meagre collection of garments.

  “Sit down,” the comte instructed.

  “I hope you agree with me, my dear,” the comtesse began, her tone sounding almost pleading to Phoebe’s ears. “Under the circumstances it would be totally inappropriate to introduce Phoebe into society at the same time as Hélène. Her presence could severely reduce Hélène’s chances of making a brilliant match. Now that you know the truth about what happened in France—”

>   “Pray let me speak, madame,” her husband said, his tone cold. “I will come to that shortly, but there is another matter to address first.”

  The comtesse looked at the pile of gowns, one hand twisting the fabric of her skirts. Phoebe shivered at the comte’s stern expression as he fixed his gaze on his wife.

  “I increased the allowance I gave you quite considerably when Phoebe came to live with us,” he stated. “This was to allow for gowns and all the other things that Phoebe would need. These bills—” The comte indicated a pile of papers on his desk. “—these bills indicate that you did, indeed, spend all of this increased allowance on gowns, shoes, bonnets and so on. But when I asked Phoebe’s maid about her gowns, those appear to be all she owns.”

  Phoebe listened to this speech with widening eyes. The taunts about her clothing she had endured during social calls—they were ultimately her aunt’s fault. Why had her aunt done such a thing? Greed?

  Not just greed, she thought, remembering the comtesse’s frequent statements that Phoebe should not come out with Hélène, as Phoebe’s clothing would disgrace the family. More like deliberate spite.

  Her uncle was still talking.

  “…tell the maid where Phoebe’s other gowns are kept? The maid says she has brought down all the ones kept in Phoebe’s room.”

  Phoebe opened her mouth to speak, but the comte waved her to silence.

  “Some are kept in Hélène’s room,” the comtesse said.

  “Why? Because you gave Phoebe one of the smallest rooms in the house?”

  The comtesse glanced away without responding.

  “Please ask your maid to bring one of Phoebe’s other gowns down.” When the comtesse did not reply, he reached for the bell cord. “Well, madame?”

  “The gold one is in my room, Mama,” Hélène said, her voice strained.

  “Just the one?” enquired the comte. “How many gowns do you have, Hélène?”