by Jayne Davis
“What are you hiding beneath that cloak, miss?” her aunt said sharply as Phoebe reached the bottom of the stairs.
Phoebe sighed, opening her cloak. Her aunt would have to see her gown at some point.
“Very nice,” the comte said. To Phoebe’s surprise, Hélène also gave an approving nod.
The comtesse sniffed. “It is not at all appropriate,” she said. “Young girls should be wearing white, or the palest pastels—”
“Do you think she is unsuitably dressed for this musicale?” the comte asked quietly. “I made it plain, did I not, that if Phoebe does not go, Hélène does not attend either?”
“Mama!” Hélène protested.
“I… I didn’t… I mean…” The comtesse struggled for words. “What do I say if people comment on her gown?”
“You could say that you think it becomes her well.” He looked around. “You are ready, Hélène? Phoebe?”
Lady Brotherton gushed a welcome to the Calvacs and raised her eyebrows at Phoebe’s dress. Phoebe was surprised that her ladyship didn’t look particularly pleased to see Hélène either. When she saw Sophia and Sarah Brotherton, she understood. Sophia, the elder of the two, wore her blonde locks in a style similar to Hélène’s, but Hélène’s hair had a more lustrous gold tint, and her features were a little more regular.
Phoebe smiled as Lady Brotherton whisked her daughters off to their seats in the front row of chairs, ensuring no-one could make a direct comparison between Hélène and Sophia. Phoebe followed her uncle and aunt to the back of the room as Sir Alfred Brotherton introduced the first singer. For a while, all talking stopped as people listened to the woman’s sweet voice, accompanied by a skilful pianist.
The next performer was a soprano singing operatic arias. Phoebe had to admit that her uncle’s comment about screeching had some justice, and looked around to see how the other guests were enjoying the performance. She cringed at a particularly jarring note, catching Bella’s eye across the room as she grimaced. Bella waved briefly at Phoebe and said a few words to the man sitting next to her before turning her attention back to the singer. Phoebe’s eyes wandered on, gazing at the other guests, most of them frustratingly anonymous from her position at the back of the room. A lot of heads were turning and a murmur of talk began; she wasn’t the only one unimpressed by the performance.
To Phoebe’s relief, the soprano finally gave way to a man with a pleasant tenor voice, then there was a break for refreshments. She took a glass of champagne as a footman offered a tray to the Calvac party. She took a sip, almost sneezing when it bubbled interestingly up her nose.
“Hello Phoebe,” Bella said, appearing beside her. “You look lovely tonight.” She turned to her companion, who had dark blond hair and a friendly smile. “Nick, this is Phoebe Deane. Phoebe, my husband, Lord Carterton.”
“My lord.” Phoebe managed a small curtsey without spilling her champagne. From the corner of her eye she saw the comtesse’s surprise.
“Lord Carterton, may I present my aunt, the Comtesse de Calvac?”
She wasn’t sure she’d got the precedence correct—a French comtesse was probably of higher rank than a baron, but then the comtesse’s title no longer officially existed. And if she had to choose which of them to offend, it wasn’t going to be Lord Carterton. The comtesse introduced Hélène, but the comte and Lord Carterton had already met at their club.
As the men exchanged pleasantries, Phoebe stepped closer to Bella. “Is Lord Marstone here?”
“No, he hates these affairs. My own enjoyment depends on the quality of the entertainment—most of the performers this evening are good.”
“I wanted to ask him something,” Phoebe said. “It wouldn’t take long, but I don’t want to put it in writing.”
Bella’s forehead creased, then she nodded. “Can you be at Bateson’s bookshop tomorrow—at eleven o’clock? I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.” Phoebe’s gaze lifted as a tall, dark-haired man stopped beside Bella.
“Lady Carterton, won’t you introduce me to your friends?” he asked. His gesture took in the whole family, but his eyes were fixed on Hélène.
Phoebe detected a quirk in Bella’s lips as she obliged. “My lord, this is the Comte and Comtesse de Calvac, their daughter Lady Hélène, and their niece Miss Deane. Monsieur de Calvac, the Marquess of Harlford.”
Lord Harlford’s attention being still focused on Hélène, Phoebe had time to examine him. His nose was distinctly Roman, but that added to his looks rather than detracting from them, and his face had a slight colour that showed he spent some time out of doors. She thought his plain dark coat and breeches made a refreshing change to the dazzling array of colours worn by most of the other male guests. A ruby pin in his neckcloth and a watch fob were his only items of jewellery, and gave Phoebe an impression of elegance rather than ostentation.
Harlford bowed over the comtesse’s hand first, as propriety demanded, then over Hélène’s. Phoebe exchanged a rueful glance with Bella as he seemed to have forgotten her existence. Bella’s gaze shifted to somewhere behind Phoebe and she gave a little wave of her hand. A cheerful-looking young man in scarlet regimentals made his way through the throng and kissed Bella’s cheek.
“Miss Deane, may I introduce a cousin of my husband, Captain Richard Synton?”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Deane,” the captain said, as Bella turned to talk to someone else.
“And you, Captain.” His gaze dropped, and there was a short silence before he spoke again.
“Er, I haven’t seen you around before.”
“This is my first venture into society,” Phoebe explained. “Are you enjoying the entertainment, sir?”
“It passes the time and saves me—that is, yes, most enjoyable.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Even the second singer?” Phoebe asked, wondering if there was something wrong with her, or if the captain was just ill at ease in company.
His face lightened. “Well, perhaps—” He was interrupted by the discordant sound of a violin being tuned. “I should return to my seat, Miss Deane. Please excuse me.”
She had time only for a nod as he bowed and moved off. Smoothing a hand down her skirt, she realised she had not thought about her appearance other than when Bella complimented her—that was a pleasant change from her previous social encounters.
Her aunt and cousin whispered throughout the next few performances, earning annoyed glances from the comte. Phoebe had to bite her lip at his expression of relief when the recitals ended, and he hurriedly declared that they had done enough socialising for one evening and it was time to return home.
The next morning Phoebe wrote a brief note to be sent to the comtesse with her breakfast tray, and then set off for the bookshop with Ellie.
She loved the smell of books, and the possibilities within their pages. She’d had her fill of novels from reading the ones Hélène had taken to Calvac, so she wandered along the non-fiction shelves. Reflections on the Revolutions in France seemed an apt title in light of her recent experience, and she leafed through the pages, only looking up as she heard footsteps approach.
“That is rather serious reading for a young lady, is it not?” The Earl of Marstone stood before her, his expression quizzical. She closed the book and was about to replace it on the shelf when the earl took it from her.
“It would be best to be seen discussing a book, don’t you think?” he asked, glancing at people browsing the shelves nearby. “Bella said you needed to see me.”
“I… I’m sorry, my lord, I didn’t intend to cause you inconvenience.”
“No matter, Miss Deane. How can I help you?”
She could detect no sign of impatience in his tone or face. “I was just wondering about… about Mr Westbrook,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I mean, now they have a message that is supposed to come from him, they will want to stop you getting it. So when he comes back they might—”
“Don’t wor
ry, Miss Deane,” the earl said. “Westbrook is not in the habit of publicly announcing his arrival. It is likely I will see him before anyone else is aware he has returned. I may have cause to try to communicate with him while he is away; if so, I will add a warning. Will that do?”
“Thank you. Yes, that is reassuring.” She felt her cheeks grow hot. “I’m so sorry to have brought you out for—”
“Tell me, Miss Deane,” the earl interrupted. “Aren’t you the least bit curious as to the success of our endeavour?”
“Well, yes,” Phoebe said. “But there is no reason at all why you should tell me, so there didn’t seem to be any point in asking.”
“Most unusual,” the earl said, as if talking to himself. “As you predicted, Brownlee and Chatham did not manage to keep the thief in sight for long enough to identify the final recipient. However, we still have some hope that the content of the message may prove… productive. Have you heard from Brevare again?”
Phoebe told him about the note she had received, and he nodded, then turned his attention to the book he was still holding. “I would have thought your uncle would have a copy of this.”
“He may have, but until now I have mostly searched his library for books on explorations or natural history.”
“And now?”
“Having encountered first-hand some results of the revolution, I think I would like to know more about it. I will see what is in the library.”
Phoebe wondered if she’d said something peculiar, as the earl seemed to stare through her. He blinked, and put the book back on the shelf.
“If that was all, Miss Deane, I’ll leave you to your education,” he said.
“Yes, thank you, my lord.” Phoebe watched him walk away, hoping he didn’t think she’d made a fuss over nothing.
When Phoebe returned home, Green informed her that the comte wished her to join him in the parlour. After going to her room to freshen up, she found her aunt sitting with her uncle.
“I hear Hélène is to go driving with the Marquess of Harlford tomorrow,” the comte said to his wife, after Phoebe had explained where she’d been.
A satisfied smile spread across the comtesse’s face. “Yes, he called earlier. He could only stay a few minutes, but he was extremely complimentary. That would be an excellent connection.”
“And you had a caller too, I believe, Phoebe?” the comte said. “He left you a note, did he not?”
“Green didn’t give me a note, sir.” Nor had there been anything left in her room.
“Perhaps you were about to give Phoebe her message?” the comte suggested to his wife.
The comtesse flushed, taking a folded paper from her pocket. “I wanted to check Phoebe was making… suitable acquaintances,” she said as she handed it over. “I don’t know who the young man is.”
The note was an invitation to drive with Captain Synton.
“Lady Carterton introduced me to Captain Synton at the musicale,” Phoebe explained. “He is Lord Carterton’s cousin.”
“That seems unexceptionable, n’est-ce pas?” the comte said.
The comtesse’s lips thinned, but she had to agree.
“And you have no other activities in mind for tomorrow at…?” He looked at Phoebe.
“Four o’clock, sir.”
“Four o’clock. I hope not; it would be a shame for Hélène to have to miss her drive with Lord Harlford. He is due just before then, I think?”
“No, no other plans,” the comtesse admitted, although it looked to Phoebe as if she had to force the words out.
“Excellent. I’m glad that’s all clear.”
Chapter 28
Alex leaned against the wall in a street near the Place de la Révolution. He lifted one foot and turned it to inspect the sole of his boot, using the movement to cast one final glance behind him. Yesterday’s walk through this area had not generated any undue interest in him or his business here, and he was now confident that no-one had followed him this morning. That was just as well—discreet enquiries about his only other contact had revealed that the man had left Paris several months ago.
Seen through the window, Couillard’s shop appeared empty of customers, so Alex crossed the street and went in. A man in a leather apron looked up from the shoe he was sewing.
Alex turned up his boot again. “Can you mend these boots while I wait?”
The man nodded, and gestured to a chair. Alex pulled off his boots and handed them over, allowing himself a small smile at the happy coincidence of his contact being a shoemaker at a time when his boots did indeed need mending.
He looked around at the shelves of shoes and boots adorned with paper labels, awaiting repair or collection. Once the man was stitching a new sole, Alex asked casually if he ever made shoes out of pig-skin.
The man’s hand jerked slightly, but he did not look away from his work. “There’s no call for it these days,” he muttered. “Nor sheepskin.”
Satisfied, Alex stood looking out of the window in his stockinged feet until his boots were repaired, then paid for the work.
“Don’t come here again,” the shoemaker said quietly as Alex took his change. “I cannot do any more… repairs.”
Alex pulled his boots on, feeling a lump beneath his left instep. Glancing at the shoemaker, he could see tension in the man’s neck, knuckles too white in the hand that gripped the money he’d taken. He could have ignored the code words, Alex thought, but he had acknowledged them, and the lump indicated that he’d passed on a message.
Courage deserved to be rewarded.
“Business might be better if you moved,” Alex suggested. “I couldn’t guarantee how well the journey itself would go, but I’m sure you could make a living in a new location.”
“That is an interesting thought,” Couillard said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Do you have other shoes in need of repair? You could leave them here tomorrow.”
“My friend may have some work to be done,” Alex said. He did not think he should show his face here again. “He might be interested in buying some red shoes for a lady friend.”
Couillard nodded and followed him to the entrance, locking the door behind him and turning the card in the window to show Fermé.
Back in their lodgings, Alex extracted the lump from his boot. It was, as he had suspected, a folded paper Couillard had hidden there while he was stitching. He took the road guide from his bag and sat at the small table to start decoding, pencilling in the translated letters above the original message.
Ten minutes later he leaned back in the rickety chair and stretched, running his hands through his hair in frustration. The message did not make sense. It must be coded using the road guide, as that was the only book he had with him—and the only book that Marstone knew he would have with him. Neither a straight decoding nor one using the extra numbers to add and subtract produced recognisable words.
The door rattled and he hurriedly folded the paper.
“Who’s there?”
“Henri.”
Alex relaxed, and went to unlock the door. Henri followed him back into the room, putting a wrapped loaf and wedge of cheese on the table before stretching out on the bed. “Ça va?”
“No luck with it yet,” Alex replied. Henri grunted, and appeared to go to sleep. The man seemed to have a far bigger store of patience than Alex.
He looked at the original message again—it was a string of numbers, so it must be a book code. Using those numbers and his road guide produced a sequence of letters, but they had no meaning.
There must be a further layer of coding on top of the usual one. If there really was a traitor somewhere within the organisation, it made sense to encrypt the message further. However, whoever sent it must also have assumed he would be able to decode it.
Thinking back, he recalled the codes they had used, years ago, based on a single word or phrase. Marstone may have done that, using a phrase he thought Alex would guess.
He took a blank piece of paper and wrote out
his name, omitting repeated letters, then followed it with the rest of the alphabet.
W E S T B R O K A C D F…
Under that he wrote the alphabet normally—A under the W, B under the E. Using that key to transform the first few words of the half-decoded message produced another string of meaningless letters. He tried the same thing several times, using different starting words: his full name, Marstone, Kellet. He even tried Phoebe Deane.
He threw down his pencil in disgust and ran his hands through his hair again. These failures should not be surprising. The names he’d tried could be guessed by someone in the Foreign Office. What significant words would both he and the earl know about that others would not?
Was he using the wrong book to translate the initial numbers into letters? But Marstone could only rely on him having the road guide.
Books…?
Could Marstone have used the title of a book as the key phrase? Perhaps the one Phoebe had used to code the message he’d sent back with her—something to do with a cave. No, not cave. Cavern?
‘Smuggler’s Cavern’ did not work, but when he tried ‘Pirate’s Cavern’ the first words became Sixteen Rue des Fleurs.
He grunted in satisfaction and continued with the rest of the message, instantly feeling both relieved and much more optimistic. If Marstone knew about The Pirate’s Cavern, then not only must Phoebe have got back to London safely, but she had seen Marstone and he had believed her story.
* * *
Two mornings later, Phoebe retreated to the library after breakfast. The promised drive with Captain Synton had been pleasant, once she’d got the captain talking about horses. Now she was looking forward to a quiet morning before visiting Miss Fletcher to have the final fitting for her ball gowns.
She turned to the parcel of books that had just been delivered. One was the book she had been looking at in the shop when Lord Marstone found her—Reflections on the Revolution in France by Edmund Burke. Two of the others were on similar lines, although they appeared from first glance to be taking the opposite point of view to Mr Burke. Finally there was A Vindication of the Rights of Woman by Mary Wollstonecraft. An unsigned note suggested that the books should be read in the order in which they were published.