Playing With Fire

by Jayne Davis

  The parcel could only have been sent by the earl. But why had he sent them? She’d said her uncle probably had a copy of the first book.

  Lord Marstone must have had a reason for suggesting the reading order, so she picked up Burke’s book. It was heavy going—the man never seemed to use one word when he could use five or six. She was a few pages into it when a piece of paper fell out and fluttered to the floor. Phoebe picked it up, wondering if it was a receipt for the books.

  It looked like a tailor’s account, but it was written in the same hand as the note that had accompanied the books. The sums of money looked odd, too—even the most extravagant sprig of fashion could not possibly pay five pounds for a neckcloth. Not only that, but whoever had written it appeared to think there could be more than twenty shillings to the pound.

  She put the paper on the table, pushing Burke to one side. The book was new, so the paper must have been left in it on purpose, almost certainly by Lord Marstone. He, or his secretary, had written it out himself, so the words and numbers must mean something. A code? Was it some kind of challenge?

  Smiling, she found paper, pens, and ink in the comte’s desk. All the amounts were whole numbers of shillings, no pence. Could the number for the pounds be a page number and the shillings be the letters? The paper had been tucked into Burke’s book, so she began to turn pages and count letters, pushing aside a warm memory of sitting with Alex in that French inn doing the same thing.

  After a minute she sat back in disappointment—the results made no sense. She was using the same method she had used when putting Alex’s list of names and addresses into code, but in reverse.

  It must be a message of some kind—why else would the paper have been in the book? However, Lord Marstone wasn’t likely to be sending her names that needed spelling out letter by letter. If the message could be expressed in ordinary words…?

  This time she used the shillings to count the words on the pages instead of the letters. She beamed in satisfaction as the short message appeared before her.

  Would you and your guardian care to join me at dinner?

  That was all, although it was surprising enough.

  How should she respond? The idea of being invited to dinner by the earl was both flattering and frightening. Her uncle had been invited as well, but she wasn’t sure that she should, or even could, explain to him how she had come by the invitation. A formal invitation from Lord Marstone would be better.

  She started turning pages and writing down numbers on a new sheet of paper. Then she rang the bell and asked for Green.

  When Phoebe arrived at Miss Fletcher’s salon that afternoon, she was surprised to see Bella there, perusing pattern books.

  “Hello, Phoebe,” Bella said. “I’ve come to see how your gowns look on you.”

  “If you’ll come this way, Miss Deane?” Amy gestured towards the changing room.

  “Bring her back in here to be pinned, please, Amy,” Bella said.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Once in the back room, Amy helped Phoebe to change into the first of the ball gowns she’d ordered. This one was pale gold in colour, with an overdress in a deeper shade. Delicate, creamy lace trimmed the neckline and sleeves. Back in the salon, she stood in the spot Amy indicated, gazing in awe at her image in the mirrors.

  “It’s lovely, Phoebe,” Bella said, getting up to walk around her.

  “Don’t move, miss,” Amy warned through a mouthful of pins.

  “How did you enjoy your outing with Captain Synton?” Bella asked.

  “Oh, well enough.” Phoebe smiled at the memory of the awkward start to their conversation. “Thank you for sending him.”

  Bella tutted. “He told you I’d sent him? The man has no manners.”

  Phoebe laughed, and this time Amy tutted.

  “Not in so many words,” Phoebe explained. “It was a little difficult at first, but we got on splendidly after I asked him about the horses.”

  “Yes, Nick said he’s asked to borrow the phaeton and pair again tomorrow. He said you wanted to drive them?”

  Phoebe remembered just in time not to turn around, and caught Bella’s eye in one of the mirrors instead. “Yes. I had to—I drove a coach for a few miles in France, and I thought it would be interesting to learn properly.” When there were no soldiers to evade. “Does Lord Carterton mind?”

  Bella shook her head. “Not at all. He trusts Richard to take care of them.”

  “Step up on here, please, Miss Deane,” Amy said, indicating a broad box. Phoebe did so, and Amy crouched to check the hem.

  Phoebe recalled the start of her outing, and couldn’t stop her lips curving.

  “Do tell,” Bella said. “What amuses you so?”

  “The captain was due to call half an hour after Lord Harlford called for Hélène,” Phoebe began, wondering if she was being fair to her cousin in relating the story. Perhaps she wasn’t, but Hélène had brought it on herself, after all.

  “Richard was late?”

  “Oh no,” Phoebe said, turning to Amy’s command. “He was on time, as was Lord Harlford. Hélène kept him waiting for half an hour.”

  Bella’s eyebrows rose. Phoebe had wondered if keeping a suitor waiting was normal, but it appeared not.

  “He was not best pleased?”

  “No. Well, it wasn’t that.” Phoebe turned again, and made a fresh start. “Hélène had planned a grand entrance, floating down the stairs in her finery.”

  “Her suitor more appreciative for having waited?” Bella suggested.

  “I believe that was the idea. She made her entrance just as the captain arrived and was being introduced, so no-one noticed.” From the chagrin on Hélène’s face, she was sure her cousin had been late on purpose. She wondered if it had been Hélène’s idea, or if the comtesse had suggested it.

  “Ha!” Bella said. “An unwise strategy. Harlford’s a stickler for punctuality, from what I’ve heard.”

  “There, miss,” Amy said, finally standing.

  Phoebe drew in a breath as she took in her appearance in the mirror. The bodice hugged her figure, the skirt flaring out from the waist. Bella stood and pulled a few curls from Phoebe’s bandeau, draping them over her shoulder.

  “Stunning,” she said.

  Phoebe swallowed. This gown surpassed the others she’d already received from Miss Fletcher—and made her into a totally different person from the dowdy poor relation in the orange dress. She twisted to see her back view, hardly hearing Amy’s entreaty to be careful not to stab herself on the pins.

  It seemed silly to feel so much more confident because of a gown, but she was now looking forward to the ball tomorrow evening.

  Chapter 29

  Phoebe gazed at Lady Sandrich’s ballroom from her place in the line of guests, and tried to hide her awe at the grandeur. Swags of green, gold, and white cloth adorned the walls, and dozens of pots of daffodils and purple crocuses in full bloom gave the appearance of spring. The fresh feel of the colours did not extend to the air, which was warm and heavy with the smell of burning candles and cloying perfumes.

  Once their small party moved past the receiving line, several acquaintances of the comtesse approached them, introducing sons or nephews or cousins; they all wished to secure a dance with the fair Lady Hélène, ravishing tonight in white, the edges of her bodice and sleeves outlined in silver thread, and tiny silver flowers and ribbons woven into her hair.

  Phoebe, happy in her own new gown, no longer felt the poor relation and accepted gracefully when several of Hélène’s would-be suitors were polite enough to also ask her for a dance as she was introduced. She concentrated on her steps at first, but soon gained enough confidence to exchange general remarks with her various partners about the ballroom, the weather, and occasionally the other dancers.

  Bella arrived with her husband and Captain Synton while Phoebe was sitting down, glad to rest her feet.

  “Well, Phoebe, are you enjoying yourself?” Bella asked, sitting beside her
.

  “Yes, very much, thank you.”

  “No partner?”

  As she spoke, Sir Peter Tynwood appeared with the lemonade he had gone to procure. Phoebe made the introductions, then he excused himself and went off to find his next partner.

  “A conquest?” Bella asked.

  “Oh, definitely,” said Phoebe, with a wry look. “He was keen to see me tomorrow afternoon in the park… when he learned that I will be accompanying my aunt and cousin for a drive.”

  “I say, that’s a bit much!” Captain Synton said.

  Phoebe laughed. “Oh, he was fairly subtle about it,” she said. She suspected that several of her partners had been hoping she could help them get close to her cousin, but she was surprised to find that she didn’t mind as long as they didn’t make it too obvious.

  “Have you met my cousin, Captain Synton?”

  “No, but Bella pointed her out as we came over. Miss Deane, are you engaged for the supper dance?”

  “No.”

  “May I?”

  “By all means. Thank you, Captain.” He smiled, and then left in the direction of the card room.

  “He should be fit for polite society with another few years’ training,” Bella said, straight-faced, as she watched him go. “But at least he has the sense not to fall at your cousin’s feet.”

  “I must thank you once again for introducing me to Miss Fletcher,” Phoebe said. She saw a passing lady pause as she spoke, then turn and move towards them.

  “Miss Fletcher?” the newcomer asked. “You must be the reason my appointment was cancelled last week.”

  “Maria, this is Miss Phoebe Dean,” Bella said. “Phoebe, this is my good friend Lady Jesson.”

  Lady Jesson was in her mid-thirties, dressed in shades of light purple and silvery grey, her gown cleverly minimising a rather plump waistline. The few fine lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes looked to Phoebe more like laughter lines than signs of age.

  “I am pleased to meet you, my lady,” Phoebe said, making a curtsey. “I’m sorry to have taken your appointment, but I cannot regret the results.” She glanced down at her gown as she spoke.

  Lady Jesson regarded her for a few moments, then smiled. They were laughter lines. “You’ll do, I like a girl who can be honest! Who’s presenting you?”

  “I live with my uncle, the Comte de Calvac. My aunt is presenting me along with her own daughter.”

  “Oh, yes, the new Incomparable is Lavinia’s daughter.” Lady Jesson looked Phoebe over, her gaze running from Phoebe’s hair right down to her slippers. Phoebe kept her chin up, determined not to show her discomfort at being inspected in this way. Finally, Lady Jesson smiled at her.

  “We’ll see,” she said cryptically, then nodded to Bella and walked off.

  Phoebe looked at Bella, surprised to see her smiling.

  “She’s rather a gossip,” Bella explained, “but she’s not at all spiteful with it, unlike some.”

  Bella was claimed by another acquaintance a few minutes later, and Phoebe was happy to spend the rest of that set observing the company. She saw the Marquess of Harlford arrive and make his way over to Hélène, and later Hélène was on his arm going into the supper room, a triumphant smile on her face.

  Phoebe enjoyed her own supper with Bella, Lord Carterton, and the captain, and had enough partners during the second half of the evening to call her first ball a success. She enjoyed the dancing, although she did wonder how much of it was due to the attraction of novelty. Conversations with her partners had consisted mainly of the platitudes she’d expected, quite unlike her talks with Alex. To be fair, it was difficult to hold a serious conversation during a dance.

  It would have been lovely if she could have danced with Alex.

  * * *

  Alex ordered another cup of the swill the eating house called coffee, and stared morosely out of the window. He shouldn’t complain too much, he thought, as a gust of rain spattered against the glass. At least he was sitting in the warm and dry waiting for Henri to return.

  Marstone’s coded message had provided several new contacts, one of whom had managed to find out that two women answering the description of the vicomtesse and her daughter were being kept in a house further down this street. Over the last few days they’d seen glimpses of two roughly dressed men who could be guards. There was also a girl in servants’ garb who ventured out with a basket each afternoon.

  He rubbed one hand across his face and looked at the newspaper he was supposedly reading, but his thoughts were on Brevare. The man was French, so some might say that he was not betraying his country in attempting to get Alex’s list of names. But not many of the aristocracy sided with the republicans, and Alex guessed the numbers would be fewer still now the king had been executed. Brevare would be regarded as a traitor in some quarters.

  Alex roused himself from his musings as Henri placed a steaming bowl of cassoulet and a plate of bread on the table and slumped into the adjacent chair. Hoping the food was better than the coffee, Alex caught the eye of a waiter and soon had his own meal before him.

  “You talked to her?” he asked Henri.

  “Oui. It is the Brevare women. Aimée looks after them—cooks for them and two guards.”

  “Does she know why they’re there?”

  Henri shook his head, his mouth full. “Told not to talk to anyone,” he said. “But it can’t be an official arrest—they’d be in prison if it was.”

  Alex nodded, dipping his bread into the juices in his dish—it wasn’t the best cassoulet he’d eaten, but it would do.

  Confirmation of the prisoners’ identities backed up their theory that Brevare was being blackmailed. But finding the women wasn’t enough—getting them to England might allow Marstone to find out who Brevare was working for.

  “Is there any sign that they are about to be moved?”

  “She didn’t say anything about that, but the guards probably wouldn’t tell Aimée anyway.”

  “Would she have told you if they had?” If Aimée was a good revolutionary, she wouldn’t want to help a pair of aristos to escape.

  Henri paused, considering the question. “I think so,” he said. “She didn’t seem happy with the situation.”

  “Will she help them escape?”

  “I don’t know. I only talked to her for a few minutes.” Henri put his fork down. “And it would be dangerous for her, especially if we fail. I will talk to her again tomorrow.”

  “It will take a day or two to prepare,” Alex said. They’d need travel papers, a coach, a diversion. The shoemaker was making arrangements to get himself and his wife to one of the rendezvous points on the coast that Marstone had detailed in his message. But it might be better if they all travelled together—anyone searching for the Brevare women might overlook a larger party.

  “Bien. I will persuade her. She can come with us if she wishes, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  Alex’s estimate of two days was optimistic. It was three nights later that he and Henri climbed over a wall and into the dark back yard of the house where the Brevare women were being held. Only a dim light shone from what must be the kitchen windows, but it was enough for them to avoid alerting the inhabitants by kicking over buckets or other bits of rubbish strewn about.

  As promised, the rear door was not locked. Pushing it slowly, Alex released his breath when the hinges made no sound. Good, they could get in quietly when it was time. He pulled the door to again without latching it, and moved back out and into the shadow beneath the window to bide his time.

  He checked the priming of his pistols again while they waited; Henri did the same. Alex partially drew his sword to make sure it moved easily in its scabbard. He wasn’t used to wearing it and hoped he wasn’t going to trip over the damned thing, but two pistols only gave two shots.

  Ten minutes later shouts reached them from the street in front of the house, then pistol shots and the screams of panicking horses. Alex and Henri allowed a couple o
f minutes for anyone in the house to move to the front windows to see what was going on, then quietly let themselves into the kitchen. A candle stuck to the corner of a large table guttered in the draught from the open door. Henri picked it up and they made their way to the inner door. Everything so far was as Aimée had told Henri.

  “No servants’ stairs,” Henri reminded him.

  They’d have to pass whoever was on guard at the front of the house. Easing open the door between the servants’ area and the main part of the house, Alex saw the hall lit with flickering orange light. A large man stood by the open front door, silhouetted against flambeaux in the street with his hands on his hips. His attention was on the developing riot in the street, but he was only a few feet from the bottom of the main staircase.

  They crept forward, Alex with a cocked pistol in one hand. He could have sworn they made no noise, but the guard turned just as Henri reached the foot of the stairs.

  “Quoi?” He stepped towards them.

  Alex raised his pistol, but Henri dashed past, running at the guard and knocking him over. The guard reached up with a shout of rage, one hand grabbing Henri by the throat and the fingers of the other aiming at his eyes.

  Henri twisted his face away and punched the man on the side of the head, but he didn’t let go. Alex sidled round the flailing legs and took hold of the barrel of his pistol. The guard went limp as the butt of the pistol struck his temple.

  Henri scrambled to his feet and they both stood in silence for a moment, listening. The only sounds came from the street. There was no indication that anyone was coming to investigate the disturbance.

  “Drag him into the kitchen,” Alex whispered, and went to shut and bolt the front door. He didn’t want any surprises arriving from that direction.