by Jayne Davis
Phoebe had to be content with that. She raised her bound hands to rub her face, thankful they had at least tied them in front of her rather than behind her back. Pressing her hands down on her lap, she could just feel the pocket beneath her skirts, and the hard lump made by the pistol. With her hands tied together she couldn’t reach it without the men seeing what she was doing, and in any case one bullet was of little use against two of them.
The jolting ride seemed to go on for hours, but it could not have been so long, for when Phoebe was finally dragged out of the coach the sun was still high in the sky, although a sheet of thin cloud was beginning to form. They were in front of a small inn, the paint peeling from its wooden-clad walls.
Ominous clouds loomed to the west, and the air was heavy with damp. In daylight her captors appeared no better than they had in the dark. High-voice was tall and lanky, with greasy hair and several days’ growth of whiskers above a dirty shirt. Low-voice was stockier, with a broken nose and ragged ear.
High-voice draped a cloak around her, covering her bound hands. Phoebe’s gaze swept her surroundings as High-voice took her firmly by the arm and led her towards the inn. There was no-one else around—no possible source of help. They had not tied Georges’ hands, but the other man took his arm firmly enough for the boy to whimper, and dragged him along behind Phoebe.
Inside, they were taken into a side parlour. The room was shabby, the curtains faded and the tables and chairs worn, but it was spotless. Two men with tankards of ale sat by the fire. One was Brevare, looking far more strained and less confident than the last time she had seen him. She did not recognise the middle-aged man with thinning hair.
The pain in her head had changed to a throbbing ache but, despite that, she was feeling clear-minded and was beginning to turn over possibilities. There must be people in the kitchen or the taproom…
“Here she is,” High-voice said.
“What is he doing here?” the older man asked, looking at Georges.
“These cowards kidnapped him as well.” Phoebe spoke rapidly in French, pleased to see the man’s brows draw together, no comprehension showing on his face.
“Speak English, girl,” he said impatiently.
“Don’t you understand what I am saying?” she asked again, in French.
“She ain’t said nothin’ in English,” High-voice said, sounding nervous now. “We got the woman that was in the wood, like ’e said!” He jerked his head towards Brevare as he spoke.
“You’ve taken the wrong woman, Brevare?” The man’s tone was sharp. “You know that milord wants to find out—”
“She’s the one,” Brevare said firmly as he walked towards Phoebe. Georges backed away and hid himself behind her.
“Come, Miss Deane, you are English. Try speaking it!”
“Your mother and sister are in England,” she said, still in French. “Westbrook stayed in France to find them, and he brought them back. They are safe in Marstone’s care.”
She watched as colour drained from his face.
“Do you understand?” she asked, afraid he would give them away. “We thought you were being blackmailed into this—were we right?”
“How… how do I know you are not lying?” he asked.
“Do I know your family? Does Westbrook know them?”
He shook his head.
“Your sister is called Suzanne, and your mother is a dragon who hits her servants.”
His eyes widened at the last part of this statement, but then his mouth relaxed.
“How would I know that unless Westbrook had told me?” She needed to convince him before the other man intervened.
“Well?” The sharp voice from the other man interrupted them.
Brevare turned towards him. “She’s the right one,” he stated, in English.
“Sont-ils en bonne santé?” he asked, turning back to Phoebe. Are they well?
“As far as I know.” She continued speaking in French.
“Where are they?”
“If you get us out of this mess, you will be taken to them. If not—you have been spying against this country. You know how traitors are dealt with here?”
A pulse began to beat in his temple.
“Helping us would go a long way towards avoiding that,” she said. It sounded plausible, but she had no idea if it was true.
“I can’t do anything,” he said desperately. “There are two men with the coach as well as these two. And him as well.” He jerked his head towards the other man.
“And this ‘milord’ he mentioned…?”
“I don’t know who he is. I’ve only ever dealt with this one.”
“Brevare!” the other man said impatiently. “Get on with it—it’s time we were going.”
“We need time,” Phoebe hissed. “Help me to delay things.”
Georges—he could be the excuse.
“Tell them Georges needs food, or he’ll cry all the way to… to wherever you are taking us!”
High-voice started towards them, his expression menacing.
“And he is Calvac’s son—the son of a peer—you don’t want to risk harming him, and he might be useful as a hostage.”
Brevare’s gaze met hers, then he gave a quick nod, turning to speak to his companion. The older man rolled his eyes heavenwards, but walked over to the door and shouted. It appeared to Phoebe that he deliberately stood so as to prevent the girl who came from seeing into the room.
A few minutes later an older woman appeared, shorter and rounder, carrying a tray laden with plates of bread, cheese, and ham. A word from the older man sent High-voice hurrying across the room to take the tray from her, and Low-voice hustled her out. The woman cast a frowning glance at Phoebe and Georges as she left.
“Eat!” the older man ordered, and Phoebe and Georges moved over to the table. It was awkward with her hands bound, but she managed to eat a little.
Georges was eating as if he hadn’t been fed for days; Phoebe’s hands paused part-way to her mouth as an idea struck her.
“Well done, Georges,” Phoebe said, as the woman from the inn sponged the vomit from his clothing. He’d managed to stick his fingers in his throat without any of their captors noticing, and the resulting mess was on her gown as well as his clothing. Although the smell was unpleasant, to say the least, it also meant delay.
She rubbed her wrists—Brevare had been told to untie her before sending them to be cleaned up. He was standing by the door, far enough away not to hear if she kept her voice low. He should be on their side now, but she didn’t trust him.
“Something’s wrong, miss?” The woman spoke quietly, shrewd intelligence in the eyes turned towards Phoebe’s face.
“We’ve been kidnapped,” Phoebe stated, fingers gently exploring the sore spot on her head.
The woman nodded, as if she had expected such an answer. “I’m Sal Robins.” Her gaze slid towards Brevare. “There’s six of them, and only three… only two men of any use here. I’m sorry.”
She was an ally, though—that was a bonus she hadn’t expected.
“Can you send a message?”
Sal nodded.
“Do you know of Oakley Place?”
Sal nodded again.
“Tell Mr Westbrook. Put where they’re taking us, if you can find out, and write ‘squire’s horse’ as well. It’s a kind of code word,” she explained as Sal frowned. The woman must have wondered if Phoebe had lost her wits.
What else could she do? If Alex could catch them up…
“Sal, please don’t clean us up too well. If we still smell, some of them might stay outside the coach.”
There wasn’t time for more—a bang on the door made Brevare jump, and High-voice called that they had to get moving now.
* * *
Harlford and Deane arrived back in the parlour just as Nick returned to say that the grooms riding the estate had found nothing useful. A quick discussion concluded that Harlford should ride to London, and Nick and Deane would go to Rye
, then along the coast in opposite directions.
“I’ll ride south to Hastings, and turn west if there’s no trace,” Alex said. He didn’t point out that all this would be useless if Phoebe and Georges were being taken on horseback; it would be easy for horses to avoid the main roads. In that case, they could be almost at the coast by now. Even in a coach, the searchers would be hard-pressed to reach the coast first, particularly if they enquired at inns on the way. Their only real hope was that the kidnappers might encounter some delay in their journey.
Grooms and saddled horses awaited them at the front of the house. Deane and Nick rode down the drive, two grooms accompanying them. Alex stood on the steps as Harlford swung onto his hunter.
“Why aren’t you mounting?” Harlford asked as he settled himself into the saddle. “You won’t find her by hanging around here.”
“Nor will you by staying to berate me,” Alex retorted. “Are you sure you don’t want to take a groom?”
“I can find my way to the post road,” the marquess snapped. He wheeled his horse around and spurred it to a fast trot, its hooves scattering gravel. Above, the gathering clouds promised rain to come.
Bella came out and stood next to Alex. “Do you think she will find a way to get word to us?”
“I’m hoping so.” If anyone could, it would be Phoebe. He pushed aside the thought that she might be injured or dead.
Descending the steps, he checked that some food and a bottle of water had been put into the saddle bags. He looked at the remaining groom. “Stevens, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll head south,” he said to Bella, preparing to mount. “If something does turn up, be sure to send someone after me.”
“Wait!” Bella said, her gaze fixed on the drive.
He turned—hoofbeats were approaching, the horse at a gallop. Hope rose in his chest as the rider swung down, looking from him to Bella. He was young, not over twenty, in groom’s clothing.
“Can I help?” Alex asked
Relief spread over the man’s face. “I bin sent to Oakley Place with a message for…” The man hesitated, uncertainty crossing his features again.
“Lord Carterton?” Alex guessed. “Westbrook?”
His name seemed to register with the man, and a slow smile spread over his face.
“That’s right.”
“I’m Westbrook,” Alex said.
“’Ere you are, sir,” the man said, handing over a scruffy scrap of paper.
“What is it, Alex?” Bella asked.
He unfolded the paper.
Westbrook. Pett. Squires horse.
He let out a long breath of relief. The note wasn’t in Phoebe’s hand, but it was from her. Not only was this a clue, but it showed she was still alive.
“A message from Phoebe,” he said abruptly, handing it to Bella. “Pett—it must be a place name.” He looked at the messenger. “Do you know where it is?”
“No, sir,” the messenger said, his face blank.
“Pett?” Bella turned. “Andrews?”
The butler appeared in the doorway.
“Fetch the map from the parlour table, please. Quickly!”
Andrews disappeared, and Bella turned back to Alex. “Squire’s horse?”
“An old joke,” Alex said, his attention on the man in front of him. “Where have you come from? What is your name?”
“I come from home, sir. My name’s Ben Robins. Ma sent me.”
“Where’s ‘home’?”
“Alex, don’t bark at the man,” Bella protested. “Ben, where is your home?”
“Black Bull Inn, my lady.” Ben bobbed his head at her.
“I know where that is, sir,” Stevens put in. “Half an hour’s ride, if we don’t spare the horses. Perhaps someone there will know more?”
“I hope so,” Alex said. “Where the devil is that map?”
“Here, sir.” Andrews ran up, holding the map out.
“Do you know where Pett is, Andrews?”
The butler’s brow creased. “Somewhere east of Hastings, sir?”
Alex scanned the map. “Got it. Nearer to Winchelsea than Hastings.” He looked from the map to the groom. “Stevens, where’s this inn?”
“Not far from Dallington, I reckon.”
Alex looked at the map again—Dallington wasn’t on a direct route to Winchelsea, but it wasn’t too much out of the way. “You can lead us there, Stevens?” He didn’t know if he could rely on Ben to take them the fastest way.
“Yes, sir,” the groom said confidently.
“Good man.” He turned to Bella. “Do we have anyone left to ride?”
“A few, I think.”
“Good. Send someone to get the marquess back, and tell him what you know when he arrives. Best to send him on to the Black Bull, I think. I’ll leave a message there for him when I know what’s happening. And send someone after Nick and Deane.”
Bella gave Andrews the orders, and the butler disappeared towards the back of the house.
What if Pett were only a meeting place? Would Brevare still escape them?
“Bella, whoever goes after Deane and Nick can take the map. Can you write a note for them? Send them direct to Pett, if possible.” He looked down at her, aware that he’d been overstepping his authority here. “I’m sorry—”
Bella smiled as she cut him off. “I understand. Go—you must be at least an hour behind them.”
Alex strode over to the horse and mounted, trying to shut off the churning mess of questions in his mind. He set off down the drive at a gallop, Stevens and Ben following, but he quickly reined back to a canter. The chance of getting spare horses was slim, and there was no sense in tiring the animals too quickly.
Chapter 50
Stevens’ estimate of half an hour to the Black Bull was a trifle optimistic, but not by too much. The building was small and shabby; more for local drinkers than travellers, Alex guessed. As they’d ridden, the high clouds approaching from the west began to thicken and block the sun. The smell of rain was in the air.
“Give them a drink, Stevens,” Alex said as he dismounted in the stable yard. “Not too much; we should be off again soon.”
“Right, sir.”
“Ben, can you fetch your mother, please? Now.”
His urgency must have got through to the man, as he disappeared into the inn at a run. Alex stood waiting, one foot tapping impatiently, hoping that the mother had more wits than the son.
Ben returned with a short, plump woman and another young man—a brother to Ben, from his looks. Mrs Robins’ eyes sparked with intelligence as she looked Alex up and down, beckoning him to stand inside the doorway out of the cold wind.
“Who is the woman with red hair?” she asked. “And who is the boy?”
Alex let out a breath—she’d seen Phoebe, but she was suspicious. Honesty was the best approach.
“The woman is Miss Phoebe Deane,” he said. “She’s a niece of the Comte de Calvac. The boy is Calvac’s son. Are they well? Hurt?” He would likely get better cooperation from her if he allowed her to make her own decision what to do. “They have been kidnapped by French agents.”
Mrs Robins regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “They’re well enough, considering. There were six men with them. Two nobs… er… gentlemen; one sounded like a Frenchie, one was older—he didn’t say much. A rough-looking pair driving the coach, and another two the same inside, guarding them.”
Six? He glanced at Stevens—would the man be any good in a fight? Would he even be willing?
He turned his attention back to the woman. “When did they leave?”
“Just over an hour ago. The nobs went ahead on horseback with one of the others. The woman and the boy went in the coach.”
That was better—only three men to deal with.
“Did you write the note, Mrs Robins?”
An angry male voice called from within the inn. “Sal, get back in the kitchen. There’s customers to be served!”
>
A grimace crossed her face, but she ignored the summons. “The young lady asked if I could find out where they were going, and send a note. She didn’t have time to say much, just while we were cleaning them up.”
“Do you know any more about where they were going?” Alex asked.
“Sam, my eldest,” she indicated the second young man. “Sam got talking to the driver after we sent Ben off with the note. They had to get them all to an inn on the Pett levels by eight o’clock.”
“Can someone guide me there?”
“SAL!”
“I can pay for his time,” Alex added.
“Ignore him,” she said. “That’s my brother-in-law—owns the place now my John’s gone. Bark’s worse’n his bite.” She glanced at her son. “I reckon I’d send Sam with you anyway, pay or no. I don’t like to see young ladies and boys treated like that.”
“I need to write a note. There may be someone else coming after me.”
“This way, sir.” She led the way into a large steam-filled kitchen, leaving him while she fetched paper, pen, and ink.
Alex scribbled a brief summary of what he’d learned, and folded the note over.
“Who’s it for?” Sal asked as he handed it to her.
“It could be one of several people,” Alex said. It depended on what Bella said to whoever followed. “If anyone comes asking for me, or for Miss Deane, give it to them. Mrs Robins, I can’t thank you enough for your help.”
She nodded as she tucked the note into her apron. “God speed, sir.”
Sam awaited him in the yard, already mounted, and Stevens was ready with their own horses.
“Are we going after them, sir?” Sam asked. “I mean, do you want to try to catch them, or get to the coast before them?”
“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?” Alex said.
“No, sir,” Sam said. “I give the coach driver directions after the nobs rode off. If he done what I said they’ll take a long time to get there.”
“How’s that?”
Sam gestured to the clouds. “There’s been a fair bit of rain around here, sir. Most of the lanes will be deep with mud.”