Laura considered. “No.”
“No?” His brow furrowed.
“You have lied, and I have corroborated your lies to protect you. We are in this together. For better or worse.”
“Be careful, ma chère. I said those words once and lived to regret them.”
She met his gaze. “Even so. I will read it with you.”
“Very well. I will trust you.”
“Will you?”
“It seems I must.”
She retrieved the flask from where she had hidden it and, when she returned, said, “I still don’t see how one letter might exonerate your brother.”
“I’ll explain. Officials learned that information was traveling from Brittany to the British. They had traced the source to a port near our home and began searching for an informant. François fell under suspicion, and I believe he pointed a finger at Alan to save his own neck.”
She handed him the flask. He removed the cap and set it aside while she lit a candle from the kitchen fire and trained its light on the mouth.
“I don’t see anything,” she said.
He reached up and directed her hand. “Bring the light a little closer.”
She did so and glimpsed paper curled around the interior. “There is something.”
With his finger, he drew out a rolled letter. Straightening it, he began reading and soon grimaced. “So the rumors about François were true. This is a letter to him from the British officer Philippe d’Auvergne.”
The name didn’t sound British to Laura, though it did seem vaguely familiar. “I believe I have seen his name in the newspapers.”
Alexander nodded. “D’Auvergne is stationed on Jersey. He sends men into France to gather information to help the British. Our government knows of him, has even contemplated another invasion of Jersey to stop him, but it has not yet transpired.”
He raised the letter. “This proves François is working for the British. Or was. It does not directly exonerate Alan, but hopefully with this evidence that the local informant they were seeking was LaRoche, they might release Alan.”
He looked toward the door. “I have to take this to France. The longer I remain here, the more I endanger you and your family. If François comes to Fern Haven it will not be a pleasant reunion, and I don’t want you or your loved ones in harm’s way.”
“Do you really think we are at risk?”
“If you are sheltering me, you might be. I need to find a ship to take me to Brittany, or at least the Channel Islands. Do you know anyone who might be persuaded?”
“Most of the vessels here are simple fishing boats or, in all honesty, smugglers’ ships. Surely you don’t want to—”
“That would be perfect, actually. They go regularly to the Channel Islands to trade, do they not?”
“I believe so.” She added dryly, “Unfortunately, I am not personally acquainted with many smugglers.”
He cocked one eyebrow. “Are you sure? What about Treeve Kent?”
Laura paused, recalling seeing Treeve with Tom Parsons the night of the wreck and during the late-night landing of smuggled goods. Yes, Treeve had connections all right, but would he be willing to help a French prisoner of war?
Alexander’s frown pulled Laura from her thoughts as he once again peered inside the flask. “Hold on. What’s this?”
She held the candle to the neck while he again inserted a finger and, with effort, drew out a thin rectangle of paper that had been coiled beneath the letter. He flattened it, and they looked at its face. It was a bank note for fifty pounds, drawn on Mortlock’s Cambridge bank and signed by banker John Mortlock himself.
Alexander drew a long breath. “So it was François who stole from the superintendent’s office. My parole agent mentioned the theft to me.” He shook his head. “I cannot be caught with this. The militia would no doubt assume that I was the thief, if François has not already accused me.”
Laura held out her palm. “I will take it to the custom and excise office. It may not go back to the prison directly, but it will go back to our government, which is better than nothing.”
“I agree.” He relinquished the bank note with obvious relief.
Loud pounding shook the front door.
Startled, Laura impulsively grasped Alexander’s arm, her fingers curling partway around his sturdy bicep.
Had François come as he’d threatened to do?
She heard Newlyn’s timid tread, followed by the front door opening and an official-sounding voice announcing, “Lieutenant Moore and Ensign Rogers of the North Devon Militia, here to question yer houseguest.”
She didn’t recognize the officers’ names. Militia regiments were usually required to serve away from home, and were frequently moved to reduce the risk of them sympathizing with locals during times of civil unrest.
Alexander stepped forward, but Laura held him back, whispering, “Not yet. Not while we have the bank note. Go out the kitchen door and back to Miss Chegwin’s. Stay out of sight.”
“I don’t like the thought of running.”
“And I don’t like the thought of you returning to prison.”
He ran a hand over his face. “Very well.” He slipped out, and she gingerly closed the door behind him. Hopefully, no one would see him from the windows.
She tiptoed into the passage and from there heard voices in the parlour. Uncle Matthew, Mrs. Bray, and the two militia officers.
“He has been gone since early this morning, I believe,” Mrs. Bray said. “I don’t know if he plans to return, though I assumed so.”
Her uncle added, “He would not leave without saying good-bye.”
The parlour door closed, muffling their voices.
Laura wished she could hear what they were saying but did not want to be caught eavesdropping.
The officers must have asked to see the room where their guest had been staying, for a few minutes later the parlour door opened again and Mrs. Bray led them upstairs. Laura ducked back into the kitchen, unnoticed.
What conclusions would they draw from his few possessions, a borrowed Bible, and pair of shoes? Had he left his watch? Would they open the back as she had done and see it had been made by a French watchmaker? Unlikely. Thankfully, he possessed little else to give away his nationality.
While Laura considered her next move, Eseld arrived home, sneaking through the kitchen door as Laura and Alexander had done, looking a little guilty.
Seeing her, Eseld pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh, good. It’s only you.”
Laura vaguely wondered where she had been but let the comment pass. She asked, “Are you still going to Padstow with Miss Roskilly this afternoon?”
“Yes. Have you changed your mind?”
“I think I will go with you.”
Eseld’s face brightened. “Excellent. I am meeting her at the ferry in an hour’s time. Your uncle has offered to drive me.”
The girl was always eager to visit the shops of larger Padstow. Laura did not tell her shopping was not why she wanted to go to town that day.
At the kitchen door, Eseld turned back. “Have you any spending money?”
Laura nodded. “I plan to leave Padstow with a lighter purse.”
Eseld grinned. “That’s the spirit!”
After the officers departed and the Brays returned to the parlour, Laura waited a few minutes, then, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, casually entered the room.
“Laura,” her uncle exclaimed. “Where have you been? Is Alexander with you?”
“No, he isn’t here. I was in the kitchen with Eseld. What did those men want?”
“They were the militia, Laura,” Mrs. Bray explained. “They want to question our guest. Apparently, they have reason to believe he is an escaped French prisoner of war.”
Laura’s stomach clenched, but she feigned surprise. “Really?”
Her uncle nodded. “I told them he was from Jersey, but I am not sure they went away satisfied.”
“They were not,”
Mrs. Bray snapped. “They will be back. Mark my words.”
Uncle Matthew said gently, “I am sure Mr. Lucas will return soon, answer their questions, and settle the matter.” He rose and said, “Well, I had better change. I am headed to Porthilly for a churching. I promised to drop Eseld at the ferry. She and Miss Roskilly are going into Padstow.”
“May I ride along?” Laura asked.
“Of course. But you’ll have to be ready to leave in ten minutes.”
Laura excused herself, going to her room for her reticule and warmest pelisse. From her window, she saw Uncle Matthew and Eseld chatting companionably as they headed to the stables together. Laura hurried downstairs, eager to get the stolen bank note to the custom house. The front door was closer, so she went out that way, slipping the silver flask into her reticule as she hurried down the walk.
She drew up short with a gasp.
François LaRoche stood there, his blue eyes riveted on her reticule. Had he seen what she’d slipped inside? Recognized the flask?
She pulled the drawstrings tight and her wits with them.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he purred in his unctuous voice.
“Monsieur LaRoche, you startled me.”
“Did I? I said I would pay a call. And what, Miss Callaway, did I see you hide in your bag?”
“Hide? I am merely gathering everything I need for an afternoon’s shopping.”
“I saw a flash of silver.”
“I should hope so. The ferry is not free.” Oh. She’d not meant to tell him they planned to take the ferry.
“May I see?”
“Into my reticule?” Laura lifted her nose in exaggerated offense. “A woman’s reticule is a private, mysterious place, monsieur. An Englishman would not make such a request.”
“But I am not an Englishman.” Smirking, he walked toward her, his hook of a scar mocking her like a leer.
“Pray excuse me. I don’t wish to keep my uncle waiting.” She moved to walk around him, but he grabbed her arm.
Thank heaven, there came Uncle Matthew and Eseld in the carriage. Hearing the jingling tack, LaRoche loosened his grip. Laura jerked free and walked briskly toward them.
“Come on, slow molasses,” Eseld called. “We had better hurry or we shall miss the ferry!”
Uncle Matthew, reins and whip in hand, turned a hard stare on the man. François stopped where he was.
“Farewell, monsieur,” Laura dismissed him, hoping he would not follow.
“À très bientôt,” he replied. See you very soon.
Laura prayed not.
Her uncle gave her a hand up, and the three of them departed.
As they topped the rise, Laura risked a glance over her shoulder, but LaRoche had already disappeared.
Reaching Black Rock a short while later, Eseld and Laura alighted at the quay to meet Miss Roskilly. They waited for nearly a quarter of an hour, but there was no sign of her. The ferryman signaled it was time to depart.
“Do you want to keep waiting?” Laura asked.
Eseld shook her head. “Something must have happened to prevent her coming. The tide is high now. Let’s go while we can.”
They paid their pence and climbed aboard, greeting the ferryman, whom they’d known for years.
Just as his son Martyn untied the rope and was about to cast off, a man jumped aboard. François LaRoche.
Laura’s stomach clenched and her pulse pounded. She felt trapped.
“Miss Callaway. Enchanté.” He turned his wolfish smile on her companion. “And Miss . . . ? Excusez-moi, I forget your name. A friend of Miss Roskilly’s, I know.”
“Mably,” Laura answered in Eseld’s stead.
Something about the man put even the usually flirtatious young woman on her guard. Eseld murmured, “Monsieur,” but did not smile or engage him in conversation.
LaRoche sidled up beside Laura. “What business have you in Padstow?”
“None of yours, I assure you.” The lie smote her. “And you?”
Perhaps she should like him better now that she knew he was a spy for the British, but she did not. Nor did she trust him.
“I wonder if you have something of mine,” he said. “Something I would very much like returned.”
“Do you accuse me of theft, monsieur?”
“Not you. But perhaps your guest?”
Laura took Eseld’s arm, and the two moved closer to the ferryman, but to her dismay LaRoche moved closer too.
“How are you, Mr. Wilkes?” she asked in a neighborly manner, seeking his protection, even if he was unaware of it.
The man looked a little bleary-eyed and smelled of ale. Hopefully, he was fit to navigate the estuary, and to intervene if LaRoche tried to harm her.
As they neared Padstow, Laura sneaked a small item from her reticule into one of her kid gloves, just in case. Then she turned to LaRoche. “I am going to speak to one of the customs officers now, if you will excuse me.”
She hoped mentioning her plan to meet with a British official would dissuade François from following her.
When they docked in Padstow, Laura and Eseld walked around the quay, following the strand to the tall custom house and warehouse. The rubblestone-and-brick building had white frame windows and stood close to the water’s edge, overlooking the harbour.
“Must I go in with you,” Eseld moaned, “when there is a perfectly good milliner’s shop right up the street?”
Laura hesitated. “Oh, very well. But meet me back here. Don’t wander off. I may need you.”
“Need me for what?”
“Never mind—just don’t be long.”
No sooner had Eseld entered the milliner’s shop than François stepped in front of Laura, blocking her entrance to the custom house.
“Again, mademoiselle, I must ask if you have something that belongs to me.”
The door opened, and a man in a dark, unpretentious uniform stepped out, drawing up short at finding two persons in his way.
“May I see the officer in charge?” Laura asked him.
“Certainly. Right this way, miss.”
He held the door for her.
François followed her inside.
Surprised, Laura hissed under her breath, “Are you sure you want to be here?”
Looking bored, the man at the desk asked, “Yes, what is it?”
Laura glanced at his nameplate. “Officer Prisk, I am here to turn in something I found washed ashore on Polzeath Beach after the wreck of the Kittiwake.”
“Oh? Have you reported it to the ship’s agent, Mr. Hicks?”
“No. I came right to you.” She loosened her reticule and drew out the flask. The silver gleamed in the desk’s lamplight.
She risked a glance at François and saw that he stared at it with palpable longing.
“Miss, we deal primarily with significant shipments of taxable goods, tea, brandy, and the like. This flask is not—”
“It’s mine,” François spoke up. “I lost it in the wreck. I am one of the survivors.”
“Is that so?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “A Frenchman, are you?”
“Yes. But I am here legally.”
“Really?” The officer turned to Laura. “Do you know this man, miss?”
“I have met him, but I cannot vouch for his character.”
François gestured toward the flask. “I lost it in the shipwreck. I only want it back. I would be happy to offer a modest reward for its return. . . .”
Laura said to the officer, “You might wish to examine its contents before you decide.”
“Is that right?”
François’s eyes hardened. “I repeat, it is mine. The flask and its contents.”
The officer began unscrewing the cap. Beside her, LaRoche tensed.
Officer Prisk extracted the rolled bank note as Alexander had done and studied it. “Know what’s interesting?” He leaned back in his chair. “A report circulated recently among the militia, customs, and excise offices. A report about prison
ers of war escaping from Norman Cross and a theft of bank notes. Bank notes drawn on Mortlock’s Cambridge bank very much like this one.” He looked up at François. “And you say this is yours?”
François hesitated, seeing the trap and sidestepping. “I know nothing of a theft. That was payment for services I rendered to the superintendent. Write to him if you don’t believe me.”
“I shall.”
“In the meantime,” LaRoche continued, “if you are looking for an escaped prisoner of war, you need look no further than the man lodging in this woman’s house, Captain Carnell—though he has been using the name Lucas to avoid detection.”
The officer waved his hand. “That is a job for the militia. Where is this French captain now?”
“I don’t know,” Laura said. “He left Fern Haven this morning.”
“Hm. Well, I had better lock up this bank note for the time being. I’ll write to the Norman Cross superintendent for confirmation. In the meantime, I’d like your name, sir. And your papers.”
LaRoche’s eyes glinted. “I want my papers as well. That is what should have been in the flask. I lost them in the wreck.”
The customs officer held out the empty flask to Laura. “You ought to have some reward for turning in the bank note.”
Unsure what else to do, she accepted it.
François gave his name to the officer and told him where he was staying. Hearing the name Roskilly—a prominent local family—the officer decided not to detain François but to release him on his own recognizance until he heard back from Norman Cross. LaRoche then followed Laura outside. She looked for Eseld but did not see her, so she started toward the millinery shop.
LaRoche called after her. “You have something of mine, and I’ll have it back.”
She turned to him. “If the flask means so much to you, take it.” She tossed it to him, or rather, at him, and walked briskly on. She vaguely heard the unscrewing of the cap but soon moved out of earshot.
She had almost reached the milliner’s door when a rough hand grasped her arm and whirled her about.
Outrage and offense shot through her. “Unhand me.”
A Castaway in Cornwall Page 19