by Joan Vincent
“I know no one in Hayward, sir. Excuse me, I have an appointment.” Quentin swung into the saddle.
The captain took hold of Perseus’ reins. “Will you be in the district long?”
“No.” Quentin pulled on his right ear as he gave the captain a quelling look.
Medworth dropped his hand and stepped back.
Quentin began to raise his hand to salute. Recalling where he was, he dropped it, and spurred out of the yard.
Medworth rubbed the back of his neck. How damnable he had been caught talking to the stable boy. I swear Broyal rides like a confounded cavalryman. Still, I would wager from the look that flashed across his face that he knows Lambert.
The captain strode inside the Cherry Inn to have a word with the proprietor.
* * *
Hawking Late Saturday Night
The moonlight was meagre but sufficient for Quentin to make out the surroundings from his position amidst a clump of brush near the Black Bull. The scrunch of boot upon gravel warned him he was not alone. Then the shaft of light from a window of the establishment was blocked as a man strode past it.
“Broyal?” The man stepped out of the light. “Broyal?”
Quentin recognized Partridge. “Here,” he answered, and walked out of the brush. His face alone betrayed his presence.
Partridge ran an approving eye over him; took in the knitted dark kerseymere breeches and black Spencer jacket buttoned to the throat. Black Hessians, the gold tassels removed, a wide-brimmed black hat, and black gloves completed Broyal’s ensemble. Satisfied the man was experienced, Lambert commanded, “Follow me.” He led the way to a sturdy wagon and directed Broyal to mount its box with him.
Because of his morning and afternoon rides Quentin realized that when they turned off the main road out of Hawking they headed towards Limes Point. Damme, he swore, concerned because he had learned just how close the Point was to the Vincouer home on an earlier ride. It was far too close for safety’s sake. “Do you know Captain Medworth?” he asked casually.
“He’s part of the district’s excise forces,” Partridge said curtly. “Why?”
“He spoke with me this afternoon. Wanted to know if I was acquainted with a Lambert.”
Partridge flashed him a keenly inquiring look. “What was his interest in this Lambert?”
“I thought you could tell me.”
Partridge shrugged. They travelled in silence until he guided the team to a halt in a shallow hollow. He climbed down and looped the reins over a low tree branch.
Striding uphill and then more cautiously over rocky ground, Quentin followed Partridge’s lead. His morning excursion and the scent of saltwater in the air told him they were very close to the Channel.
Partridge halted. He motioned Quentin to do the same with a finger to his lips. A few moments later, satisfied, he turned at a right angle. He walked back to him and laid a hand on Quentin’s arm. “Watch your footing. We’ll start moving down a rocky path after a bit further ahead. It leads to the cove.”
Following Partridge’s lead, Quentin cautiously edged down the path. The sound of waves and wind grew stronger, the salty taste in the air, stronger. Broyal’s certainty of their location was proven when he rounded a turn and saw a faint light bobbing in the distance.
“Hold steady,” Partridge commanded. Two men appeared out of the darkness and took hold of Broyal’s arms. A third man tied a rag across his eyes.
“Is this necessary?”
“Until I’ve word different. The bloke you want to meet is a right careful sort,” Partridge said. Making his way down the final descent into the cove, he called, “Bring him along.” Partridge trudged through the sand in the direction of the light.
Quentin tried to brace against falling as he was roughly tugged down the rocky incline. He lost his footing and slid on the loose rocks but the men at his sides kept him upright.
At times it was too similar to the mad retreat Quentin had survived. He beat down the urge to struggle free. Finally sand gave way beneath his feet. The song of the rush of the waves to shore and back out announced their arrival in the cove.
A hand thumped Quentin hard in the centre of his chest.
“Hold him here until I speak with the master.”
Master? Why that term and not captain? Quentin wondered, He strained to listen in case any further clue was dropped.
A short time later someone jerked Broyal forward and thrust him up on what he thought must be the water-beaten rock that formed a natural landing shelf which he had seen in the morn. He could make out the sound of a watercraft of some sort bumping against the rock in a spaced frequency that told it moved with the waves’ rhythm.
“Bring him here,” Lambert ordered. When Quentin reached his side, he took hold his arm and whispered harshly, “If you wish to leave here alive, do as he says. No more, no less. Understand?” At Quentin’s nod he walked away.
“Quentin Broyal?” purred a voice in the darkness.
A chill skittered along Quentin’s spine at the tone in the soft English voice. Dangerous, he thought, very dangerous. “That is my name,” he answered in measured tones.
“You wish to betray His Majesty, our King?”
Quentin swallowed his distaste at the “our king.” “I have some documents that His Majesty would not like anyone disloyal to England to see. If you are not interested in them—c’est la vie.”
“You may lift the blindfold a touch. Take care not to remove it,” the man cautioned. “If you ‘hap to see any person other than me, we shall not have need to bargain,” he warned.
Quentin eased the cloth up at an angle until one eye was free. The man before him was well-fed and of medium height. Quentin was most aware of startling eyes, cold and dark, and a gaze that seemed to read his innermost thoughts.
Treachery is no stranger to this man. Quentin took a deep breath. He studied the bald head and the long strands of yellowish hair wrapped across it. His attention snagged as he looked at the stranger’s long-fingered hands. Though gloved, they were oddly slim for such a heavy man.
“Now, why is it you wish to betray our homeland?” George asked, a finger posed against his chin.
Quentin pretended he stood before his father. “I have need of the ready,” he said insolently.
“That is seldom the only reason one becomes a traitor.”
Aware of the intense gaze, Quentin thought of Thomas and silently asked his pardon as he drew on his grief. “My brother was killed by the English. They said his ship had been under suspicion but they wanted to steal his cargo.” He watched the long fingers smooth down the yellow strands disturbed by the breeze. He was certain satisfaction glinted in the black eyes.
“Pull the blindfold back in place. Partridge will give you further instructions at a later date.”
“Is that not a waste of time,” Quentin objected.
The man’s lips curved in a cynical smile. “Partridge.” He waved to the side. “Take him away and start moving the cargo. I will let you know of the next time and place.”
“You, Mr. Broyal, be prepared to bring proof at any time of what you claim to have.”
* * *
Limes Point May 21st Early Hours of Sunday Morning
The moon, almost in its first quarter, provided scant light as Captain Medworth peered into the night’s blackness. Due to a message from the third Martello tower he knew a frigate stood off Limes Point. The captain impatiently waited for the illegal cargo to be brought ashore.
A sergeant approached Medworth. “Pardon, sir, seems too long since you sent Ross out.”
The captain’s worried frown deepened at this affirmation of his own concern. “Spread the men out and start them moving forward,” he commanded in a low tone. “Warn them to keep quiet.”
They had moved a short distance when a stumbling figure loomed before them.
“Cap’n, Cap’n,” the man called weakly.
“Damnation,” Medworth swore and ran to him. He caught Ross�
� arm as he sagged to his knees and pulled the man against him before he lowered him to the ground.
“They found me out, sir. Clubbed me,” Ross gasped.
“Are they still there?”
Ross gulped. “Not all. Least I don’t think so. They’d been lugging the goods away for some time.”
Shots rang out to the southwest.
“Damme, Topken engaged them before he should have. See to this man,” Medworth ordered the closest man. “Follow me,” he shouted and led the rest of his men forward at a run.
* * *
Lambert was climbing up to the wagon’s seat when he heard the first shots. He hurtled onto the seat and whipped up the team. A keg rolled free and bounced towards Broyal who had just entered the hollow.
Thinking a few choice execrable words, Quentin dodged it and watched the wagon lurch out of his reach. Shouts and more gunfire propelled him in the wake of the free traders who were attempting to escape.
A weapon discharged in front of Quentin. At the familiar whirr of a round, he sprinted to the side to avoid the crossfire. He caught up to the smugglers just as they rounded back toward the cove.
“Them Preventives mean to catch us betwixt ’em. Follow me a way.” The man who spoke ran forward at a sharp right angle.
Broyal followed him through brush and over rock. Just when he thought they were clear, shouts and gunfire announced their pursuers.
At least the darkness is a blessing, thought Quentin. It prevents us from being discovered outright. But it also concealed the Preventives they were trying to avoid.
Near the centre of the pack of smugglers, Quentin heard one hiss. “We’re almost there.”
Even as he wondered where that could be, pain seared through Quentin’s left side. His breath caught. He reached out to steady himself only to collapse against the man beside him.
* * *
Prescott House May 21st Sunday
Donatien sank into the chair behind the large desk in the library. He tapped the desktop with the manicured nails of his right hand, his features expressionless.
The gold flecks in his eyes glittered in the candlelight, giving them an unnatural lightness, which was emphasised by the white powder covering his face. In his disguise as Jacques Porteur, Donatien appeared of indeterminate age. The old-fashioned powdered peruke, common to Louis XVI and his court before the guillotine ended the need for such adornments, lent an aged look that the face beneath did not corroborate at the moment. His dress, like his wig, was old-fashioned. The red and white striped waistcoat was garish against the yellow ruffles at his throat. The cherry red jacket clashed with both.
At the tread of feet in the hallway, his fingers stilled. Donatien made a moue at the tawdriness of the balloon clock on the mantle. He noted it was about to strike two.
“Entrer,” he commanded at the timid knock and resumed the slow tattoo of his fingernails on the desktop.
Petit edged into the room, his shoulders hunched, head bowed. Twitching with each tap of the fingernail, he came to within the proscribed three feet and bowed low to his master. “Letu has returned, monseigneur,” he blurted.
“Et M. Lambert?”
“Non.” Petit dropped his gaze but jerked his head up at the snap of Donatien’s fingers.
“Does Letu know what went wrong?”
“Pardon, monseigneur, but Letu does not. He says a single shot was fired and then Captain Medworth’s men were upon them,” the dwarf explained in a rush.
“Quentin Broyal?”
Petit shrugged with upraised palms.
The aristocratic figure stared through his servant. In his disguise as Squire George he had been well away from the cove where he had spoken with Broyal. He was safe and the amount of goods at the cove was small. It was part of a larger shipment landed near Dover earlier in the month being transported inland through Lambert’s connections.
“I had hoped to use M. Broyal but there was something about him. Perhaps it will be just as well if Captain Medworth has taken care of our friend for us.”
Petit clasped and unclasped his hands. “Do we not require M. Lambert’s presence if someone comes to ask the questions?”
“Non, he had his uses but, eh bien, they were few.” Donatien suddenly motioned for Petit to remain quiet. He cocked his head but otherwise continued as if nothing had caught his attention.
Petit froze. He too had heard the almost silent click.
“It is time to retire. We can hope that M. Lambert returns to us by morn.” He motioned Petit to leave. “Take the candelabra to light my way.”
Certain someone could hear them the dwarf reverted to the title for Porteur. “Oui, monsieur.” He leaped forward and grabbed it. His hand shook, so he used both to hold it and started for the door. When he reached it he was unsurprised to find a hand clasp his shoulder. Petit looked up, gulped down the lump in his throat.
“It has been a tiring day, has it not?” Donatien said, making his voice fainter as if he was going out the door as he pushed his servant through the doorway.
Understanding his intent, Petit also spoke as if at a greater distance from the door. “Oui, monsieur.” He continued down the hall and blew out all but one of the candles. Petit stopped when he was sure no light would be visible beneath the now closed library door.
“Mère Sainte de Dieu, aidez M. Lambert,” he whispered, knowing the reason for monseigneur’s stocking feet. Surely Donatien communicated with the devil.
Inside the library, Donatien waited. He palmed the small pocket pistol he had acquired some years earlier from an aristocrat about to be sent to the guillotine. The five and a half inch long pistol, which the aristo had had made in London by Parker just two years before his death, had come to his attention when the man tried to shoot him. It had proven useful on more than one occasion since that signature failure.
The balloon clock ticked the seconds away until a full five minutes had passed. Donatien, accustomed to the game, waited patiently. A metallic click turned him toward the north wall of the library. A wall panelled with aged oak. A sudden draft told him the door concealed in it had opened. He raised the pocket pistol, aimed it at the click.
There was a sigh and then the rattle of metal on glass. A bead of light appeared. It revealed a figure at the entrance of a passage fumbling with a lantern’s mantle.
Donatien moved forward with silent steps. “M. Lambert, you are come at last.”
Lambert lamp’s light illuminated the aristocratic figure and cast a grotesque shadow against the wall behind it. He gasped and lurched back. There was a loud report. Lambert swayed in the secret entryway, then dropped to his knees.
The Frenchman sauntered up to the body. He took hold the lantern and pried off the fingers that still gripped it. Donatien pulled off the man’s hood and smiled down at his host who gazed at him in stupefied disbelief.
Lambert opened his mouth but only uttered a strangled gargle before he slumped back and toppled into the entryway.
Without a second glance at the body, Donatien strode from the library. “Find Letu, Petit. Have him throw Lambert’s body into the sea.”
Back in his bedchamber, Donatien pulled the peruke from his head and placed it on its stand. He poured out a small portion of his hoarded Chartreuse Elixir, took a sip, and then turned toward his mirror.
“Twice ‘haps thrice fouled,” Donatien said in French, and took another sip. “First Tarrant reveals nothing. Now I have lost Lambert.” He grimaced. “Lambert was a greedy fool. He thought to increase his share of the profits from smuggling by eliminating me. He is no loss, but Broyal—I may have lost him and that I dislike.” He took another sip of the juniper-flavoured liqueur and smiled. “But in little more than a week the gold and I shall be safe in France.”
Chapter Nine
Hart Cottage May 21st Sunday Morning
Chatter burbled in the entry hall at Hart Cottage as Aunt Prissy and Maddie straightened the bonnets of the three youngest Vincouers. A loud impatient rappi
ng on the door sheared the gaiety into instant silence.
Maddie opened the door and gasped at the spectacle Captain Medworth presented. A night’s worth of dark blond stubble shadowed his cheeks and the dark red splotch of a stain near the bottom of his jacket made it clear something untoward had occurred.
Medworth pulled off his bicorne hat. “Pardon my appearance and the hour of my call,” he apologized. “The situation left me no choice.”
Miss Benton gasped and reached for Ruth’s hand.
Maddie gathered Jessamine against her. “What has happened?”
“I led a raid against some free traders last night. Near Limes Point.”
Maddie blanched. “Limes Point?”
Medworth frowned at her sudden, and to his rue, guilty pallor. “French goods were carried from the cove at the Point to a wagon in a hollow on your father’s land. They got away with the contraband. Except for one keg of brandy.
“But,” the captain’s look darkened, “three of my men were wounded in the fray and at least one of the free traders. We found traces of blood once the sun rose.”
Dismayed, Maddie asked, “That is blood on your jacket?”
“Yes. One of my men was badly cudgelled.”
She nodded, tightened her hold on her sister’s shoulder.
“We tracked them farther onto your father’s property. My men still are searching it,” he told her. Suddenly aware of the ladies’ light pelisses and bonnets, Medworth tapped his bicorne against his leg.
“I urge you to forgo Services this morn. Keep close to the house all day,” he cautioned. “The wounded man will require attention. They may come here. I will post guards to ensure your safety.”
“What about our neighbours?”
“Everyone in the area is being warned,” he assured Maddie.
Aunt Prissy forced a bright smile. “Thank you for your concern, Captain. We will do just as you say. I am sure you will keep us safe. You are so excellent at that.” She ignored the suspicious glint in Medworth’s eyes.