by Joan Vincent
Letu, sensing he was watched, straightened. His target was larger than he, but an easier one because of it. It lent him a particular satisfaction when men of size misjudged his strength and agility and found it was their last mistake.
Quentin shrugged away from the tree. “You are late. Did you bring the gold?”
“Do not be so anxious, monsieur,” Letu said with a pat on his bulging coat pocket. “First I must see the government documents.”
“I wish to see payment first.”
“You are wrong, monsieur,” replied the Frenchman. He held out his hand.
“The children?”
Letu flashed a smile. “Patience. If yer information is as ye claim, word where you can find them will be sent to ye on the morrow. Did the old fool neglect to tell ye that?” he asked contemptuously.
Anger balled his fists but Quentin reined in the impulse to slam one into the man’s face. Instead, he pulled out the falsified government documents Castlereagh had given him. He kept them close to his body in an attempt to lure the Frenchman nearer.
Letu motioned to a flat stone a few feet away. “Put them on the rock.” While Quentin did so, the Frenchman surreptitiously removed a length of thin flexible wire from his pocket. He launched his attack as his target tossed the papers.
Warned by a glimmer of movement, Quentin raised his gloved hands just as the wire came over his head. He managed to get one between the wire and his neck.
Quentin swung around trying to dislodge the Frenchman. He slipped and slid on the muddy grass but slammed Letu against the tree trunk in spite of the tightening wire. He wrenched his pistol free, aimed it back towards his attacker, and pulled the trigger.
With a yelp, Letu released the wire and jerked back from the flash of fire and smoke and loud report. Scrabbling past the stone he grabbed the documents and disappeared into the darkness.
Still gasping for air, Quentin stumbled forward in an attempt to pursue him but slipped and fell flat on his back. He lay for a moment to catch his breath. Something warm touched his face. He threw up a hand only to discover Perseus.
With a laugh he rubbed the horse between the eyes, then pushed his hand beneath his back to dislodge a stone. A moment later, Quentin stood cradling the stone which had turned out to be a pocket watch. He peered into the darkness, but neither saw nor heard anything.
André appeared before him from the darkness.
Quentin put his pistol back in his waistband and gingerly touched his neck. “He almost had me. Which way did he head?”
“I know his destination,” André answered with certainty.
* * *
Prescott House Tuesday Morning 1 AM
Letu stumbled into a side door at Prescott House unaware that he was watched. Behind him an inky black figure stole across the open area between the trees and house. It flattened against the wall beside the door that had closed a moment before.
The black-gloved hand edged open the door and the figure peered around it. When he found only a faint light in the corridor, André glided inside and followed the muddy trail.
* * *
Petit’s mouth curved in disapproval at the fresh tracks on the floor. A muttered oath from the depths of the kitchen cautioned him. Setting down the tray of dirty dishes from the dining room, he tiptoed back towards the door.
“Sneaking away, ye miserable little runt?”
The dwarf turned. Light from the candle in Letu’s shaking hand exposed the bloodstain running down his trousers.
“Get bandages ye dolt,” Letu demanded.
“The monseigneur will not be pleased if you have failed,” Petit threw back. “Perhaps he will torture you this time.”
“I have the dammed papers. He will be unhappy if ye delay me longer than necessary,” Letu spat back. “Where is he?”
“He awaits you in the library,” Petit answered as he tugged some towelling from a drawer. He ripped one into several strips. After laying them over his arm, he got a bowl of water and sidled toward Letu.
“I don’t need much. It’s just a scrape along the ribs. He was quicker and stronger than he looked,” the swarthy man said.
The dwarf quickly cleaned the scrape. He regretted the bone had deflected the shot. “The monseigneur is displeased. Michel came a short time after you left.”
“Michel? Sacre bleu! La Mademoiselle Rouge was not supposed to come until tomorrow night.” He winced when Petit pulled the strip of towelling tight and knotted the ends. “That means—”
“Exactement.” Petit washed his hands. “You had better see the monseigneur at once. There is much to be done if we are to be ready to depart so soon.”
Letu shoved the dwarf aside and wiped his hands. He combed his hair with his fingers, then straightened his blouse. After dragging his shoes across a rough rug to free them of most of the mud, he left the kitchen. With his mind occupied by the myriad details he faced in the coming hours, he did not see the dark figure fade into a room along the corridor when he came out of the kitchen.
Cursing Broyal silently but fluently for the pain, Letu made his way up the stairs. After a sharp rap on the library door, he waited for permission to enter.
The displeasure in Donatien’s eyes deepened at sight of the bloodstain. His thin lips curled in contempt.
Letu quickly pulled the documents from his blouse. He bowed, laid them on the desk, and then backed away the proscribed distance.
Without a glance at them, Donatien flicked a curl of his peruke off his shoulder. “Broyal?”
Letu thrust away the thought of lying. “He lives.”
“How unfortunate,” murmured Donatien. His eyes narrowed. “You have heard—”
“About Michel? Yes.” Letu paled at the rage he saw flare in his master’s eyes and clamped his lips shut.
“We will transport the gold in wagons to Limes Point. You can use the mules to get it down to the cove. I have sent word to the free traders and instructed Michel to see there are enough men from the ship to assist with the task.”
He paused, placed his thumbs and forefingers together. “You are to take word to our friend. Make certain he understands that Limes Point must be safe for us this eve.” Donatien saw a flicker of pleasure light Letu’s eyes. “You will not stop at Mol’s Place.”
“But—” the swarthy man began to object.
“Non, there is no time for personal pleasure. Take satisfaction knowing that the Vincouer children may have already died. Too much laudanum—suffocation.” Donatien stilled and motioned Letu to investigate the slight noise he heard from the corridor.
The man returned and shrugged. “It was the cat after a mouse. That is all.”
Donatien rose and walked to the library windows. “Set a watch on Hart Cottage. Take Miss Vincouer when the opportunity arises. Bring her here. Do not harm her.” He stared into the darkness. “She may prove necessary if our friend fails us.”
“It shall be done, monseigneur.”
“Do not mention this to Petit,” Donatien ordered. Almost as an aside he added, “Baron de la Croix arrived in the area yester morning. He’s the young Frenchman dressed as an English dandy. If you see him, kill him. Now go.”
* * *
Hawking Mol’s Place Tuesday Morning 2:30 AM
After hearing about what de la Croix had overheard, Quentin agreed with André’s hunch about Mol’s. They rode hard and reined in behind the squat building on the outskirts of Hawking. After tethering their mounts, they entered and halted inside the barroom.
The squeak of a floorboard warned them they were not alone. A faint light flickered behind them. André bit back a curse.
“Who be there?” a coarse female voice called.
Relief flooded both.
“Do ye want me ta fetch Tug ta deal wit ye?” a large woman challenged.
“My fine Sal. My beautiful Sal,” André stepped forward with a flourish. “Do you not recall me?” he asked with a hint of pique.
“La, yer thet fine gentlm’n
whose bought me ale last eve,” Sal said pushing back her uncombed hair. “Ken ye would come back ta get yer tumble,” she said with good-natured resignation. She frowned at Quentin. “I don’t do wit two gents.”
“We would never ask it,” André told her as he draped an arm around the tall woman’s thick waist. He dropped a gold coin into her apron pocket. “Why are you here at this time of night, my dear?”
“I sleeps here,” she said. Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me ye fine gentlm’n needs a spot to lay yer heads?”
“Not this eve,” Quentin assured her. He took the candle from her hand and lit the lamp hanging on the wall.
“Well then, yer better off than them lost Vincouer youngun’s,” she told him.
“Do you know of them?” he asked, drawing out a chair.
Sally beamed at him and sat. “Jest their names. That pur ‘ittle gel—pray’d whiteslavers ain’t took ‘er.”
“You’d be the first they’d take, Sal," André objected.
“Them tykes are carried clean away.”
“I don’t think so.” Quentin looked around the pub. “Could they be hidden here at Mol’s.”
“Ahh, go on wit ye,” Sally laughed, “those I ken ain’t such douplers as ta do sech a thing.”
“There isn’t anywhere in Mol’s you could hide a young lad and a little girl?” the baron challenged with a wink at Quentin.
Sally clasped her hands, screwing up her face while she pondered this. “Well, now ye say it, might be a place or two.”
“Ahh, my knowing Sal,” André purred. He chucked her under the chin. “The rooms at back?”
“Naw, there be only two rooms in back and we gels be too busy on the night fore the Sabbath. Be right suspicious if one of them were kept closed. More like ta find ’em in cellar.”
”How do you get to it?” Quentin asked with forced calm.
“Outside. At the back. There be a door in the ground. Them fools thet brought those four barrels of spirits afore dark put a bar ’cross it like they’d wanted ta lock it. Fools,” she scoffed.
Surety seized both men. “Can we look?” they asked with barely suppressed excitement.
“I got me sleep ta get. Ye ain’t gonna find no one,” Sally groused.
Weaving a gold coin back and forth between his fingers, the baron smiled. “Five minutes,” he said and flicked the coin into her hand.
“’Haps I best go wid ye.” She stood and took the lamp from its hook. “Come ’long.” Sally led them past the back rooms and through a foul kitchen. Just outside and to the right, she pointed to the cellar.
André unbarred its door.
Quentin opened it.
Following her down the steps, they saw they would have to stoop over in the dirt-floored, low-ceilinged chamber. A half dozen ale barrels and a few smaller kegs almost filled it.
“Don’t see where they’d be hid down here. Not ‘less they be’n pickled.” Sal chuckled at her wit.
Quentin thumped his hand against the nearest barrel. A deep dull thud answered.
“Thet be a full one,” Sally told him. “The empty one’s ’ave a more hollow ring.” She slapped another. It echoed like the first. With a shrug she turned back.
“Wait.” Quentin picked up a rod from the floor. He struck each of the barrels in turn. The two farthest back in the chamber rang neither full nor empty. “Bring that lamp closer.”
When she did so, he pointed to the top of the barrel. “Those are fresh marks. They’ve been handled today.”
“How can we open them?” asked André.
Sal scratched her head. “Be a queer sort o’ pub if the spirits couldn’t be got to,” she said, pointing to a tool hanging on the centre support. “Let be,” she added with a wave at their manicured hands. She gave André the lamp, took the tool, and pried up the lid with a few expert twists.
André held the lamp over the barrel.
“Bless ’im,” Sally cried seeing the top of a boy’s head.
Quentin directed her to open the next barrel. Jessamine lay curled in it, unconscious like her brother.
Sal shook her gently. “Fed some kind o’ sleepin’ potion most like.” She pulled the little girl out and handed her to the baron.
Quentin extracted Malcolm and slung him over his shoulder.
Back inside the pub, she led them to one of the back rooms. In short order they had the children settled. “Best fetch their sister,” she said. “Tell ’er ta bring a wagon. They’ll still be sleepin’ long after the sun shows its face.”
Quentin and André exchanged a speaking glance.
Extracting more gold coins from his pocket, André studied them. “My dear best Sally, there is a favour we do need.”
Sally put out her hand and bestowed a crooked, stain-toothed smile when he laid them in it. “Fer this much gold, I’d be yer “straw wife” fer a year.”
“You honour me again, my beautiful Sally, but another time.” André brushed a quick kiss on her dirty cheek.
“We need to hide the children,” Quentin explained. “To keep them safe until we find the bastards who took them.”
“Me sister, Tish, lives some’at close by,” Sally told them. “She’d be glad to help. Miss Vincouer was good to her and her young’uns last winter.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Hart Cottage Early Tuesday Morning
Quentin went over the tale he and André had fabricated as he trod up the stairs, boots in hand. One more deception, he thought, uneasily. But a safeguard for the children if we are correct. It is what Maddie would want.
The first faint light of dawn lit the bedchamber when he entered it. He saw that Maddie slept. Exhausted, it was a relief not to have to lie about why he was so late. Not that I’ve lied about having Maddie’s letters to Jamey.
Except by not giving them to her, his conscience returned.
I will—as soon as I am certain of her, Quentin admitted his reason for delaying. With a heavy sigh he undressed and washed.
When Quentin went back to the bed, he noticed the empty glass on the bed table. He tasted a drop. Laudanum. That is why Maddie sleeps so soundly. Quentin went around to the other side and crawled into the bed. He lay back on his pillow and studied his wife’s beautiful face as he drifted to sleep.
Loud pounding brought Quentin to an awareness of a soft warm weight across his chest. It also pressed against his side.
Outside the chamber, de la Croix knocked with more force. “Broyal! Major Broyal, wake up,” he shouted.
Stifling an oath at this part of their plan, Quentin lifted Maddie’s arm and slipped out of bed. He hurried to the door without concern for his nudity.
“Broyal?”
Opening the door a crack silenced the baron. “A little too much enthusiasm,” Quentin snapped. “Go downstairs.” He heard Maddie stir. “I will come down in five minutes.”
André tossed a taunting grin at him. “If you are not, I will come and drag you down,” he said, and then more loudly, “I’ve got grand news! The best news!”
“What is it?” Maddie called from behind the bed curtain.
“Go away if you value your hide,” Quentin swore at André. He shoved the door shut.
Maddie sat up in bed and shook her head to clear the lingering heaviness. “Is there news about Jessie and Malcolm?”
The sight of her luxurious long black hair over her shoulder took Quentin’s breath away. He went hard. Then he noticed her widening eyes. And their direction.
“Oh, my,” she breathed, “Henry was right.”
He watched a blush suffuse her face. “Henry? Lundin. Correct about what?” he asked, his brow furrowing.
“Nothing,” Maddie squeaked and dived under the bed covers.
Quentin laid a hand on her back. It was shaking. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Maddie mumbled through the covers. “I heard you say you’d be down in five minutes.”
Frowning, Quentin went into the dressing room. When fully clothed,
he halted by the bed. “You had better come down.”
Maddie edged back the covers. Seeing he was dressed, she sat upright. “Does he know where Malcolm and Jessamine are?”
Resisting the urge to kiss her and tell her the news, Quentin sat on the bed. “Get dressed and we’ll find out.”
A short time later they found the baron pacing at the foot of the stairs. He took Maddie’s hands, kissed first one cheek then the other. “I have found them,” he exclaimed.
Quentin glared over his wife’s shoulder.
“They are unharmed,” the baron added.
Maddie beamed with relief. “Where are they?”
“I didn’t dare bring them here but they are fine. I left them with a—an acquaintance’s sister. They will be right and tight until we can fetch them.”
“Where does this—”
“Captain Medworth,” Maves announced.
“Miss Vincouer, er, that is, Mrs. Broyal,” the captain bowed. He looked past her to the baron. “There had better be a dammed good—” he recalled the presence of a lady and amended, “a very good reason for my being roused out moments after the cock crowed.”
“The troops will not arrive before eight o’clock,” he told Quentin. “I had meant to get them myself, but this—”
Maddie bestowed one of her most stunning smiles on the captain. “They are no longer necessary.”
“We must have them,” protested the baron.
Maddie turned on him. “But you said—”
“The children are safe.” André ran a hand through his hair, disarranging its precise untidiness.
Quentin took Maddie’s hands in his. “We will get all the details soon, my dear. For now we need the troops to help us catch their abductors. We must make plans. I am sorry you must wait for an explanation.”
“It is more important that you find the kidnappers,” she answered. “I will bring coffee to the small salon and something to eat.”