by Lisa Chaplin
“Thank you,” she replied, hurt. “If that’s what you think of me—”
“It isn’t. Lisbeth, I’m sorry.” His hand touched hers. “If you were that kind of woman, you’d have accepted me right away. I’m irritable and sore, and dying to stand upright again. Walk a few steps. Have a cool drink of ale.” His face came around the pole, wearing a rueful smile. “Despite my boast of being able to bear confined places, I’m drowning in my own sweat and constantly fighting against being sick, and taking it out on you.”
She smiled back, feeling oddly shy. She loved it when he looked at her like that. How weak and foolish she was. “Have another peppermint.”
He took the confection but returned to hold her hand. “Forgive me?”
She could only nod.
“Thank you.” He lifted her hand to his mouth.
Such a simple thing, a kiss on her knuckles, one she’d known a hundred times from a hundred gentlemen during her brief Season. Until now, none had made her heart stutter and her breath catch and her gaze cling to him as if he’d just changed the world.
He lifted the lantern before turning back to her, touching her cheek. “Poor, battered little face. You’ve endured so much, and still you fought to come with me. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”
When he smiled at her, she forgot her body was cooking inside the cramped confines, forgot to work the rudder. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and her breath came in rapid spurts. He dropped her hand and leaned back so his upper body was behind the pole—and she could only smile as his hand cupped the back of her neck, bringing her to him.
At last he was going to kiss her; and like a starving woman before a feast she leaned in, lifting her face. He brushed his mouth over hers—
Papillon bucked, and they both smacked their heads on the pole. Gasping, they jerked apart. “It wasn’t a ship,” he reported after looking through the window. “Probably just a freak wave. We’re close to Boulogne now.”
They returned to their stations and set the craft to rights.
As they entered Boulogne’s wide harbor, she heard him mutter, “Could there be a worse time and place to kiss a woman? Idiot.”
Despite pain ripping through her after a day cramped and cranking levers, she glowed like steel at a forge, for the kiss felt more true to her than all his words ever had. “I won’t argue, but perhaps you’ll do better next time.”
He grinned. “Your riband’s fallen out.” He handed it to her and looked out the window as she rebraided her hair. “At dusk it’s a danger to use the lantern in case we’re somehow seen, but we need the light to sail by the compass and circumnavigate the rocks and islands using the map.” He looked out again. “There’s a new gun battery by the entrance to the harbor, and another on the south side. There are twice as many gun batteries along the coast as there were before the Treaty of Amiens.”
She stretched her shoulders. “Was it forbidden under the terms of the treaty?”
He sat, an arrested expression in his eyes. “I’m not certain, but added to all the excessive protection here, it’s disturbing. Of course, it could be a reaction to Nelson’s invasion in 1801.” He dropped the lantern low on the rope so the light was hardly visible. “We’ll have to bend down to read the map and compass, and we must remain in lockdown until we’re inside the river.”
She breathed in and out, fighting the usual traces of panic at being in this cramped place in the dark. “The tidal eddy’s picked up, heading south. It shouldn’t take long to reach the river.”
“Even so, this trip took longer than expected, and I need time to reconnoiter the harbor and see what’s inside the river. We’ll leave with the morning tide.”
Exhausted, she spoke without thinking. “You’ll find us somewhere to stay.”
His brows lifted. “You have faith in my abilities.”
“I’ve watched you work. As you knew about Gaston Borchonne, I’m sure you study the places you go before you begin a mission and form escape methods. I know I would.”
Another smothered chuckle came, an unspoken acknowledgment of her perception.
They reached the northern edge of Boulogne, and the patrols grew thicker. Wending their way across the harbor, trying to work with the shifting tide, she kept up her mantra. Turn the cranks. Move the rudder. Check out the window—
“Avast and submerge!” Duncan snapped as Papillon rocked hard yet again.
Lisbeth stopped, then worked the pump at double speed. “We can’t submerge far enough. Any ship’s keel will cut us in half. Bear toward land.”
After a few moments Papillon tilted and jerked back. Duncan looked out. “The waves make it impossible to see. She’s bearing down on us. Use both propellers and tack southeast.”
Soon Papillon bucked like a terrified horse, and Lisbeth paled, fighting another urge to vomit. “Do you think they saw us?”
“I doubt it. We’re underwater, and virtually in the dark.”
“Of course you’re right. Brace sharp.” She changed course against the ship’s movement.
“Damn, it must be coming to!”
They submerged as far as they could and kept bearing away, but the push-pull of the ship drew them in. As Papillon bucked and rocked, they hung on to hold course. Every time they fell they had to scramble up to grab the cranks and levers.
“Ease away now; she’s gone at last,” he muttered. “We’re a full fathom beneath. We need to cut and run, or the pump will split.”
It was true. Papillon’s pump was older than that of the Nautilus, less expensively made, more fragile. Lisbeth reversed its motion.
The closer they came to the river, the more they submerged and emerged, dodging ships and rocks and tidal rips. When they could hardly breathe, they hid behind tiny islets to take in air briefly. While they were high in the water Duncan gazed out the windows, using his navigating experience to tell Lisbeth what to do next. All the while she chanted beneath her breath, Turn the rudder. Crank the pump. Don’t get sick again. Don’t do it.
After a while he said, “You’re very quiet. Are you feeling ill?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Pick up the hose and breathe.” He spoke with slow clarity, as if talking was beyond him.
They took turns breathing from the hose. At last, just before nightfall, he said, “Thanks be to God, because of the streetlights here, I can see the river mouth.”
She almost collapsed in joy. Never had time crawled so. Papillon had been well named, a butterfly fighting the tide.
“Tack leeward. We’re passing Fort de Musoir,” he reported in a tense whisper. “Every window’s alight in the fort. There are fully armed ships everywhere.” He sat again, a frown between his soaring brows. “This security is done far too brown. Bonaparte’s taking a carriage to reach the shop next door.”
She took her turn at the window and nodded. Yes . . . the security overkill Duncan spoke of in slang terms was obvious everywhere she looked.
“The gun batteries he’s built, the ship patrols, the soldiers . . .” His expression cemented her feeling of destiny in the morning. “This is it, the proof that Bonaparte’s preparing for war.”
CHAPTER 41
Boulogne Harbor, France
November 2, 1802
DUNCAN FELT THE WEIGHT of certainty settle on him. “It’s the only possible explanation.”
Lisbeth answered in a whisper. “Bonaparte would argue: Boulogne needs the added protection since Nelson invaded last year.”
“Yes, and got his arse kicked all the way home to his ménage à trois with the Hamiltons. His victory should have reassured Boney that this level of security is unnecessary.”
At a statement that would have shocked any other gently reared girl, she just nodded and reached for the air hose. When she argued again, she sounded only a little better. “We’re almost at the closest point to England. Why are extra security measures vital defenses when they’re in Britain, but it’s paranoia or preparation for war when i
t’s in France?”
Exhausted and air deprived, she still had the unpredictable brilliance coupled with common sense Duncan had come to rely on. “Because he wants war and we don’t.”
“We don’t?” Her satirical question was the mirror of his doubts. “Then why are there dozens, hundreds of British spies everywhere Bonaparte goes? Why are we in this boat now?”
“To prove he wants war—but I can’t prove we don’t,” he conceded with a grin. “And we’re not alone. Austria wants revenge for their losses under the Treaty of Lunéville as well as Amiens. Russia’s new czar has taken an aggressive stance also. You really are your father’s daughter, aren’t you? Too bloody clever by half.”
Her laugh was pathetic, but damn, he loved that she tried.
Papillon bucked, in the violent lee lurch that heralded an oncoming ship. Flung forward, she landed on her hands and knees on the deck and stayed down. Filled with tenderness, Duncan lifted her. “Almost there, love, and then you can rest. For now I need you.”
She blinked at him. “Submerge,” she whispered as she used the pump to submerge and the rudder to come about.
“It serves me right, discussing politics now,” he muttered, as he worked the damn thing for dear life. “A ship’s keel could slice us in half and we’d die without anyone knowing we’d ever been there. Let’s get to the river.”
Forced to remain underwater as they waited for the ship to pass them, he sat in sweat and darkness so thick he felt as if he was swimming through it.
At last the creaking grind of the ship above them ended, but Papillon kept moving. “We’re dragging on the ship’s eddy.” He released the pump with slow precision. Papillon’s observation dome broke the surface. He looked through the window and grinned. “We’re headed straight for the river mouth.”
Ghostlike with exhaustion, she took the compass from him to guide the rudder and tiller.
“We’re entering the river mouth,” he reported. “It’s deep. I can’t see anything we could founder on. Just hold the rudder and I’ll keep watch.”
She murmured something inaudible.
How much longer could she last? If he was right about what lay inside this river mouth, he couldn’t allow her to rest long enough to recover. Britain’s security—not to mention both their lives—depended on her knowledge of Papillon. “I’ll take the rudder. You look done in.”
“I am done in,” she admitted, “but if I stop now I won’t wake for hours.” She pushed him off when he tried to take over. “No, just let me be. It’s easier now without the waves.”
She was at the end of her rope, but still did her duty. She knew he’d be lost without her.
He looked through the window. “There ought to be a pier. If we turn leeward, we—” Papillon turned with the river and the ship, and he saw farther down the river mouth. “My God, Lisbeth . . . I can barely believe it, but . . . my God . . .”
She tugged on his jacket, and he leaned back on the bench to let her up. She groaned a little as she bent half over to look.
Moments later she sat back down and said in a dazed voice, “Did—I just see . . . ?”
He nodded. He felt the same.
“The river’s long and wide, yet there’s barely enough room for them all,” she croaked. “How has no one heard of this?”
“Their outer lines of security—the hills around Boulogne, the military blockades, the high factory buildings on the sea side, and ships patrolling—are impenetrable. Who could possibly get close enough to see anything?”
“We did.” Her eyes were wide like a child’s, her crooked smile lighting her face so he could see its vague outlines in the half dark. “We did!” She struggled to stand, hit the side of her head on the base of the observation dome, and growled a word most well-bred English ladies pretended not to know. She didn’t apologize for it or make excuses.
He grinned, loving her lack of pretense with him.
She peered through the window. “We’re heading for the riverbank.” She grabbed the rudder, and he worked the propellers.
“How many ships are there, do you think?” she asked as they reached the center again.
“Enough to repel the British fleet in its current depleted state. Did you see the shape of the ships?”
At once she got up and looked out again. “That’s odd. They’re fat.”
“Flat and wide,” he corrected. “They’re clinker ships—Viking-style longships. Look at the gunwales.”
Moments later she dropped back down to the bench. “There are barely a dozen cannons. Fighting Nelson’s ships with one line of cannon per ship is absurd.”
“I doubt Boney’s planning to fight anyone with these beauties. But without the weight of the extra rows of cannon, the ships would float higher in the Channel, and reach their destination faster.” He added when she didn’t react, “Caesar left from this port—William the Conqueror from this coastline, with longships much like these—and Boney loves emulating his heroes.”
She sounded doubtful. “Via Ireland again, you mean? He failed before, in 1798.”
“But this time, instead of being mobilized for war, our government’s chasing its tail with the assassination attempt against the king and the unrest in Ireland. Marshal Ney’s forces pushed farther into Switzerland. I received a semaphore yesterday that King George made formal protest to the European Tribunal over it. Boney is refusing to withdraw from Switzerland, stating that we haven’t yet handed Malta back to the Knights of St. John. He also demands we withdraw from Egypt, and that we won’t do until he withdraws. But even then, I doubt Britain will withdraw from Malta. It’s too strategically important to have a port in the Mediterranean, should there be another war.” Arrested by his train of thought, he stared at her. “That’s why Boney’s making a show of accusing Britain of breaking the treaty—because the king’s forced his hand. If Boney doesn’t launch as soon as he can, the European Tribunal’s inspectors will find the fleet.”
“Who gave the information about this invasion fleet to your source in England? It must be someone reasonably high up, and with an ax to grind against Bonaparte.”
He felt awed. With his dozen years of experience, he ought to make that kind of connection, but how did a girl of nineteen, and one reared in the country, put all the plots and plans together? “Boney humiliated Fouché when he dismantled the Ministry of Police.”
“So is this Fouché’s revenge: to lead Britain to discover Napoleon’s plot, in an attempt to bring his government down?”
He lifted his hands. “These new ships are the ultimate proof that Boney’s been breaking the Amiens Treaty from the start: they’d take a year at least to build. I think Fouché set up a failed assassination attempt last week to propel us into coming here to find this. He warned the conspirators to get out, and—I think—he sent Camelford there so Boney had a convenient scapegoat, a way to accuse the English.”
She drew a deep breath, yawned, and shook her head. “Why? It makes no sense to me.”
“He received a massive payoff for losing the ministry, and still runs the spy networks, but he craves the ultimate power, and he knows he’ll never control Boney.”
“So he wants to bring Napoleon down, so he can step in as first consul?”
“It’s not Fouché’s way to stand in the light. He likes to inspire fear, not love,” he said slowly. “He’s found a suitable puppet—a Bourbon prince, I heard—but he’ll be the true power behind the throne.”
“How does this tie in with Alain’s actions, both in Abbeville and in Ambleteuse? If anything, Alain’s actions have brought Fouché’s plots to light, only aiding Napoleon.”
He frowned. “Delacorte’s supposed to be Fouché’s man. It doesn’t make sense.”
She murmured, “None of it does, unless Alain’s playing one off against the other?”
Sitting close together in the murky darkness, Duncan said, “It’s the only plausible answer. It’s how he got away with so much with you. He was playing Fouché agains
t Boney until that last night in Abbeville. Now he’s gone over to Boney, unless he’s Fouché’s mole in Boney’s camp.”
“It would depend on which leader most closely suits his beliefs. He’s no money hunter. He’s passionate about what’s best for France.”
He settled the lantern between them and waited for her to say what was on her mind.
“If Alain works for both men, does that mean Napoleon knows Fouché’s passed on the information to us? Could he be playing games with us, too?”
After a moment he nodded. “It’s almost certain, or there wouldn’t be so many patrols near the river mouth. I told you about the French informant on my ship. Alec and Flynn have taken over the signaling on ship to stop information leaking, but it may not have been in time. If Boney knows about Papillon—and it makes sense he does, given the interest in Fulton—he’ll be racing us to get the fleet launched before we arrive.”
Lisbeth stared at him with red-rimmed eyes still alive with intelligence and the curiosity that made her such a damned fine agent—the best he’d ever had. “The launch must be happening soon. Will our report reach London before then?”
“A semaphore could reach London in hours, but the problem is that the French would see it, too. Sending one via my ship could mean the double agent will also send a decoded copy to Paris. Besides which, half the British army’s still in Egypt blocking Boney’s forces there, and twenty thousand troops are putting down the unrest in Ireland. Boney has a hundred thousand men ready to fight on French soil, but the men in England are raw recruits, drunken lords’ spare sons, or boys taken from farms or the streets. Half the navy ships have been decommissioned.”
Her mouth fell slightly open. “Can the rest of the navy be recommissioned in time?”
He shook his head. “Dozens of ships are now transporting convicts, or floating prisons on the Thames. Fifty are in Ireland. The rest are in the Caribbean, fighting pirates. Unless . . .” Could he be right? He frowned, said in a slow voice, “I think Zephyr’s been preparing Britain since I told him about the chance of an invasion fleet. If he’s managed to get the admirals on board, and the Duke of York, who’s his cousin Grenville’s friend—there’s a chance.”