The Tide Watchers

by Lisa Chaplin

  “What was the message from Alec?” she murmured in his ear.

  Duncan grinned and held her close. “Cal has Edmond, love.”

  With a cry of joy, she slumped against him. “Thank God, oh, thank God!”

  “Thank the Stewarts also,” he said, low. “There are too many French patrols for Alec to drop anchor close enough. They’re traveling to Calais as a family, with the wet nurse acting as Cal’s wife. Edmond’s grandmother is with them. They have papers to take the packet to Dover.”

  “Marceline’s coming?” she asked, with open doubt in her eyes.

  Duncan nodded. “Probably she can’t bear to leave the child.”

  “What if she regrets it later—or if . . .”

  He sighed and took her hands in his. “Don’t play that game. I doubt she knows where he is; he’s been gone for months. Could you leave the poor lady alone after taking her grandchild?” Slowly she shook her head. “Can you accept her as part of our family, Lizzy?”

  She thought of the gift Marceline had given her months ago, seeing and holding Edmond when she had no reason to trust her, and nodded. “But I’ll want her correspondence vetted.”

  “Of course. Now smile, Lizzy. Our son’s coming home.”

  She hiccuped, blinked back tears, and smiled up at him. “You don’t know how many nights I’ve stayed awake worrying for him, missing him.”

  Disturbed that she must have done that while he slept beside her at night, he said, “Our son’s coming home to us.”

  Another hiccup, then she nodded. “I so want to show him to Mama.” Her smile was radiant with joy, and Duncan’s stomach jerked. Tell her. He couldn’t.

  “If Alec can’t anchor near enough for Cal, what does that say for our mission?”

  “French patrols are everywhere. It seems Boney’s recalled ships from the Caribbean,” he whispered back, glad of the distraction. “We’ll have to sail behind Guernsey and Alderney islands into English waters facing Boulogne, and go from there. It will be longer than the first time, and—”

  She put a finger to his mouth. “Don’t say it. You won’t make it without me now.”

  He laid his forehead against hers. “You’ve been through so much. I worry for you, Lizzy.”

  “As I’ll worry for you on every mission you go on when I’m at home.”

  “You really know how to take the wind from my sails,” he mock-complained.

  She grinned. “No, it’s just the reality of family life that my mother never taught my father.”

  He sighed and kissed her, but after a while he murmured, “Your dress is damp. You should get out of this weather and change into something warmer. Sit by the fire.”

  “I think we should both change.” Impish smile, invitation in her sparkling eyes, and the happiness that was marriage to Lisbeth flooded him anew. With her past abuse, he’d hardly expected to know this kind of joy with her; but his need for her after Burton’s hanging seemed to have broken any barriers she could erect in fear. He’d taken care to be tender with her, both then and since, but even now, he could hardly believe it was enough.

  He grinned, unable to resist teasing her. “I only have a few drops on me. I could dry by the fire downstairs.”

  “No, you can’t,” she retorted, her chin jutted. “Come upstairs with me.”

  He tweaked her braid. “You’re a wicked woman, Elizabeth Aylsham.”

  She smiled, slow with promise, and tugged at his hand. “Come to bed, Duncan.”

  It occurred to him that he’d never felt this happy. “I believe they’re fast becoming my favorite words.” He allowed her to lead him inside through the back door of the inn.

  CHAPTER 49

  The Tuileries, Paris

  March 8, 1803

  STANDING BENEATH THE BRIGHT chandelier, Georgy chatted to friends and acquaintances alike in the stifling room. The servants had already stoked the fires high, because the first consul would walk through in exactly fourteen minutes, and he liked to be warm.

  By now she knew Napoleon’s likes and dislikes. She wore a demure, round-necked dress of faint primrose, no longer of the sheer or damped variety, but the highest-quality silk. About her neck and ears was the simple diamond set Mama had passed on from Grandmamma, suitable for a well-dowered virgin of high birth, accepted in all royal and diplomatic circles. Her hair was in a simple, braided chignon with pearls woven in. Serious, sweet, she was a young lady of high estate with a hint of the Mona Lisa about her. Napoleon was ensnared, but he’d still said nothing of Camelford’s whereabouts.

  She wished she knew how her presence here was helping Lizzy; but she had a feeling she wouldn’t know until she saw her friend again. That she was determined to do—and John agreed with her. “We’re in a position to help her, Georgy, and from what I’ve discovered, she deserves far more than simple acceptance in society.”

  She loved it when they made plans for after their marriage.

  With a faint frown, she became aware of a strange ripple of sound behind her, murmurs of mingled shock and speculation. She turned to see what was going forward.

  The new British ambassador to France, Lord Whitworth, stood in the center of the noise. Nothing unusual in that; he came to the levees every week. A charming man with waving silver hair and a wonderful smile, he stood a full head above almost every man in the room. It was no wonder the lovely Duchess of Dorset had married him so soon after she became a widow.

  His wife was still on his arm. Odd—they normally parted, speaking to all in the room before Napoleon’s entry, leaving everyone smiling. Now they moved from group to group within two minutes, leaving ripples of confusion and fear behind them.

  Georgy’s head tilted, watching. With a smile she crossed the glittering, overcrowded salon to where the Whitworths stood, presenting a united front—against what, she had to know.

  “What mean you by that, my lord?” Fox was demanding, his cheeks and bulbous nose the shade of a ripe plum.

  As one, Whitworth and his lady turned a frozen glance upon the leader of the Whigs. “I do not waste my explanations on Devon pig farmers masquerading as intelligent men. If you have a brain, use it to think.”

  As the group gasped, Lady Whitworth nodded. “Come, my dear, these persons are not worth our staying for.” They walked off without appropriate farewells or looking back.

  Georgy realized she was gaping and closed her mouth. The group they’d left consisted of British nationals—the very people the Whitworths represented in Paris. Lady Whitworth’s choice of word felt deliberate. Person was used by butlers to tell their employers a visitor was not worth their consideration.

  They approached Georgy. She swept a curtsy, but they passed by her without a word or glance. Overlooking a duke’s daughter who was not engaged in conversation was a grave offense. She stared after them, then took a slow, circling walk around the salon. With every conversation she joined, she heard how the charming, well-bred Whitworths were insulting the French and frightening their own people, which they’d never do—

  Unless . . .

  Her gaze covered the room, but The Incomparable wasn’t here. She glanced at John, standing in a corner and watching her with brokenhearted moodiness. The question asked. A half shrug in response.

  The trumpets sounded, the doors flew open, and everyone hastened to take their places. The first consul strode up the stairs with his usual morose half smile—but as he glanced about the sumptuous salon, it vanished like the sun behind summer storm clouds. “What does he do here?” he demanded, his ringing tones filling the salon as he pointed ahead of him. “Well?” Bonaparte demanded again, turning to Lord Whitworth.

  Georgy turned, saw a man slipping through the back doors, tall, broad shouldered and curly haired, with a definite kind of bearing about him, soldier or sailor. She hadn’t noticed him until now. Odd—she normally noticed everyone.

  “Of whom would you wish to ask, Citoyen Premier Consul?” Whitworth asked, in a tone reserved for tradesmen or encroaching pers
ons. “I see no man who would bring forth this level of . . . agitation.”

  Georgy heard the collective gasps. No one spoke to Napoleon this way, especially not before a crowd of people. This had all the earmarks of a well-rehearsed play.

  As if he’d recognized it, too, Napoleon collected himself. “Captain Wright is a fugitive from French justice. He would not dare show his face here if you had not sanctioned it, Whitworth. He is staying at the embassy. Do you want an incident? Are you pushing for one? Is this little dispute over Switzerland worth war to you?”

  Whitworth looked bored. “I assure you, Citoyen Bonaparte, Britain values peace as much as you do—as I am certain do the people of Piedmont, Parma, Venice, and Switzerland.”

  Everyone in the room gasped at the deliberate provocation. Bonaparte’s face turned ominously dark. “You say this to me, when you refuse to hand Malta to the Knights of St. John? Woe to those who do not honor treaties! What right do you have to dictate to me over those few little places, when your nation has invaded more countries than any other, not even giving the peoples the dignity of choice or keeping their religion or culture?”

  Whitworth froze in place, his smile hard, cold. Eyes glittering. Tall and handsome and disdainful. “As you say, Monsieur Bonaparte.”

  Bonaparte lifted his chin, fire meeting ice. “Shall I call you Mr. Whitworth, then, and not the title you have earned? Shall I name your king Mr. Saxe-Coburg, since he did nothing to earn his titles but be born into the right family?”

  The whole room was silent. Waiting. Barely breathing. Long moments later, Whitworth bowed. “My lord Citizen First Consul,” he murmured, acknowledging the point.

  Even lower did Bonaparte speak, almost a lion’s growl. “I demand an answer, and not this stupid prevarication over bagatelles. Was Captain Wright sent to the Tuileries as a deliberate provocation? What does Britain want from me now? Have I not given enough?”

  Whitworth sighed. “I saw no man resembling Captain Wright here tonight, my lord.”

  “Ah, bah! I know what I saw!” Napoleon threw down his treasured tricorn hat and stamped on it. “You are lying. Do you think I do not know your nation is rearming, forming another army, or that I have not heard that you’ve recalled your ships from the Caribbean, bringing your best troops back from Egypt? I have more spies in Britain than you have free citizens! You say you’re fulfilling the Treaty of Amiens, yet your government is recalling ships, gathering an army. Obvious preparations for war!”

  Lady Whitworth stared down her nose at Napoleon, saying something to her husband about lowbred histrionics in a cultured but carrying tone.

  Everyone gasped again.

  Bonaparte stood very still. “What mean you, Lady Whitworth? Do you have the ill breeding to insult me in my own home?”

  Lady Whitworth curtsied in return. “This home belonged to others before you, sir.” She spoke in English, putting Bonaparte at a disadvantage, since he’d need a translator.

  Lord Whitworth stood to his full height, towering over the first consul. “I believe Lady Whitworth and I may be de trop, Citoyen Bonaparte. You are probably wishing us long gone. We bid you a good evening and will take our leave.”

  After a brief bow bordering on insolence, the Whitworths left the room.

  As they passed Georgy, Lord Whitworth murmured to the stunned girl, “Leave France with Bedford tomorrow. Your role here is done.”

  As Lady Bessborough, sister to the great Duchess of Devonshire, joined her, Georgy’s mind was in too much of a whirl to discuss the deliberate drama that had unfolded before them all tonight; but one thing had been made crystal clear. Her mission had ended, very publicly.

  She didn’t care if Camelford saw daylight again or not; but she hoped she’d done enough to help Lizzy. And she fully intended to invite Lizzy to her wedding.

  Boulogne-sur-Mer

  March 9, 1803

  During his time with Camelford, Mark had spent the few spare hours he’d had making signs, painting the most basic of ciphers on palings of a broken orange crate. Crude semaphore, and he’d meant to make proper paddles and flags, but now it would have to do. He’d run out of time.

  Camelford thought he’d killed him. Bleedin’ idiot was too thick witted to realize any mojer with a brain in his cock-loft could see the pleasure he took in killing people or animals. So by the time Camelford came at him with a knife, Mark was ready with a leather jerkin under his shirt. Bloody inbred, believin’ he were superior. Even thought he ’ad blue blood. All men shite the same color, lad, his da had always said. And that gave a smart bleeder the edge. Let ’em play off their toff airs and you could run rings round ’em.

  Not Commander Aylsham. Though he’d been cheeky as all get-out, he never got the best of the commander. Mark was right proud to serve with him. He just hoped Aylsham had found the note he’d left in his desk on board ship . . . and had caught the last semaphore he’d sent.

  It was ruddy cold sittin’ on the roof of the rough inn he’d come to after his recovery. Masclet’s doctor had saved his life and his shot was paid at the inn, long as he wanted it, but it still felt like a piss-poor kind of thanks for savin’ their leader’s life. No doubt Masclet had taken all the credit, and got all the rewards, too. But if the commander got this message today, he’d ensure the lowborn Cockney cabin boy would benefit from his loyalty.

  Thanks to him, that freak Camelford had been caught in the act. Keepin’ him in prison in Boulogne was clever of Boney. These days it was like a bleedin’ fortress with all its security.

  Lucky for Mark he was above suspicion. He was the current messenger lad at the offices of the sous-préfet, catchin’ tossed coins and scraps of conversation as well.

  ’Twas a good thing the roof of this old inn was above its immediate neighbors.

  It was time for his final semaphore. He’d stored his signs in the attic. Nobody went there. He just hoped it made sense to some British-paid coder in the farms outside town, the ones right by the sea with real portable semaphore sets on their roofs, to send messages direct to the ship. He might’ve learned by watching Flynn and Burton, but he’d never have a future as a signaler.

  It was up to him now.

  The Bull Inn, St. Aubin’s Township, Jersey (English Channel)

  March 9, 1803

  Alec came into the inn’s dining parlor as Lisbeth and Duncan were finishing afternoon tea. “Lad, a strange semaphore came very early this morning. It said Marcus René Balfour three times, and then said, Limey in the right place. Hell to pay for a sailor in the morning.”

  “Damn it, that’s the signal. I was hoping for another week.” Duncan scraped his chair back hard and fast. “My dear, are you ready?”

  Lisbeth opened a sack she’d kept by her chair, put bread, cheese, ham, and boiled eggs in it, and picked up two containers of small beer. “What about the extra drills?”

  “We have five dozen now. It has to be enough.”

  Lisbeth headed for their room to put the cabin boy’s outfit on once again.

  Duncan watched her, thanking God for her good sense—and that Mark had managed to send the messages. The little smart arse had been right on all counts. Boney had known about Camelford and wanted the unstable lord under his eye, so he’d let him get in to Boulogne. But nobody bothered to look at the skinny urchin with him.

  I ain’t nobody, sir, so’s I can get about with nobody noticing. Don’t tell nobody about me, Commander, sir, specially not the nobs, the note had said. Somebody ain’t right on board ship. We can’t trust nobody.

  Mark had a real future in espionage, if he could get himself out of Boulogne as easily as he’d made it in and return to England on his own. Somehow Duncan had no doubt he would.

  He turned to Alec. “Return to ship. We set sail within the hour, going around Guernsey and into English waters south of the Lydd promontory, but no time for us to take the long sail. Take us into French waters facing Boulogne, and then get the hell out. You have command, Alec. Flynn alone is to use th
e semaphore. West and Carlsberg will stay continuously by the forecastle, protecting Flynn from the deck. Hill and Marks will watch either end of the galley. We take cold food only, no cooking allowed until I return. All men are to hand in their weapons, plus any tinder and flint before boarding; no smoking allowed. Everyone is to be thoroughly searched for spare weapons, incendiary devices, or flint and tinder. You’ll stay in English waters at all times: no need to use cannons. The sailors you’ve cleared of suspicion will take turns guarding the galley, the gunpowder store, and the weapons room at all times. They can only open them for you directly. Your suspects sail the ship only, while under constant guard. Anyone who argues goes overboard.”

  Alec nodded, snatching some bread and butter from the table, shoving ham on it. “Consider it done, lad—and God go with you both.”

  CHAPTER 50

  English Channel, French Waters

  March 9, 1803

  WE NEED TO TEST against any kind of unseen sabotage before we leave the ship,” Duncan said when the lines holding Papillon were released. “Work the propellers as hard as you can. I’ll lower us. We need to be sure everything works underwater.”

  Lisbeth tested every piece of equipment possible. “The floor’s damp.” Frowning, she touched everything. “The air intake hose has a leak.”

  They watched the water slipping in. It was barely noticeable, something they’d never have discovered until they were well out to sea, and probably out of air.

  “Why didn’t we notice this on the last test?”

  “It didn’t happen. Either this happened by accident when Fulton was making the new air pipe and the leak’s only sprung now, or Alec was right about a second mole. But how he got to the smithy and into Papillon I don’t know.” Duncan swore. “We’ll use the sail as long as we can while I check the damage.”