He turned and saw the two gunmen still giving chase again, pacing along just behind the coach. One of them raised his gun. Victor pulled out Travers’ small weapon, pulled the hammer back and prayed the fool had loaded it properly.
He had. The gun fired in a small puff of smoke and the man on horseback fell backward as the bullet pierced his shoulder.
Victor was impressed but had little time to admire the pistol’s handiwork as the injured man’s partner galloped up to ride even with the carriage. He had Victor at point blank range and readied to fire. Victor ducked down as the gunshot came. It missed wildly and was followed by another, this time from Austin inside the carriage. He did not miss and the man slumped forward in his saddle.
Victor let out a short breath and got back to the business of not dying on the first day. Holding on for dear life, he clambered carefully over the luggage to the driver’s seat. The big Breton horses were well-spooked and running as fast as they could, which would have been impressive if each stride weren’t taking them closer to death.
The reins trailed behind on the ground like wild snakes.
“Merde.”
He started to climb down ready to grab them when he saw that the pin holding the tongue and harness to the carriage was loose. The crucial pin danced in the hitch, threatening to pop out and send the team of horses on without them.
He climbed down to the base of the hitch and found purchase on one of the struts. He tried to reach down to grab hold of one of the reins, but they were just out of reach. He stretched his arm as far as it would go and one of the reins flicked away just beyond his fingertips.
He looked up just in time to see the road curving ahead. It was too sharp and they were taking it far too fast.
“Hold on!” he cried out as loudly as he could over the din of the horses and carriage.
The stress was too much for the pinion that connected the horses to the carriage. When the horses turned, the carriage did not.
The pin connecting them to the horse hitch popped out of place. The horses stumbled but kept on around the turn. The front wheels of the carriage turned with them, but too sharply and caught the ground. He felt it flipping onto its side and jumped off it just before he was crushed.
Victor hit the nearly frozen ground hard, his shoulder popping out as he tumbled along the hard earth. He stopped rolling just in time to see the coach fall with a crash onto its side. It slid along on the brown grass of a fallow field until it, too, finally came to a stop.
Victor managed to stand and popped his shoulder back in. He winced in pain. “Welcome back to France, Victor.”
Chapter Fourteen
SEPTEMBER 27, 1774 - LONDON, England
The London Coffeehouse was next to St. Martin’s on Ludgate Hill. Their carriage ride was rough enough to knock out a filling as they jounced nearly all the way back across London, ending up just a stone’s throw from where they’d first arrived.
Simon held the door for Elizabeth and then stepped inside behind her. The coffeehouse was really little more than a tavern. A low ceiling with thick wooden beams pressed down as the breast-high wainscoting rose up from the planked floor.
The room was modest. It had a bar, fireplace, and dark, heavy wooden tables with squat chairs. A few men sat scattered around the room reading newspapers by candlelight and having a drink of punch, beer or coffee.
Places like this were popular meeting spots for clubs or groups of like-minded men. They could talk business or politics or literature and enjoy a drink. Traders met at the Baltic. Stockbrokers at Jonathan’s. The shipping news was read each day by insurers at Lloyd’s. And here, at the London, a group that called themselves the Honest Whigs met. Rumor had it that Paine often sat in.
Simon scanned each man carefully. He’d memorized every inch of Phillips’ pallid face. He was one of the men who’d wanted to kill his family. Simon looked forward to meeting him.
A burst of laughter came from a group of a dozen men at the far side of the room sitting at a series of tables they’d drawn together. Simon looked at each face he could see, but he didn’t find Phillips or Paine.
Elizabeth scanned the opposite side of the room and turned back to him. “I don’t see him.”
Simon nodded toward the group. There were several there with their backs to them whose faces they couldn’t make out.
“Nonsense. Jefferson is no more than a rabble-rouser. He has a way with words, I’ll admit, but I should expect more from a gentleman than this.” The man tossed a piece of paper onto the table with disgust. “A Summary View of the Rights of British America? More like sedition, I’d say.”
Another at the table picked up the paper and started to read. “Resolved?” he choked back a laugh. “Far from it, I think.”
“You may mock,” another voice said in a lilting, amused way, “but you ignore this to your own peril. The winds are shifting, gentlemen, and quickly.”
The man he’d rebuked was about to argue further when he noticed Simon and Elizabeth. His eyes passed quickly from one to the other and then he stood very erect. “May I help you?”
His gaze lingered with discomfort on Elizabeth.
“What is it, Roberts?” the amused man said as he turned in his chair. “Things were just starting to—”
Before he even turned around, Simon knew who he was. It might have been the way he spoke or the long fringe of hair circling his bald head, but there was no mistaking him when Simon saw his face.
He rose from his chair, graceful despite his girth, and smiled disarmingly at Elizabeth.
“Well, hello, my dear.”
Elizabeth’s mouth hung open for a moment before she met his smile with one of her own. “Dr. Franklin.”
He bowed at the waist with a flourish of his hand. “Your humble servant.” He looked up at her, mid-bow, with a cheeky grin. “Is the position open?”
Elizabeth laughed and Franklin took her hand as he turned to the others. “A delightful sound, is it not, a woman’s laughter?”
He kissed her hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Simon said.
Franklin looked almost surprised to see him standing there. “Oh,” he sounded disappointed. “You are a big one, aren’t you? Looming.”
He leaned toward Elizabeth. “Does he always loom so?”
“He is a master of the art.”
Franklin chuckled delightedly. He gestured to his chair. “Please, won’t you join us?”
Elizabeth started to sit, but Roberts’ glare stopped her. He tried to cover it with a strained smile.
“I’m sure you are very charming, Madam, however, as Dr. Franklin knows, this is a gentlemen’s club.”
Elizabeth looked to Franklin.
“He does not a want a woman to join the argument,” he said then added with a sly grin to the other men, “He loses enough of those at home to his wife.”
The joke won a round of laughter from all of the men, except for Roberts.
“Very droll, Franklin, but you know the rules as well I. No offense, Madam.”
Simon stepped forward. “We did not mean to interrupt. We were simply looking for Thomas Paine.”
“Tom?” one of the men said. “He hasn’t been here in a few weeks, I believe.”
For his part, Franklin merely gazed at Elizabeth and ignored the question.
“You are from America?” he asked.
“British America,” Roberts corrected.
Franklin waved a dismissive hand. “I should love to know how my native land is doing.”
“Not nearly as well as you,” she said, winning yet another laugh from the doctor.
“You might try the Black Swan,” another man suggested to Simon. “Covent Garden.”
The man next to him grinned. “Using Harris’ List again?”
The first man blushed and glared at his friend.
“Thank you,” Simon said, unclear on what had just passed between the two. He turned to his wife. “Elizabeth.”
&n
bsp; “Elizabeth …?” Franklin asked.
“Cross. Sir Simon and Elizabeth Cross,” Simon answered for her.
“A British and an American in a happy union,” Franklin said. “You see? It is possible, gentlemen.”
“If only you were half as pretty as she is,” one of the men chimed in.
“You should be so lucky,” Franklin quipped.
The men laughed and Franklin led Elizabeth a step away. He dipped into his pocket and pulled out a card. “I do hope you don’t think I am too forward in offering you my card. But I am old and find it better to act than to regret not having done so.”
Elizabeth took the card. It was written in his own hand and read simply, Dr. Franklin - Craven St.
“It would be my pleasure to see you again, both of you, of course,” he added with a quick look at Simon then seemed to remember something. “Will you be at Lady Pawluk’s ball at the Pantheon this Saturday? Oh, do say yes. Your company has livened my spirits even more than Mr. Jefferson’s essay.”
“Oh, well,” Elizabeth said and glanced at Simon. “Possibly. If we have the time.”
He smiled and kissed her hand again. “I wish you a very good evening.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Simon led Elizabeth out of the coffeehouse and back onto the street.
Elizabeth burst into a fit of giggles and then looked up at Simon. “Ben Franklin hit on me.” She held out her hand. “Benjamin Franklin kissed my hand.”
“Twice.”
“Don’t be jealous,” she admonished with a teasing glint in her eyes. “I’m sure he would have kissed yours too, if you’d asked.”
Simon laughed and looped her arm through his. He led her back to the coach they’d hired for the day. He had known Franklin was an incorrigible flirt, but the descriptions paled in comparison to the reality.
“He is quite the character, isn’t he?”
She held up his card. “We have to go to that party.”
“First things first, remember?” He rapped on the side of the carriage. “Covent Garden.”
It was just getting dark by the time their carriage dropped them off at the Black Swan. One look at it and the people lingering around the entrance, and Simon realized what the two men at the coffeehouse were talking about.
Harris’ List was a popular, and, astonishingly, published directory of prostitutes, several of whom were watching Elizabeth and him as they walked toward the front door. One of them lifted her ample bosom and gave him a gap-toothed smile and a wink as an enticement.
“Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea,” Simon said softly.
Elizabeth wasn’t put off and smiled at the ladies. “Lovely night, isn’t it?
They frowned and said something, probably deeply unpleasant, to each other. He hesitated as they reached the door. He couldn’t exactly ask Elizabeth to wait in the cab, but the idea of taking her in there—
“Come on,” Elizabeth said and reached for the door handle.
With little choice, he followed her inside.
Where the coffeehouse had been quiet and sedate, this was loud and bawdy. Hard men and loose women drank away the stench of the day. Large mugs of ale and glasses of gin covered the tavern tables. Smoke from a poorly ventilated fireplace filtered around the room and was joined by more as a man in the corner lit his long-stemmed pipe from a small handheld brazier.
As Simon feared, both he and Elizabeth drew people’s attention. He was dressed far too well for such a place, although that probably would have been ignored if he’d been alone. Elizabeth stood out like a sore thumb, or a healthy one judging from the state of the ladies of the evening here. More than that, they were the only ladies. Once again, women were not welcome unless they had something less cerebral to offer.
The sooner they could get out of there, the better.
Simon looked around the room for Paine. The paintings they’d seen of him varied, but he was sure he could pick him out of a crowd. Unfortunately, he realized with a sinking feeling, not this crowd. Paine wasn’t here.
Suddenly, Elizabeth bumped into him.
“All right?” he asked.
She nodded but seemed a little anxious. Before he could ask why, she nodded toward a table of men by the fireplace. “Maybe they know something.”
The group wasn’t much different than the others, although a few of them had cleaner clothes than the rest. It was worth a try.
Simon led her through the crush of tables toward the group.
One man clanged his mug on the table. “Next subject. Is a drunkard the greater enemy to himself or to society?”
“Society,” another answered with a Cockney accent so thick it sounded like “so-sigh-eh-ee.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Simon said.
The men looked up at him in surprise, and a young one even jumped to his feet as he saw Elizabeth. He was quickly jabbed in the ribs by a friend and sat down sheepishly.
The man who seemed to be in charge pushed back his chair and stood. “Yes?”
“We’re looking for Thomas Paine. You don’t happen to know him, do you?”
The man laughed and looked at his friends. “We do,” he said and then squared his shoulders a little defiantly. “Who is he to you?”
Simon expected the question. “I might have a position for him. If I can find him.”
The man eyed him skeptically. “What sort of position?”
“That is between Mr. Paine and myself. Do you know where I can find him?”
The man sat back down. “I do not.” He picked up his pint and took a drink, closing the door on the conversation.
“We are sorry to have bothered you,” Simon said.
The man waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder.
The class divide worked both ways, Simon knew. He was as unwelcome here as the man would be in Pall Mall.
Simon turned and led Elizabeth out. They started toward their carriage.
“We’ll have to try another coffeehouse tomorrow,” he said.
“Guv!”
They turned back to see the young man who’d been at the table. He caught up with them and took off his hat, holding it to his chest. “Sir, about Mr. Paine.”
“Yes?”
“I heard him say something about going to Vauxhall tonight. The gardens. That he was meeting a Mr. Scott. Something about the excise office, I think.”
“Thank you.” Simon held out his hand. The young man stared at it for a moment then wiped his hand on his trouser leg before shaking Simon’s.
“I think they were having supper in a box. I’ve always wanted to do that.”
Simon took out a few coins from his pocket.
The man shook his head. “I didn’t mean—”
Simon shook his head. “For your kindness.”
It took him a moment, but he took the money. It was probably close to what he’d see for a few months’ wages.
Simon opened the door to the carriage. “Thank you again.”
“Best take a boat. Footpads on the road, I hear.”
Simon thanked him again and joined Elizabeth in the carriage.
“What’s a footpad?” she asked.
“Highwayman without the horse. Thieves.”
She frowned. “What kind of garden is this?”
Chapter Fifteen
DECEMBER 4, 1777 - 8 Miles from Paris, France
Someone inside the coach groaned. Victor walked over to it as it lay on its side. He rapped on the roof and winced again, reminded of his sore shoulder.
“Everyone all right?”
The door, now on top, flipped open. Austin poked his head out and shook it to get the wool out of it. “For the most part.”
He looked down into the coach. “I think Spragg might have broken his arm.”
Victor nodded. It could have been worse.
Austin helped Travers climb out onto the side of the carriage. On unsteady legs, he managed to climb off without breaking his neck. He looked at Victor in shock
.
Victor shrugged. “You are the one who wanted to come along.”
The three of them managed to get Spragg out of the carriage, although it was no small feat. Finally, Austin leaped down to the ground, a bundle of letters falling out of his pocket as he did.
Quickly, he snatched them up.
Victor looked around. “Do not worry, Mr. Austin, they were not here for your dispatches.”
Austin’s surprise gave way to worry. “How do you know who I am?”
“I know a great deal more than that. I know what you carry and its import.”
In those letters would be the news Benjamin Franklin had yearned to hear. He’d been in Paris for nearly a year already trying to convince the French to ally with the Americans. Their help was desperately needed. Without it, the war would be lost.
Austin tucked the parcel back into his jacket pocket. “How do you know?”
“Have you heard of the Committee for Secrets?”
Austin shook his head.
“Of course not,” Victor said. “It is a secret.”
Austin started to rebut, but what could one say to that?
“Suffice to say,” Victor continued, “we are here to make sure you and what you carry reach your destination.”
“We’re agents,” Travers said, helpfully.
Austin frowned. “For?”
Travers stood proudly, as tall as his small frame would let him. “America, of course.”
Austin’s eyes narrowed. “How can I trust you?”
Victor started to respond but noticed something over Austin’s shoulder. He took out his gun. Austin squared his shoulders, defiant.
Victor shook his head and shoved Austin aside. Coming up the road was the wounded Highwayman. He leaned in his saddle, but he could still be deadly.
Victor raised his long-barreled pistol, sighted the rider along the barrel and fired. It was beyond the normal range of the gun, but Victor did not miss. The force of the impact pushed the man to lean back in his saddle and then he slid lifelessly off.
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