by Carola Dunn
“A gentleman came to see her. An excessively good-looking young man, with the very faintest hint of a foreign accent. I ought not to have left them alone, I know, particularly as he would not give his name, but I did not think any harm could come of it, just for a few moments.”
“Alain! What happened? Oh, do not tell me she has run off with him!”
“No, no. I should have known what to do in such a case. No, he said he was come to make a final farewell, so I left them. He was here for perhaps fifteen minutes, and when he departed Dorothea ran up to her room in a fit of weeping. She will not open her door, or answer when I speak to her. But I can hear that she is still crying, and it has been over an hour now. Surely she will talk to you?”
“I hope so,” said Gabrielle grimly. “I shall go and do my best to discover what is toward!”
She hastened to Dorothea’s chamber and knocked. There was no response. Suddenly remembering the connecting door, she went through her own room and found her friend curled in a miserable huddle on her bed, her face red-eyed and tearstained.
“I can’t cry any more,” said Dorothea hopelessly. “There are no tears left.”
“Good. Then you will be able to tell me just what this is all about. What did Alain say?”
“You guessed it was him?”
“Of course. But how did he find out. . . Oh, of course: Madame.”
“Gabrielle, it is so dreadful I do not know how to tell you.”
“Begin at the beginning. In the end it is usually easiest.”
“You know Alain has a sister?”
“I know he had one. I thought she died in the Terror.”
“So did he. But about eight months ago he was approached by another émigré , who told him she was alive. Sophie, her name is. Bonaparte had found her, or not exactly him but one of his ministers, beginning with an F, I think.”
“Fouché?”
“That sounds like it. Anyway, he said that if Alain ever wanted to see her again, he must provide information about the plans of the man he works for. I can’t remember his name either, it’s a peculiar one.”
“I know. Never mind that. Did Alain do it?”
“He kept stalling. There was someone else there, a French spy, who knew everything anyway, so he didn’t have to give away any secrets at first. But two weeks ago the man came to him again. He said there was a list of names he wanted, that the spy had not been able to see. If Alain would not provide it, Sophie was to be sent to a house of ill repute for soldiers. Alain would not tell me what that is, but I think it means they would turn her into a—a bit of muslin!”
“I’m afraid you are right. So Alain has given them the list?”
“Not yet. He is on his way to Dover now, and they are supposed to have Sophie there, to hand over in exchange. He says he has betrayed the country that gave him refuge, and he will not sully my purity by his presence, ever again. But what else could he do when they have his sister?”
“He has not seen her for ten years or more. She was a mere child! The girl they have might not even be his sister. But we cannot let him go through this alone. Dorrie, we must follow him. I know where Lord Charing keeps his pistols, and he told me they are always loaded because it was the fashion in his day to have duels without the least ceremony. Are not men odd? We’ll take them, and perhaps, as they will not expect us, we shall be able to take Alain’s sister away from them without giving them the list of names!”
“But I have never fired a pistol in my life,” protested Dorothea, aghast.
“It is very easy. My Papa taught me years ago. You just point it and pull the trigger. But I do not expect to shoot anyone, only we must have them to point. Now do not turn all faint-hearted on me, Dorrie. I am doing this for you and Alain.”
And partly for Luke, she admitted to herself. He worked so hard to keep England safe, and whoever was on the list of names, if the French wanted it he would certainly not want them to have it.
“What shall we tell Lady Sarah?”
“Leave that to me. You put on your riding habit, quickly, and a warm cloak, and come down. There is no time to lose; Alain is an hour ahead of us!”
“But how shall we find him in Dover?”
“You can leave that to me, too. I just happen to know where all the spies in Dover congregate.”
She could only hope that was true.
Chapter 22
The story Gabrielle told Lady Sarah had little to do with the truth. Only a lady of thoroughly unsuspecting nature could have swallowed it, and then only because she was not allowed time to think it over. She did manage to persuade Gabrielle to take a groom with her, to show her the shortest way.
Within half an hour the girls were on their way, leaving Lady Sarah with the vague impression that Dorothea’s brother was on his deathbed at an unnamed inn in Dover. She had enough to do, dealing with the tearful abigail they left behind, not to fret over what explanation she would give her father-in-law when he came down to dinner.
Gabrielle and Dorothea cantered across the downs after the groom, who thought the whole business a grand lark. Gabrielle had already been in the saddle for several hours and suspected she would end up as sore as on that memorable ride out of Switzerland. At least she was riding sidesaddle so her thighs would not be rubbed raw.
They followed an ancient road along the crest of the downs, dating from the days when the Weald was a dense and sinister forest and all travellers preferred the high ground. It soon grew dark, but a three-quarter moon shone, and high scudding clouds obscured it only briefly. When at last the groom led them down from the hills to a post-road, they had already bypassed Folkestone and Dover was no more than three miles ahead.
Guiding her mount took less concentration now, and Gabrielle had leisure to consider her actions and wonder just what she was going to do next. It had seemed so obvious and easy. They would just walk in and force the French spies at gunpoint to hand over Alain’s sister. Now it dawned on her that the enemy would undoubtedly also be armed, and that Dorothea was not likely to be of much assistance.
Suppose the wrong people were shot?
The moonlit castle loomed before them as they trotted along the main street. The flickering light of a pair of flambeaux illuminated the sign of the King’s Head. Gabrielle rode under the arch into the courtyard and dismounted wearily. An ostler came out to help their groom with the horses., and they went on into the inn.
Mr Colby stepped out of the taproom to greet them. He showed no recognition of Gabrielle. Though tousled from the ride, she was a far cry from the urchin Mr Everett had carried into his establishment four months ago.
The innkeeper was inclined to be suspicious of two young ladies arriving after dark with no luggage and no more escort than a groom. However, business had been shocking since the resumption of the blockade of France. He asked them civilly what he could do for them.
Gabrielle was stymied. It seemed highly unlikely that Alain was using his own name when engaged upon such an errand. The only thing she could think of was to ask for a private parlour and use that as a base for exploration.
Dorothea took the matter out of her hands.
“We are looking for my brother,” she said, somewhat breathlessly. Her fingers were crossed behind her back, Gabrielle noticed. “He is tall and dark and he’s wearing a green coat. Is he here?”
A green coat! Had Alain worn it in a deliberate attempt to confuse, or was it pure chance? Gabrielle caught a look of confusion crossing the landlord’s face, and a sudden desire to giggle nearly overcame her.
“There’s a gentleman of that description in the house,” he admitted cautiously. “He’s took a pair of bedchambers. He did say as how he’s expecting a young lady to join him, but not two! Howsumever, I’ll have the maid show you up, miss.
The maid’s eyes widened in recognition when she saw Gabrielle, who quickly put her finger to her lips. The girl nodded and hurried them up the stairs. They entered a chamber with a connecting door to the ne
xt room. Gabrielle went to it, pulled it open a crack, and peered round. No sign of Alain.
“Do you know where the gentleman who took these rooms is at present?” she asked the maid.
“Yes, miss. There’s two gentlemen and a young lady as took a private parlour, and the young gentleman’s with them now. Furriners they are, at least some of ‘em.”
“Dorrie, have you a sixpence?”
Dorothea found a coin and gave it to the girl.
“Ta, miss. Shall I tell the gentleman as you’ve arrived?”
“No!” said Gabrielle quickly. “We’ll go down shortly.”
“Right, miss.” The maid curtsied and left them. Dorothea sank into a chair.
“What shall we do now?” she wailed. “He has already met them!”
“Wait a minute, I’m thinking.” Gabrielle opened the connecting door and went alone into the other room, looking vaguely for something to suggest a course of action.
On her left was a washstand, then a wardrobe with mirror door. There was a chair in the corner. In the opposite wall was a window, with a large four-poster bed in front of it, its head to the corridor wall. The door into the corridor came next. Between Gabrielle and the door was a chest of drawers, against the shared wall.
On the chest were a pair of hairbrushes, a flask, a folded road map, and several other odds and ends. Among them, a piece of paper caught her attention. She picked it up.
It was a list of names. French names.
So Alain had not yet betrayed his adopted country! He must be bargaining with the French spies, checking that they had indeed brought his sister to him. Soon, any minute, he would come to fetch the list, or perhaps bring them up to get it. That would be the moment when she and Dorothea must act. She felt in the pocket of her cloak for the comforting weight of the pistol.
A movement caught her eye. She swung round as the door to the corridor opened.
Luke stood on the threshold.
“Gabrielle!” In two strides he was beside her,, snatching the paper from her grasp and scanning it. “My God, it was you all the time! And alone in de Vignard’s room in the middle of the night! Is he your lover? Did you lure him into this treason? He will go the gallows for it, but I can save you. I have fought against my cursed passion but I cannot help myself. You must marry me, as soon as I can get a special licence!”
“You are determined to think the worst of me, Mr Everett. I care not what you believe, but I cannot imagine why you should wish to marry me. It is fortunate indeed that I am not obliged to obey your commands, for I desire nothing less than to be your wife!”
Gabrielle was shaking with anger and shock. Since she had come to the realisation that she loved him, she had seen Luke only twice, and both times he had poured insults and accusations upon her head. This was not the man she had fallen in love with, the cool, determined gentleman who had adopted her problems as his own and promptly solved them.
“Then run!” he exclaimed. “I will not pursue you, nor give you away, if you will only go back to France and cease tormenting me!”
“Run! This is no time for running! Alain will be here at any moment and we must be ready. Whether you will help or no, I must go and tell Dorothea what to do.”
“Dorothea! You have embroiled her in this deadly business? Is there no end to your depravity?”
“She is in the next room, and it is for her sake that I am here.” Exasperation warred with hurt. “However wicked I may be, you will surely consider her position! I take it you are come here as a spycatcher, not merely to abuse me. Have you a gun?”
“Yes,” he answered, startled into attention.
“I am sure Alain will be coming up here shortly to fetch that list, and it seems to me quite likely the men you are after will come with him.” She drew her own pistol. “We must hide and . . .Hush! I hear someone coming! Behind the bed!”
Looking bemused, he obeyed her, diving for cover. She ran to the connecting door, pushed it nearly closed behind her, and discovered too late that her field of vision was severely limited. She could see little but the wardrobe.
In the mirror was a view of the other door, split in two by a bedpost. As she watched, a man in a green coat appeared in the doorway, his. face hidden by the post.
“What is happening?” whispered Dorothea, creeping up behind her with the other pistol drooping in her hand. “I thought I heard Luke’s voice.”
Gabrielle turned. “Don’t hold it like that!” she hissed. You will shoot your own foot, goose. Or me. Dorrie, your brother is here!”
Dorothea fainted.
Gabrielle managed to catch her firearm before it crashed to the floor. She set both the pistols on a chair, lifted her friend in her arms and staggered with her to the bed. Laying her down, she gazed at her in vexation.
The sound of voices came from the next room and she hurried back to the door.
“I left it here,” protested Alain, in French. She saw his elbow, clad in green, moving as he searched through the clutter on the chest. “Perhaps it has fallen on the floor.”
In the reflection, a hard-faced man stood near the door, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat.
“I cease to believe in this list, mon ami,” he said sharply. “It exists, perhaps, only in your imagination. So much the worse for la petite!”
“Oh no,” said Luke’s voice, “the list is real. I have it. Don’t move!”
Alain had taken a step away from the chest of drawers and was standing with his back to Gabrielle, his hands slightly raised. She guessed that Luke must have a gun aimed at him. The Frenchman was in full view in the mirror, his features twisted with malice.
“So!” he hissed. “You have brought your English friends with you! They may save you, but as soon as my colleague below has the least suspicion that all is not going according to plan, he will shoot your sister immediately. He is Fouché’s trusted aide, and those who serve Fouché do not hesitate.”
Alain turned to face him, so that Gabrielle could see his profile. To her astonishment, his face wore a curious smile. She supposed that a clean death was better than the alternative fate proposed for poor Sophie.
He was about to speak when Dorothea moaned.
“Gabrielle?” she called weakly.
“Dorothea?” Alain turned towards the connecting door, his voice joined by Luke’s.
Gabrielle pushed the door shut and ran to the bed. “Hush!” she whispered. “You must be perfectly quiet. I fear you distracted Luke’s attention. I don’t know what has happened now.”
“Has Luke killed Alain?” asked Dorothea in a fearful whisper, her blue eyes swimming.
“Of course not. Dorrie, you lie here, keep still and do not make a sound. I will see if I can hear any more.”
She pressed her ear to the door. Carved of solid oak, it cut off all sound from the next room. Heart in mouth, Gabrielle lifted the latch slowly and carefully, and even more slowly pulled the door towards her until it was no more than two inches open.
The reflected bedpost obliterated the French spy’s face and bisected his body, but all too clearly she could see that he held a pistol in each hand.
She raised her own gun uselessly. There was nothing to shoot at but a reflection. She could not aim at the man without stepping out into the room, and he would have plenty of time to fire before she could. She was not even sure whether she would be able to fire at a human being. She had once killed a rabbit when her father was teaching her to shoot, and the memory had haunted her for weeks.
Luke’s life was at stake! He was a provoking, overweening wretch and he despised her, but she could not let him be shot down in cold blood. The Frenchman was no harmless, inoffensive creature, and if she had to kill him she would not regret it, she assured herself.
“Gabrielle!” Dorothea’s tiny whisper just reached her.
She turned, finger to her lips, and the other door to the chamber caught her eye. Of course, how stupid of her! She could go out into the corridor and come round be
hind the spy. She looked again, to ascertain his position.
He had moved into the room three or four feet; otherwise the scene was frozen. She felt as if eons had passed; but no one in the other room had spoken, so it must have been seconds.
A pistol landed on the bed. Luke was helpless now.
Everything depended on her.
“You are sensible, monsieur,” said the spy. “I will attempt to persuade my colleague that the lady in the next chamber is not to be disturbed.” Behind him, the door opened. “Ah, here he is now.”
A man in a light brown coat stepped into the mirror, a gun in his hand. For a moment his face was obscured by the bedpost, then he moved into view. Gabrielle recognised him at once.
“Hold still!” ordered that beloved voice.
With a half-swallowed sob, Gabrielle ran back to the bed, fell to her knees and buried her face in her arms.
Her father was a French spy!
She felt a hand on her shoulder. “What is it?” whispered Dorothea. “What is the matter? Has Alain killed Luke? Has Luke killed Alain? Tell me!”
Gabrielle raised her head. “No,” she said dully. No, she thought, my father is about to kill both of them. “No, nothing like that.”
“Then what? Oh, pray go and see! What can they be doing?”
She forced herself to her feet and went slowly back to the connecting door. The day’s exertions had suddenly caught up with her and she ached in every bone.
Dorothea followed her, pulling on her arm.
“Gabrielle, are you all right? Gabrielle! What shall we do?” The pistol wavered dangerously in her delicate hand.
“Hush! First put that down.” She took the gun and laid it on the floor. “Wait a minute. Let me see what is happening.”
Alain was slumped in the chair in the corner of the room, looking tired and strained.
“How is my sister?” he asked.
“As well as can be expected.” Gabrielle’s father sounded his usual cheerful self. She could see his face clearly in the mirror, an ordinary face, topped with crisply curling grey hair, smiling gently. He looked no more like a malevolent traitor than he ever had, yet he was capable of threatening an innocent girl to force her brother to do his will.