“But he did expect you,” his housekeeper hastened to add. “You are welcome to stay and rest. I can supply a bit of breakfast, and he will return by mid-afternoon.” Her attempt at a welcoming smile more closely resembled a smirk.
Mid-afternoon! Darcy was loath to lose so much time. During those hours he could question a good number of people in Saint-Malo for evidence of the Black Cobra. “Very well. I will return at mid-afternoon.”
The woman finally showed some animation. “No, no. Mr. Dreyfus was quite adamant that you must remain. He will be offended if you refuse his hospitality.”
Darcy did not respond well when others gave him orders. “I have other tasks to complete and little time,” he said curtly. “I do not wish to spend half the day sitting in Mr. Dreyfus’s drawing room.”
She blinked. “But I can give you breakfast…and luncheon…!”
“I will purchase both in town. Please give Mr. Dreyfus my compliments and tell him I will return later in the day.”
“But, monsieur—!”
Accommodating others had never been Darcy’s greatest talent, and grief had made him even less inclined to please. He felt no obligation to debate his plans with the woman. “Good day.” Darcy spun on his heel and stalked away, leaving the housekeeper sputtering in his wake. He did not understand the reason for her insistence, and he did not care.
***
Saint-Malo was a large town in comparison to Lambton or Meryton but tiny compared to London. A stranger would be conspicuous, but not extraordinary. Darcy had a ready tale about why he had ventured into Brittany. A half hour later, he was passing through the ancient and unmanned city gates just as the sun was burning off the last of the early morning haze. The streets were alive with activity: laborers hurrying to work, shopkeepers opening their doors, children playing and yelling, women gathered on street corners to chat.
Originally a medieval fortress, Saint-Malo had been built right on the coast, with many of its ramparts sitting on rocks that jutted out into the water. Newer homes like Dreyfus’s had been constructed outside the city walls, but it was obvious that the true hustle and bustle of the neighborhood lay within the walls. Darcy made his way into the older part of the city, which boasted narrow cobblestoned streets lined with rows of identical sand-colored rowhouses of four or five stories.
Darcy wandered and learned the plan of the streets until he came upon a market square where vendors had set up tables to display their wares. A few people spared him glances, but the sight of a stranger excited little notice. Darcy breathed a sigh of relief. His height always made him remarkable, but wading through the sea and journeying along the dusty roads had added an authentic layer of grime to his simple clothing that apparently served well as a disguise.
As he wandered among the stalls of breads, cheeses, and vegetables, a loud growl from his stomach reminded him that it had been hours since he had eaten. A bit of apple with some cheese and bread would not go amiss. But he wanted to select his vendor strategically; the right merchant also would be a good source of local gossip.
He selected a plump, matronly merchant with dark hair and spectacles. She had an open smile and spent as much time chatting with her customers as she did selling them food. Her stall held a promising array of breads and fruits from which he could make a breakfast.
Adopting the shy smile of a stranger, Darcy approached her table, but before he reached it, he was bumped by a passing man. He felt fingers fumbling at the money pouch at his waist. The man is trying to rob me. I need that money to complete my mission. Panic gave Darcy strength. Grabbing the man’s wrist, Darcy shouted in French, “Thief! Thief!”
Every eye in the square turned toward the altercation, and a few people hurried in Darcy’s direction. The thief’s eyes went wild with panic as he twisted his hand in Darcy’s grasp, but Darcy would not let go. Before he could blink, the would-be thief produced a knife and sliced into the skin on the back of Darcy’s hand.
The shock of pain loosened Darcy’s grip, and the man pulled his wrist free with a wrenching twist. With amazing speed and dexterity, the thief dodged around an approaching merchant and disappeared down a narrow alley. Darcy considered giving chase, but his hand required immediate attention. The gash was long and shallow, and it bled profusely. Bright red drops splashed the cobblestones at his feet. Darcy swore—being careful to do so in French—and pulled his handkerchief from a pocket, wrapping it around his injured hand, where it immediately became drenched in blood.
The plump fruit seller hurried to his side, tutting in disapproval. “I have seen that scoundrel before, but I do not know him. He is not from Saint-Malo, that much is certain!” Several of the other merchants nodded in agreement. “This war is no good for the youth of France. It corrupts their morals and turns them into criminals. Trying to steal the purse of a good hardworking man. He should be ashamed!” Several of the bystanders muttered about Napoleon under their breath.
She offered a length of linen—clean enough for the purpose—and bound up his hand while maintaining a soliloquy on the state of Saint-Malo, France, and the world in general. “It is all the fault of that man who calls himself our emperor!” People in the growing crowd grumbled agreement, and several uttered Napoleon’s name scornfully before spitting on the ground. Richard had said Brittany and Normandy tended to be more sympathetic to the royalist cause than Napoleon’s, and here was proof. But Darcy was a bit mystified as to how his encounter with a thief was Napoleon’s responsibility.
“You do not support the emperor?” Darcy asked, surprised she offered her opinion so freely to a stranger.
“Bah!” She rejected the idea with a flip of her hand. “Since Napoleon, the youth have no morals, every Sunday the pews are emptier, drought makes the crops wither, and cows give half as much milk.” Again, many onlookers nodded.
Darcy suppressed a smile.
She scowled at him. “I hope you are not a supporter of the ‘emperor.’”
“Not at all.” Darcy managed to keep a straight face.
Someone in the crowd murmured words about reporting the attempted theft to the gendarmes, and Darcy stiffened; he had no desire to attract the attention of the police.
A burly man beside Darcy laughed bitterly. “The gendarmes are worse than useless.”
“Yes, there is no point in filing a report,” his shorter companion agreed.
The fruit seller knotted the linen tightly around Darcy’s hand. “That will do for the moment, but you must have it stitched up.”
Darcy cursed inwardly, but he knew she was right. Such a long wound was unlikely to stop bleeding on its own accord. “I am new in town,” he said. “Where is there a doctor?”
By now the small crowd contained at least thirty people. Most likely this was the most interesting event Saint-Malo had witnessed in weeks. I have been in the country for a handful of hours, and already I am the center of attention, Darcy mused. I am indeed fortunate that I do not rely on my talents at espionage for my livelihood.
“You’ll be wanting Mr. Martin,” the fruit seller said without hesitation.
“Is he the best doctor in town?”
Her brows rose. “He is the only doctor in town. But he will fix you up right, and he won’t charge too much either. Just tell him Celeste sent you.”
After receiving directions, Darcy hurried from the square, uninterested in creating additional spectacle. With the fingers of his right hand pressing on the wounded left, he twisted his way through narrow cobblestoned streets.
Each step took him closer to the seaside and homes that were notably older and larger than those he had seen earlier. Finally, he arrived at his destination: King Street. While many houses were four- and five-story townhouses, Mr. Martin’s house was detached, although it crowded quite close to its neighbors. It was built of stone; two stories of windows were ornamented by blindingly white shutters, and a third story boasted dormer windows. Given its location in the older quarter of the city and its appearance, Darcy guesse
d it was at least three hundred years old.
He regarded it from across the street. Would it be a mistake to visit the doctor? He might ask questions that Darcy could not adequately answer. Or something about Darcy’s demeanor might alert his suspicions—even his accent. It was good, but Darcy had not planned to converse at length with anyone, particularly not a wealthy and educated citizen who might be on friendlier terms with the gendarmes than the merchants.
However, the linen wrapped around his hand was turning red at an alarming rate, and the wound ached abominably. Darcy was unlikely to find someone else trustworthy to stitch it, and the doctor might have valuable information. Darcy would only need to be careful in the man’s presence.
With a sigh, Darcy crossed the street and knocked on the door. It was opened quickly by a thin, ruddy-faced woman who admitted him and bade him wait after he explained his errand. As he waited, Darcy admired the furnishings. The front hall was decorated with an intricate inlaid wood floor, and a gleaming mahogany staircase led to the second floor. The house was not spacious compared to a Mayfair townhouse, but everything suggested the doctor was prosperous and meticulous.
Within a few minutes the man himself descended the stairs. He was tall and slender with a craggy face and gray, thinning hair. He gave Darcy an amiable smile. “I am Robert Martin. What is the problem?”
Some of the tension in Darcy’s shoulders unwound at this friendly greeting. As Darcy explained the problem, all the doctor’s attention focused on his hand. He led Darcy to an examining room where he gently unwrapped the linen, shaking his head at the sight of the wound. “This will require some stitches, I am afraid.”
Darcy nodded. “Whatever is necessary.”
The doctor busied himself pulling supplies out of the copious drawers in a wide white cabinet against one wall. The door opened, and a tall woman with a severe hairstyle and careworn face slipped into the room. Without looking up, Martin gestured to her. “This is my wife, Marguerite. And this is—” He peered closely at Darcy. “I am afraid I do not know your name, monsieur.”
“D’Arcy,” Darcy replied. “Guillaume D’Arcy.”
“Very good, Mr. D’Arcy. Rest your hand here,” the doctor instructed, inviting Darcy to sit at a small table. He began the delicate process of closing the gash in Darcy’s hand while his wife handed him supplies as needed.
The process was painful. Darcy gritted his teeth, hoping the doctor would be quick. Martin gave him a sympathetic smile. “Where are you from, my friend? Your accent is difficult to place.”
The man was trying to distract him from the pain but unknowingly provoked greater anxiety. Fortunately, Darcy was prepared for such questions. “Near Dunkirk.” He winced as the doctor tugged on the stitches.
“What brings you to Saint-Malo?” his wife asked, her smile bright and curious.
“I am seeking work. I came to visit a friend who said he might be able to help me, but he is not at home.”
“Yes, many young men find it advantageous to be away from home these days,” the doctor murmured, his eyes focused on his work. There seemed to be a hidden meaning in the words, but it eluded Darcy. However, there was no suspicion in the doctor’s eyes.
“What kind of work do you seek?” his wife asked. “We may be in a position to help you.”
“That is very kind, madame,” Darcy responded. “I will do anything. I had worked on a farm before.”
“Hmm.” The doctor frowned, and Darcy resisted the urge to flinch. Did the man suspect something? But Martin merely stood after tying the end of the thread. The row of neat stitches had closed the gash completely, and the bleeding had ceased. “I am finished, but I should inspect it again tomorrow. We must be careful of infection.” The man wound a clean cloth around Darcy’s hand and tied it tightly.
“Thank you, sir. What do I owe you?”
Martin named a price; however, when Darcy rose to retrieve the coins from his waist pouch, the world blurred and darkened around the edges of his vision. His head seemed ready to detach itself from his shoulders. Darcy quickly dropped back into the chair. What was wrong with him? He had been injured before, but he never had swooned like some maiden in a novel!
Mrs. Martin gave her husband a meaningful look. “Have you eaten yet today?” the doctor asked.
“No, I— It is still early.”
Martin nodded sympathetically. No doubt he thought Darcy was husbanding his money. “Blood loss with an empty stomach will make you lightheaded. Why do you not join us for breakfast?”
Darcy hated to take advantage of the man’s hospitality when he was completely capable of paying for his own meals. “That is not necessary.”
Martin waved his hand in the air. “You will be doing us a favor, friend. We do not often travel from Saint-Malo. You may tell us stories about the rest of the world, hmm?”
It was an appealing offer. Darcy knew not when he would have another opportunity for a good meal, and he could ask the Martins for clues about the Black Cobra. “Very well, if it is not an imposition.”
Husband and wife smiled as if he had given them a great gift. “I will get the breakfast parlor ready,” his wife said as she hurried out of the door. The doctor stowed supplies in various drawers, chatting idly about the weather.
Breakfast was delicious. Over thick slices of bread and cheese, eggs and fruit, the Martins questioned him about his “home” in Dunkirk and his family. Darcy answered vaguely, inventing some details. But he quickly turned the conversation to recent events in Saint-Malo. After some roundabout questioning, they revealed no knowledge of strangers recently arriving in the town by rowing boat. Darcy sighed inwardly, hoping Dreyfus would have better news for him that afternoon.
At the end of the meal, Mrs. Martin excused herself, but the doctor invited Darcy to linger over coffee as he discussed possible places where Darcy might find work.
His attention wandering, Darcy’s eye was caught by a bookcase opposite his chair. There were several volumes of poetry, plays of Shakespeare’s, and books about English history. The doctor and his wife were well read.
The doctor’s eye followed Darcy’s. “You read English?” he asked. Only then did Darcy realize that every title on the bookshelf was in English. He flinched. I am a truly terrible spy.
Martin chuckled softly. “Do not worry, my friend. Many of us have studied English, even if it is not fashionable these days.”
Darcy covered his confusion with a sip of coffee. What could he possibly say in response? A simple laborer like Guillaume D’Arcy should not be able to read English. Many men of that class would not read at all. Richard would laugh at Darcy’s ineptitude.
“My mother was English,” he mumbled. That was true enough.
“I say, do you speak English?” Martin’s eyes widened.
Nothing to do but continue the charade. “Yes,” he admitted.
“I have a patient who speaks only English, and I cannot understand her. I read English well, but my conversation leaves much to be desired.”
Darcy hesitated. Revealing anything more about himself was dangerous, and he should return to Dreyfus’s house, but the doctor had been very hospitable. Darcy could spare a few minutes to repay the man’s kindness.
“I would be glad to be of assistance.” Only belatedly did the request strike him as odd. “How did you acquire a patient who speaks only English?”
“She is a bit of a mystery. She washed up on the beach some time ago, half drowned. She has been quite ill, and we have been unable to communicate with her. We do not even have her name.”
Darcy froze. Was it possible the doctor had found the Black Cobra? No, surely the spy would be a native French speaker—and male. “She could not even tell you her name?” Perhaps the woman was touched in some way.
“When one of the fishermen found her on the beach, she had suffered a blow to the head and nearly drowned. She wavered in and out of consciousness for many days; I feared for her life. Then, just as she seemed to improve, she cont
racted a lung fever. Her moments of consciousness have been brief, and she does not seem to understand where she is.”
“Understandable,” Darcy murmured. Poor woman. Now Darcy wanted to lend assistance for her sake as well as the doctor’s.
“Indeed,” the doctor said. “She is often feverish and incoherent. But perhaps she will say enough that you may ascertain her identity.”
Darcy stood. “Take me to her.” He would not allow his mission to stand in the way of assisting someone so unfortunate.
The doctor led Darcy up the polished staircase and down a corridor to a room at the back of the house. Mrs. Martin met them at the door.
“How does she fare?” the doctor asked.
His wife’s expression was grave. “Feverish again. Sleeping or unconscious, I do not know which.”
Darcy felt a pang of regret. If he could not speak with the woman, he could not be of much help to her. “Perhaps I should return another time,” he said.
Martin considered. “At least come into the room for a minute. Sometimes she speaks in her delirium.” He opened the door.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the sunshine peeking around the edges of the heavy curtains. Closed up as it was, the chamber was airless and quite warm.
On the bed, the woman lay very still, her hair a dark tangle over her face. Even from a distance Darcy could discern that her complexion was not good—pale and waxy. The covers were pulled up to her chin so that only her face was visible.
She moaned and shifted slightly as they entered, but her eyes remained closed. “Come closer.” The doctor gestured to the bedside. “Perhaps she will say something.”
Darcy joined the doctor reluctantly. It was the height of impropriety to be in any woman’s bedchamber, particularly that of a stranger. Of course, Darcy had no intention of taking advantage of the situation, and nobody need ever hear about it.
This close, Darcy could see that the woman was quite young; her skin was smooth and unmarked.
She moaned again, turning her head toward Darcy. A shaft of midday light struck her face, and he instinctively reached out to brush the hair from her cheek.
The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy Page 3