His Forbidden Liaison: A brotherhood of spies in Napoleonic France (The Aikenhead Honours Book 3)

by Joanna Maitland

  Guillaume drew Marguerite into the deserted kitchen. "He's leaving tomorrow. Your Mr Jacques."

  "What? But surely not. Herr Benn is nowhere near well enough to leave his bed."

  "That's as may be, mistress. All I know is that he had me send the boy to the livery stables to arrange a horse for him. It's to be brought round at first light. He's in his room now, making ready."

  For a moment, Marguerite was speechless. She could not understand what the man was about. He had promised to fulfil his trust to Herr Benn. He couldn't leave, surely? Perhaps he was simply riding out for another glimpse of his idol? "Is there any news of Bonaparte?" she asked, hoping that she sounded suitably innocent. "He should have been arrested by now, surely?"

  "The rumour is that he'll be arriving here soon, mistress."

  "Here, in Lyons? No, that's impossible. There's half an army between him and us. He's bound to be taken."

  "That's your heart speaking, and not your head, if you'll forgive my saying so," Guillaume said bleakly. "We had all those years of him before. You know, as well as I do, how much the army loves him. They'll not touch so much as a hair of his head. You mark my words."

  Marguerite gulped. More than anything she had learned today, the old servant's words had brought home to her how much danger surrounded her family. "What can we do, Guillaume?" she whispered.

  "We must keep our heads down, and our mouths shut," he said bluntly. "And, if you'll allow me to give you a word of advice, you'll get rid of those two men you brought from Marseilles. They're trouble."

  "But you said that Mr Jacques was going tomorrow, in any case? Or did I misunderstand?" She was playing for time, now. She had to find out exactly how much Guillaume suspected. She needed to decide how far she could trust him, with another man's life. On one issue he was right, though—Louis Jacques was most certainly trouble.

  Guillaume gave her a long, assessing look. When she returned his gaze unflinchingly, he nodded to himself and glanced over his shoulder to the kitchen door. It was firmly closed. The kitchen boy had not returned. "I think you have suspicions, just like mine, Miss Marguerite. I reckon they're Bonapartists, those two, and that Mr Jacques will be off to join his Emperor tomorrow. What he said about looking after his friend—I reckon it was all lies, to enlist our sympathy. He's a deep one, and sly."

  "So what do you think we should do?"

  "Let him go, and good riddance. And the moment he's out of the house, send t'other one to the Hôtel Dieu. We can't afford to have strangers in the house if Bonaparte does return. His informers won't be far behind."

  Sensible advice, if the situation were as simple as it seemed to Guillaume. But it was not.

  Marguerite took a deep breath and laid a confiding hand on the servant's arm. "You are right, but only in part," she said softly. "Mr Jacques is a Bonapartist, as you suspected. And Herr Benn pretends to share his companion's views. But he—" She swallowed. "He is an English spy, Guillaume."

  "What?" Seeing Marguerite's sudden frown, he lowered his voice and said, "A spy? No, you must be mistaken, mistress. He'll be a Bonapartist, like his friend."

  Marguerite shook her head vehemently and quickly explained what she knew of Herr Benn. "So you see, Guillaume," she finished, "we must protect Herr Benn until he is well enough to continue with his mission. And we must prevent Mr Jacques from discovering that he has been duped."

  "Best let him leave tomorrow then, as he plans."

  It was the obvious solution, but Marguerite felt sure, somehow, that it was the wrong solution. "No, we dare not, however tempting it may be. We do not know what he plans to do, nor how much he may suspect about Herr Benn. He may be waiting for an opportunity to come back to arrest him. And us, too, if Bonaparte wins power again." Her mind seemed to be filled with quarrelling voices, some arguing that Jacques would betray her, others that he would never do such a dishonourable thing. She was beginning to feel as if her head would burst asunder.

  Guillaume stroked his chin. "There are too many unanswered questions here. What we need is time. Bonaparte may be captured, or even killed, long before he reaches Lyons."

  She had forgotten to tell him. She must be losing her wits. "No, Guillaume, you were right about that," she said quickly. "When the usurper met the first of the troops sent to arrest him, they disobeyed their officers and changed sides. No doubt Bonaparte will be in Grenoble by now."

  "How do you know that, mistress? I've heard only rumours, nothing definite."

  "Mr Jacques was there. He saw. I overheard him telling Herr Benn. And he was jubilant. Guillaume, we must stop him from leaving. He may betray us all."

  Guillaume picked up the kitchen knife from the table and weighed it in his hand.

  "No. There must be no killing." It did not matter what Jacques was, or what he might do. Marguerite could never allow him to die. In his own way, and in spite of his misguided allegiance, he was a fine and honourable man.

  "No?" He laid the knife down on the table once more. "Well, perhaps you're right, mistress. It would be plaguey inconvenient to dispose of a body at present, with all those soldiers in the city. So… Yes, I think I can see a way. But, for this, I will need your help."

  She would agree to anything as long as Jacques was allowed to live. "You shall have it," she said firmly. "Whatever you need."

  Chapter Nine

  Jack had barely slept. His body had been tired enough, after almost two solid days on horseback, but his mind would not be still. He was struggling with pangs of guilt at leaving Ben behind in a city which was like to welcome Bonaparte at any moment. Ben was cavalier about the risks—he was certain that he was safe in the Grolier house, because the younger sister was making sheep's eyes at him. Jack was not nearly so sure. The decisions in the Grolier family were made by Miss Marguerite, and she was a Bonapartist to the tips of her elegant little toes.

  He rolled over and tried to ignore the image that word had conjured up. But he could not. It was so real that she could have been there beside him, standing in the doorway of her room in that mean little inn, her feet bare, her glorious hair spilling around her shoulders, and her wrapper loose, as if her body were beckoning him to reach behind the fabric and sample the exquisite body beneath.

  He groaned into his pillow. His imagination was playing tricks, but his body continued to respond in the most inconvenient way, even though she had never made any deliberate move to entice him. If her wrapper was undone, it was because she had given him the belt to tie up a would-be robber, not because she wanted Jack's hands to explore the delights of her body. She would doubtless have made him another victim of her candlestick if he had tried. And every subsequent encounter had been just as innocent. On her part.

  He must stop thinking about her. He must focus on his mission. He was the leader and responsible for its success, or failure, though he had made a pretty poor fist of it thus far. He had been much too unwary in Marseilles, blithely sauntering into the first harbour inn they came upon. Dominic and Leo never took such chances. He remembered it now, much too late, and he burned with shame at his own failings. His brothers always spent time in the taprooms of a town, listening and talking to the regular drinkers, before they decided on a new lodging. They usually checked on emergency escape routes, too. Why had Jack forgotten all those simple rules? It was at least partly because of his lack of care that Ben had been shot. And it was certainly Jack's fault that Ben was now dangerously lodged in a Bonapartist household where one unwary word could betray him. Dominic and Leo would never have allowed matters to come to such a pass.

  Jack had to admit that both his brothers were a great deal more experienced, and a great deal wiser about this spying game than he was. Game? At the outset, back in Vienna, it had seemed to be a jolly spree, a replacement for the thrill his reckless gambling had previously provided. There would be no more gambling now. Without Leo's generosity, Jack would have faced public dishonour, to add to his private guilt and shame. That was why this mission mattered. It was a chan
ce for Jack to redeem himself with his brothers, and to serve his country into the bargain. He had been immensely proud that Wellington himself had selected him to lead the mission. He had laughed at any mention of danger, for he and Ben had been in many scrapes in the past, and had always come through with a whole skin. In the event, he had behaved like an utter fool. He was bidding fair to be as reckless over this French mission as at the gaming tables.

  From now on, things would be very different. As soon as it was fully light, Jack would have to ride out from Lyons, and somehow make his way home to deliver his crucial burden of information, gathering more along the way. From now on, every inn would have to be carefully checked, every chance acquaintance viewed as suspect. That was what he should have done from the moment they set foot on French soil. But he had been too hot-headed, too puffed up with his own importance as mission leader, to bother with the most basic precautions. And, as a result, he would be leaving Ben behind, wounded, to face he knew not what.

  He had been thoroughly irresponsible. He should never have allowed Marguerite Grolier to take them beyond the gates of Marseilles. The Aikenhead Honours always worked alone. He should have remembered. But he had been bewitched by a mass of fair curls and more cool courage than any woman should ever possess.

  It would be best if he never set eyes on her again.

  He continued to toss and turn for what seemed like hours. Eventually, he gave up and got out of bed. He would wash in cold water and dress by candlelight. He might even manage something approaching a shave. Then he would creep down to Ben's chamber to say his farewells. At least he had had the forethought to identify which creaking stairs to avoid. With luck, he would be able to leave the house undetected, before anyone else was stirring. He knew where the livery stable was. He would walk there and collect the horse himself.

  If he did not see her again, he might one day be able to put her out of his mind.

  By the time he was more or less presentable, it was definitely less dark outside. He peered out through the crack between the shutters, trying to get a glimpse of the sky, but even here, near the top of the house, it was very difficult to see beyond the windows of the house immediately opposite. If he opened the shutters, he would be able to stick his head out, but he doubted he could do so without making a great deal of noise. As far as he could tell, it was not raining, which was all that mattered.

  He turned back into the room, automatically checking that nothing had been left behind. Everything but his shaving gear had been packed away. He crossed to the dressing table where he carefully dried his razor and shaving brush, before returning them to their places and tying the leather roll. He was about to tuck it down the side of his valise when he heard a tiny knock on the door.

  He only just managed to bite back the curse that rose to his lips. It could not be Ben. He was improving, but not enough to manage a flight of stairs. It was probably Guillaume, up far too early, bringing him hot water.

  Careful, Jack. This is precisely the kind of situation where you need to think before you act.

  For a moment, he stood stock still, desperately trying to rework his plans. It would not matter if he was unable to creep out of the house unseen. His reason there had been nothing vital, simply a reflection of his own childish desire to avoid any further meeting with Marguerite. He could revert to the original plan. He would accept the hot water graciously—he might even take a few minutes to give himself a proper shave—and he would do everything else quite openly, leaving only when the livery horse was delivered to the door. At this early hour, Marguerite was bound to be still asleep.

  He crossed to the door and pulled it open. "Good mo— Oh!"

  It was Marguerite. She was carrying a heavy wooden tray with a jug of steaming water, a cup of coffee, three slices of bread and a lighted candle. The single flame made a halo of her beautiful hair and cast strange upward shadows on to her face. She looked ethereal, he decided, though there was a cast of almost grim determination in her features.

  He swallowed hard, and bowed to her. "Miss Grolier. I had not looked for such an attention from you. I—"

  "If you would allow me to lay down my burden, sir?" She smiled and took a pace forward, forcing Jack to make way for her. He reached for the tray, but she ignored him. Without the slightest sign of embarrassment, she walked straight across his bedchamber to put her tray on the dressing table. Then she took up her candle and turned back to him.

  He saw that she was wearing a white cook's apron that covered her almost completely. She might seem as pale, as insubstantial as a ghost, but she was a working ghost. Who else was there to prepare coffee for him at this hour? The daily cook did not arrive until much later than this. Apart from Guillaume and the kitchen boy, who was biddable but simple, the household consisted of only the two sisters and the old female servant who cared for the invisible invalid mother. Besides doing their own weaving, and running their business, the two sisters must also do many of the household chores. Did they ever have time to sleep at all?

  He should be ashamed that, by accepting her hospitality for himself and a wounded man, he had increased her already heavy workload. That had been arrogant of him, and selfish. Now he was contrite, even though it was too late to make practical amends. "There was no need for you to take so much trouble over me, ma'am, though I do thank you for it," he said, and meant it. "I would—"

  "You would do me a kindness, sir, if you were to drink my coffee while it is hot." She picked up the cup and held it out to him. She was looking steadily up into his face. A brief flicker of her candle showed him eyes that seemed to have turned a deep, forest green. It would be how he would remember her.

  He took the cup with a murmur of thanks and swallowed a mouthful. It was hot, bitter and delicious. He almost gasped aloud at the realisation that his feelings for Marguerite were all of those things. Embarrassed, and trying to avoid her gaze, he tossed back the rest of the coffee and held out the empty cup. The movement was a little awkward, for he had splayed his fingers round it, in hopes that her hand might touch his. Just for a second. One last touch. One last, searing memory.

  She avoided his childish trap without the least difficulty. She was still staring up at him, but for some reason her face was becoming quite indistinct, as if a heavy veil had been drawn down between them. As if—

  Marguerite almost tossed the cup back on to the tray, but even with both hands free she was unable to do more than break his fall a little. The drug had worked much more quickly than Guillaume had predicted, perhaps because Jacques had taken it on an empty stomach.

  He had crumpled into an untidy heap on the floor. She tried to straighten his limbs, but his legs were too heavy, and awkwardly trapped beneath him. All she could do was to free his right arm and to fetch a pillow for his head. Guillaume would have to do the rest.

  She knelt on the floor, staring down at his unconscious body. She must not feel in the least sorry for him. She had done only what she had to do to protect Herr Benn. If Jacques had to suffer a little, it was on his own head, his just reward for supporting a monster. Such was the way of war.

  But nevertheless, she could not resist laying a hand gently on his cheek, savouring the contact with his warm, vibrant body. His cheek was smooth, with delicate shadowed skin under his closed eyes, but his jaw line was a little rough. She peered more closely. He had certainly shaved, but he had not done it very well, with no hot water to soften the stubble. Poor Jacques. He was young, and brave, and committed to his cause. In many ways he was admirable, but he—

  Her musings were interrupted by a creak on the stairs. She jerked her hand away and jumped to her feet. What on earth had she been doing, allowing free rein to such treacherous thoughts? She would not allow it to happen any more. She would keep herself under rigid control.

  She reached the open door, as Guillaume appeared. One look at the body on the floor was enough to produce a grunt of satisfaction, but it did not remove his worried frown. He pulled Marguerite further into t
he room and closed the door. "The stable lad has this minute arrived with the horse. He brings bad news, and not mere rumour. The regiment was ordered to muster at first light, for review by the Comte d'Artois. It was a shambles. Instead of saluting the King's brother as they should have done, half the regiment made faces at him. It was a rabble, not an army. Once they started shouting for their Emperor, the comte knew that it was all up with him. He's ridden off for Paris."

  "Oh, God help us."

  "Just so, mistress, for the regiment will not. They are waiting for their Emperor to enter Lyons in triumph. He is expected within hours."

  Marguerite realised that she had been wringing her hands throughout Guillaume's appalling story. She forced them apart and held them tight to her sides. This was a time for action, not hand-wringing. "There is nothing we can do about that, Guillaume. If he comes, he comes." She nodded towards the body on the floor. "We must concentrate on dealing with him. Help me get him up."

  It took their combined strength to lift him on to the ladder-back chair. Marguerite propped him up and supported his poor head while Guillaume knelt to tie his ankles to the chair legs. Jacques's thick hair was falling softly over his face. He must have washed it. Without thinking, she stroked it back from his temples. It felt like strong silk under her fingers. It—

  Guillaume rose again to bind Jacques's wrists and she stepped back quickly. The limp body slumped forward, held only by its bonds. "That won't do. You must find something to tie around his chest, to anchor him to the chair."

  Guillaume's eyes lit upon the unconscious man's belt. Without hesitation, he pulled it free and tightened it round Jacques's chest and the back of the chair. "Have you a handkerchief, mistress?" he said finally.

  "What for?" She could guess. Jacques was already trussed like a chicken for the pot. Now he was to be gagged. It was the ultimate indignity.

  "You know what for, Miss Marguerite. This may be the only occupied room on this floor, but his voice could still be heard below, or down in the street. We dare not take the risk."