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

by Joanna Maitland

  The sergeant began to frown. He ran his eyes over the opulent post-chaise and then over Marguerite's expensive clothes. "Seems to me, sir, that you're not so poor as you'd have me believe. Perhaps you would be good enough to step down out of this 'ere vehicle?"

  Marguerite spun round in her seat. Oh, heavens. Jacques had overdone it. Now they truly were in the suds. She held her breath and offered up a desperate prayer.

  She would willingly sacrifice her own life, but Jacques, her beloved Jacques, must be saved.

  Jack could hear the sound of Marguerite scrambling down from the chaise behind him. He did not dare to turn. He wished she had stayed safely inside the chaise, but of course she would not. His indomitable Amazon was going to try to save them, even though it was Jack who had made such a mull of everything so far. Why on earth had he let his tongue run on wheels?

  "Sergeant. Sergeant!" She sounded increasingly like a termagant, bless her.

  The sergeant turned back to face her. As he did so, he wiped the grimace off his face and replaced it with an expression of polite enquiry. "Madam?"

  "Sergeant, you will want to see what we are carrying. You wish to be assured that we are what we say we are. That is quite natural. You have your duty to do and we, as loyal citizens of France, would not for one moment try to impede you in carrying it out. Let me help you. My brother may think he is in charge of this expedition of ours—" she tossed Jacques a withering glance "—but I must tell you that he knows nothing at all of the silk business. He can neither weave our silk nor sell it. In fact, the only things he is good for are drinking and whor—"

  "Sister!" Jack roared, judging it was time to intervene.

  Marguerite waved him away. "I am saying nothing less than the truth, brother. The sergeant may judge for himself which of us knows more about this business of ours." She took the sergeant by the arm and towed him round to look at the trunk of samples. She dug into her reticule for the key. "My father does not trust him with this," she said waspishly, waving it in Jacques's direction, "which only goes to prove what I have been saying, does it not?" She flung open the lid to display her carefully stacked parcels. "They are all wrapped in oiled paper, as you see, so that they will come to no harm if the journey should be wet. One cannot depend on this trunk to keep out every drop of water, you see, and I am most particular in the care of my silk. I wrapped every single parcel myself, you know." She glared across at Jack. "I certainly would not trust my brother to do it."

  By Jove, she was wonderful. The sergeant was clearly wilting under her barrage of words. Jack was even beginning to feel sorry for the man.

  "Now, I take it you would like me to open some of these parcels, sergeant, so that you may check the contents. Pray choose." When the sergeant did not move quickly enough for her, she urged him on by picking out one package after another. "Shall it be this one? Or this? It is very much the same to me, you know. All contain precisely what I have said."

  The sergeant, unable to get a word in, pointed helplessly to a smallish parcel that still lay in the trunk. Marguerite seized it and carefully unwrapped it, talking nineteen to the dozen about the importance of slow careful wrapping so that the oiled paper could not tear or fail in its task of protecting the precious fabric. "There," she said at last, clearly triumphant. She lifted the silk and shook it out. It was patterned in rich reds and golds that glowed and shimmered as the light caught it. "Is that not a work of art, sergeant? I may tell you that I wove it myself, and—"

  "I do not need to see any more here, madam." The man had had to raise his voice almost to parade-ground pitch in order to make himself heard. "Pray take your time to wrap it up again." He marched hastily back round to where Jack was standing and looked up at him with something like relief in his face. "Now sir, do you have any other luggage with you?"

  "Why yes, sergeant. We have a travelling valise each. In the chaise." He pointed helpfully. "If you wish to search them, please do. As my sister has said, we have nothing to hide." That was not true. Jack did not want to have to explain the substantial store of silver concealed in his valise. He was beginning to concoct a story to use, when Marguerite appeared at his side once more. She still looked like a harridan, but a particularly bad-tempered one now.

  "Are you proposing to search my valise, sergeant?" She sounded outraged. "That is not the kind of treatment I should have expected from a man of your standing, I must say. Pawing over a lady's most intimate garments…" She put a hand to her throat as though the mere thought of such behaviour was giving her palpitations. Undeterred, the sergeant had opened her valise and was beginning, very gingerly, to move aside some of the clothing in order to search underneath. "Why, I do believe your hands are not clean." She rushed forward and snatched the valise from him. "Let me do it." She picked up one layer after another of her carefully packed clothing, allowing him barely time to squint underneath before replacing them. "There. And there. Are you satisfied, sir?"

  The sergeant admitted that he was and turned gratefully to Jack's valise. Marguerite was still repacking hers, so she could not see the look of exquisite anguish on the sergeant's face. In spite of their predicament, Jack found it very difficult not to laugh.

  The man had barely started to poke his fingers into Jack's valise when Marguerite turned on him again. Jack could not imagine what she was going to do this time. If she went too far, they might both end up being arrested.

  "Be careful of his clean linen, if you please, sergeant. I laundered and ironed it myself, you know, though he certainly does not deserve such devoted service, considering the abuse he hurls upon my head. Oh no, please don't pull out that shirt. It will never—"

  "Madam, I have seen enough," the sergeant announced. "There is nothing here to suggest you are anything other than silk merchants, as your brother said. This search has obviously delayed your journey, but it was a matter of duty, you understand. If you start again quickly, you will find that you have not lost too much time." The poor man could not be more desperate to be rid of them.

  "Thank you, sergeant, but before we drive on, I should like to say that—"

  "No, sister, you will not," Jack interrupted quickly. It was time for the foppish brother to reassert himself and start an argument with his impossible sister. That would be the last straw for the poor sergeant and would certainly dispel any lingering doubts. "The sergeant is right. We have lost quite enough time already and neither he nor I wish to hear your opinions. On anything."

  "But I—"

  Jack seized her arm and half-dragged her to the chaise door. "Up with you now," he said sharply, bundling her up the steps.

  She almost fell into her seat. "Well. Such appalling lack of manners." She continued to rail at him while he replaced their valises and climbed in beside her.

  Jack nodded to the sergeant. The soldier looked relieved that his own ordeal was over and more than a little sorry for Jack, whose ordeal was about to continue. Jack shrugged and smiled wryly.

  The chaise began to move forward quite slowly. Ahead of them, the line of soldiers parted in the middle at the sergeant's signal. There was barely enough room for the chaise to pass between the two ranks. Marguerite, aware that danger was still all around them, continued to berate Jack energetically. The soldiers might not be able to make out her words, but they would certainly hear the angry tone and see her agitated, frowning face.

  Jack was staring straight ahead, with an appropriately pained look on his face, as they drove through. He needed to thank her, now, and he could think of only one way. He laid his hand gently on top of Marguerite's and pressed her fingers lightly. She caught her breath for a split second, and then she continued ranting at him in the same colourful language.

  But out of sight of the soldiers, she squeezed his hand and held it fast.

  Marguerite clung to the memory of that magic moment throughout the rest of their journey to Paris. It took much longer than they had hoped, for the news of Bonaparte's advance seemed to have created turmoil everywhere. Pos
ting houses were without sufficient horses or postilions, inns were full to overflowing with royalists fleeing north to escape the man they called "the monster", and soldiers seemed to be everywhere, stopping, searching and questioning travellers, but rarely clear about the purpose of their actions. Their officers claimed they were serving King Louis, but the ill-concealed mutterings in the ranks suggested otherwise. Marguerite found herself becoming increasingly nervous. She did succeed in continuing to play the part of the harridan sister, whenever it proved necessary, but she felt her acting was becoming less and less convincing.

  With each successive encounter with jumpy soldiers, she had become more afraid for Jacques, even though he showed no fear at all. Indeed, he seemed to be enjoying each brush with danger. Perhaps his buoyant good humour was because Marguerite had ceased to taunt him? That first search had taught her a frightening lesson—she and Jacques were dependent on each other to get through this journey unscathed. They had to trust each other. Her wicked teasing had made him cross, and frustrated, both of which might lead him to say or do things that might betray them. The momentary satisfaction of punishing him for his stupid oath was of no moment compared with their survival.

  She had even begun to think they were becoming friends. He still refused to disclose the details of his mission—she had asked once more, and been rebuffed again—but on other subjects he was happy to talk, and his views were interesting and thoughtful. He seemed to have travelled all over Europe, in spite of his comparative youth. From a chance remark he had dropped, Marguerite deduced that he had even visited England. That seemed strange to her at first, but then she remembered that he was spying for England. No doubt his masters had insisted on a secret visit there, so that they could assess his reliability. It must have been something of the sort for, when she asked him what England was like, he turned the subject. He did not actually deny he had been there; but he did not admit it, either.

  She did not attempt to pursue the issue. She contented herself with the knowledge that he had avoided lying to her. Perhaps that touch of their fingers had been more than a sign of relief. It had certainly been so for her.

  "You are looking pensive, Marguerite," he said quietly when they were on the final approaches to Paris. "There is no need to worry. We shall reach our goal soon now, largely thanks to your astonishing acting ability. I must say I do pity the poor idle brother of the termagant from Lyons," he finished, with a broad grin.

  She decided on the spot to share her concerns with him. After all, their mission must soon be over. He would make his report, she would deliver her silk to the Duchess of Courland and seek a few new customers, and then they would be able to start back south for Lyons. Suzanne, with her new-found confidence, might be coping perfectly well, but it did not stop Marguerite from worrying about her. "I was wondering how long we are to remain in Paris and where we are to stay. I imagine you will wish to be close to the British embassy, so that you may make your report without being observed?"

  "I…I…" Goodness, he was actually blushing. He ran a finger round the inside of his collar and swallowed hard. "Marguerite, there are things I have not told you—things I may not tell you. For your own safety."

  He reached for her hand and held it for a moment. It was their first real touch for days, and it made her blood fizz like shaken champagne. One moment, she felt light-headed and unsteady, the next she was soaring up into the clouds.

  "I must ask you a question which you may find odd, but I beg you to answer it none the less. You told me, before we left Lyons, that your father is in the Low Countries, seeking orders. He is bound to return to Lyons to protect his family, as soon as he hears of Bonaparte's return. Any father would. His obvious route will take him through Paris. Where would you expect him to lodge in the city?"

  Marguerite was so shocked that her jaw dropped. She had told Jacques the same practised lies that the whole family used, both in Lyons and elsewhere. Papa Grolier was travelling abroad on business, or Papa had been at home but he had left again and would not return for some months. No one had ever called her bluff before. Why did Jacques have to do so? To play for time, she said, "I don't know, Jacques. Why do you ask?"

  "I…I…" He was looking increasingly uncomfortable. At last he said, hoarsely, "I thought your father could escort you home to Lyons."

  "But surely you will do that? What about Herr Benn? Do you not have to return to collect him?"

  "Er…no. I do not plan to return to Lyons."

  "But Herr Benn—?"

  "Herr Benn is well aware of what I am planning."

  "I see," Marguerite said crossly. "So you and Herr Benn have discussed everything, but I am not to be trusted with any information at all. I take it you intend to deposit me in Paris, like a parcel for collection?"

  "Marguerite, I cannot remain in Paris with you. I have to …er… go on. Alone."

  "Why? Surely you can deliver your information here, to the embassy? Where else would you go?"

  His jaw worked for a moment. Then, very softly, he said, "I have to go to England."

  "What? And you would go alone? But that is madness. All the roads and the ports will be watched. The journey from Paris to the coast will be far more dangerous than anything we have done so far." She shook her head determinedly. "No. If you leave Paris, I shall go with you. You cannot safely travel alone."

  "Nonsense, Marguerite. Of course I can. It will be much safer for you to stay here in Paris until your father arrives to escort you home. I could not possibly leave you here otherwise. It would be a breach of my oath."

  Marguerite threw him a jaundiced look, but said nothing. She was not sure that she could control her voice if she spoke.

  He laid his fingers gently over hers. "So, tell me, my brave Marguerite. How soon is your father likely to arrive in Paris?" He gave her hand a tiny squeeze.

  That touch was the final straw. She began to laugh hysterically. She wanted to double over with the pain of it, but she eventually managed to suck in a breath and speak. "My father? My father will not be arriving in Paris. My father is a convenient fiction to allow the silk business to continue to run."

  "What?" He jerked away from her.

  She straightened her shoulders and stared at him. He did not understand what the Groliers were about. He was probably too rich to bother about mundane matters such as merchants' lives. She spoke slowly and clearly, as if to a simpleton. "Our business cannot operate without a man to head it. I have no brothers. And no father, either. He died more than four years ago. We had no choice. As far as the world is concerned, my father is still alive."

  "Oh, God. Now what am I going to do?"

  For a second or two, she felt sorry for him. His anguish was so real. But then she realised the import of his words. "It is a question, sir, of what we are going to do, is it not?" She forced herself to smile confidently. "If you are determined to travel on to England in spite of the risks—though I cannot see the point of it, I must say—we will continue to travel together, as brother and sister."

  He shook his head, not decisively, but as if he were trying to clear his thoughts. "What a coil." He had begun to run his fingers through his hair. It was almost standing on end. It made him look very young. "How could I have been so stupid?" That was heartfelt.

  "Perhaps it is time to rethink your plans?" She was trying to sound as calm and reasonable as she could. "You could deliver your information to the embassy and then you could return to Herr Benn. With me."

  He was barely listening. "I had intended to lodge you safely at a convent until your father arrived, but I dare not do so now. You might not be safe here, even with the nuns. Who knows what may happen once Bonaparte arrives in Paris?"

  "Then let us complete our business as soon as we may, and return to Lyons."

  He groaned. "Marguerite, it is impossible. I dare not go to the embassy, for I am too well known there. If my true identity were revealed now, my mission would be at an end. And you would be in real danger, too. I will not r
isk that."

  His concern warmed her heart. She knew she would never persuade him to abandon his mission—nor did she wish to, for she could not love a dishonourable man—but there must be another way. Yes, she had it. "Trust me with your report, Jacques. I can take it to the embassy. There will be no risk then."

  "No." He seized her hand again and held it firmly between both of his own. "No, Marguerite. You do not understand. The embassy will be watched. You would be seen, and followed. Bonaparte's spies would have you arrested, the moment their master arrived in the city. No, I must find a place of safety for you, well away from Paris, and then I must make haste back to England."

  "Back to England? So you have been there before. But surely it is dangerous for a Frenchman to go there, especially now? Could you not—?"

  He pulled her up short by squeezing her hand so hard it was almost painful. Her question expired on a gasp.

  "Marguerite, I will trust you with my mission. And my life. I am an Englishman."

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Pension Beauregard did not live up to its name. It was tucked away in a long, gloomy cul-de-sac near the rue St Honoré. The location was ideal for their purposes—close to the centre of Paris and yet too poor to tempt the people of wealth and fashion who might recognise Jacques.

  Marguerite crossed to the parlour window yet again. She had done it so many times now that she had lost count. He had been gone for hours.

  He was an English spy.

  Those words kept going round and round in her head. She told herself she should be honoured that he had shared his dangerous secret with her. But she was not. She was tempted to weep, or to scream with frustration.

  She had done neither.

  What a fool she had been. She had trusted him. She had believed they were almost friends. What kind of friendship could exist between a French weaver and an English gentleman?

  A French royalist might have learned to return her love and to forgive her for what she had done to him. But a proud, stiff-necked Englishman would never do so, however worthy the cause. She had drugged him and imprisoned him in the most demeaning way. It was no wonder he was trying to get rid of her.