He glanced at her. ‘Won’t a well-dressed lady walking into a warehouse look a little odd?’
‘Indeed.’ She shuddered forward as the carriage jerked to a standstill. ‘Which is why you will go in for me, if ever we make it through these streets.’
Now it was her turn to wait while Nicholas disappeared indoors. A gloomy half-silence permeated the salty air, the tidal lapping of the river licking at the bank below her swinging feet. Although she had chosen a spot out of the way, the paucity of workhands was nonetheless surprising, evidence she supposed that the Dutch war was impacting on trade.
Still, she received a few strange looks from over the crates that powerful arms were hauling about, the sweaty faces of the dockhands creasing into frowns or else leers. Although her black cloak covered the finest flourishes of her outfit, her ensemble was still uncommon. But thankfully none of the men gave her much trouble, and as she watched the rain form ripples on the water, the transfixing swirls caused her mind to drift along as naturally as they carried the barges and the wherries, leading her to thoughts of Giles Malvern and Henry Raff; and she thought too of Virgo, of her uncle, and of the King; and her imagination lifted her to those lofty realms of fantasy to which her mind often ascended when she had little else to do, to a fancied scene of Virgo sailing from the palace in the King’s own yacht, laughing at the Court as she ferried her secrets to the canals of Amsterdam itself.
But Lady Allcot’s death had rendered such fantasies too unreal. The drizzle moistening her exposed cheeks woke her back to the Thames, and she turned her head, looking for any sign that Nicholas was emerging, but the dockhands continued to lug their crates, and the door to the warehouse stayed shut.
She got to her feet: doing nothing was hard. She had only asked him to make some pretend enquiries about a potential shipment for a made-up master. Another five minutes dragged by. What was taking him so long? A cold feeling began to take her as the recent troubles of the past toyed with her reason. She called a halt to her agitated pacing, determined to enter the warehouse herself.
She approached the door, waiting for a dockhand to pass before resting her hand on the wood. She listened within, but heard nothing. Tentative, she pushed, but immediately jumped back as the door swung open, and she scurried aside to avoid a man coming out, but too late – he had noticed.
‘What are you doing?’ whispered Nicholas.
‘Oh.’ She breathed out. ‘It is you.’
He studied her face. ‘Not now. Come, let’s get out of here.’
Head down, he scuttled away along the side of the wharf, halting only when they had left the waterfront and come out onto the street. The usual London chimney smoke seemed to waft not far above his head.
‘What has happened?’ she panted, chasing as swiftly as she could.
He looked back over her shoulder. ‘Let’s get further into town.’
He pressed on through the city gates, dodging an ox cart to turn into a busier road full of pedestrians with a singular purpose: walking directly in her way. Just about managing to keep up his pace, she weaved through the gauntlet, passing various signs of diverse businesses swinging in the ever-strengthening breeze. Not far down, she found him waiting beneath one of the smartest, a peculiar depiction of a small, green amphibian, the sign of the Leaping Frog.
‘There’s a table,’ he said as they entered the inn. ‘Pull your cloak about you and wait. I’ll fetch a couple of ales.’
Unused to following his orders, the insistence of his tone nevertheless made her comply. Taking an empty bench, she watched as he fetched two brown beers from the landlord, the purpose in his gait a match for the sureness of his words.
‘Here you go,’ he said.
He set the ales on the polished table, pushing the closest towards her. It spun a little as it caught on a knot, the white foam of its bubbling head dribbling down the side.
‘Now will you speak?’ she said.
‘I’m sorry. But I couldn’t take the chance they might see you.’ He sucked in through his teeth. ‘I just hope they didn’t see me. I had to hide for a bit.’
She gripped the wet tankard. ‘Hide from whom?’
‘Guess.’
‘Do we have to play these games?’
He took a swift glug of his beer. ‘I just think you won’t guess.’
‘Mr Howe, then.’
‘No.’
‘Cornelia?’
‘No.’
‘The Queen.’
He chuckled. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘No more absurd than you are in making me guess. Come, Nicholas, tell me.’
‘Very well.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘It was—’
Of a sudden his eyes bulged, and his head lurched forward, hitting the table with a bump. A gurgling noise rose from his throat.
‘Nicholas!’ She shook his forearm, fallen next to his matted hair. ‘Nicholas!’
And then just as suddenly he raised his head, a huge grin on his face.
‘Don’t worry. I’m well.’
Her heart was beating fast. ‘What in God’s name?’
‘There was nobody in the warehouse. It would have been chance indeed if Howe had been there at the same time I went in.’
‘Then what was this … display for?’
‘To lighten the mood, is all. I could tell you were worrying about that Malvern cove all the way here in the carriage. And when I saw your face when I came out of the warehouse … sometimes, I have learnt that the best way to stop you brooding is to startle you out of it.’
She stared at him, annoyed, but by now his grin was infecting her own humour, and she could not be angry for long.
‘You know me too well,’ she said. ‘But do not do that again. ’Tis not seemly.’
‘Also, I simply fancied a pint.’ He took a long swig. ‘I’ll tell you what, though. There truly was nobody in the warehouse.’
‘Nobody at all?’
‘Not one person.’
‘At this time of day?’ She thought back to the scarce dockhands. ‘Maybe the war truly has affected trade.’
‘I doubt it has that much. There are always means.’
‘Then what were you doing in there? You took your time.’
‘Looking around, of course. Seeking out evidence.’
‘And did you find anything?’
‘Something quite interesting.’
‘Well? Do not make me suffer one of your irritating … prolongations.’
‘What?’
She sighed. ‘Do not go on about it.’
‘Would I ever?’ He leant towards her. ‘They have a room at the front of the warehouse. An office. You’d think it’d be locked, but’ – he coughed – ‘it wasn’t.’
‘Nicholas …’
‘There was a ledger inside, in a desk. Nice desk, too, walnut and—’
‘I said no prolongations.’
‘The ledger lists all the people and so on that use Howe’s company. I still find it a bit hard to make out the writing, but …’ His eyes shone. ‘Guess whose name was on the list?’
‘Not this again.’
‘The Frenchman.’
Startled, she pulled back her head. ‘Bellecour?’
He nodded. ‘And the destination. The letters A-M-S.’
‘My God. Amsterdam?’
‘No indication of what his cargo was, mind.’
‘Well.’ She drummed her fingers on the table. ‘What does this mean?’
‘That the man who fled before Lady Allcot’s murder is shipping to Holland, through a company owned by the husband of another of your suspects, Cornelia Howe.’
‘Curious, no? Malvern said he was at Hampton Court to watch someone. I have been wondering … do you think that could have been him?’
‘It might well have been, if this Belco—’
‘Bellecour,’ she corrected. ‘With the “r” at the back of your throat.’
‘Him. If he is part of this somehow, then yes, ’tis possible he wa
s watching him.’
‘Except he was not doing a very good job. He should have followed him to the summer house as we did.’
‘Maybe he was being … discreet.’
‘Perhaps. And besides, there is nothing preventing Bellecour from shipping what he likes – or else not before war was declared. Was there a date in the ledger?’
‘There were two entries by his name. Early February, then the first of March.’
‘Just before the war, then.’ Thirsty, she drained a full third of her ale. ‘On the other hand, Howe’s business must be well known to people connected with the Court, his wife’s uncle being Sir Stephen Herrick. Perhaps he was recommended to Bellecour, nothing more, and all Bellecour did was send a couple of shipments to a friend.’
‘Just because there are no more entries in the ledger doesn’t mean there weren’t more shipments. People hide what they’re doing during war, even respectable traders. Or perhaps Bellecour used Howe’s company until war broke out, then turned to other means.’ He stared at his tankard, already almost empty. ‘There’s something I don’t understand, though. If Cornelia is a nobleman’s niece, how is it she’s married to a mere shipping agent?’
‘Money, of course. Howe owns a profitable trading concern. That would bring a pleasing sum to Cornelia’s family, and the prestige of noble connections for an aspiring merchant. Indeed, my own grandfather was a wool trader, on my father’s side, while my mother is descended from nobility.’
‘I suppose.’ He finished the last dregs of his ale. ‘So what are we saying – that Bellecour is part of this?’
‘How would the sequence go?’ She counted out points on her fingers. ‘Virgo acquires her information from the man of the war council. She passes it to Bellecour. Bellecour ships the intelligence to Holland, hiding it in some cargo or other, maybe using Howe’s company, at least before the war. I suppose that could work.’
‘If so, could it mean Virgo is Cornelia Howe?’
‘Then why go through Bellecour at all, instead of sending the information directly herself?’
‘So her husband doesn’t know what she’s doing? She could give the information to Bellecour, then use her knowledge of the company to be sure it gets out safe.’
‘But are not all goods checked on leaving the country?’
‘Not necessarily. Bribes, agreements, they’re more common than folk admit.’ He eyed up the tavern keeper, who was serving another customer his drink. ‘Aren’t we forgetting Lady Allcot? I still think it’s unlikely Bellecour was just … seeing her. Why can’t she be Virgo?’
‘She still might be, although Sir William told me nothing has been found to suggest it. But if she is not, and Bellecour is involved, then he may have been trying to seduce her for a particular purpose – to add to whatever intelligence he learns from the real spy.’
He rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘We know Mr Malvern was at Hampton Court for a reason. The King himself told me that other work, as he put it, was already underway in that regard. No, there is much that points to our enigmatic Frenchman. I will have to try to speak with him myself.’
‘How? Will he not recognise you from Hampton Court?’
‘That may not matter. We never established who pushed me over. He may never have seen me. Besides, I could gauge how he reacts.’
‘Still, it could be dangerous.’
‘More difficult is how to approach him. Sir William told me that making representations to the French would be difficult. But … I wager there is some other means I can employ. One that none of the King’s men ever could.’
‘What’s that?’ he asked, only half listening as he waved expectantly at the tavern keeper.
‘If he is attempting to glean information from the women of the Court – women close to men with power – it should not be hard to use his own devices against him. If I am right, all I have to do is hasten matters.’ She smiled. ‘Though from the look of your thirst, that might take a long while yet.’
Maybe she had it all wrong. But there were two connections now between Bellecour and the women who could be Virgo: his liaison with the murdered Lady Allcot, and his use of the trading company owned by the husband of Cornelia Howe. Coincidence, maybe, but she was convinced Bellecour was more intricately tied up in events than that, all the more because Giles Malvern had been present at Hampton Court at the same time she had been hoping to meet her own quarry. Malvern had not wanted to discuss his mission at the eating house, but she would not be surprised if her suspicions were confirmed, that he had been assigned to watch Bellecour just as she had been pursuing Lady Allcot.
It struck her, also, as she sat in the palace, looking for signs of Bellecour near the rooms assigned the visiting French, that Malvern could have been watching her. Checking on her progress, making sure she did not make errors that would need to be straightened out. No doubt there were those in the shadows of the Court who were unhappy that the King had entrusted to her this task; no doubt their paranoia that she could blunder may have encouraged them to set a watch, and now, with Malvern’s identity made known to her, a more explicit warning to take care.
She smiled to herself. She was the woman who had travelled the ocean. As if she ever needed such advice.
‘You seem cheerful,’ came an unexpected voice.
‘Miss Whent,’ she said, looking up. ‘Lavinia. I was … thinking about something.’
‘A man?’
‘Why that?’
‘It was that sort of a look.’
‘No. Well. I suppose it was about a man. But not in that way.’ She moved up on her window seat. ‘Will you join me?’
‘Thank you. I will.’
As she sat, Mercia looked past her. ‘Where have you come from? There is not much down that way, besides rooms for the use of foreign envoys.’
‘Oh, I was speaking with someone. A friend of sorts.’ She winked. ‘And this was a man.’
‘What man?’
‘One of the French.’ She frowned. ‘What of it?’
‘Not Julien Bellecour?’ she said, before she could stop herself.
As quickly as she had sat, Lavinia stood. Two embroidered cushions tumbled to her feet.
‘You know him?’
‘No, but I—’
‘Then why mention him, specifically?’
‘Forgive me. I just meant … I had heard he was … and I wondered if—’
‘You do know him, don’t you? Mercia, I have to go.’
Turning aside her face, she hurried down the corridor in a blaze of bright blue. Aghast, Mercia watched her round the corner, thinking … surely Bellecour was not involved with Lavinia Whent too?
She got to her feet. Enough was enough. It was time to uncover the truth.
He was desirable, she would give him that. No wonder Lady Allcot had been drawn to him. There was something in his dark eyes, in the way that he leant that little bit too far over when he passed her a drink; something in the cut of his breeches, in the way his shirt was that little bit undone, and something, above all, in his damned exotic … Frenchness.
But that wasn’t going to work with her. Or so she told herself.
‘Je suis heureuse de vous faire la connaissance, Monsieur Bellecour,’ she ventured, trying to recall the scant French she had learnt when she was a girl.
‘Sir William m’a dit que vous parlez français,’ he replied. ‘C’est excellent.’
‘Il exagère. Je ne parle qu’un peu. Mais j’aime bien … essayer.’
‘Let us speak in English, then,’ he conceded. ‘Language hardly matters when one has other senses.’
She looked about her. ‘This is a pleasant apartment, Monsieur. Your emissary must be in favour.’
‘Julien, please. And I hope so.’
‘Have you been at Whitehall long?’
He reached for the decanter of wine: crisp and white, its bouquet reminiscent of wheat fields basking in the sun.
‘About
four months myself. But you are not so long here, I think. I did not see you before.’
‘Whereas I am certain I have seen you.’ She made sure to examine his face. ‘At the ball, I think, when you were standing with your delegation. And then … at Hampton Court.’
But he betrayed no reaction. ‘I have not been at Hampton Court since the day that poor woman was killed.’
‘You did not know her?’
He shook his head. ‘Lady … Alton, was it not?’
‘Lady Allcot.’ Interesting. ‘May the Lord protect her soul.’
‘Ah yes, that is right. You were there?’
There was nothing in his eyes to suggest duplicity. ‘Indeed, I refer to that same day. I was walking in the grounds, and …To think if I had been a few seconds earlier in my walk, I could have seen it all.’
‘I had left by then. But this is hardly a topic for conversation. You did not come here to resurrect such horrors.’
‘No.’ She smiled. ‘But I believe, Julien, it was you who asked me to come.’
He took a sip of his wine, never abandoning his persistent gaze. ‘I flatter myself I know something of the women of this Court. Your Englishmen are so dull, so … soft. You like something a little more … firm.’
She nearly coughed into her wine. Had he meant to say that?
‘Julien, I think you are ahead of yourself. We have only just met.’
‘Then we should waste no time in becoming better acquainted.’ The candlelight flickered as he pulled his chair closer to hers. ‘I am glad we met in the garden yesterday.’
The image of their meeting flashed into her mind; how ridiculous it had been, how contrived, how …
‘Are they coming?’ she had asked, the dusk breeze across her face.
‘They’re coming.’ Looking over her shoulder, Nicholas had been watching for the party to emerge. ‘The whole delegation, it seems. I still can’t believe Sir William’s allowing you to do this.’
‘I can be persuasive when I need to be. Lady Castlemaine’s insistence on quickness may have helped.’
‘But ’tis all still … what did you call it?’
‘Conjecture. But surely, Nicholas, you do not disappear from the vicinity of a shooting unless you have something to hide? His status may protect him from the law, but – the King’s wishes for a French alliance aside – it is not going to protect him from me.’
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