by Carla Kelly
Maybe the sketch would be gone now. Maybe he had imagined the whole thing. He had had so little sleep in the last five years, and lately, he was seeing Nana everywhere.
The portion of the sketch that had caught his eye was still there when he raised his head. He sat back, his mind working fast. Lefebvre. Lefebvre. England was full of émigrés from the revolution. Lefebvre.
“Oliver, you are an idiot,” he exclaimed, then looked around, because to his own ears, his outburst filled the room.
No one came running. He heard no footsteps. He willed himself to stay in the chair and think through the impossible. The partly rosy picture he had painted for Ratliffe of the situation at the Mulberry obviously hadn’t been enough. What have I done? he asked himself. The viscount was obviously still counting on tough times in Plymouth to force Nana’s hand.
“I will take care of that immediately, your lordship,” he said, softly this time, but biting off each word.
Lefebvre. Then he remembered, and it was as if someone had slammed a fist into his stomach. The name had no direct bearing on his duty, but, sitting in Admiralty House, he remembered there was a leader of cavalry with the name of Lefebvre-Desnouettes, a favorite of Napoleon, captured only months ago in Spain, and now paroled in Cheltenham.
“My God,” Oliver said faintly. Maybe it was a common French name. Not likely, he thought. With all the hundreds of details that cross your path daily at sea, you still should have remembered that name. “Colonel Desnouettes, have you a brother or cousin who is a spy?” he asked softly. “Seen him lately?”
The fist in his stomach plunged in deeper. “Lord Ratliffe, how are you connected with a French spy? Since Nana wouldn’t, does Bonaparte pay your bills now?”
He closed his eyes and leaned back, forcing his tired brain to reflect. A spendthrift at the mercy of his creditors, Ratliffe’s money problems had obviously not been solved when Nana Massie proved so uncooperative and refused to be sold for her father’s debts. This bankrupt man remained bankrupt still, Oliver reasoned. And now he has turned to spying against his country for money.
You have scarcely any evidence, he told himself. If you make such a shocking accusation, the lords will lock you up in Bedlam and throw away the key. The very least they would do is remove you from command of anything larger than a rowboat.
He got to his feet, desperate to return to Plymouth and find out for himself. Slow down, he told himself. First, you must secure Nana’s safety. He had already planned to do it one way during this visit to London. There was a better, even more certain way: one he had vowed never to do. Times change, he thought, willing himself calm as the door opened. I have changed, too.
Looking no more rational than when he had run from his office, Lord Ratliffe stormed in first, followed by a much more benign-looking Henry Phipps, Earl of Mulgrave, First Lord of the Admiralty. Relieved, Oliver let out his breath slowly. Ratliffe could not have found a better man.
His words stumbling over each other, all the while he pointed at Oliver, Lord Ratliffe railed at length about his gross stupidity in sending the message first to Horse Guards. The earl listened patiently, glancing over once to catch Oliver’s eye and transmit what looked like the briefest of winks.
Not even Lord Ratliffe could go on forever. He concluded his observations by pointing dramatically at Oliver and declaring, “My lord, I demand you ask for this man’s commission.”
Lord Mulgrave cleared his throat. He removed his spectacles, breathed on them, wiped them clean, then repeated the entire process. By concentrating hard on the medallion behind Lord Ratliffe’s desk, Oliver managed to retain his composure.
“My lord?” Ratliffe prompted, impatient.
“William, I can’t do that,” the earl replied. “We’d be losing one of the navy’s finest sailors, one who thinks on his feet and had the brains to take that message directly to Horse Guards.” He turned to Oliver. “Good work, lad. I’d have done the same.” He looked at Ratliffe, whose face was assuming its mottled hue again. “William, do sit down and fan yourself with something. Better yet, take a few days off in the country, why don’t you?”
The viscount sat down in his chair suddenly, and the earl turned his attention to Oliver. “D’ye have a moment, my boy? Let’s chat about that missive from Sir John. No, no, Ratliffe. Leave this to me. Come, Oliver.”
Oliver left the room without a backward glance. I hope I never see that wretch again, he thought. At least it’s nice to know that Nana will never invite him to our home for the holidays.
But he was getting ahead of himself, something he had been doing for two months now, since he first met Nana. Standing in the hall, he debated whether to tell Lord Mulgrave his suspicions and realized he had no evidence. Instead, he recited the message from Sir John Moore and the situation of his retreat toward Corunna.
“It’s an ugly business, my boy. I won’t keep you here a minute longer,” Lord Mulgrave said.
“There is one thing. Two things, actually.”
“Say on.”
Oliver told the First Lord what he needed and asked how to go about doing it. Lord Mulgrave listened, grinning broadly, and nodded.
“I will do precisely as you wish, Captain Worthy,” he said. “My own solicitor will speed things along for you tomorrow. Go to Grey’s Inn first thing and ask for Robinson. As for the other matter, I will contact the Court of Faculties and bend my will on them a little, what say you?”
“I am in your debt, my lord,” Oliver said simply.
“Tut, my boy, tut. I must admit to some surprise. Aren’t you the man in the fleet who for years has assured us that he would never be so stupid as to ask some poor female for her hand?”
“That very idiot, my lord. Hard to imagine England controls the waves with such nincompoops sailing her ships, isn’t it?”
“My thoughts precisely. Tell me, boy, does this female of your choice have any idea that you are richer than God?”
“No.”
“How will she take such news?”
Oliver smiled for the first time since he left Plymouth. “She’ll be irritated.”
Lord Mulgrave rubbed his hands together. “Even better!
Nice to know you have a heart and other working parts. Just don’t scare her to death on your wedding night.”
“No, sir.” Oliver bowed. “My Lord, do excuse me. If I don’t get a little sleep I will fall down the steps, crack my head and be of no further use to the Admiralty.” He couldn’t help it then; he was so tired his shoulders sagged. “My Lord, I don’t know how to thank you.”
Lord Mulgrave rested his hand on Oliver’s shoulder in a rare show of affection. “It is we who owe you. You have kept your oath to the Crown a thousand times over. Good luck.”
I need more than luck, Oliver thought grimly as he gave the coachman instructions to find him lodgings close to Grey’s Inn. Not only do I have my puny plans, but I must also find out Lefebvre’s game and stop him. And do this in time to sail with a good tide. Father would consider prayer a right good step now.
He closed his eyes to begin one.
Lord Mulgrave greased the skids beyond belief, on his behalf. By ten o’clock, Oliver had willed his entire property and all goods to Nana Worthy, effective upon his death. With the solicitor trying not to gape, Oliver set up liberal allowances every quarter, starting that day. By noon, and after a payment of forty shillings, he had a special license issued to him from the Court of Faculties and Dispensations, good for a wedding at any time and in any parish in the realm.
He was no closer to a solution about Henri Lefebvre, though. As the post chaise raced toward Plymouth, he knew his first task was to verify his suspicions. It was certainly no crime to sketch a pretty woman surreptitiously and send a sketch to her father. If that was his job, then why did Lefebvre continue to hang around Plymouth? What was he really sketching? And what about his strange connection to Ratliffe?
He knew the answer, even as he berated himself for his lack of suspicion
, especially in time of national emergency. Lefebvre must be keeping an eye on all naval shipping. For all Oliver knew, the Frenchman had a counterpart at Portsmouth, and maybe even Exeter, doing the same thing: watching for transports, looking to see if England planned to shore up Sir John Moore in Spain with more troops, or let him wither.
By the time the post chaise passed Exeter, Oliver had a plan so feeble it made him wince to think about it. He would not involve Nana, but he needed Pete’s help. He needed the old sailor to instantly do as he said and not hesitate for anything. The whole scheme depended on speed.
He arrived at the Mulberry the following afternoon, dismissed the post chaise and went inside the inn, not bothering to knock. To his infinite relief, Nana and Gran were nowhere in sight; he needed Pete. The old sailor sat in the kitchen, slicing vegetables. He looked up in surprise to see Oliver, and started to rise.
Oliver motioned him to sit down. He sat beside him, telling him to listen and not talk. He told him first of his will, and then of his wish to marry Nana immediately. To the question in Pete’s eyes, he told him next about the sketch on Lord Ratliffe’s desk, his fear that the viscount might still seek to ruin his daughter to pay his debts. And there was the not-so-trifling matter of treason.
Pete was no fool. “Lefebvre and Lord Rat? Damn them both” was all he said, as Oliver continued talking, stating his fears that the Frenchman was spying on naval shipping.
“I can’t prove anything right now and there isn’t time before I must sail again,” he said. “Pete, can you arrange for a diversion this evening around the dinner hour to get everyone out of the Mulberry? And let me have a key?”
“I can do that, sir,” Pete said. “Let’s put you in the room across the hall from Lefebvre right now, and not say a word to Nana. Better if no one knows you’re here but me.”
“That’s a hard thing,” Oliver admitted. “I really need to talk to her.”
Pete nodded. “Aye, sir, you do, if you’re planning to spring marriage on her. But let’s trap the Frenchman, and then Nana.”
Oliver took his arm, suddenly unsure of himself. “Do you think Nana will even consider what I’m…er…proposing?”
Pete laughed, but sobered instantly. “She’ll consider it, but she may decide to do what’s best for you.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“You shouldn’t,” Pete said frankly.
God, what does that mean? Oliver thought. Surely she knows how much I love her?
Pete took an extra key for both rooms and Oliver followed him upstairs. “No lights now, sir,” he told him. “Lefebvre knows no one is in this room.”
“Very well. I’ll lie down and wait.” Oliver sat on the bed and removed his shoes.
Pete set the extra key to Lefebvre’s room on the table by the bed.
“What do you have in mind, Pete?” he asked.
“D’ye still have those drills on board ship where someone yells ‘Fire in the paint locker’?”
“Aye. Are you planning to burn down the Mulberry?”
“I would never!” Pete declared, an indignant expression on his face. “I was thinking more in terms of those ugly curtains in the kitchen. Nana said only yesterday she wanted some new ones. She’ll be able to afford them if she marries you, won’t she?”
“She can replace them with cloth of gold or ermine, if she likes,” he said. “I trust you not to burn down the Mulberry, Pete. I’ve grown rather fond of this old place.”
“Don’t you even worry, sor.”
Chapter Thirteen
Oliver may have been dozing, but years of experience with fires at sea woke up him up the moment he smelled smoke. A heartbeat later, he heard Pete shout, “Fire! Everyone out!”
He grabbed the key to Lefebvre’s room. “Get out,” he muttered as he heard the Frenchman slamming drawers. In another second, he heard him throw open his door, pause long enough to lock it, then pound down the stairs.
Oliver was across the hall in a step, key in the lock and turning. To his relief, Lefebvre had left the lamp glowing. He ran first to the table, covered with sketches of trees and shorelines and gulls coasting on currents of air. “You have some talent,” he admitted, as he dug through the pile. Nothing.
He forced himself to stop and think. He had heard a drawer slam in the seconds before Lefebvre left, so he went through each drawer in the bureau. Under stockings and smallclothes he found a sketchbook. Oliver pulled it out and ran to the lamp. Page after page of more Plymouth scenes: the Barbican, the Drake, the Hoe, the Citadel. More Nana. At least he has good taste, Oliver thought.
He came to the end of the sketchbook. Nothing. Had the man already forwarded his sketches? He started to close it, then noticed that the back cover was more padded than the front. “What have we here, Monsieur Le Spy?” he asked out loud.
He ran his fingers carefully along the inside edge of the back cover, close to the spine, then pried it up with his fingernail. “Well, well,” he said, scarcely breathing, as he lifted out a sketch of ships riding at anchor in the Cattewater, then another of the dry docks. In another of the mouth of the Tamar River, he could make out the Goldfinch, Dennison’s sloop of war.
His skin crawling, Oliver replaced the sketches and returned the book to the drawer. Lefebvre was watching the harbors, seeing what came and went. It was only a matter of time before troop transports might sail, if Horse Guards so ordered. That news could send a fast ship to France to deliver the news and an appropriate response. Napoleon was no fool. And if no transport sailed, then Boney had no fears of further British aid to France.
He looked for correspondence. The room was small and he located nothing of a letter to Lord Ratliffe, or anyone else. Still, the open ink bottle on the table, with fresh ink on the quill tip, hinted a letter.
He stood in the center of the room. Where would I think no one would look for a letter? he asked himself. He raised the mattress. Nothing. Too simple. No one does that, he thought.
Then he dropped to his knees and felt under the bed for the night jar. He pulled it out quietly, and there was a letter resting on top, ink still damp. Cousin, read the salutation in French. He could make out the first paragraph, which told of Christmas.
He heard footsteps on the first flight of stairs. The next paragraph began with more trivial commentary, then this sentence: No transports yet. I wish I knew what Horse Guards intends… That was all. He replaced the letter and slid the chamber pot under the bed. He was back in the room across the hall, door just closed, his heart thundering in his chest, when Henri Lefebvre turned the key in the lock across the hall.
Good God, did I remember to lock it again? Oliver asked himself. He sighed when he heard Lefebvre click open the door. I guess I did. I think I have a totally grey head now, Oliver thought. Give me a frigate any day. I’m no good at spying.
He had no choice but to remain where he was, which chafed him no end, thinking of General Lefebvre-Desnouettes, detained at Cheltenham, and obviously to be the recipient of that letter. Perhaps letters and drawings went to Lord Ratliffe, who funneled them to the general. Cousin, he thought. I have no proof of anything else.
When he was about to explode from impatience, the dinner bell rang at the foot of the stairs. You’d better be hungry, Henri, he thought.
Lefebvre was. Within five minutes, he had locked his door and gone downstairs. Oliver forced himself to wait a few more minutes, then, shoes in hand, left his room and padded quietly downstairs, where Pete was waiting for him.
He put on his shoes and pulled Pete outside the front door for a hurried conversation. “I found some evidence, but he’s naming no Admiralty names,” he told the old sailor. “I’ve got to get rid of him before I sail, but I’m not up to murder. I’d welcome any suggestions.”
“I have one, sor,” Pete said. “Have ye noticed what’s riding at anchor in the Cattewater?”
“I haven’t looked yet.”
“Two East India merchants, the Norfolk Revels and th
e Tidewater.”
“The Revels? I know her captain. Durfee and I were midshipmen together. Well, Pete? I’m slow here.”
“Nah. You’re tired and have other matters on your mind. They’re both short of crew and the Revels sails to India in two days.”
Maybe he wasn’t so slow. “Pete, might you know where Captain Durfee is staying?”
“Where else but the Drake?” Pete coughed. “Does he owe you a favor?”
“More than one.”
He found Captain Durfee at the perpetual whist game. A whispered conversation in the hall, smothered laughter from Durfee and detailed instructions on where to find Lefebvre sufficed. Oliver was back at the Mulberry within the hour.
He knocked on the door this time. To his heart’s delight, Nana opened it and walked straight into his arms. He could have held her there for hours, except that he didn’t have hours.
There was time to kiss her, though; he hoped he’d never be in so much hurry that he couldn’t take a moment to savor her sweet lips, and relish the way she held him so close, as though he would disappear if she didn’t.
“Oliver, we had a fire in the kitchen,” she said.
“Everyone’s all right?”
“The only casualties were the kitchen curtains. I have no idea how it happened.” She hauled him in close again. “Oliver, I’m already missing you and you haven’t left yet.”
They laughed together. He pulled her into the sitting room and closed the door. Now what? he asked himself. I’ve never done this before. Let’s see if she’ll let me take her onto my lap. That was easy.
“Nana, I did two things in London that you’ll have to know about,” he began, then could have slapped himself, because it sounded so stupid. Dolt, he thought, she can hardly overlook a fortune and a special license.
“Whatever it was, I’m certain it’s a good idea,” she told him, nestling into him in that lovely, boneless way he so enjoyed. “Maybe,” she amended. “I’m still not certain about the pearl.”
Oh, Lord, that dratted pearl. And she thought that was extravagant? Better just spit it out. “Nana, I went to Grey’s Inn and registered a will leaving everything I own to you.”