Chapter Ten
Anthony stood on the dock at Portsmouth Harbour. No chance of securing a ticket on a packet at this late stage. The harbour master directed him to a scruffy trading ship, Stormy Seas, bound for Le Havre and departing on the next tide. The vessel looked as though it wouldn’t survive a storm of any magnitude. But if his luck held, he would be in France in a matter of hours rather than days. Mademoiselle Bourget’s letter led him to believe that his brother-in-law was in very real danger. He eased his shoulders trying to quell his impatience. It was impossible to move any faster. Too late to visit his bank, he’d been forced to seek extra funds from a friend. He patted the wad of money in his pocket. He’d handed over twenty-five guineas for his passage to the shrewd, bearded fellow before him. “We’ll be gone by nightfall you say?”
“Aye, my lord, never fear.” The skipper ran his gaze over Anthony, taking in the details of his multi-caped greatcoat and heavy, gold watch fob.
“Be so good as to have me shown to my cabin.” Anthony pulled back his coat to expose his sword and the pistol thrust into the top of his breeches. He clambered aboard.
He stowed his bag in the cramped space as the boat got underway. Through the porthole, he watched black clouds roll in across the Channel. An hour out of port a squall hit. Severe weather would delay the journey, but that seemed the least of his worries. He’d worried about his daughter since she was a child. Henrietta was impetuous. She’d been a tomboy with a streak of wildness, climbing tall trees, and jumping her horse over fences. While he was proud of the young woman she’d become, leaving her made him uneasy. He hoped Gabrielle would keep her busy. Henrietta wasn’t one to be patient and wait for word from him. Still, what could she do but wait?
***
During the journey to Portsmouth Henrietta grilled Mademoiselle about her career in the theatre. She hung on the actress’ every word. By the time the coach stopped at a coaching inn outside Woking for a change of horses, she, and Verity were becoming friends.
At sunset, they arrived at the harbor where oil lamps burned along the waterfront. Henrietta instructed the coachman and groom to put up at an inn. John Coachman expressed concern for the arrangement. Abandoning the ladies in a seaside town full of ruffians was not something he wished to do. Nor did it sit well with him to tell Lady Belden a jumped-up story. “What if she or Lord Beaumont got wind of the truth?” he asked gloomily. It would be bellows to mend for he and James. “Out of a job without a character.”
Obliged to do some fast talking, Henrietta made a reckless promise to return to London before her absence was discovered. “We are on a mission of vital importance,” she told the men. “It is highly secretive, and I trust you to keep it to yourselves.”
The men stared at her goggle-eyed as she gave them more of her money than she could spare. She felt the weight in the pockets against her thigh, but that was to be used for only the direst emergency. Her small allowance for fripperies would not take them far. She hoped Verity had plump pockets.
Their luggage stowed at an inn, they walked along the quay-side in the salt laden sea breeze. Cargo was being loaded and unloaded along the dock. Several ships lay at anchor, rolling in the swell, including a regal, three-mastered barque moored just off the Portsmouth Harbour Round Tower.
“I wonder where that ship is going,” Henrietta said.
They went in search of the harbor master and found him chatting to a sailor on the dock.
Verity smiled. “Bonsoir, monsieur. Might there be a ship leaving soon for France?”
The bearded man shook his head. “Nothing suitable, madame. Not for twenty-four hours.”
“We can’t wait that long!” Anguished, Henrietta swiveled and searched the boats rocking on their moorings. There was a prime two-mastered vessel nearby, its white sails furled. “Over there, what about that ship?”
The harbor master stroked his bushy, brown beard. “A private schooner, owned by the Marquess of Ramsbotham.”
The name seemed familiar. “Are they soon to set sail?”
He raised his eyebrows. “At daybreak on the tide, lad, with the wind in the right quarter.”
“Where to?” Henrietta said impatiently.
“Le Havre, but—”
“That shall do us nicely.” Henrietta nodded at Verity. “Where do I find this marquess, if you please?”
The man puffed out his cheeks and stole a glance at Verity. “The Pelican Inn on the London Road.”
“We must go there,” Henrietta said decisively.
He scratched his head. “Do servants rule nowadays? What is the world coming to?” He threw up his hands and walked away.
“Do you think a marquess would agree to let us travel with him?” Henrietta asked.
Verity shook her head. “You must remember you’re a page.”
Henrietta’s mouth gaped. “I forgot I’m dressed like this!”
“We are not the haute ton.” Verity reminded her.
Henrietta eyed Verity’s gown, emphasizing her tiny waist. She was very pretty. “I’m sure you could charm him into agreeing.”
“What if the marquess travels with his family?”
“That would be more difficult, I grant you.” Henrietta took her arm. “Let’s go and see. If he refuses, we’ll have to steal aboard during the night.”
“Oh cher!” Verity stared at her. In the lamp light her expression settled into one of determination, and she gathered up her skirts. “Let us find the inn.”
They crossed the road and passed a tavern busy with rowdy sailors. Two men staggered out the doorway and leered at Verity. She picked up her skirts and hurried along the pavement with Henrietta following.
The Pelican was a grand establishment. Candlelight blazed from every unshuttered window. “We can send for our luggage and spend the night here,” Henrietta said, taking a step toward it.
Verity grabbed her arm. “You must allow me do all the talking, Henrietta. Or we will be undone!”
Henrietta straightened her hat. Assuming the attitude of a page was harder than she’d anticipated.
“Here.” Verity held out her shawl. “Carry this and walk behind me.”
The foyer was papered in bright red and gold stripes and wall sconces lit the room. The man behind the counter looked up as they entered.
“Bonsoir, monsieur. I require a bed for the night and a pallet for my page.”
“Good evening, madame. Your luggage? I don’t believe I heard a carriage?”
“The luggage is at The Cockerel. I prefer the look of your establishment. Please send someone to fetch it.”
“As you wish, madame.”
He turned the register for Verity to sign.
Verity picked up the quill and signed with a flourish. “I shall require dinner.”
“Your servant can eat in the kitchen, madame.”
“Merci. I’ll send him there presently.”
“The dining room is this way, madame.” He flung open a set of doors.
Verity slipped off her redingote and handed it to Henrietta. She took her fan from her reticule before following the proprietor into the dining room. Only a few of the tables were occupied. Two men sat in a corner, deep in conversation. Henrietta dismissed them as too plainly dressed. Her gaze alighted on the man sitting alone at a table by the window. Candlelight brightened his puce taffeta coat, setting the gold lacing afire. A large diamond sparkled on his finger. She’d seen him somewhere and hastily lowered her head.
Verity walked past his table. She dropped her fan almost at his feet. “Mille pardons, monsieur.”
“Allow me.” He handed it back then gazed at Verity through his quizzing glass.
She curtseyed. “Merci, monsieur.”
Henrietta remembered where they’d met. They had danced at Almack’s. He’d glared at her when she’d refused him another dance. She doubted he would see through her disguise, but kept her head ducked as she followed Verity to the table.
“Take my redingote and shawl to ou
r room, Pierre. Then go the kitchen for your dinner.” Verity said, with a dismissive wave.
After depositing Verity’s things in the room, Henrietta made her way to the kitchen.
“Sit at the table,” the innkeeper said. “Kindly take off your hat. Cook will give you a chicken leg for your supper.”
Henrietta’s face grew hot. “Me mistress will have me guts for garters,” she said in a gruff voice, hanging onto her hat. “She gave me a new hat this very morning and told me never to take it off!”
“Never?” The man laughed. “As you wish.” He disappeared into the foyer.
***
While Henrietta ate in the kitchen, Verity partook of onion soup followed by roast chicken. Her stomach churned with nerves, and she merely picked at the dishes in front of her while trying to think of the best approach.
She allowed her gaze to wander in the Marquess’s direction. She found him looking at her, his thin brows raised. His greedy eyes and fleshy lips spoke of indulgence, or something baser. Verity gave up and put down her knife and fork. She toyed with her wineglass. Another like Jacques Rocchard. Well, she knew how to deal with scoundrels such as he. She felt the weight of her pistol in her reticule. She would use it if she had to. She swirled the wine in her glass, attempting to form some sort of plan. But fate could play a heavy hand in this affair. What if Beaumont had already been captured? The thought almost wrung a cry from her. Her father would not last long in a Paris prison. She would lose them both.
“Madame?”
Verity looked up to find the Marquess standing before her. “Oui, monsieur?” She offered her hand.
He kissed her fingers, lingering a moment longer than etiquette required, while he studied the betrothal ring that she’d added to her disguise. “I am the Marquess of Ramsbotham. I feel we’ve met before, can that be so? Surely, my memory would not fail me where a lovely woman is concerned.”
Verity gave a small smile and met his gaze boldly. “I don’t believe so, my lord. I would not forget such a prepossessing figure as yourself.”
“Would you join me in a glass of wine?”
“I shall be delighted.”
He sat down and beckoned to the waiter. “Your husband does not travel with you, Madame?”
Verity spun an elaborate tale of her lonely widowhood, and her desire to return to her family in France. “I have heard terrible stories about my country. I need to ensure everyone is safe. But there are no ships sailing for another day, and if the weather should turn bad ...”
He smiled, but it failed to warm his shrewd brown eyes. “I may be able to assist you, Madame.”
“I should be most grateful, my lord.”
He nodded. “My boat leaves for France on the morning tide. You are welcome to accompany me.”
“That is most generous of you. But I insist on paying for our passage.”
“I don’t want your money. I shall enjoy your company.” His gaze roved from head to toe with lascivious intent.
Verity longed to hit him with her fan, but she merely waved it to hide her expression. “And my page, of course.”
The Marquess’s smile slipped. “That boy is your page?”
“Oui.”
He recovered quickly. “Where does your young page sleep tonight?”
“On a pallet in my chamber, my lord.”
“Of course.” He smiled thinly as he rose from the table. “You must excuse me; I have business to attend to. We leave at first light, Madame. My boat, The Narcissus, is at anchor across the way.”
“We shall be there, my lord.”
Verity entered their room. Henrietta sat on her cot, her arms clasped around her legs, a long fair plait over her shoulder. “Well?”
Verity placed a finger to her lips and shut the door. “It is all arranged. We sail at first light.”
“Perfect!” Henrietta clapped her hands. “We are only a few days behind Papa.”
“Oui.” Verity sank onto the bed.
Henrietta frowned. “What did the Marquess say?”
“I pray he doesn’t change his mind,” Verity said.
“Why would he do that?”
“I didn’t quite play the game he expected.”
“I’m not sure what you mean. What game?”
Verity glanced at the younger woman’s innocent face. “Never mind.” She began to undress.
“There’s something else,” Henrietta said. “I’ve met the Marquess before. We danced at Almack’s.”
Variety’s fingers paused on her bodice strings. She noticed the curve of the young woman’s hips, her soft throat. Could she pass for a boy? “It seems unlikely he’d recognize you in your boy’s raiment.”
Henrietta frowned. “I hope not. I may have to push him overboard.”
Verity gave a strained laugh. She almost believed Henrietta would do it. “We must plan this carefully. Your voice will give you away. He shouldn’t pay you much attention, but if he does, I shall tell him you are a deaf mute.”
“Tis a pity we don’t have a pistol.” Remarkably composed, Henrietta bashed her pillow into an acceptable shape and lay down.
And no doubt the girl would be only too happy to use it! Now familiar with Henrietta’s somewhat devil-may-care nature, Verity decided to keep the gun a secret. “Who might we shoot? Ourselves, perhaps?”
“I hunt at home. I’m a good shot.”
“We shall deal perfectly well without the use of one.” Verity drew her nightgown over her head. “Now we must get some sleep.” She eyed the cot on the floor. “You don’t have to sleep on that. You can share this bed.”
“I’m fine here,” Henrietta said, snuggling down. “I curl up in a ball when I sleep, like a kitten, Papa says. We must find him. I hope he’ll be pleased to see us,” she added doubt clouding her eyes.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he was at Le Havre about to return to England with your uncle, when we arrived?”
Despite her fears, Henrietta gave a chuckle. “What a surprise he would get.”
“I’m for sleep.” Verity yawned. “I’m exhausted, and tomorrow will be even more taxing than today.”
Chapter Eleven
Christian rapped on the knocker at Lady Belden’s residence in Grosvenor Square where Beaumont and his daughter were staying. He showed his card when the butler opened the door. “Is Lady Henrietta at home?”
“Lady Henrietta has returned to the country,” the butler said. The gleam in his eye revealed his pleasure at refusing such an impertinent request after afternoon calls had ended.
“I believed her to be in London for the Season.”
“With Lord Beaumont away, Lady Henrietta preferred to return home.” The butler, perhaps revealing more than instructed, edged the door closed.
Christian put his foot against the door jamb. “Then, my good man, would you inform Lady Belden that I wish to see her?”
“She is recovering from an indisposition,” the butler said stiffly. “I shall give her your card.”
Damn the man. It would be easier to enter the king’s private chamber. “Please convey my respects to Lady Belden, and my best wishes for her recovery.”
The door closed. Christian walked a few paces down the street, then stopped. Lady Henrietta would not have gone to the country dressed like that. He turned into the lane and made his way to the coach house.
He found the coachman polishing the carriage. “Where did you take Lady Henrietta yesterday?”
The fellow stood bolt upright, his face turning an alarming shade of crimson. He mopped at his brow with the cloth in his hand. “I’m not sure of your meaning, sir.”
“Good fellow, I saw you drive Lady Henrietta somewhere, with Mademoiselle Garnier, in this very carriage. A trifle early for a masquerade?”
The coachman threw down his cloth. “If Lady Belden hears of it, I’m done for.”
“She won’t hear it from me. Unless I deem it necessary,” Christian added, giving no quarter.
“Lady Henrietta and
Mademoiselle Garnier with to travel to Portsmouth.” He looked relieved, as if the matter had weighed heavily upon him.
“The deuce! Why Portsmouth?”
“Lord Beaumont has gone to France.”
“Has he? But what does that have to do with Lady Henrietta going to Portsmouth…?” Christian’s eyes widened. “The harbor?”
John Coachman squared his shoulders and looked resentful. “Lady Henrietta’s on a secret, life and death mission. She warned me not to speak of it.”
“Lord, no!” Christian uttered a string of bad language which made the coachman start. “Did you see her board a ship?”
He shook his head. “Lady Henrietta ordered us to spend the night somewhere, but as we are at present employed by Lady Beldon, that is until his lordship returns….” He looked sheepish. “The groom, James and I decided to return. I’m worried—you won’t—”
“It would serve no good purpose to tell Lady Belden. I believe she is unwell.”
Christian left the hapless coachman and walked to his house.
Tonight, he departed for France himself. After the women reached Le Havre where would they go? Two women traveling alone through France? Even if one was French Christian didn’t like it. And Beaumont wouldn’t either. He hoped she’d quickly come under her father’s protection. There was little Christian could do. Although he’d have little difficulty in locating them, he had his own mission to dealt with first. And he couldn’t delay it, not even for Lady Henrietta.
* * *
Anthony rode into the village of Saint-Aignan on a hired hack. He handed the reins to a young lad and tossed him a French coin. “Walk him, then water him and you’ll get another,” he said. The boy’s eyes widened, and he scurried to obey.
He entered the shabby hostelry. Anthony was aware that the French peasants were heavily taxed and found it hard to feed their families. Revolutions, political or otherwise, brought mixed blessings. In his country, an industrial revolution had begun to change England radically, driving people from the country into the big towns in search of work. And although lives had been lost, nothing equaled the violence here in France. What had begun in the hope of a better life for its people was veering out of control, the tribunals a mockery. Aristocrats and the innocent were sent to the guillotine without charge.
Hostage to Love Page 9