Ian removed his spectacles and coughed. “In a fortnight, a ship will be returning from Calais. You absolutely must be on it, regardless of whether or not you have found Edward. Do I make myself completely clear?”
Alexandra raised her chin a notch. “When do I depart?”
“You must be in Dover tomorrow afternoon by the high tide.” Ian closed his eyes and massaged his forehead with his fingers. Then he looked directly into his sister’s face. “I cannot believe I am allowing you to do this. Alex, if anything happens to you I won’t be able to live with myself.”
“I must do this, Ian. If it were you, I would do no less, and you would do the same for me.” She moved to stand in front of him. Reaching out, she gripped his hands and held tight. “This is Edward—our Edward. I fear I shan’t have peace until I know he is unharmed.”
Her lower lip trembled. Fear gripped the back of her mind. What if this is a fool’s errand and she indeed gets herself killed? She squeezed his hand tighter and forced her doubts away, instead lifting her chin, feigning her most forceful look of determination. “If you refuse to help me, you must know I’ll find a way to go on my own.”
The corner of Ian’s mouth lifted into a sad smile. “Unfortunately, you have a stubborn streak a furlough wide. I pray that same stubborn streak will keep you alive.”
“I’m fairly skilled with a sword as well.” With a soft chuckle, she stepped away, attempting to lighten the mood. “I omitted that fact in my earlier boasting.”
Lady Bertha’s spine straightened. “Whatever do you mean, Alexandra? Am I to understand that you fence and shoot and ride better than your brother? How has Ashford been raising you?” Her hand rose to her throat and while fanning herself with the other.
“It’s not Uncle Ash’s fault,” Alexandra replied. “I shall explain it to you shortly. Right now it seems I must find a bit of horsehair to trim. Is there not a brownish colored horse in your mews?”
“I’ll finalize the arrangements,” Ian continued pensively. “Prepare to depart tomorrow morning at exactly five o’clock. A coach will pick you up. One of our agents will accompany you to the shipyard in Dover with instructions.”
Misty eyed, Ian gazed at Alexandra one last time. He looked as if he were trying to memorize her face. She flung her arms around her brother’s neck. “I love you, my dearest Ian! Don’t worry. I shall be most careful.”
He kissed her cheek. “Godspeed, Alex. I daresay I shall not be able to breathe until you return.” He gave his twin one final hug and then turned to Bertha. It was apparent he was incapable of speaking further if he was going to make a dignified exit. He gave Bertha a curt nod and left.
Lady Bertha sat in confused silence. She had the look of a mother hen who was losing her chick. Her brows furrowed and she stared at the door through which Ian departed. “Whatever shall we do about your debut?” Her voice was a muffled murmur. “This could prove most inconvenient.”
“If everything goes as planned, I shall return well before my debut with ample time to spare,” Alexandra said.
“I believe I deserve more of an explanation as to why you have such manly…abilities.”
Alexandra smiled tightly. “It all is part of being an independent thinker, Lady Bertha. I have always enjoyed such sport. Perhaps I should have been born the man instead of Ian.”
Bertha sank back in her chair and snorted. “You are slaying me with my own words, my dear.”
Alexandra rose. “Come with me to my chambers and I shall explain it to you while I’m packing. By the bye, do you happen to own a spare pistol I could borrow?”
Lady Bertha shook her head, but paused. Then she raised a brow. “As a matter of fact, I do believe there is a pistol stashed around here somewhere—and do you require a spare saber as well?”
“No thank you, I brought my own… But could I trouble your footman to fetch some brown horsehair so I might contrive a beard?”
Bertha stood and took a deep purposeful breath. “In my opinion, this plan seems foolhearty and doomed with danger. Otherwise, I can find no flaw with it. Shoe wax should work quite nicely to darken your hair.”
Chapter 9
At exactly five o’clock the next morning, an obscure coach arrived at Lady Bertha Devon’s Mayfair townhouse. With her hair darkened and pulled back in a queue, her face bearded, and wearing men’s clothing, Alexandra appeared in the empty dimly lit foyer.
The imposing ancestors on the wall stared down at her from the shadowy frames.
“Don’t fret; I shall get him back,” she said to them. Her heart wrenched when she glanced at the portrait of Edward as a small lad.
A cloth sack was packed with a simple brown dress, some bread and cheese, a flask of water, and other bare essentials. She leered at the suit of armor closest to the door. “Wish me luck, Henry,” she said, addressing him by the name she had privately given the shiny metallic suit. With a determined tug on her gray woolen hat, she slipped out the door.
In the crisp predawn darkness, the coach waited in the swirling fog. Its door swung open as if of its own accord, like a beckoning coffin.
Warily she entered, seating herself across from a dignified elderly gentleman. His intelligent eyes crinkled deeply in the corners. He seemed aristocratic even though his jacket was shabby.
The coach lurched forward. A moment later, he spoke. “Good morning, me lad. Hope you’re ready for a fine bit of travellin’.”
She was surprised to realize this man did not know who she was. Or if indeed he did, his pretense was entirely convincing.
“Jack is the name.” He held out his hand. “Just Jack.”
She lowered her voice to sound more masculine, and firmly shook his hand, hoping he didn’t notice her trembling. “Alex, sir.”
“Well, mate, ‘ere is your pack.” He lifted a black leather valise onto the seat next to her. “The straps are made so you can wear it on your shoulders; comes in handy when yer riding that ‘orse.” He eyed her cloth sack. “You can stuff the rest of your belongin’s in there too.”
He sank back into the seat and crossed his legs. “’Tis a lucky thing to have you on board about now. Our usual man, Mort, who was supposed to be riding with you and showin’ you the ropes, got shot down yesterday, just before catching the packet in Calais.” He shook his head. “Ol’ Mort was a good mate, as tough as an old boot. Bloody shame, it is.”
Alexandra paled. Her body began to shudder violently.
“But don’t you be worrying none, my boy.” He gave a careless wave. “You’ll do just fine. Those Frenchies will hardly be noticin’ a spindly lad like yereself.”
Alexandra peeked inside the valise. Some envelopes lay at the bottom.
“Don’t be openin’ anything with a seal on it. They’ll think it’s been tampered with. Mort was to pass them along to our contacts in Paris. Now it’s up to you, laddie. Those without the seals are for you, maps and such. You can look ‘em over when you get aboard ship. Don’t be worryin’ about the roads none. The horse knows the way. I’ll get ye to the docks. From there yer on yer own.”
The stench of dead fish, sea water, and urine pervaded the packet boat, so Alexandra was surprised to see her room was fairly clean. The room was hardly large enough to turn around in, but at least it was private. Apparently, Ian had taken extra measures to ensure she had a room, given the purser’s arched brows when she handed him her ticket. Most of the passengers slept in hammocks down in the hold. But then, she saw no other women on board.
A narrow bunk filled most of the room, with a single scratchy blanket covering the lumpy mattress. She would need whatever rest she could manage to persevere on horseback all the way to Paris.
Her back ached from being jostled in the bumpy coach most of the day. To her surprise, she found the gentle rocking of the ship soothing. She eased slowly down on the bed and opened the valise from Jack-just-Jack. Several envelopes were sealed with official looking red wax. Those were the ones to be delivered somewhere. Two other envelope
s were left unsealed. One had an M printed on the outside; the other had an A. She assumed the M envelope must be poor Mort’s and the A envelope was for her.
She opened Mort’s envelope first and recognized Ian’s precise scrawl:
COURIER PACKET. Enclosed:
1 – Map
2 - Identity papers
3 - Directions for delivery of letters
4 - Address of boarding house
5 - 100 pounds worth of francs
6 - Invitations
7 – Boarding papers for ship back to England.
Alexandra smiled softly. Ian had always been a list maker.
There were two sets of identity papers. One for Monsieur Pierre Saviennet, and another for Mademoiselle Gabrielle Demerre, both French citizens.
The other envelope had a lump inside. It held a signet ring with a note:
My dearest Alex: Enclosed is the Ashford signet ring. I borrowed it from Winston’s bureau. Use it if you are in trouble. Do not lose it! Be very careful not to disclose your true identity to anyone. Your French is fluent enough that no one should suspect you are English. Do not disclose that you are looking for Edward, either. If you need to ask for him, his code name is BLACK SWAN, and anyone who knows him will recognize him by that name. DO NOT MISS YOUR SHIP HOME! Be sure to destroy this note, for your own safety as well as Edward’s. Godspeed. Yrs, Ian.
A shaggy brown mare awaited Pierre Saviennet at the Gateau Bleu Inn in Calais. The horse was not much to look at, but its stride was long and fairly smooth. Alexandra tried to cover as much ground as possible, hoping her map was accurate. She wore her pistol in a leg holster beneath her coat tails, easy to reach on horseback, yet hidden from view. Her sword was strapped to her waistband, also out of sight. The small pistol Bertha gave her was in her coat pocket.
If an occasional farmer’s wagon passed by, she tugged her hat lower on her brow and gave as masculine a nod as she could muster. For other passers-by, she hid in the trees and brush if she could see them coming soon enough. Mostly, she rode onward, riding low, resting only to care for the horse.
Just as Alexandra feared, the next inn indicated on the map was nowhere in sight. She gritted her teeth and pressed on through the darkness. A dim half-moon rose in the sky providing barely enough light to see the road. Occasional tree branches reached out above her like giant black talons.
Too often she held her breath while passing a shadowy shrub that ominously rustled. The mare was breathing hard but didn’t complain, seeming eager to press on. Alexandra learned to watch for a flicker of the horse’s ears or a quick snort as an alert to danger. “I’ll be sure you get a nice ration of oats at the next inn, girlie—if we ever find one,” she whispered with gratitude into the horse’s ear.
Chapter 10
Utterly exhausted, Alexandra knocked on the door of Madame Marche’s boarding house in Paris as the dreary sky turned to dusky shadows her second day in France. She had changed into the plain dress, now wrinkled as if it had been trampled by elephants.
An attractive brown haired woman answered the door. “Oui?”
“I am looking for Madame Marche. Do you know her?” Alexandra asked in fluent French. She tried to conceal her filthy unladylike boots under her skirt.
“But of course! May I ask who is calling?”
“Gabrielle Demerre. I wish to rent a room.” Upon entering Madame Marche’s establishment, she was shown to an airy sitting room.
A silver-haired elegant woman greeted her. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Demerre. I have your reservation, but oddly I was expecting a monsieur, not a madmoiselle.” She smiled, tactfully not reacting to Alexandra’s weather-worn appearance. “Your room is ready at your convenience. Nicole will direct you.”
“Merci, Madame. I would like to send a message to Rue de la Buille. Is someone available to assist me?”
“Oui, I should be happy to send a runner immediately.”
“If you could, please ask your runner wait for a reply and inform me once he has returned.”
“Tres bien, Mademoiselle.”
Nicole guided Alexandra up a steep flight of stairs to the end of a narrow corridor. The cozy room contained a small but comfortable bed with fresh white linens. Her window gave a clear view of the street below with a couple shops and a tavern. She devoured the fresh grapes and warm rolls which had been sent up, and then soothed her aching body in a quick bath, finally donning the same wrinkled brown dress.
It didn’t take long for a man to arrive, asking for her. A pleasant looking gentleman, appearing to be in his early thirties waited for her in the foyer.
“Mademoiselle Demerre, I am Jacques,” he said in cultured French. He lifted her hand and bowed over it. “I received your message.”
“Did you indeed?” she asked, peering at him cautiously, thinking it odd that he did not volunteer his surname. Of course, her own name at the moment was a falsehood. She was reminded of “Jack-just-Jack”.
“May we walk?”
“Yes, an excellent notion.”
They stepped out onto the cobblestone street. She looked around, realizing for the first time that she was actually in Paris. It was nearly dark outside, but the street was softly lit with lanterns. The air was sweet and cool. Under happier circumstances, she could imagine strolling along with her sweetheart. But these were not happy circumstances.
After a small distance, Jacques asked softly in French, “You have made contact with the courier, I take it?”
She pursed her lips, not willing to disclose that she was now the courier due to poor Mort’s unfortunate demise. “And who are you really, sir, may I ask?” she countered in French.
He peered at her thoughtfully for a moment, although his face was guarded. “A friend.”
“I fear you’ll need to give me more of an introduction, Monsieur,” she replied pensively, feeling in her pocket for her pistol.
He gave a stiff smile and reached into his coat.
Alarm sirens rang in her head. He appeared to be reaching for a gun.
From his pocket he extracted a card. “Very well, Mademoiselle. I applaude your prudence. I can assure you I am the person whom you are supposed to meet. If it will ease your fears, please examine this.” She glanced at the card. It was blank except for the same wax seal as on the envelopes she had been given by Ian.
Not completely convinced, she forced a grim smile. “What do I do now?”
“You are to give me the sealed letters. Do not worry. They are encrypted. Even if they were to fall into the wrong hands, they are very difficult to decipher.”
She arched a doubtful brow. “But they must fall into the proper hands, Monsieur.” Alexandra stared at him a terse moment, then relented. “Very well. They are here in my pack.” Her hands trembled as she pulled them out.
Jacques snatched them up. “Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle.” He slid them inside his coat. “Do have a pleasant visit. Will you be in Paris long?”
“I’m not yet sure. I am attempting to locate someone.”
“May I ask whom? Perhaps I might be of assistance.”
Alexandra slowly inhaled. This man appeared friendly and kind, although he was still a complete stranger and, of course, French. Finally she murmured, “He goes by Black Swan.”
Jacques remained silent, but she glimpsed a brief flare of surprise behind his eyes.
“Do you know of him?” she asked. Her voice was barely a whisper.
“I am sorry, Mademoiselle, I do not.”
She knew he was lying. “If you do hear of him, please inform him my business is extremely urgent.”
“Most certainly, Mademoiselle. Allow me to escort you back to your inn.”
Upon Madame Marche’s recommendation, Alexandra located a couturier to purchase more gowns. The shop was in an elegant section of the city, obviously catering to the very wealthy. Just as she exited the shop, a gentleman entered, almost walking into her.
“Pardonez moi!” he exclaimed.
Startled, Alexa
ndra looked up into the very handsome face of a tall Frenchman. His eyes were blue like robin’s eggs and his hair the color of sunkissed wheat. His build was slender, yet solid. She could imagine many insipid young ladies swooning in his presence.
“Where are my manners for such a mademoiselle?” he asked. His eyes shrewdly swept over her and he smiled.
“Please do not trouble yourself, Monsieur. As you can see, I am quite unharmed.”
“I am Francois Jonteau,” he said. He raised her hand to his lips. “And you are?”
The lady from behind the counter stepped forward. “I must apologize for my brother, Mademoiselle Demerre. His manners are frightful and he is far too forward. Francois, please do not beleaguer the clents.”
“You are Mademoiselle Demerre?” he asked. A wide smile stretched across his Adonis face.
Alexandra flushed at such abject attention from such an incredibly attractive man. “I am Gabrielle Demerre.”
“You are leaving?” The disappointment in his voice was overtly flattering, yet sincere.
“Yes, Monsieur. I admit I am most exhausted after three hours of fittings.”
He eyed her drab gown. “It is apparent you are not wearing one of my sister’s creations. It is most unattractive.” He gave a disarming smirk.
“Your sister is right about you, Monsieur. Your manners are indeed frightful indeed,” Alexandra countered with a grin.
“Ah, do forgive me. But a woman of such beauty should not be wearing such a gown.”
Alexandra’s pulse rose at his blatant praise. “I daresay you would be of great assistance to me if you could persuade your sister to rush my order. I fear my trunks were lost en route to Paris, and this is all I have to wear for the moment.”
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