A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  “They strike me as a lax bunch,” said Leete. “Save for the assassin, who’s damnably alert and sticking like a cocklebur to Grentham’s side.”

  Sophia fingered her rifle. “Perhaps I can get a clear shot at him.”

  Saybrook shook his head. “Too risky. If you miss—the darkness makes it difficult to judge distance and aim accurately—I’m quite sure Vecchio would kill Grentham rather than allow us to free him.”

  “I agree,” said Arianna. “We need to come up with something better, or else keep following and hope for a better opportunity.”

  Sophia darted a look ahead. “But we’re moving ever closer toward the French forces. Time is running out.”

  “Miss Kirtland does have a point,” said Leete. “At some point we’re going to have to make a move.”

  “Let me have a look.” The earl wheeled his mount around and set off at a careful pace along the cart path, the tangle of trees soon swallowing him from view.

  Arianna shifted uneasily in the saddle as the gelding laid back its ears and began a nervous shuffling. She tightened the reins, hoping to keep her mount calm. She hated being the weak link in their plan. What if her inexperience with horses caused . . .

  “I think I know how we can draw Vecchio away from Grentham,” said Sophia suddenly. “Captain Leete, may I see your map?”

  He handed it over.

  “Yes, yes,” murmured her friend, tracing a finger over the paper. “It can be done.” She looked around, the moonlight catching the martial gleam in her eyes as she spotted Saybrook returning.

  “I don’t like it,” he announced. “They’re taking an interlude to rest the horses, and two of the men appear to be arguing over something. Granted, that works in our favor, but they’re positioned in the middle of the clearing, which gives us no chance of approaching unnoticed. Even if we charged out from the trees, Vecchio would have ample time to kill Grentham before we reach him.”

  “I’ve an alternative plan,” announced Sophia. “One that will draw Vecchio away from the minister.”

  The earl raised a brow. “Be quick in explaining yourself.”

  In reply, she unfastened her cloak and flung it off.

  The captain’s jaw dropped in shock and Arianna had to stifle a gasp.

  Her friend was dressed in the French Hussar’s tunic that Wellington had gifted to her. Ignoring Leete’s startled stare, she calmly plucked the shako from her sack and jammed it down upon her tightly coiled tresses. “It occurred to me that masquerading as a French officer could be of value to us.”

  “Permit me to point out that the rules of war don’t permit one to wear the uniform of one’s enemy,” explained Saybrook in a level voice. “Which means if you’re caught, the French will execute you as a spy.”

  Sophia snugged the shako’s strap under her chin. “I don’t intend to get caught. And before you raise other objections, hear me out.”

  The earl held his tongue.

  “This is the uniform of Napoleon’s personal cavalry—Vecchio will know that. I say I circle around and approach them from the direction of the French lines—”

  “And do what?” demanded Leete.”

  “I shall hail the group and demand to speak with its leader, saying I’ve been dispatched to find them and convey a change of plans in delivering the girl—I speak flawless French, I know how to lower my voice to a masculine growl, and the darkness will add to the confusion. Given Vecchio’s hubris, I’m certain he’ll come forward.”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed. “And then what?”

  “I’ll shoot him,” answered Sophia calmly.

  “Have you ever killed a man?” asked Saybrook. “When push comes to shove—”

  “I shall pull the trigger without batting an eye,” she interrupted. “The man is not only an unprincipled murderer, but also a threat to Britain and the peace of Europe.”

  Arianna knew the earl was wrestling with the moral dilemma of sending women into mortal danger. But they couldn’t afford gentlemanly ethics. “It’s a reasonable plan, Sandro, and we don’t have time to brangle about it,” she interjected. “Yes, there are risks, but there always are. If Miss Kirtland willing to take them . . .”

  “If we don’t attempt this, the odds are more than likely that Grentham will die,” snapped Sophia. Beneath the fringe of black bearskin, her profile looked chiseled from stone. “And more than likely through a horrible ordeal of torture and mutilation.”

  Saybrook surrendered his scruples. “Very well,” he uttered. “We’ll move in and be in place to attack from the rear once you’ve drawn Vecchio away from Grentham. If things go awry, we’ll have to improvise—but allow me to remind you, Miss Kirtland, that you’ve no experience in hand-to-hand battle, so keep out of the fray. A mistake could well cost us our lives.”

  Sophia didn’t waste time with words. A grim nod was her only acknowledgement as she reined the black stallion toward the road indicated on the map.

  “We’ll take up position with the two of you flanking me. I’ll charge straight in to grab Grentham while you deal with the other villains.” said the earl as he loosened the saber in its scabbard. “I normally prefer to capture rather than kill, but do what you must to make sure we succeed.”

  They rode in single file for a short distance, and then he gave a curt wave, signaling them to spread out. Through the trees, Arianna could just make out a clearing up ahead. The Frenchmen and their captive were naught but indistinct shapes in the murky gloom.

  Her heart began to thump wildly against her ribs. Ye gods, so much could go wrong. Surely the enemy could hear the creak of saddle leather and the crunch of hooves on the twigs and dead leaves . . .

  Another hand signal and they came to a halt. Forcing all doubts from her thoughts, she drew her pistol and silently cocked the hammer. Two of the captors were on her side. One was still attending to the horse with the loose shoe while the other was sitting on his haunches, having a smoke. Her first shot, she decided, would be aimed at him.

  From somewhere close by came the soft cooing of a dove. A breeze ruffled through the trees.

  As for Grentham . . . The clouds were drifting and as Arianna squinted through the shifting shadows, she spotted two side-by-side silhouettes on horseback, one with his wrists lashed together behind his back.

  “Allez,” The curt command cut through the night’s stillness. “We need to move. If your horse isn’t fit, Lamont, abandon the nag and make your way back to Brussels on foot.”

  Damnation, where was Sophia? Arianna glanced at Saybrook, wondering how much longer he would give her—

  A sudden hail in French announced her friend’s arrival. A shimmer of moonlight showed the big black stallion emerging from the gloom. Sparks of gold flashed from Sophia’s fancy uniform as she barked out the order for the group’s leader to approach.

  Her muscles tensed as Arianna watched for the reaction of Grentham’s guardian.

  He loosened his reins and his horse took a short prancing shuffle forward, then pulled up with a snort.

  “Le rouge et noir!” called the guardian.

  A coded challenge. To which Sophia had no answer.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Arianna saw Saybrook shift in his saddle. She gripped her reins tighter, praying her mount was steady under fire.

  “Merde!” replied Sophia with convincing exasperation. “I’m a last minute replacement for La Chaze, who broke his leg on maneuvers. Give me a moment to find the paper in my pocket.”

  The ploy would gain her perhaps a moment. Vecchio was no fool.

  Saybrook’s thoughts were clearly the same. In that instant, he signaled the order for attack and spurred forward.

  Arianna kicked her heels and grasped the pommel to steady her shot. Bang! Through the skein of gunsmoke she saw her target go down. All hell was breaking loose around her. More shots. A scream.

  Her horse shied—clutching at its mane, she tossed aside her spent weapon and grabbed the second pistol. A flash from close by
momentarily blinded her, but she dared not fire into the mayhem.

  Where was Grentham?

  “To the devil with horses,” she muttered, dropping down to the ground. One of the Frenchmen lay motionless in trampled grass. Crouching low, she headed for where she had last seen the minister. The clearing was whirling with vaporous haze and writhing shadows, punctuated by a cacophony of curses and confusion. A riderless horse reared, thrashing out with its big hooves.

  No, no, no! It was Sophia’s stallion.

  Swallowing the spurt of fear, Arianna dodged the beast and forced herself to keep moving, weapon at the ready.

  Saybrook shouted. Whirling around, she saw a flash of steel as he drew his saber.

  Grentham was on the ground, trying to crawl for cover. But a slender, sharp-featured man—Vecchio—was just two steps away, a long-bladed knife dancing through the gloom.

  The earl was too far away. Arianna held her breath and took aim . . .

  A crack rang out before she could squeeze the trigger.

  Vecchio staggered and slashed out as he fell. But the blade flew harmlessly from his hand as he hit the ground, blood from the bullet hole between his shoulder blades already darkening the back of his coat.

  Blinking the grit from her eyes, Arianna looked around. Sophia stepped out from a cloud of choking vapor. Her shako was gone, and her tangled hair had come free from its pins. Flinging the still-smoking pistol away, she rushed to Grentham and cut away his bonds.

  He slowly sat up. A bloody bandage was wrapped around his head, and his movements were stiff and awkward as he pulled the cloth gag from between his teeth.

  “Bloody Hell,” he rasped, fixing her with a look mingling disbelief and . . .

  Feeling rather dazed herself, Arianna couldn’t find a word to describe the emotion pinching at his unshaven face.

  “Of the all the reckless, rash, risky . . . .” His sputtering trailed off as he stopped for air.

  “You forgot impulsive, irresponsible and imprudent.” Sophia got to her feet and brushed a streak of mud from her cheek. Her fingers were scraped and bleeding, and a large bruise was purpling the right side of her jaw. “And by the by, once you’ve finished venting your spleen and hurling every nasty adjective you can think of at me, you might consider saying ‘thank you.’”

  The silence was suddenly deafening.

  Arianna cleared her throat. “Milord?” Grentham’s gaze was riveted on Sophia as she stalked off and was swallowed in the shadows. It took a second try to get his attention.

  “Would you care for a swig of spirits?” she asked as he finally looked around. A flask was lying at her feet and a quick sniff indicated it was filled with a very decent brandy.

  The minister gave a gruff nod and took a long draught before expelling a harried exhale. “Ye gods, I deserve to have my cods roasted over a red-hot fire for being so bloody stupid as to get captured,” he muttered. “My apologies for putting all of you to the inconvenience—not to speak of the danger—of mounting a rescue.”

  “I consider the trouble well worth it,” drawled Saybrook. He slid down from his saddle and resheathed his sword. “Think of how much enjoyment I’m going to get over needling you about this.”

  The minister let out a grunt and tried to rise.

  “You’re hurt!” Arianna caught him as his knee buckled.

  “Just a few bumps and bruises.” Grentham steadied himself and got to his feet. “How the devil did you find me?” he added to the earl.

  “A long story,” replied Saybrook. “But it can wait. I want to interrogate the prisoners and see what we can learn about where they were taking you.”

  Leete had rounded up the two survivors and was holding them at swordpoint in the center of the clearing. “I say we gut these poxy vermin and leave their carcasses for the wild dogs,” he said loudly as the earl approached.

  Grentham made to follow him, but Arianna kept a grip on his arm. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to express a wee bit of gratitude to her.”

  “Hmmph.” His snort sounded oddly tentative. “Surely that . . . goes without saying.”

  “Women are irrational creatures—we occasionally need to hear such sentiments,” she replied dryly. “It was a clever and courageous idea, and she thought of it all on her own. Have the grace to thank her for risking her life to save yours.”

  He blinked and then looked away. Sophia was at the edge of the trees, calming the big black stallion—

  “Grentham!” barked the earl. The minister hesitated for an instant before limping over to join him.

  Arianna waited for Sophia to return and begin tethering the horse with the others. Her friend’s face was still rigid with hurt.

  “Men don’t find it easy to give outward expression of their emotions,” she murmured.

  “You need not try to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,” said Sophia through clenched teeth. “He thinks I’m . . .” With shaking hands, her friend tugged at the saddle and stirrups. “Hell, he’s right.” Another yank shifted the rifle holster back into place. “I am a bloody idiot.”

  Heaving an inward sigh, Arianna took her friend by the arm. “We’ll talk about this later.” A battlefield was not the best place in which to discuss the vagaries of the heart. “Right now we ought to help coax information out of our prisoners.”

  That, however, was proving difficult. Both of the men were standing in sullen silence, refusing to answer the earl’s questions.

  “They claim they know nothing,” reported Saybrook, before pressing them yet again on their destination.

  “Je ne said pas,” replied the taller of the two with a pugnacious smirk. “Ze leader, he tell us noffink. A pity you killed him—but alors, now iz too late for such questions, eh?”

  Saybrook’s eyes narrowed. He thought for a moment, then took Leete aside for a brief exchange. When they returned, his expression looked even more forbidding.

  “I’ll ask you one last time,” he said to the tall fellow. “Where were you taking the prisoner?”

  A surly shrug.

  “Take him away and shoot him, Captain,” snapped the earl. “He’s of no further use to us.”

  “Sandro!” Arianna couldn’t hold back her shock. Yes, they would fight to the death if their own lives or those of their friends were in peril. But never—never—had he killed an enemy out of anger.

  Saybrook ignored the rebuke. “Do it behind those bushes . . .” A curt gesture indicated a tangle of greenery near the trees. “So we don’t have to haul his body when we hide the other dead.”

  “Wait! Wait!” cried the man, as Leete grabbed him by the collar and dragged him way.

  “Too late,” said the earl, turning to the other prisoner.

  A shot rang out, and a few serpentine curls of smoke slithered out from between the leaves.

  Sophia gasped, her expression pinching to one of disbelief. Arianna drew in a shuddering breath. Her throat was too tight for words. Even Grentham allowed a tiny furrow to form between his brows.

  “If you wish to live, start talking—and do it quickly,” ordered Saybrook. “My patience is wearing thin.”

  The prisoner fell to his knees, a look of unholy terror twisting his features. “C-a-illoux,” he stammered. “Vecchio said we were taking the prisoner to a walled farmhouse just outside the village of Cailloux.”

  “Cailloux?” The earl looked at Grentham. “That can’t be true—French intelligence would never set up their headquarters that far ahead of the main army.”

  “I swear I’m not lying, monsieur,” babbled the man.

  “It would be a bold move, and not without risk,” mused Grentham. “But given that they went after Pierson’s daughter, there are advantages to being in close proximity to Brussels. The girl must be key to cracking his silence.”

  He slanted a glance at Arianna. “By the by, did you—”

  “Manage to get her out?” she finished. “Yes, Emma is quite safe. She’s in our residence and is being well-guarded b
y our servants.”

  “Well done.” The minister’s eyes slid to Sophia. “Both of you.”

  Her friend blinked in surprise.

  The earl shoved the snout of his pistol up against the prisoner’s forehead. “You have one last chance to tell me the truth. If you’re lying, I’ll blow out your brains tomorrow instead of today.”

  “T-that’s what I was t-told, monsieur. I swear it.”

  “Very well.” The earl uncocked his weapon. “Leete!”

  Yes, they had won a key victory—one that might save George Pierson, thought Arianna as she studied her husband’s profile in the scudding light.

  But at what cost?

  The question cut like a knife against her conscience. Was honor worth more than the life of a man who had devoted himself to protecting King and Country?

  She turned, unwilling to face the answer . . .

  And stopped short. “Thank God.”

  “Oh, come, you didn’t really think I was going to kill a man in cold blood, no matter how much he deserved it?” said Saybrook as Leete marched the still-living first prisoner out from bushes. “We couldn’t afford to be sent on a wild goose chase, so we needed to know the information we received was accurate.”

  A ghost of a smile. “Men tend to tell the truth when they’ve good reason to believe you’ll really spatter their brains to Kingdom Come without batting an eye.”

  “Tsk, tsk. You’re in danger of becoming as cynical as moi,” murmured Grentham.

  “And pigs might fly,” shot back the earl. However, a flutter of amusement softened his sarcasm.

  “We’ve no time to linger in witticisms.” The minister flexed his shoulders. Exhaustion seemed to grip every muscle and bone in his body, and yet a look of fierce determination was etched on his face. “We need to return to Brussels and assess where all the pieces on this chessboard stand.” A wince as he touched the bandage around his brow. “The next move is ours, so let us not fritter away the opportunity to make an unexpected attack while our opponent’s eyes are on the wrong squares.”

  “Leete, bind the prisoners and tie them to their saddles. I’ll count on you to see they are locked up in solitary confinement until the game has played out to the final checkmate.”