The Aikenhead Honours

Three gentlemen spies: bound by duty, undone by women!

Introducing three of England’s

most eligible bachelors:

Dominic, Leo and Jack

code-named Ace, King, Knave

Together they are

The Aikenhead Honours

A government-sponsored spying ring,

they risk their lives, and hearts,

to keep Regency England safe!

Follow these three brothers on a dazzling

journey through Europe and beyond as they

serve their country and meet their brides, in

often very surprising circumstances!

Meet the ‘Ace’, Dominic Aikenhead,

Duke of Calder, in

HIS CAVALRY LADY

Meet the ‘King’ and renowned rake

Lord Leo Aikenhead, in

HIS RELUCTANT MISTRESS

Meet the ‘Knave’ and incorrigible playboy

Lord Jack Aikenhead, in

HIS FORBIDDEN LIAISON

‘Keep your distance,’ Marguerite hissed, ‘or I warn you, I shall scream.’

Jack lunged for her, pulling her close against his body so that she could not strike him, and clamped his large hand across her mouth.

‘You waited too long, ma’am. Don’t be afraid. I will let you go, but only if you promise not to scream. And if you tell me what you have done to Herr Benn.’

She responded by sinking her teeth into the fleshy part of his thumb.

‘Argh!’ he gasped, instinctively pulling his hand away. She was still pressed firmly to his chest, but she was opening her mouth to scream at the top of her lungs.

There was no help for it. He kissed her.

Joanna Maitland was born and educated in Scotland, though she has spent most of her adult life in England or abroad. She has been a systems analyst, an accountant, a civil servant, and director of a charity. Now that her two children have left home, she and her husband have moved from Hampshire to the Welsh Marches, where she is revelling in the more rugged country and the wealth of medieval locations. When she is not writing, or climbing through ruined castles, she devotes her time to trying to tame her house and garden, both of which are determined to resist any suggestion of order. Readers are invited to visit Joanna’s website at www.joannamaitland.com

Recent novels by the same author:

A POOR RELATION

A PENNILESS PROSPECT

MARRYING THE MAJOR

RAKE’S REWARD

MY LADY ANGEL

AN UNCOMMON ABIGAIL

(in A Regency Invitation anthology)

BRIDE OF THE SOLWAY

HIS CAVALRY LADY*

HIS RELUCTANT MISTRESS*

*The Aikenhead Honours

HIS FORBIDDEN
LIAISON
Joanna Maitland

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

‘You still look a bit groggy,’ Ben murmured.

Jack shook his head. Now that he was safely on dry land again, he would soon recover from his confounded seasickness. More important was to stop Ben from betraying them, before their mission had even begun. Jack risked a quick glance over his shoulder. The port of Marseilles was crowded with people, but no one was close enough to have overheard Ben’s unwary use of English.

Jack dropped an arm around Ben’s shoulders, for all the world as if he needed his friend’s support for his shaky legs. ‘No English,’ he hissed into Ben’s ear. Then, switching to French, he began to bemoan the state of his health in a voice that was loud enough to be heard by anyone within twenty yards. Jack’s French, learnt from his French mama, the Dowager Duchess of Calder, was flawless. He was able to pass for a Parisian without any trouble. Whereas Ben’s French, though pretty fluent, had a definite foreign accent that might make him suspect. To avoid that, they had agreed, before leaving Vienna, that Ben would pretend to be a German.

It was still a hugely dangerous mission that the Duke of Wellington had given to these two members of the Aikenhead Honours spying band. From Marseilles on the Mediterranean coast, Jack and Ben were to travel slowly north to Paris and thence to Calais, gathering information as they went about the extent of rebellious feeling in the country. Wellington was very concerned that the restored French King’s harsh rule was provoking unrest, especially among ex-members of the army. He needed to know just how many Frenchmen would be ready to agitate for Bonaparte’s return and where rebellion was most likely to occur. In Wellington’s view, the strip of water dividing France from the island of Elba, Bonaparte’s place of exile, was not nearly wide enough.

Jack slumped down on to a bollard by the water’s edge. His legs really were wobbly. Why on earth was he, alone among the Aikenhead Honours, cursed with seasickness? Ben looked much frailer than Jack, but he had not had a moment’s unease during their voyage. Jack—broader, heavier and much more robust in appearance—had collapsed almost before the ship had left Genoa harbour. It was shaming.

A barefoot sailor scampered nimbly down the gangplank with a valise in each hand. Spying the two young passengers who had been so generous to the crew during their voyage, he hurried along the quayside and deposited the bags at Jack’s feet. Jack looked up. The sailor was waiting expectantly.

‘Give the man some money, Benn,’ Jack said, in French, using the nom de guerre they had been using since leaving Vienna. Ben, Baron Dexter, had become Herr Christian Benn and Lord Jack Aikenhead had become Mr Louis Jacques.

Ben dug into his pocket. ‘I have no French francs,’ he said, in French, staring down at the coins in his hand. ‘But you might not want those anyway, I suppose.’ He picked out a silver coin from Genoa and offered it to the sailor, who grinned and tested it with his few remaining teeth.

‘Thank ye, sir,’ the sailor said, and pocketed it before running back on board.

‘Good,’Jack said in a low voice. ‘I think we carried that off well enough. But now we must be doubly careful. All the crew on the ship were Italians. They had no way of knowing whether you were a Frenchman or not. But here, many ears will be listening. Take care.’

Ben nodded. ‘If I think there is danger, I can always pretend to be mute.’

‘Good idea,’ Jack said, rising to his feet. His legs were feeling stronger now. He should be able to walk more or less normally. ‘If needs must, you shall be my slow-witted travelling companion, who can barely speak and who needs me to look after him as we travel.’ Jack grinned. ‘Actually, that seems remarkably appropriate in the circumstances, don’t you think?’

Ben grinned back and threw a mock punch at Jack’s midriff, though they both knew that Jack was much too quick on his feet to be caught.

Jack sidestepped neatly. ‘My dear Herr Benn,’ he said, ‘you will have to do better than that if you are to catch me. And now, as you are the junior partner in this enterprise, and also the one who is touched in the upper works, I suggest you pick up the bags and bring them.’

Ben spluttered a protest, but he was too late. Jack was already striding off past the Hôtel deVille in the direction of one of the harbour inns. Ben had no choice but to pick up both their bags and follow.

After twenty yards, Jack stopped, turned and waited for his friend. Ben was not used to acting the servant. Back home in England, as heir to his grandfather, Viscount Hoarwithy, he was used to being waited on hand and foot. That would not be possible here in France, for they had both left their servants invigorate. It was too dangerous to do otherwise. On the road to Genoa, they had relied on inn servants, but here in France, they might well have to shift for themselves. It would be only fair to break Ben in gently to the new routine.

Jack waited until Ben came level with him. He reached for his valise, but this time, Ben was too quick for him. He threw the valise at Jack, catching him on the shoulder. ‘Servant, indeed!’ Ben muttered. ‘You, sir, are riding for a fall.’

With a wry smile, Jack hefted his valise under his injured arm and used his free hand to rub his shoulder. ‘I can see that I shall have to be wary of you, my slow-witted friend. Come, then.’ He turned to stare up at the harbour inn. ‘What think you to this place? Good enough for one night?’

Marguerite Grolier stood in the middle of the floor while her groom and the hired servants stowed her remaining samples and the last of her purchases around the walls. She would barely have room to move, but these supplies were so valuable that she had to have them under her eye, for the future of the Grolier family weaving business depended on them. If any of this was lost or stolen, the whole family would suffer.

She smiled at Guillaume. He was groom, coachman and general factotum to her family, which he had served since before she was born. ‘Have the coach ready to leave at first light, please, Guillaume,’ she said. ‘We will need to pack all this and leave as soon as we can. We must make the most of the daylight.’

Even this far south, darkness fell early in the first days of March. She would not normally have travelled from Lyons at this time of year, but the family could not afford to miss the opportunity of securing an export agent for their silks and velvets. He had been most impressed by the quality of Marguerite’s wares and happy to take some to sell in Naples and Rome. Such sales might save their business, Marguerite knew, for the French market had become extremely difficult of late. Before the Revolution, Lyons had had thousands upon thousands of looms, and had provided silk to all the great houses of France, and beyond. But the continuing wars had taken almost all the men and, now that France had been defeated, the people who remained were more concerned about filling their bellies than putting fine clothes upon their backs.

The Grolier business could not afford to upset the few wealthy customers who remained in France. And one of the greatest of those—the Duchess of Courland—was waiting impatiently for the special silk for a court dress. Before this unexpected trip to Marseilles, Marguerite and her sister had been working day and night to finish it in time. As soon as she returned to Lyons, one of them would have to carry it to Paris for the Duchess’s approval. The journey would be a huge expense, and Marguerite was only half-convinced that it was sensible, but her sister, Suzanne, maintained that it would be the making of their little business. Once the Duchess of Courland had approved Grolier silk, all the royalist ladies congregating around the restored King Louis XVIII would want to place orders. Marguerite and Suzanne would be able to employ more weavers, and to increase the number of their looms. They would no longer need to worry about having enough money to pay for bread and the medicines for their poor demented mama. They would be able to plan for the future at last.

It was not what they had been brought up to expect—it could never be that—but it might be tolerable.

Marguerite was finding it difficult to sleep, as she always did when she was away from her own bed. She would be very glad to be on the way home to Lyons in the morning. It was the first time that Suzanne had been left to run the household for more than just a day or two, and Marguerite was not sure how well she would have coped. She would have their maid, Berthe, to help her, of course, but Berthe spent much of her time watching over their sick mother, so Suzanne would be responsible for running the weaving shop as well as the house. There was a boy to help with the heavy work while Guillaume was away, but still…

Suzanne was younger and slighter than Marguerite, and she was also used to looking to Marguerite for decisions, and to give instructions to the servants. Would Suzanne be able to overcome her shyness enough to assert her authority when it was needed? Perhaps it would not have been necessary, Marguerite told herself. Suzanne would be able to continue her work at the silk looms unless there were problems with customers, or money. Or with their mother’s increasingly unpredictable starts.

Marguerite worried constantly about their mother. She was barely forty-five years old and yet, since the accident, she behaved like an old woman. Sometimes she did not know who or where she was. Sometimes she did not even recognise her own daughters. And yet, at other times, she was almost as lucid and as loving as she had ever been. The problem was that her periods of lucidity were becoming shorter and the episodes of demented behaviour longer and more frequent. Soon, the family would need to watch over her night and day, but there was not enough money to pay another servant to help Berthe. Even with the export sales that might come through the new agent, there would be only just enough to keep the family. The Duchess of Courland’s approval was vital. Would Suzanne have been able to finish the Duchess’s silk during Marguerite’s absence? It was such a slow and laborious business, because of the gold cord that had to be threaded through at intervals and the fineness of the other threads. Even a whole day’s weaving seemed to produce only a few more inches of cloth.

Marguerite turned over in bed, trying to find a cool spot on the inn’s lumpy pillow. If she had been rich, she would have travelled with her own pillows, and her own linen, as aristocratic ladies had done before the Revolution. As her own mother had done, once, before the family’s fortunes had fallen so low . If only Papa—

The heavy silence of the night was broken by a tiny scrabbling sound. A mouse, perhaps? Marguerite pulled the blankets more closely around her shoulders and listened hard. There it was again! But it was not coming from floor level, surely? It seemed to be coming from somewhere near the door, and quite high up.

She concentrated all her senses on the door to her chamber, straining her eyes as if, by willpower alone, she could force them to see in the blackness. Yes, the noise was still there, and getting a little louder, too. Someone was trying to enter her chamber!

Oh, where was Guillaume?Why had she not insisted he remain on guard outside her door? Because he needs to be rested enough to drive the coach in the morning, her sensible self reminded her. Even on the edge of panic, with an intruder—perhaps even a rapist—at her door, her sensible inner voice would not allow itself to be overwhelmed.

If there is an intruder, he will almost certainly be a thief, come to steal the silks and velvets. Many people must have seen what we were carrying in the coach and how valuable it is. I should have expected this.

And I will deal with it!

Very quietly, Marguerite slipped out of bed and donned the wrapper she had left lying across the end of the bed. Now that she was fully awake, she could actually make out the shapes of the furniture in the room. She looked around for a weapon. Yes, there! She seized the tall brass candlestick from the dressing table. Its weight was comforting.

She crept across the floor to stand behind the door. If he forced his way in, she would fell him with the candlestick before he had gone even a yard.

The noise outside was getting louder and louder. Did the intruder assume, because Marguerite had not screamed, that she was cowering in the corner?

She gripped the candlestick even more tightly. She would not cower. If she had had a pistol, she would be ready to shoot him.

There was a loud click. Silence. Had he forced the lock? Marguerite dared to touch her left hand to the handle. She could not see it in the gloom, but she could feel it. It was turning.

Jack was awake and half out of bed before the sound had died away. A woman’s scream. He was almost sure of it.

He was tempted to bang on the wall that separated his room from Ben’s. But there was no sound of movement from next door. Too much of the landlord’s heavy red wine had done its work.

Jack wasted no time. He had to find the woman, who must be in real trouble. But even for that, Jack could not leave his room in his naked state. Where on earth were his breeches?

He could not remember. And in the dark, he could not see them. In desperation, he ripped the sheet off the bed and tied it round his waist. Barefoot, and with no light, he groped for the door, unlocked it by touch alone and flung it open. A glimmer of light! Somewhere further along the narrow corridor.

Then another scream echoed round the wood panelling.

Jack launched himself along the corridor towards the light. Just round the corner of the passage, a bedchamber door stood open. A dark lantern had been set down on the floor just outside. In the gloom, Jack saw a fair-haired young woman struggling with a dark-clad man. The man was about to overpower her.

‘Let her go, you blackguard!’

The man turned his head just enough to see the new danger. Then he swivelled on the spot, dragging the woman with him, and putting her body between himself and Jack.

Jack did not waste any more words. A man who was prepared to use a woman as a shield deserved no quarter. Jack seized the man’s nearest arm, and with a degree of sheer brute strength that he had not known he possessed, hauled it off the woman. Then he whipped the arm round and up the man’s back, forcing it hard against the shoulder joint. The man screamed with pain. If he continued to resist, his shoulder might be dislocated.

Jack pushed the arm a little higher. That did the trick. The assailant dropped his hold on the woman and tried to use his free arm to fight Jack off.

‘Save yourself!’Jack ordered in French. He needed her out of the way, so that he could ensure this man was truly disabled.

She ducked under their flailing arms and scrambled back into the bedchamber. But she did not bar the door. What on earth was the matter with her? Jack could not protect her and deal with the intruder at the same time.

The man was shorter than Jack, but much heavier. He was trying to use his free arm to fight. But Jack was behind him and he still had the man’s arm locked against his back. He pushed it even higher. A loud gasp of pain. The villain must yield now, surely?

Jack tried to push the man face-first into the wall, but he continued to struggle. And then he kicked over the lantern. Everything went dark.

Jack swore. Fighting this man in the dark was no easy task, especially as he seemed to be able to ignore the pain of the armoire. He tried to trip Jack’s feet from under him, but Jack was wise to that. He had wrestled too often with his brothers. Then suddenly the man used his free hand as leverage to propel his weight backwards into Jack’s body. Taken by surprise, Jack staggered, letting go of the armoire. Now he had lost his advantage, and he could see nothing. He heard, though. There was a low growl and a filthy curse. ‘I’ll have ’ee now,’ the voice said.

At that moment, a light flared. The woman appeared in the open doorway, holding a tiny candle high with her left hand.

Jack saw the scene like a tableau vivant, his attacker crouching, ready to spring, and now with a small, wicked knife in one hand. Behind him, in the doorway, stood the woman in a pale wrapper, the light held high in one hand and a brass candlestick in the other, her bare feet planted firmly on the wooden boards.

Jack took a defensive stance, waiting. In the flickering light, his assailant’s advantage was lessened, but he still had that knife.

The man risked a quick glance over his shoulder towards the light. He saw the woman, the light and the candlestick, and for a moment, his attention wavered. Now was Jack’s chance. He launched himself at the man, determined to wrest the knife from his grasp. He grabbed the man’s wrist with one hand, and his neck with the other, trying to half-throttle him to make him drop the knife.

It took only a second. The man groaned and collapsed in a heap on the floor. The knife clattered against the wall and was still.

Jack gasped in relief. ‘Thank God!’He had never known any man to succumb so quickly. He threw himself to his knees and pinioned both the man’s arms behind his back.

The woman’s bare feet edged a step nearer. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack registered that they were small and fine-boned. He looked up. Even in the half-light, she was very pretty, with a mass of fair curly hair and delicate features. Jack found himself trying to judge the colour of her eyes. Madness! This was no time for such idiocy.

The woman had put the candlestick on the floor and was undoing the belt of her wrapper. ‘Perhaps you would tie him up?’ She offered it to Jack.

He took it, suddenly conscious of the fact that she now had to hold her wrapper closed with her free hand. What glories was she concealing underneath? He remained stock still for a moment, his mind full of lustful imaginings.

‘Sir?’

Her slightly testy tone brought him back to earth with a jolt. She had every reason to be cross. His behaviour was inexcusable. He hurriedly used the belt to tie the assailant’s arms behind his back, making sure the knot was good and tight. The man would have severely bruised wrists, to add to his damaged shoulder, which was little enough by way of punishment for such a dastardly attack.

Jack had himself back under control by the time he stood up, though he was increasingly conscious of his half-naked state. It was no way to appear in front of a lady. And this fair-haired girl was definitely a lady.

‘It is generally best, ma’am,’ he said seriously, ‘to keep your bedchamber door locked when travelling.’The implication was clear. She had put herself in danger, and unnecessarily.

‘And I would do so, sir, but it is a little difficult at present.’ She picked up the candlestick, took a step backwards into the room and gestured at the floor. There was another body lying there.

‘You did that, ma’am?’ he said in wonderment. She had taken on two assailants, at least one of them armed, and she with only a candlestick? This lady was an Amazon.

She nodded, weighing her candlestick in her hand. ‘I hit him very hard. I hope I have not killed him.’ There was a slight tremor in her voice. ‘But I was alone, and afraid.’

Jack knelt by the second man and checked for a pulse. It was there, and surprisingly strong, considering what had been done to him. Jack rose to his feet. ‘Have no fear, ma’am, he is alive.’

She smiled then, for the first time. Even in the relative gloom, he could see that it lit up her face and her eyes. But he still could not make out their colour.

‘Do you have something else we can use to tie this one up? I have nothing, I’m afraid.’ He gestured towards his makeshift attire.

She gave a low laugh. ‘I should prefer if you did not remove your sheet for that purpose, sir.’ She turned back into her chamber.

Jack took a step after her to find that the room was piled with packages. He watched as the woman ripped one open and took out some material. It shimmered as it caught the faint light from the candle. There was a ripping noise, loud in the sudden silence.

‘Here.’ She offered him the piece she had torn off. ‘It’s silk. Stronger than the best rope. It will certainly hold him.’

Jack took the delicate fabric and began to twist it. Yes, it was strong, but it also felt wonderful against his skin, slippery, soft, sensuous. It was the sort of fabric that should embrace a beautiful woman, not tie up a ruffian. But it was all they had, and he used it. Then he hauled the body over the threshold and dumped it in the corridor.

‘Thank you, sir.’She was making to shut the door on him.

He held up a hand. ‘A moment, ma’am. Would you be so good as to tell me what happened? I cannot understand why you would have opened your door to such villains.’

She frowned, possibly a little crossly. ‘It would require a complete ninny, sir, to do such a thing without cause. Those men were trying to break into my room, to steal my goods, I imagine.’ She gestured to the piles of parcels. ‘I had a choice. To lie in my bed and wait to be robbed, even murdered. Or to confront them on my terms.’ She raised the candlestick. ‘Would you have had me do otherwise?’

Jack was not absolutely sure, but he thought her eyes might have flashed with anger as she spoke. His Amazon was certainly challenging him. He had been wrong about her, and he would have to apologise. ‘Your reactions were admirable, ma’am, and very courageous. If I have seemed to suggest anything else, I apologise.’

She softened a little then. Jack could see it in the slight relaxation of her shoulders. And she lowered the candlestick, too.

He peered past her into the room. ‘You have no maid, ma’am?’

She shook her head. ‘A manservant only. He sleeps in the carriage.’

‘It might be safer to have him sleep outside your door.’

She seemed to consider that for a moment. ‘You may be right, sir. I will remember your advice. And now, if I may impose on you a little more, I should be most grateful if you would arrange for these two would-be thieves to be taken to the authorities.’

He could not leave them as they were. Since only their hands were tied, there was a danger they might escape. ‘Might I have two more pieces of your silk, ma’am? I think their legs need to be bound while I go for the constable.’ He knelt once more by the two unconscious bodies.

At that moment, the knife man groaned. ‘I should have hit him harder,’she said, before turning away to fetch more silk.

Jack sat back on his heels. So much for his choke-hold. He owed his deliverance from the knife, not to his own quick wits and fighting skills, but to a brave French woman and a brass candlestick.

Chapter Two

Ben dropped his valise, groaned and put a hand to his head. Even the weak spring sunshine must be too strong for him, for he was trying to shade his eyes.

‘Don’t expect any sympathy from me, Ben,’ Jack said. ‘In this part of the world, the wine is remarkably strong and pure hangover juice. It’s nothing like the fine champagnes we were served in Vienna.’

Ben groaned again. ‘I’ll know better next time.’

‘And perhaps, next time, you’ll be awake enough to help. If that French woman hadn’t been so handy with her candlestick, I could have been sliced up like a prime ham.’ He smiled softly to himself at the memory of his Amazon. A pity they’d had to leave the inn so early. He would have welcomed a chance to see her again, if only to ask after her well-being. And finally to see the colour of her eyes! ‘That ruffian certainly meant business,’ he added, forcing himself to put the fair French woman from his thoughts.

‘Yes, I’m sorry. What will happen now? You don’t have to stay to give evidence against those fellows, do you?’

Jack shook his head. ‘No. The innkeeper is used to such starts, it seems. He said he would deal with them. No need for me, or the lady, to remain. I must say I am glad of it. If I’d had to give evidence against those two, I might have been forced to say more than is wise. Indeed, I think it’s best if we leave Marseilles immediately.’ He bent to pick up Ben’s valise as well as his own. He might not offer words of sympathy, but he could provide practical help for his friend’s pounding head.

‘But aren’t we supposed to find out about the Bonapartists in Marseilles? Wellington suspected—’

‘And he was right. I went out on to the quay earlier, while you were still snoring.’ He grinned wickedly and started slowly along the harbour side. ‘There’s lots of talk about the Emperor and how he promised to return with the violets. Lots of treasonous muttering against King Louis, too. Must say I was surprised at how open it was. They knew I was near enough to overhear, but they didn’t bother to lower their voices.’

‘Sounds bad.’

‘Yes. There are always troublemakers on any dockside, even at home, but Englishmen would have taken care not to be overheard. I had the impression that these Frenchmen are beyond caring, that they see Bonaparte as a last, desperate hope.’

Ben shook his head and made a noise in his throat.

Jack could not be sure if the moan was a result of Ben’s hangover or his concern about the risks of rebellion. ‘Best if we make oust to the coaching inn. There must be some kind of diligence to take us north, especially this early in the day. And if the coach is full of passengers, we may glean some useful information by listening to what they have to say.You’d be best to go back to being mute, I suppose.’

Ben nodded. They both knew it was safer that way.

‘Never mind, old fellow.’ Jack grinned suddenly. ‘Shouldn’t be for long, and then—’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Ben leant across to take his bag from Jack’s hand. ‘It’s for the mission, remember?’

‘Ah, good. You’re feeling better.’

Ben nodded again. This time he smiled. ‘Let’s go.’

They quickened their pace along the side of the harbour. The ship that had brought them from Genoa was still lying at anchor, waiting for the tide. Her decks were swarming with Italian sailors. One or two of them shouted a greeting. Jack waved a hand, but did not pause. There was too much to do. ‘We should be able to—’

A loud shout stopped them in their tracks. Jack spun on his heel. A group of burly men had appeared from the inn where they had lodged overnight. Two of them had dirty grey bandages round their heads, and they were pointing at Jack and Ben. Jack gasped. ‘Those are the two ruffians from last night.’

Ben looked back. ‘The men with them don’t look anything like constables, either.’

As they watched, the group of Frenchmen split into two. The two bandaged men remained by the inn door, but their fellows were striding up the quayside towards Jack and Ben. A sudden shaft of watery sunlight caught the gleam of knife blades against dark clothing.

‘Dear God! The landlord must have been in league with them, and now they’re after us. I don’t like the odds, with five of them and two of us.’

‘We’d better run for it.’Valise in hand, Ben started for the end of the harbour.

‘You go on. I’ll follow.’Jack was digging into his pocket as Ben took to his heels. Then he yelled at the sailors on the Genoese ship. ‘Hey, you fellows! This is for you, with our thanks.’ He flung the handful of coins high in the air, right into the path of their pursuers. Without waiting to see the reaction from the ship, he turned and hared after Ben.

Behind him, Jack heard shouts in a mixture of languages. The sailors must be scrambling on to the quayside and fighting the Frenchmen for the coins. He and Ben had time to escape. They would—

Ahead of him, Ben had stopped and turned, foolishly waiting for Jack to catch up with him. A moment later, the sharp crack of a pistol echoed round the harbour. Ben cried out and fell to the ground. He had been shot!

In seconds, Jack had caught up with Ben and was hauling him back to his feet. He was conscious, though very pale. He had dropped his valise and was clutching at his shoulder. Jack put an arm round his waist. ‘Come on. Let me take your weight. We can get away.’

Ben gritted his teeth and did his best to run.

‘I will mind the horses, Guillaume, if you fetch the provisions.’

‘But, mistress, it’s not safe to leave you here alone with the coach and all the silk. You know what happened last night.’

Marguerite shook her head. ‘It will not happen again. Look.’ She took a step forward so that the folds of her skirt moved. They had been concealing her hand, and the pistol she had taken from the coach. ‘No one will try anything. If anyone should accost me, I will shoot him. Now, fetch the provisions, Guillaume, and be as quick as you can. We will have precious little time to stop on the road, and even you cannot manage without food.’

He nodded and hurried across the Place du Cul de Boeuf to the baker’s on the corner of the Canebière, the long, wide street leading up from the port to the main part of the city.

Marguerite sighed and buried the pistol more deeply among her skirts. She refused to be afraid, even though they were still all too close to the port and the ruffians who frequented it. Last night had been dangerous, terrifying even, but it had been her own fault for sleeping without a guard. She would not make such a mistake again. On another occasion, she might not be lucky enough to have a gentleman come to her aid. He had been most courageous, launching himself into the fray with no thought for his own safety. And covered by only a thin bed sheet, to boot! She should have been embarrassed, of course, but she had been too intent on dealing with the attackers.

Now she remembered that her rescuer’s naked torso had seemed shapely and well muscled, like a classical statue. She fancied his hair had been dark. And he was tall, too. But what she remembered most clearly was his voice, its strong, rich tone inspiring confidence and helping her to overcome her terror. She would treasure the memory of that voice.

It was a pity she had not had a chance to thank him properly, or even to ask his name. Everything had happened so quickly. As soon as both men were securely bound, he had disappeared to arrange for them to be taken to gaol. Marguerite had been left alone to sleep, if she could. And she had, soothed by the memory of that remarkable voice.

This morning she had rid herself of such missish fancies. As a matter of courtesy, she would have liked to seek him out, but it had been much too early. She had not left a note. How could she, for a man with no name? But she now felt more than a little guilty. It was a breach of good manners to have failed to thank him. If she ever saw him again, she would remedy that, but the chances were extremely slim. She walked thoughtfully to the leader’s head and raised her free hand to stroke his neck.

And then she heard the sound of running feet.

She tightened her hold on the butt of the pistol, and turned. Two men had rounded the corner from the Quai du Port. One, a fair-haired stranger,was leaning heavily on his darker fellow. Why, it was the gentleman who had come to her rescue just hours before! She stepped quickly away from the horses. What was happening? What should she do? The men looked to be in some distress. The fair-haired one seemed to be struggling to stay upright. Without the support of his friend, he would probably have fallen to the ground.

Marguerite knew she had to help her rescuer as he had helped her. It was a matter of honour. She owed him. She hurried forward, still gripping the pistol. ‘Sir, what is the matter?’

‘My friend has been shot,’ the darker man gasped, ‘by a gang of villains. They are just behind us.’

Marguerite did not hesitate. ‘Quickly. Inside my coach.’ She ran forward to fling open the door, scrambled inside and began throwing most of the parcels of silk to one side. ‘Lay him here.’ She pointed to the floor where the seat had been removed to make room for her stores.

The two men did not speak. They simply acted. The dark man threw his valise into the corner of the coach, then half-pushed, half-lifted his injured fellow into the space Marguerite had cleared. In seconds, he was lying on a bed of packaged silk.

‘You, too.’ She gestured urgently. There was room for both of them.

The dark man nodded and lay alongside his fellow.

Marguerite quickly heaped all the remaining packages on top of them. It was a ramshackle pile, but there was nothing to betray what was hidden underneath it. She jumped quickly to the ground and closed the door at her back. She took a deep breath, looking round. There was no one, yet, but she could hear running feet again. And this time, there were more of them. She swallowed hard, pushed the pistol more deeply within her skirts and straightened her shoulders.

She was about to move back to the horses’ heads when she noticed a bloodstain on the ground by her foot. Dear God, that would give them away! She moved to cover as much of the stain as possible with her boot, hoping the shadow of her long skirt would hide the rest. Provided she did not move—and she had no intention of doing so—the blood would not be seen. Guillaume would return soon, and then there would be two of them to outface whatever scoundrel was prepared to shoot an unarmed man in broad daylight.

She did not have long to wait. Barely seconds after she had hidden the bloodstain, five dirty and sinister-looking Frenchmen rounded the corner at a run and skittered to a stop, one of them slipping on the gravelly surface of the square. They were all looking about them suspiciously, clearly wondering where their quarry had gone. She heard disjointed words in the local thieves’ cant. She did not understand them all, but enough to make clear that the two fugitives were in real danger. As was she, for hiding them!

She pulled herself up to her full height and stared proudly at them. But if she had hoped to frighten them off, she was mistaken. Two of them muttered in low voices and then came towards her. One was openly carrying a knife.

Marguerite continued to stare loftily at them. She did not dare to move from the bloodstained spot. And she would not show fear. She had learnt that only a few hours ago. ‘Put that thing away,’ she snapped.

The knifes stopped dead and stared at her. Then, looking suddenly a little sheepish, he tucked the knife into his boot.

Marguerite waited. She had had one small victory, but there were still five of them, five men against one woman. The pistol, hard against her leg, provided some reassurance. If either of these two tried to assault her, she would shoot him.

‘We be looking for two men. Fugitives,’ the knifes said, forcing a false smile. ‘They came this way, mistress. Did you see where they went?’

‘Two men?’ Marguerite raised her eyebrows.

‘Aye,’ said the second man. ‘One dark, one fair. The fair one would be limping, and bleeding. He was shot.’

‘Shot?’ Marguerite put as much horror as she could into her voice.

‘By the constable, mistress. They be wanted, by the law.’

‘Aye,’ agreed the knifes. ‘We be deputised, by the constable. He’s too fat to run.’ The second man laughed shortly.

‘Ah. Yes, I did see two men, one helping the other. They went into the old town.’ She pointed to the maze of squalid streets that opened off the tiny square and ran the entire length of the harbour. ‘Over there.’

‘Thank ye, mistress.’

‘I doubt you’ll be able to catch them,’ Marguerite said earnestly. ‘They were some way ahead of you, and running. And in that labyrinth…’ She shrugged her shoulders.

‘True, mistress, but we be able to follow the blood trail. The fair one, he was bleeding.’He began to scan the ground for signs.

Marguerite took half a step forward. The bloodstain was completely hidden by her shadow. ‘Well, I hope you do, if they are fugitives. But I must tell you that they stopped at the corner, over there, and I think the dark man put a pad on the fair man’swum. So there may be no trail for you to follow.’ She raised her hands in the universal gesture of helplessness. ‘But if you’re quick, you may succeed.’

‘Aye,’ said the knifes. ‘Come, Jean. We must go.’ They both looked across to the narrow street Marguerite had indicated. Then, waving to their accomplices to join them, they trotted off.

Marguerite stood motionless until all five of them had disappeared into the dark and malodorous streets of the oldest quarter of Marseilles.

Ben was barely half-conscious now. Jack rather wished he would swoon completely, for he was starting to mutter and groan with the pain of his wound. Jack laid a hand gently over Ben’s mouth, trying to muffle the sound. If that did not work, he was going to have to hit him, to knock him out. It would be a terrible thing to do to a friend who already had a bullet in him. But he would do it if he had to, to prevent Ben’s English moans from betraying them.

Ben gave another long groan and went limp. Thank God, Jack thought. Let him stay that way until they were out of this dangerous coil.

He listened intently. He could hear the woman dealing most adroitly with their pursuers. She was sending them off into the warren of the old city. It was the place where any fugitive would choose to hide, of course, but she had even concocted a story as to why there would be no blood trail to follow. What a woman! Not only was she ready to confront robbers at the dead of night, she was also extremely quick-witted. Jack was not sure he would have done half as well.

He could hear the sound of the men rushing away in pursuit of their phantom quarry. The woman would come back now, and then Jack and Ben would need to find somewhere else to hide. It could not be among the harbour inns, that was for certain, for they had already been betrayed once by that route. Perhaps if—

The carriage door opened. It swayed as someone climbed in. ‘Do not move an inch.’ It was the lady’s voice, soft but strong.

The coach swayed again as the lady took her place on the bench seat.

‘Put the provisions on the floor, Guillaume,’ she said, in a slightly louder voice, ‘and then let us be off. I have had quite enough of this city, full of thieves and vagabonds. Let us show it a clean pair of heels.’

‘Yes, miss.’ It was a man’s voice, an older voice, and it was followed by the sound of the door closing.

‘Don’t move yet,’ she whispered. And then the carriage started forward. She was leaving Marseilles. And she was taking Jack and Ben with her.

Jack did as he was bid, though he worried very much for Ben. He might have lost his senses, but he would still be bleeding. There had not been time to staunch his wound, which needed to be tended. And yet the lady was right to bid them stay concealed, for those blackguards might easily catch up with the coach in the busy streets of Marseilles. And if they did, the consequences could be dire. Two able-bodied men, one of them old, against five armed ruffians.

After some minutes, he felt the coach make a sharp left turn. Peering cautiously out from among the packages, his gaze met the shifting, dappled light of a tree-lined avenue. They must be well away from the harbour now.

The coach picked up speed for a while and Jack breathed more easily. They were leaving the centre of the town. Perhaps now he could—? But then the coach slowed once more, almost to a stop. What now? He tensed, ready to defend Ben.

‘Be easy,’ she said softly. ‘We must go through the Porte d’Aix. I do not expect to be stopped.’

But what if they were? Jack listened intently, trying to make himself as small as possible. He heard a muttered exchange outside. Guillaume must be talking to the guards on the gate. Would they—?

The coach was pulling away again. They were through! Jack continued to lie motionless, however, for he did not know how far they still had to go to leave the city altogether. He took a deep breath. Yes, surely that was the smell of trees, and good moist earth? But he did not stir. He would wait for her to give the word. Gratefully he breathed in the fresh country smells. And then he realised there was something more. It was the smell of the sea.

‘Sir, I think it is safe now. We have reached the Aix road. There is nothing here but fields, and the sea beyond.’ She was starting to remove the packages of silk that lay on top of them.

Jack sat up and quickly pushed the rest away. The coach was barely a hundred yards from the shore. White-crested waves were beating in to break on the rocks. He felt his stomach heave, but he forced himself to concentrate on their escape. He was in a coach, after all, not a ship. ‘You put yourself in grave danger, ma’am.’

She dropped to her knees beside the two of them. ‘No more danger than you were in last night, sir. Now, let us see to your friend.’

She was right. For several minutes, they worked together in silence, stripping off Ben’s coat and pulling open his shirt to get at the wound. It was high in his shoulder. The shot seemed to have missed the vital organs, but there was no exit wound. It would be necessary to find a surgeon to remove the ball. She lifted her skirt and reached for her petticoat, as if about to tear off a bandage.

‘No, ma’am. There is no need. For some reason, I kept hold of my bag.’ He nodded towards the battered valise, which lay at a peculiar angle against the far door. He reached for it, pulled out his spare shirt and quickly made it into a pad to apply to Ben’s wound. Then he tied the pad in place with a makeshift bandage of his stockings. ‘Thank God he fainted.’

The lady nodded. ‘Shall we put him on the seat?’

‘I think he is probably better there on the floor, among the bales of silk,’ Jack said after a moment. ‘It would hurt him if we moved him. And, to be frank, it is easier to conceal him there.’

She thought for a moment, but then she nodded again. ‘Yes, you are right.’ She pushed herself back up on to the seat and took a handkerchief from her reticule to clean the blood from her fingers. Then she looked out of the window. The sea was no longer in sight. ‘Guillaume has made good time, even though he does not know what dangerous cargo he carries.’She gave a small, nervous laugh. ‘He will berate me when he discovers it, but never mind. I owe it to you, sir. After last night.’

Jack made Ben as comfortable as he could, adding extra parcels of silk to stop him rolling with the movement of the coach. Then he looked up at the lady.

‘Pray sit.’ She indicated the other half of the bench seat. ‘There is no need for you to remain on the floor. Not now.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Jack ran a nervy hand through his hair. Then he dived into his pocket for a handkerchief to mop his brow and clean his hands. ‘I’d wager I look as much of a ruffian as those five.’

‘I think not. You, sir, are clearly a gentleman, and they—’ She shuddered. ‘They were not.’

‘No, I—’ Jack stopped, thunderstruck, for she had taken a pistol from the seat under her skirts and was calmly returning it to the leather holster by the window. ‘A pistol, ma’am?’

‘After last night, I was prepared to use it, I may tell you. It was concealed in my skirts all the time I was dealing with those men. It gave me a degree of courage I might not otherwise have had,’ she added simply.

‘Madame,’Jack said, very seriously, trying to bow from his sitting position, ‘you have as much courage as any woman I have ever met, and I salute you for it.’

‘Thank you.’ She would not meet his eyes. ‘Thank you, Mr…?’She looked up then. Her eyes, he could see at last, were an unusual shade of blue-green, and very wide. As beautiful as the sea. And as easy to drown in. ‘I am afraid I do not know your name,’ she said quietly.

‘Nor I yours, ma’am. My name is Louis Jacques, from Paris. My poor wounded companion is a German, Christian Benn. I am escorting him to Paris, on behalf of a mutual friend.’ Jack cursed inwardly. He had been paying too much attention to the fair Amazon’s eyes, and hazarding his mission as a result. He really should have prepared their cover story with much more care. He had assumed, stupidly, that he would never have to go into detail. How wrong could he be! His brothers, Dominic and Leo, would never have been caught out in that way. They always had a plan B, and usually a plan C as well.

Jack resolved to be more prudent in future. And also to tell this lady nothing more. For all he knew, she might be a Bonapartist, in spite of the fact that she had saved them. Indeed, he should have thought of that before. Still, he had told her only his nom de guerre, and Ben’s. The mention of Paris as their destination was harmless enough. He had given away nothing of importance. He and Ben would be safe, even if she did favour the enemy, but he must say nothing more. She was a remarkable woman, and he might admire her, but he must not trust her. He could not afford to jeopardise his mission for a pair of limpid blue-green eyes.

He plastered what he hoped was a charming smile on his face, and said, in his most confiding voice, ‘We are much in your debt, ma’am, and I should be glad to know your name, if you would allow it.’

She seemed to have been taken in by that smile, for she returned it. And hers was genuine. ‘My name, sir, is Marguerite Grolier, and I am a weaver from Lyons. Which is where this coach is now going.’ She twinkled. ‘If you and your companion are bound for Paris, you will have no objection to our route, I take it?’

Chapter Three

The injured German was still lying unconscious on the bales of silk. From time to time, he moaned, but he had not yet opened his eyes. It was probably a mercy, for his pain must be intense.

‘I think we should stop soon, Mr Jacques,’ Marguerite said, breaking the silence that had held for nearly an hour. After those first few exchanges, when her companion’s rich voice had filled her senses, her attempts to converse with him had been politely but firmly rebuffed. He had been unwilling to talk about himself or his companion. It seemed that Mr Jacques’s attention was all still on escaping from the danger behind them, even though they had covered quite a distance. However, they had more pressing matters to deal with. The injured man needed a surgeon. ‘Marseilles is well behind us, sir, and you are both out of danger now. Those men cannot follow us.’ She was trying to sound reassuring.

Mr Jacques frowned in response. But after several moments, he shrugged his shoulders and relaxed just a little. ‘No, you are probably right.’

Thank goodness he was seeing reason, and talking to her at last, though his voice was somehow harsher than before. ‘Forgive me, but why were they chasing you in the first place? I am sure they were not what they said. Not constable’s men.’

He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Of course, you did not see them all on the quayside. I am pretty sure that they were accomplices of the two men who attacked you last night. I am afraid that you and I were more than gullible, ma’am, in taking the landlord’s word that your two attackers would be handed over to the authorities. I saw them both standing, free as air, outside the inn. No doubt they were in league with that scurvy landlord. And the other five were their accomplices, waiting for their share of the spoils.’

Marguerite exclaimed in disgust.

‘Quite so, ma’am. They all came out of the inn just in time to spot Benn and me, making our way to the diligence. Your assailants were too weak to pursue us themselves—I must say you did a good job there, for both their heads were still bandaged—but they pointed me out to their accomplices and set them on to attack us. And then one of them shot Benn.’

‘Oh, heavens! So it was all because of me that poor Herr Benn was shot? How dreadful.’ She clasped her hands together in an attempt to control her racing pulse. Suddenly, another thought struck her. ‘I suppose I should be grateful that the two injured men remained behind, for if they had recognised me, they would surely have suspected that I was hiding you.’

‘Aye. And they might have assaulted you again. You and I had the luck of it, this morning. Unfortunately, poor Benn—’ he glanced across at the motionless body on the floor ‘—has suffered grievously, even though he was snoring innocently throughout last night’s attack.’

‘He has paid for that now, poor man.’ Marguerite dropped quickly to her knees and put a gentle hand to Herr Benn’s brow. It was damp and hot. She looked back at Mr Jacques. ‘We must get a surgeon to him. He has the beginnings of a fever. If the ball is not removed…’ Her voice tailed off. They both knew that such a fever could be fatal.

‘You are right, ma’am. If it will not inconvenience you too much,’ he continued politely, as if he were conversing in some lady’s salon, ‘we could stop a moment when you change horses so that Benn and I could get down. The post-house landlord might be able to direct me to a surgeon.’

‘Let us hope so. It is a blessing that he remains insensible.’

‘Aye.’ He nodded.

‘I…I would be able to keep him so, if you think it wise. I have…I always carry some laudanum in my bag.’

‘Do you indeed, ma’am?You astonish me. First a candlestick, then a pistol, and now a phial of laudanum.You are full of surprises.’

Marguerite felt herself blushing. ‘I…I have an invalid mother. I know the value of laudanum. And also its dangers. But sometimes…well, sometimes, it is the only solution.’

‘Forgive me, ma’am, I did not mean to suggest—I am sure your phial may well be very useful if we have a need to keep him insensible. I certainly would not wish him to wake while the surgeon is ministering to him.’

‘No, of course not. Ah, look.’ She pointed out of the window to a bend in the road ahead of them. ‘There is Rognac. We should arrive in less than another quarter of an hour. I recall the posting house there was more than adequate when we were travelling south to Marseilles. Let us hope the landlord can direct you to a surgeon.’

‘Hmm. The place does look a mite small. But I trust you are right.’ He reached down to help her back on to the seat. ‘I am sure it would be best if you were not kneeling on the floor when we arrive at Rognac, ma’am, though I do thank you for your care of my companion. And I hope we have not delayed your journey too much. You have been a true Samaritan to us.’ He smiled at her then, with real generosity of spirit. It wiped the lines of care from his face and made him look years younger.

His voice might still be hard, but Marguerite felt her heart lift. And without his hand under her arm, she would have staggered as she resumed her seat, for she had suddenly begun to feel strangely dizzy.

Marguerite had refused to leave Rognac. How could she possibly travel on to Lyons before poor Herr Benn had seen a surgeon? He had groaned horribly as he was carried from the coach and into the posting house. Even now, when he was lying on clean sheets in the best bedchamber of the inn, he was still moaning.

Oh, when would Mr Jacques return with the surgeon? Herr Benn’s need was becoming ever more desperate. Marguerite soaked her cloth in the bowl of cool water once more. She was just about to lay it across the injured man’s forehead when he stirred and half-opened his eyes.

He said something incomprehensible. Not French. German, perhaps? She leant across him and bathed his brow again. His gaze was fixed on a point somewhere beyond her shoulder. She knew he was not seeing her.

He spoke again. ‘Mission.’ It was very low , but audible enough. Mission? Then, ‘ Wellington. Mission.’

Marguerite stopped dead, the cloth hanging limply from her fingers. Dear God, he was an Englishman and, by the sound of it, a spy! What. was she to do?

She forced herself to think. Mr Jacques was a Frenchman, and quite possibly a Bonapartist, as so many were. He had said he was conducting Herr Benn, a German, to Paris. But Herr Benn spoke English, and must surely be a spy. Did Mr Jacques know of it? It was impossible to say. They might be accomplices, of course, but equally, Herr Benn might be acting alone. If so, there was a real risk that Mr Jacques might betray this poor man. And there were certainly Bonapartists a-plenty who would take pleasure in executing an English spy, especially now that there were so many rumours, and so many hopes, for the promised return of their so-called emperor.

She could not take the chance. Mr Jacques’s voice and his touch might have made her senses reel, but her practical self knew better than to yield to such missish fancies. She might be wrong—she fervently hoped she was—but she had to work on the assumption that Mr Jacques and the pretend German were not fellow-conspirators. She must protect the wounded man.

She looked round wildly. Yes, her valise was here. Guillaume had deposited it in the bedchamber, all the while muttering about the dangers of taking strangers into their carriage. And he would still have been here, berating her, if he had not had to return to the yard to see to the safe disposal of the silk.

Marguerite grabbed her valise and scrabbled around in it until she lighted on the little bottle, wrapped in raw silk to keep it safe. She mixed a dose of laudanum in the glass from the night stand. Then she slid an arm under Herr Benn’s shoulders and lifted his head. ‘Forgive me, sir,’ she said softly, ‘but I must do this, for your own safety.’

She put the glass to his lips, but they were stubbornly closed. Confound it! He must take it. It was the only way to save him.

In that instant, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Mr Jacques might be returning, or Guillaume. Desperately, she seized another pillow and pushed it roughly behind the man’s head. She pulled her arm free and pinched his nostrils closed with her fingers. One second, two seconds, yes! His mouth opened to take a breath. With a single, swift movement, she tossed the contents of the glass down his throat, holding his nose until he swallowed. He gasped for breath, and groaned. But it did go down. It was done.

She settled him back more gently on the pillows, and quickly rinsed out the glass. She was just about to return the bottle to her valise when the door opened. ‘Mr Jacques!’ she exclaimed. She hid the bottle among her skirts, as she had done the pistol, seemingly hours before. Was she blushing? It seemed it did not matter, for neither Mr Jacques, nor the man who followed him, was looking at her. The new arrival was a surgeon, to judge by his clothing, and by the bag he carried.

‘Here is your patient, sir,’ Mr Jacques said, gesturing towards the bed. ‘And still insensible, thank God. You will be able to do your work without concern about the pain you may cause him.’

The surgeon crossed to the bed, took a cursory look at Herr Benn’swum, and began to unpack the instruments from his bag. ‘This will not take long, sir,’he said briskly. ‘I shall need a basin, and some bandages, if you would be so good.’

‘Yes, of course. Miss Grolier, would you be so kind as to ask the landlord for a clean sheet, or some other cloth that we may use for bandages?’

Marguerite nodded. It sounded as though Mr Jacques was trying to prevent her from witnessing the operation. It was thoughtful of him, though unnecessary, for she was not afraid of the sight of blood. She had assisted at the bleeding of her mother, oftentimes. It had rarely made much difference, though on occasion it had calmed the poor demented lady’s ravings.

Marguerite cast a last, cautious glance at Herr Benn. The laudanum seemed to have worked remarkably quickly. His eyes were closed, and he was no longer making any sound. She breathed a sigh of relief.

She hurried out of the room and down the staircase to the entrance hall, where she soon obtained what they needed. She was determined that she would not be out of that chamber for a moment longer than she could help. If Herr Benn spoke again, she needed to be there to hear whatever he might say. For now there were two potential betrayers: Mr Jacques and the surgeon. It might fall to her, and her alone, to defend the English spy.

The surgeon continued to probe into Ben’s wound. ‘The ball lies deep.’ He grunted as he worked. ‘Ah, I have it now.’A moment later, the ball rattled into the tin basin that Jack was holding. It was followed by a gush of bright blood. The surgeon calmly replaced the bloody pad of Jack’s shirt and pressed hard. ‘We need those fresh bandages now.’

‘Aye.’ Jack glanced over his shoulder to the open door. There had not yet been time. It was but a few minutes since Miss Grolier had gone downstairs to fetch the bandages. He looked back at the bed where Ben lay, very still, and almost as pale as the linen surrounding him. Jack was grateful that his friend had not come round during the operation, and yet it worried him that Ben had shown no sign of regaining his wits since they had left Marseilles. Perhaps Jack had been wrong in assuming that the wound had damaged no vital organs? ‘He will recover now, sir?’ Jack was unable to keep the anxiety from his voice.

‘Yes, with careful nursing. There is a deal of damage to his shoulder, for I had to dig deep to remove the ball. ‘Twill be a long time before he wields a sword with that arm.’

Jack was instantly on the alert. Why should a surgeon speak of swords and fighting? But he replied only, ‘It is not his fighting arm. He is left-handed.’

‘Ah. Then he has been lucky, for his shoulder will take some time to heal. How came he by this wound, sir?’

‘We were set upon by a group of footpads, in Marseilles. We were outnumbered, and running from them. When they saw that we were about to escape, one of them shot him.’

‘Wicked,’ the surgeon muttered. ‘And cowardly, too, especially now, when we are like to need every Frenchman we have.’

‘Especially now?’ Jack echoed. ‘Forgive me, sir, but I—’

The surgeon’s eyes widened and he stared at Jack. ‘Have you not heard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘The Emperor has returned. God save him!’

Jack felt as though he had been winded by a blow to the gut. ‘Returned?’ For a moment, he could not manage more than that single word. Then his common sense took hold and he breathed again. The surgeon was yet another of the many Bonapartists waiting all over France. Jack must take care. He must not allow the surgeon’s suspicions to be aroused. ‘Are you sure, sir?’ he asked breezily. ‘We heard nothing of that at Marseilles. Just that he would return.’

The surgeon paused. ‘Be so good as to keep the pressure on the wound.’ As soon as Jack had taken over, the man turned away. He began to clean his hands with a cloth and then to put his instruments back into his case. ‘Well, I suppose the rumours could be mistaken,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But the way it was told to me, I tell you, sir, it was not that the Emperor might return, but that he had returned. I pray it is so, for with fat Louis on the throne, France will always be under the heel of her enemies.’ He spun round to face Jack. ‘Vive l’Empereur!’

It was a test. Jack swallowed. He had no choice. ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ he echoed, trying to sound as though he meant it.

A sound from the doorway made him turn. Marguerite Grolier stood there, transfixed, with a bundle of white cloth clasped to her bosom.

Jack swore silently. If the lady was a Bonapartist, he might have improved his standing with her. But if she was not, he could have made himself an enemy. He wanted neither of those. He wanted her to trust him, without question. But she was standing as if stunned, her glorious eyes very wide. Was that from pleasure? Or dismay? He could not tell. He desired her as an ally, but he dare not risk treating her as anything but an enemy.

‘At last!’ the surgeon cried. ‘Bring them here, ma’am. This man is bleeding.’

The surgeon’s words spurred her into action. She started violently and hurried across to the bed. Between them, she and the surgeon tore bandages and had soon bound a clean pad on to Ben’s wounded shoulder.

‘He’ll do now, sir,’ the surgeon said.

‘Thank you. How soon will he be well enough to travel, do you think? We should not remain here, especially if the news you bring is true.’

The surgeon grinned. ‘Pray God it is, eh, sir? He promised to return with the violets. He would not break such a promise. Not a promise to France.’ The surgeon had a rather faraway look in his eyes, which sat strangely with his burly figure and bloodstained fingernails. But many Frenchmen had revered Bonaparte as a hero. Just as this man clearly did.

‘I need to know, sir. How soon?’Jack repeated. ‘How long must my companion remain here before he is fit to travel?’

‘Oh, that. A day or two only. Much will depend upon whether he develops a fever. That ball should have been removed hours since, you know.’

Jack nodded guiltily. ‘I…I know it.’ He straightened. ‘May I escort you downstairs, sir? Perhaps you will take a glass with me before you leave?’

The surgeon beamed. ‘That is kind, sir. I accept, gladly.’

Jack glanced towards the lady, who nodded. Since Ben was unconscious, she could safely be left alone to take care of him for a space, while Jack took the surgeon below and paid him for his services. There would still be plenty of light for her to continue her journey later. He would thank her properly then, and try to allay her suspicions, somehow. He wanted her to think well of him when they parted, just as he did of her, whatever her allegiance. In truth, she deserved more gratitude than he would ever be able to express, since she must never learn of their mission.

For now, that mission came first. He must stop thinking about Marguerite Grolier. His immediate task was to extract as much information as possible about Bonaparte. He would start with the surgeon. Over a glass of brandy, the man might disclose a great deal about the exiled Emperor. Was it possible? Could he really have landed in France again? Was the whole of Europe about to be engulfed in flames once more?

Now what was she to do? Herr Benn was an English spy. And Mr Jacques was all too clearly a Bonapartist. She swallowed hard, trying to control the nausea that had engulfed her when she heard those fateful words on his lips. He was a brave and generous man, he had rescued her with no thought for his own safety, but he was a Bonapartist. They were enemies, but she must not let him suspect that. She must keep him always at a distance and treat him with the utmost care. She had thought, for that fleeting moment when he touched her, that he might be a friend. Nothing of the sort. He was an enemy, to her and to everything her family believed in. She must beware of him.

Marguerite’s hands were automatically clearing away the mess the surgeon had left. Herr Benn was deeply insensible and pale as a ghost. She fancied that the surgeon was a butcher as well as a Bonapartist. He had removed the bullet, but what else had he done? She dropped the last of the bloody cloths into the basin and turned to the dressing table to wash her hands. The water there was clean. Neither the surgeon nor Mr Jacques had washed off the blood.

She shuddered. Blood! If Bonaparte had indeed returned, there would be a great deal of blood.

She glanced around for a towel. There was none. She shook the drops of water back into the bowl and turned to her valise for her own towel. In a moment, she found it, tucked alongside the raw silk cocoon which normally held her phial of laudanum. She dried her hands, extracted the phial from her pocket and restored it to its place beside the basilicum powder. It would be best to give Herr Benn no more laudanum. But did she dare to let him alone? What if he began raving? Mr Jacques was surely not to be trusted. On the other hand, Herr Benn might not recover if Marguerite kept him dosed with laudanum. It was a wicked dilemma.

Reluctantly, she retrieved the phial in its soft wrapping and stowed it deep in her pocket. She would keep it to hand, just in case.

Was that a sound on the stairs? She looked round, guiltily, to see the door opening. Quickly, she grabbed the tin of basilicum powder and whirled to meet this new challenge.

‘Mistress?’

Marguerite let out the breath she had been holding. It was only Guillaume.

‘I have ordered food. It will be served directly, in the coffee room downstairs. Will you come?’

‘No, Guillaume.’She glanced towards the bed. ‘I cannot leave him.’

‘But, mistress—’

She waved the tin at him. ‘His wound needs to be redressed.’

‘That is not for you to do, surely? The surgeon has seen to him, and he has his companion, also. You have been more than generous to them both, but it is none of our concern. We should be on our way home.’

Without a moment’s pause for reflection, Marguerite shook her head.

‘Mistress, your sister needs you more than these men. And there is the Duchess of Courland’s silk. It has to be taken to Paris.’

He was right, of course. The family’s future might depend on the Duchess’s approval. And yet Marguerite was the only person who could save the English spy from the Bonapartists. She owed a debt of gratitude, perhaps even her life, to Mr Jacques, but she could not trust him with the English spy’s life. He was the enemy. She repeated it yet again, forcing herself to ignore the tiny voice that urged her to trust him, to value his kindness.

She straightened her back and tried to look sternly at her old retainer. ‘We cannot leave so soon,’ she said firmly. ‘Herr Benn has the beginnings of a fever. That butcher may have extracted the ball, but heavens knows what damage he did in the process. And Mr Jacques, for all his bravery in defending me last evening, is no nurse.’

‘No, but—’

‘Guillaume, I cannot leave this man. Not until he is out of danger. I am sure that it will take only a day, or two at most.’

Guillaume was shaking his grizzled head.

Marguerite would not permit him to voice the protest he so clearly wished to make. ‘No, Guillaume, we are staying, at least for a day. We must take care, though, for Rognac seems to be a nest of Bonapartists.’ She ignored Guillaume’s worried frown. ‘Do bespeak a bedchamber and make sure all our supplies are safely stowed there. I want no repetition of last night’s trouble. Take the pistols from the coach and remain with our goods. It is your responsibility to ensure they are well guarded.’

He stood there, looking her up and down. She thought she detected a new respect in his gaze. ‘And tell the landlord to send up some food. I shall not be able to leave Herr Benn.’

‘As you wish, mistress,’ Guillaume said quietly. ‘Shall I bespeak a separate bedchamber for you? Or shall you sleep with the silk?’

‘Neither. I shall sleep here,’ she said flatly. She pointed to the chaise longue under the window. ‘Herr Benn will need constant nursing, and I do not imagine that Mr Jacques possesses the necessary skill. Ask the landlord to find me some extra pillows and a coverlet. I shall be comfortable enough there.’

Guillaume hesitated for a moment, but then, perhaps seeing the determination on Marguerite’s face, he nodded and left the room. A second later, she heard the sound of his boots clattering down the stairs.

Her decisions were made. She crossed to the bed and began to untie the bandages so that she could apply her basilicum powder to the unconscious man’s open wound.

She would save him at all costs, even if she had to shoot Mr Jacques in order to do so.

Chapter Four

‘Come in.’ Marguerite did not look up from her task of bathing Herr Benn’s forehead. It did not matter who the visitor was. Herr Benn was still safely unconscious, while she was behaving like the perfect nurse, for anyone to see.

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am.’

That unmistakable voice sent strange vibrations down her spine all over again, in spite of her resolutions. The earlier hard edge was almost gone, replaced by thick, velvet richness. She clenched her fists and dug her nails into her palms. By the time she rose and turned to face him, she was back in control of her wayward senses.

Mr Jacques was standing just inside the door, staring across at the motionless figure on the bed.

‘It is too soon to expect any change, sir.’Marguerite was pleased that her voice was steady, though she found it easier not to look directly into his face. His deep blue eyes, so much more intense than Herr Benn’s, were definitely best avoided.

He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I apologise for disturbing you. I am going to the village. I wondered if there was anything you needed?’

Marguerite gestured towards the window. The sky was very dark. ‘Is that wise? I’d say there’s a storm brewing.’

He shook his head impatiently. ‘I have no choice, ma’am. Herr Benn’s valise was lost in Marseilles, and I do not have enough linen for two. If I can find a haberdasher’s here, I might be able to purchase new cravats and so on, for us both.’

Cravats? His companion could be at death’s door and he wanted cravats? His casual attitude to Herr Benn’s condition caught her on the raw. Worse, he was taking it for granted that she would continue to nurse Herr Benn, without even a single word of thanks. She was too well schooled to rail at him, but she fanned the flames of her righteous indignation. Better to appear peevish than to succumb to the strange feelings this man was able to arouse in her. ‘I have everything I require, thank you, sir. And I do not think Herr Benn has need of cravats, just at present,’ she added, with relish.

That barb struck home. His eyes narrowed. For a second, she thought he would respond in kind, but he did not, though his throat was working as if he were swallowing his ire. Eventually, he sketched a bow and turned for the door, murmuring something inaudible. She supposed it was some kind of farewell.

Insufferable man! Was he really going to buy cravats? Or was that simply a pretext to go drinking with his new found Bonapartist cronies? Either way, it should not matter to Marguerite. She was not going to allow herself to think about Mr Jacques. Not in any way. Not his voice, nor his astonishingly deep blue eyes, nor the half-naked torso he had paraded in front of her in that harbour inn.

That last image was much too vivid. She could feel her skin heating in the most unlamented way. She rushed across to the door and shut it quickly, leaning her back against it and closing her eyes. She should be glad that Mr Jacques had left the inn, for his very presence was dangerous. She would not think about him. She would concentrate on caring for Herr Benn.

The sound of muttering jerked Marguerite out of her light doze. She leapt up from the chaise longue. Herr Benn was thrashing around on the bed, clearly in pain. She hurried across to the dressing table to fetch her cooling cloth once more.

Herr Benn had thrown off most of the bedclothes so that he was naked to the waist, apart from the bandages around his shoulder and upper chest. Marguerite laid her fingers gently on his brow. He was getting hotter. She touched the skin of his torso. That was hot, too. At least he was still insensible. He might be in pain, but he was not aware enough to know it. She began to bathe his face, his neck and the exposed skin of his chest. It seemed to help, for he settled back into his pillows, and the frown disappeared from his brow.

‘Sleep now,’ she said in halting English, trying to reach more deeply into his troubled mind. Most of the English she had learned as a small child was long forgotten. Would Herr Benn understand her? ‘You are safe here, I promise.’ It seemed to help, for he gave a long sigh and his body relaxed a little more.

Marguerite bathed his skin again and then dried him with her own soft towel. For a moment, she stood gazing down at him. She had never before touched a man in such an intimate way. Herr Benn’s body was beautifully formed, his skin white and his features finely sculpted, yet strong. He was a remarkably handsome young man, with the kind of fair good looks that might make ladies swoon. But she felt no tug of attraction at all. Why was that?

She busied herself with gently smoothing the sheets over his body and making him comfortable. She did not want to answer her own question. Indeed, she had not wanted to ask it, for she already knew the answer. For some unfathomable reason, the man who drew her was broader, darker and not nearly as handsome as her invalid. Mr Jacques’s rich voice had twined itself around her thoughts, just as the image of him, half-naked in the gloom, had etched itself into her memory, like acid dripping on to a copper plate. She realised she had even been dreaming about him, which provoked a groan of frustration. Would she never be able to erase him? She refused to let him beguile her. He was a Bonapartist, the enemy, and a real danger to her invalid. She would oppose him with every ounce of strength and cunning she possessed. Even at the risk of failing her own family.

She swallowed hard. When faced with a choice between her duty to her family and her duty to her king, she had not hesitated, and she knew that every member of her family would have made the same choice. But it did not remove her worries, or her sense of guilt.

Marguerite shook her head at her own folly. There was no sense in worrying. She was duty-bound to care for Herr Benn, and to protect him from his companion, until he was able to mind his tongue. With constant nursing, that might be soon, perhaps only a day or two more. Suzanne would have to cope for a little longer. And meanwhile, Marguerite would focus all her wits on keeping Herr Benn safe, and strengthening her defences against Mr Jacques’s unsettling charms.

Jack trudged back across the inn yard in the sheeting rain, cursing the sudden turn in the weather. His testy lady had been right about that. And about cravats, too, but what other excuse could he have offered her? Inexplicably, he found himself focusing on her reactions to him. Would she still be cross? Or would she give that delightful throaty laugh when she saw the state of him?

His simple greatcoat was almost sodden now, and he was well-nigh frozen. Worse, it had all been for nothing. He had visited all the shops in the village, bought drinks for the local men in all the bars, and had even gone to the church to talk to the curé, but no one had been able to give him any definite news. The Bonapartists were all certain, on the basis of no evidence at all, that their beloved Emperor was among them once more. The royalists, who in Rognac numbered only the curé and a couple of old men, were equally sure that such a landing was impossible. The forces at Toulon would have prevented it, they said, even if it meant blowing Bonaparte’s ship out of the water. Which side was right?

Jack shrugged his shoulders and then cursed aloud as the rain from his collar ran down the back of his neck. He raced the last few steps to the shelter of the inn doorway. Paris, and even little Rognac, would soon know everything there was to know, for news travelled very swiftly across France, relayed between tall telegraph towers with movable arms. Jack would have to be patient. He would soon learn whether these were simply wild rumours started by old soldiers in their cups.

The landlord came bustling forward as soon as Jack entered the taproom. ‘You’re soaked, sir. Let me help you off with that coat.You’ll be needing to sit by the fire to get dry.’

Jack muttered his thanks, but did not attempt to make conversation. He had already tried humouring the landlord, a couple of hours earlier, while he and the surgeon were sharing a glass of brandy by the bar. The landlord, an old soldier, was loud in his praises of the returning Emperor, but totally lacking in real information. And so, as it had turned out, was the surgeon.

‘I’ll have another large measure of your best brandy, landlord.’ Cupping the glass in his freezing fingers, Jack threw himself into the rough wooden chair nearest the fire. It had been well fed with logs and was roaring nicely, throwing out a huge amount of heat. Once his fingers were warmer, Jack leaned back in his chair, took a large swallow of his drink and stretched out his booted feet. He could allow himself just a few minutes by the fire before he went upstairs to check on Ben.

Poor Ben. At least he had remained safely inside, in the warm, but he had had the rough end of this mission, so far. Not only had he been shot, but he had lost all his possessions. They were no great loss, of course. Both Jack and Ben had brought only very ordinary clothes on this mission, since they could not afford to draw attention to themselves. But now Jack would have to face the delectable Miss Grolier, who would see at a glance that he had failed to buy any new linen. If questioned, he would have to admit that Rognac did not boast a haberdasher’s. What would she imagine he had been doing all this time? Would she be furious that he had taken advantage of her generosity by leaving her to nurse Ben for so long? He realised with a jolt that he needed to concoct a plausible story. Such a needle-witted woman would not be easily gulled.

Jack gulped down the last of his brandy and stood up, turning for a moment to warm his back at the flames. Let her smell the alcohol on his breath and assume he had simply made a feeble excuse to spend the time in the local bars, well away from the labours of the sick-room. Let her assume he was a selfish wastrel. That would merely serve to confirm the low opinion she had formed of him earlier. That did not matter, surely?

It did matter. For some reason, part of him wanted her good opinion. He spent several fruitless minutes cudgelling his brain for a story that would show him in a better light. He failed. Ben would have been able to dream up some unlikely tale in a trice, but Jack could think of nothing.

The mission must come first, he told himself sternly. He was the leader. He had left Ben upstairs for over two hours, alone with Marguerite Grolier. That had been foolhardy. What if he started raving as a result of his pain? What would she do? She had saved Ben’s life in Marseilles.Would she now betray him? Jack’s instincts told him she would not, but he did not trust his instincts where she was concerned. She was a beautiful and extraordinary woman, admirable in every way—except that she might be a Bonapartist.

He told himself that she had not joined in with the surgeon’s ‘Vive l’Empereur’. Then again, she had not objected to it, either. For Ben’s safety, and his own, and for the success of their mission, Jack had to find out the truth about Marguerite Grolier. Whatever the cost. His childish instincts could go hang.

Jack ran up the stairs, pausing to listen for a moment outside Ben’s door. He could hear no sound at all. Good. With luck, Ben had not regained his senses, or spoken. As soon as Jack was presentable again, he could go in to ask after Herr Benn’s health and to probe, as subtly as he could, for where the silk weaver’s true sympathies lay.

The fire in his chamber had not been lit and, without a change of clothes, all Jack could do was to towel his hair and rub his exposed skin until it glowed. The shirt was thin. It would soon dry from the heat of his body.

His quiet knock on Ben’s door was followed by what sounded like a gasp. As if she were shocked to be disturbed? As if she were hiding something?

Jack had no way of knowing, and he could not enter the bedchamber without her permission. She was a lady, and he must continue to treat her as a lady, unless she gave him cause to do otherwise. Somehow, he did not think that would happen. She was not a lady in the usual sense of the word, of course, for she was a mere artisan, a silk weaver, but her speech and manners were impeccable. Many women in London called themselves ladies, but could not hold a candle to Marguerite Grolier. She was altogether remarkable. If only she were not also a Bonapartist…

‘Mr Jacques! My goodness, how wet you look. Come in and warm yourself. There is a good fire here.’ Marguerite stood back to allow him to enter. Since he had abandoned her for hours without so much as a by-your-leave, she had every right to be furious with him, but how could she rage at such a woebegone figure? He must have been totally drenched by the storm. His boots were dripping muddy water as he crossed the floor. His hairy wet, too, and tousled like a boy’s. He had stripped off everything but shirt, breeches and boots, and his shirt was so damp that she could see his skin through it. He might as well have been wrapped in nothing but a bed sheet again! Marguerite tried to put that thought out of her mind. She told herself sternly not to look at his torso. It was just one more male body, like Herr Benn’s. A lady should be able to ignore it.

Mr Jacques bent to the fire, spreading his fingers to the warmth. ‘I am very much in your debt, ma’am, for tending to Herr Benn in my absence. I…I feel I have taken advantage of your good nature.’

A little gratitude at last. Marguerite automatically responded in kind. ‘After what you did for me, sir, it was the least I could do.’

He straightened and turned to face her. It was only then that she smelled the alcohol on his breath. She tensed. Clearly, he had not been searching very hard for replacement cravats. He had been making the rounds of Rognac’s bars. That was disgusting behaviour from a so-called gentleman. If she were not a lady, she would tell him so. Instead, she lifted her chin and drew back her skirts so they were no longer touching his contaminated boots.

He did not appear to notice. ‘How is he now? Has he come to himself at all during my absence?’ There was a hint of anxiety in his voice. Or was it shame over his own appalling behaviour?

Marguerite resolved to keep her anger under control. It was beneath her to lose her temper with such a man. ‘He was hot and restless an hour or so ago, but he is improving now. He is still insensible, but he may come round soon.’

He crossed to the bed and stood gazing down at the invalid, who looked very peaceful now, his breathing slow, but not in any way laboured. ‘He looks as if he is healing well, ma’am. And when he wakes, he will thank you for your care, I am sure. Unless, perhaps, you plan to continue towards Lyons today?’

He must know she did not. He must have heard when Guillaume made the arrangements for them to stay. She frowned at him, but said only, ‘Travelling in such weather would be madness.’ She nodded towards the window. The storm was still raging.

He ran his fingers through his unkempt hair and attempted a roguish smile.Yet again, he looked absurdly young.

‘Carriage accidents happen all too easily, especially in conditions like these, when—’ She stopped herself just in time. She was gabbling uncontrollably. She had been about to refer to her mother’s accident, and its terrible consequences. It must be the fault of that clinging shirt. It had melted her common sense.

Shocked at her own weakness, she took refuge in attack. ‘I take it you managed to acquire the linen you were seeking? Did the haberdasher keep you waiting while some of it was stitched for you?’

He had the grace to blush a little. ‘I…er…I spent far too much time enquiring for a haberdasher’s. Some of the locals sent me off on a wild goose chase, I fear, for there is no such establishment in Rognac. No doubt it amused them to roast a stranger so. I was gullible and got thoroughly soaked as a result. If you choose to call me a fool, ma’am, I will readily accept it.’

What a ridiculous story! She hurried across to the fire, holding out her hands to it as if she were cold. ‘It would be the height of impoliteness for me to say any such thing, sir,’ she said, addressing the blackened fire surround. ‘I have no basis for making any judgement about you.’ Oh, that was a lie. For all his faults, she knew he was a gentleman, and brave, with a body fit to grace a statue. Just as she knew that she must not trust him with Herr Benn’s secret.

‘You are very generous, ma’am. I can but apologise for having left you alone for so long,’he said gently.And then he was silent. Waiting.

His frank apology disarmed her. She gripped her hands together, feeling the tension in her neck and shoulders and arms. This man was such an extraordinary mixture of boyish charm and mature decision. He seemed to revert from man to boy in the blink of an eye. It was thoroughly disconcerting. But undeniably attractive. She did not know how to deal with it.

The noise that broke the silence was not made by Mr Jacques. It was a very definite groan, followed by a mumble that could have been words.

Marguerite raced back to the bed. Her mind was flooded with dire warnings. She must find a way of getting Mr Jacques away from here. Before he heard words he must not hear!

She almost pushed Mr Jacques out of the way in her haste to protect the invalid. She stretched across the bed, putting her own body between Herr Benn and his so-called friend in hopes of muffling any words Benn might utter. She bent low to his head, laid her hand on his cheek and then, keeping her back to Mr Jacques, she slid her fingers down until they covered Herr Benn’s mouth. ‘Oh, I think he may come round soon. Is that not wonderful?’ she gushed. ‘Pray, sir, be so good as to ask the landlord if the kitchen can prepare some barley water. Herr Benn will be so very thirsty when he wakes.’

Behind her, Mr Jacques neither spoke nor moved.

Marguerite bit her lip. He was making this very difficult, but she would not allow him to win. She smiled sweetly up at him over her shoulder. ‘If you please, sir. I do not think I should leave Herr Benn at the moment. And the barley water would be so very good for him. Why my old nurse swears by it. She—’

He grimaced with the sort of pain she had often seen on her late father’s face when confronted with gabbling women. ‘Very well, ma’am. If you insist.’

Marguerite fancied that his good manners had won out over his real intentions. She held her breath, listening for the squelch of his boots across the floor and the sound of the door closing. At the click of the latch, she raised her body and removed her hand from Herr Benn’s mouth. He was trying to shake his head, as if to free himself. He was going to come to his senses very soon.

With a muttered but heartfelt apology, Marguerite whipped the bottle of laudanum from her pocket and deftly forced the invalid to take another dose. ‘It is done to save you,’ she whispered as she hastened to hide all traces of what she had done. ‘When you are well again, I will truly beg your pardon, I promise.’

Herr Benn was already slipping deeper into oblivion.

‘I have done as you asked, ma’am.’

Shocked, Marguerite whirled round, her hand to her throat. She knew she must be blushing. ‘Sir. You took me by surprise. You did not knock.’ She was trying to suggest he had committed an outrage, but her ploy was not succeeding. He was not at all abashed. He looked large and powerful, framed in the dark wood of the open door. He was all mature, dangerous male.

‘The barley water will be delivered as soon as it has boiled and cooled.’ He shut the door and crossed to the bed once more. ‘Has Benn come round?’

‘Alas, no. I am afraid your friend has sunk back into insensibility. It may be some hours yet before he truly awakes.’

‘Then I will tend to him.’

No! He must not! ‘I…er…There is no need, sir. Since the weather prevents my travelling onwards, I am more than happy to nurse Herr Benn. I fancy—’ she smiled at him, trying to assume the image of a simple, well-meaning female of the kind who could never be dissuaded when she knew she was doing her duty ‘—that I have rather more experience of such things than you do.’ She raised an eyebrow at him and was rewarded with a long sigh of resignation. ‘While you were out earlier, I had Guillaume bring up my things,’ she continued quickly, giving him no chance to change his mind. ‘I shall sleep here on the chaise longue where I can tend to Herr Benn if he needs me. I must tell you that I am used to such duties. I often nurse my invalid mother. And—’

‘Spare me the details, ma’am,’ he said gruffly. He took a step back from the bed and made her a tiny bow. ‘It is not the sort of service that I would ever have expected a stranger—even one as well trained as yourself—to provide, but since you offer so generously, I shall accept. On behalf of Herr Benn.’

‘It will be my pleasure to tend him,’she said simply. For it was true.

‘But is there nothing I can do? Have you eaten? I could watch over him while you went down to the coffee room for a meal.’

‘Oh, no, you—’

‘I may be only a mere male, ma’am, but I am quite capable of bathing a man’s brow, or calling for help if his case should be beyond my powers.’

He was baiting her now. She must be careful not to go too far. ‘Guillaume brought up some food while you were out. He will do so again later. I shall do very well, I assure you.’

He was trying not to smile. They both knew good manners prevented him from contradicting her. ‘I imagine that you do very well in everything you undertake, ma’am,’ he said at last.

‘Oh. Oh, thank you.’ She had a feeling that his compliment was sincere, even if it was double-edged. What mattered here was that she had won. Soon he would leave, and she could relax, alone to defend Herr Benn.

He started for the door, but stopped midway, as if remembering something. He spun round. ‘But I have not had a chance to tell you what I learned in Rognac. It is not yet totally certain, but it seems that the Emperor has indeed kept his word to France, and is returning to liberate us. Wonderful news, do you not agree?’

Marguerite was caught like a bird in lime. What was she to do, to say? He was challenging her directly now. He was openly admitting that he was a supporter of Bonaparte and challenging her to do the same, to make common cause with him. ‘Are you sure, sir?’ Her voice cracked a little on the words. When he nodded, she swallowed hard and forced herself to speak in a bright, enthusiastic voice. ‘Why, that is the most wonderful news. I had dreamed…All France had dreamed, but we never dared to hope that the day would come. The Emperor! The Emperor himself is to return to us! There will be rejoicing indeed.’

‘Vive l’Empereur!’ His voice was flat, but strong.

What choice did she have? She had to protect Herr Benn. ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ she echoed.

Chapter Five

‘Mr Jacques!’The hammering on the door grew louder. ‘Mr Jacques!’ It sounded like the landlord’s voice. It must be something important, for it was only just beginning to get light.

Jack threw himself out of bed and dragged on his shirt. It had hung all night by the dying fire and was dry at last. He did not dare to risk appearing naked, in case Miss Grolier were outside in the corridor. He flung open the door. ‘What on earth is the matter?’

‘Great news, sir! It is true. The Emperor landed three days since and is already on his way north.’

‘By Jove, that is wonderful news.’ The lie came out without a moment’s pause. ‘But are you sure, landlord? Might it not be just another rumour?’

‘No, sir. Not this time. I had it from the telegraph man himself. It’s certain, sir.’ The landlord’s grin was so wide that it was almost splitting his face.

Jack beamed back. ‘Every able man will flock to his standard, I am sure. But do we know where he is? Is he taking the coast road from Toulon?’

The landlord tapped the side of his nose and winked. ‘Not he. Far too wily to be caught in that trap. He landed well away from Toulon. And he’s taken his men inland, across the mountains, where fat Louis’s army would never think to look for him. He’s outgas them all.’

Jack could readily believe that. ‘So he’s already moving north?’

‘Aye. And fast. Paris will send troops against him, of course, but by the time he reaches Grenoble, he’ll have thousands more besides the Imperial Guard. Fat Louis won’t stop him now.’ The landlord nodded in satisfaction. Then he narrowed his eyes and said, ‘You’ll be wanting to join him yourself, sir?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Jack replied at once, his mind whirling, ‘but I must see my friend safely bestowed first.’He paused and scratched his head, trying to look as if he were wrestling with a knotty problem. ‘Grenoble, you say? With a sick companion, I don’t think I can—No, Lyons. That’s the answer. The Emperor is bound to make for Lyons after Grenoble. I’ll join him there.’

‘Well said, sir. I’ve a mind to travel with you and do the same.’

Jack gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. ‘You are a brave soldier, landlord, but I suggest you leave it to the younger men. You are needed here.’

The landlord frowned. There was a look of yearning in his eyes, but it soon faded. ‘Aye, you’re right, sir. I’m too old to be chasing after glory now.’

Jack hoped he did not appear too relieved. ‘Send up some hot water, would you? If my friend is well enough, we’ll be able to make a start within the hour.’

‘But you’ll make much better time without an invalid to slow you down,’ the landlord protested. He was now investing all his enthusiasm in ensuring that Jack joined the colours as quickly as possible.

‘I cannot do that,’ Jack said flatly. ‘I must deliver Herr Benn to Lyons. But fear not, landlord. We shall travel with all speed. Every second counts now. My shaving water, if you please, and be so good as to order breakfast at once.’

The landlord hesitated for a moment, but then the good sense of Jack’s words seemed to get through to him.

Jack stood in his doorway until the man had disappeared down the staircase. Then he took a deep breath, closed the bedroom door and leant against it, trying to force his riotous thoughts into order. Bonaparte was on his way to Paris. He might even be near Grenoble already, though that was unlikely, given the difficult terrain he had chosen to cross. He would get there soon enough, though. And then, from Grenoble, it was an open road to Lyons and Paris. But King Louis would send his army, surely? Even if Bonaparte managed to reach Lyons, he was bound to be stopped there. In spite of all the landlord’s fervent hopes, Bonaparte’s troops would be poorly equipped and would certainly be outnumbered by the royalists. No, he would be stopped, though perhaps not before Lyons.

That made it all the more important for Jack and Ben to travel there by the quickest possible route. Luckily, the road north from Rognac, through Avignon and Valence, was a good one. With reasonable horses, a coach could cover it in three days, or even less. He and Ben had intended to remain as inconspicuous as possible, and to travel to Paris by diligence, but that would be too slow now.A chaise would not do, either, for it would not provide enough space for Ben to lie flat. Jack would have to hire a carriage and a team. That would raise eyebrows. The landlord would be surprised to learn that a man who was planning to enlist as an common soldier was wealthy enough to travel in such luxury.

Jack pondered a little more. This time, he needed to have his story prepared down to the last detail. The landlord must have no grounds for suspecting that Jack was anything other than an ardent Bonapartist. Yes! He would say that Herr Benn had a wealthy patron, in Lyons, who had sent money for their journey. They had travelled in the Grolier carriage as a result of a chance meeting with a lady who was skilled in tending wounds. But now they would travel on alone, funded by Benn’s patron. Without the lady. Jack refused to let himself think about Marguerite Grolier. She was the enemy. It was much too dangerous to allow her any part in this from now on. He must put her out of his mind.

Would his plan work? Perhaps he should say that he was really looking forward to travelling in such luxury, that he had never been able to afford it before? That should do the trick. Had he forgotten anything? He was beginning to realise that planning a mission was like setting out a field at cricket. The captain had to work out precisely where his opponent was likely to hit the ball, so that he could have a defender in place to stop the runs. Jack could find no more undefended points on his cricket pitch. It was a good plan. Time to put it into action.

Marguerite managed to keep control of her features until the door closed behind Guillaume. Then she slumped down on to the chaise longue and dropped her head into her hands. It was true! That monster was back in France and would soon be at the head of another army of hotheads, all ready to die for him. And die they would, of that she had no doubt.

What on earth was she to do? She raised her head and glanced across at the bed. Herr Benn was still sleeping peacefully. He had passed the crisis in the night. There was no longer any sign of fever, and his wound seemed to be healing well. She could leave him here and hurry back to Lyons to protect her family. Without Guillaume, Suzanne and their mother were undefended. Although the Groliers had never talked about their royalist allegiance, even after Bonaparte’s defeat, there were those in Lyons who might suspect them. A silk-weaving business, even a struggling one, was worth taking over, and the turmoil surrounding Bonaparte’s return could provide just the opportunity their rivals needed.

Marguerite groaned. She could not stay in Rognac. She must return to her family. But what about Herr Benn? If she abandoned him, would it not be a sentence of death? She rose and began to pace.

‘Where am I?’ The words were in English, and the voice barely a thread.

Oh, no! Marguerite rushed to the bedside. ‘Herr Benn, you are at an inn on the road to Avignon,’ she said, in slow, careful French. She put her hands flat on his cheeks and gently turned his head so that he was looking directly into her face. His eyes were unfocused and barely half-open. ‘Herr Benn, listen! Bonaparte is back in France. You are in great danger. You must speak only French. No English. Not a word of English. Do you understand me, Herr Benn?’

‘No English,’ he repeated, in English. ‘No English.’His eyelids drifted closed. He had fallen asleep again.

Marguerite exclaimed in frustration. But there was nothing she could do. She could not abandon him to the mercies of Bonaparte’s executioners. She must travel home to Lyons, and quickly, but she must find a way to take Herr Benn with her. If she promised to nurse him on the way, and take him to the Hôtel Dieu in Lyons to be cared for, surely Mr Jacques could not object?

He almost certainly would, she decided. Indeed, he would probably insist on accompanying them. In truth, the only sure way of getting rid of Mr Jacques would be to leave Herr Benn behind, and she knew she could not do that. So there was every likelihood that she would be travelling all the way to Lyons with Mr Jacques’s perceptive eyes on her, and on the invalid. She felt her stomach turn over at the thought. He saw far too much, that one. Besides, the effects he had on her were uncomfortable.And dangerous. He could be so kind and so charming. It would be all too easy to let down her guard and then—boum!—she could find herself arrested, and handed over to that monster’s guards, to be shot as a traitor.

No, she would not allow that to happen. She would not succumb to Mr Jacques’s undoubted charm. She would treat him with perfect propriety, as a chance-met acquaintance, even if they were travelling together all the way to Lyons in the confined space of her carriage. She was a strong woman. She could do it.

Her inner voice reminded her that, when they first met, he had admired her for her strength and courage. His words then had beguiled her.Was she so very sure that she could be proof against his wiles?

Jack fastened his valise and straightened his back. He had paid his shot, and Ben’s. It only remained now to prepare the hired carriage for the invalid. He crossed to the window. No sign of his carriage yet. The only vehicle in the yard belonged to Marguerite Grolier.

Marguerite Grolier. She kept intruding when he least expected it. And just when he had been telling himself he had banished all thoughts of her. It was lust, of course. What else could it be? Even when he was surrounded by real danger, his confounded body refused to see beyond one beautiful, and very desirable, woman. He was becoming as bad as brother Leo!

No, he was worse. Leo might be a womaniser, but in the grim business of spying, Leo was always able to concentrate on his role in the Honours. He had spent months in Vienna without thought of a mistress. So why couldn’t Jack do the same? After all, Jack’s vice had always been gambling, not women.

It had to be something about Marguerite Grolier. But why should he lust after her, when he had been able to ignore so many other women?

He began to pace his empty room, pondering. She was quick-witted and courageous. She was a skilled weaver, and a practical business woman, which was quite a combination. She was resourceful, too, and she was certainly compassionate. Poor Ben probably owed his life to those qualities.

Jack stopped by the window and rested his elbows on the sill to look out. Marguerite Grolier was an extraordinary woman. He had never met her like. But he knew he was not lusting after her because she was admirable—though she was. She was also beautiful and unconsciously alluring. Lately, when she touched his hand or her breath caressed his skin, his body had responded instantly.

He told himself it could only be because she was innocent.And forbidden. They had been thrown together by unavoidable circumstance.As in the Garden of Eden, temptation was all the stronger because the fruit was forbidden. And the serpent of lust was twining itself around him, hissing its message of betrayal. He would not heed it. He would not betray Marguerite to satisfy a moment’s craving.

In a few minutes, once he had his body under control again, he would bid her farewell and thank her sincerely for what she had done. Then he would leave her without a single backward glance. He was the leader of this mission. Like a true leader, he would not allow himself to be diverted from his task.

They seemed to have reached an impasse. The charming boy she had glimpsed so often had been replaced by a grim, implacable man.

‘I shall hire a carriage for myself and Herr Benn, ma’am,’ he said again. ‘It would be the height of bad manners to inflict ourselves on you when we must travel so fast. Such a journey will be too uncomfortable for a lady.’

Marguerite refused to be beaten. She tried another tack. ‘I do understand your desire to join the Emperor as soon as possible,’ she said, smiling admiringly up at him. ‘I, too, long to see him. But there are grave risks along they, especially for Herr Benn. If royalist troops should come upon your carriage and find a wounded man, what then? Would you be able to convince them that you were not the enemy?’

‘I would tell them the truth, ma’am. That he was shot by footpads.’

She opened her eyes wide in disbelief. ‘And you are both racing north to Lyons, ventre à terre? I think not, sir. A wounded man does not travel so. The only plausible reason for such haste is that you are going to join the Emperor. They will know it. And so do you.’

He drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at her. ‘I suppose you have a better plan?’

Marguerite alms to laugh. He was such an unpredictable mixture of frustrated schoolboy and decisive man. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said flatly. ‘I have barely had a chance to say a word since you entered the room, but I do have a much better plan. Better for all of us.’

He quirked an eyebrow and stared down at her in a way that was all adult male, and all dangerous.

‘My mother and sister are in Lyons. Guillaume is needed there to protect them while my father is away. The Emperor will be victorious, of course, but there may well be fighting first. We must get home with all speed.’

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