Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (7 page)

With all drinks being poured and spilled in the large tavern, it was a true feat to have the smell of it wafting from one’s table instead of the bar. But they’d managed it. When they failed to glance up at her, she moved on to the seat in the corner to her left. It was her usual spot and, on those nights she came to spy, she tried to be in it before the men arrived. It was a dark corner. Her cloak helped her blend in. Often times the serving woman peered into the shadows to make certain she was there before asking her order.

She slid around the table and into her favorite shadow making nary a sound. Since the men were oblivious to her, and the nearby tables were unoccupied, she looked her fill.

The men were seated in their usual arrangement. Ash, always with his back to the wall, faced the aisle. The other two sat at his elbows. The table contained bottles, glasses, and food—no one reached for the food. With the lead they’d had, they couldn’t have eaten much of anything if they were already so deep in their cups that most of their heads were bowed.

She had seen them drink before, but never like this. And she knew, with an invisible blow to her middle, that she’d been right. They were out of ideas. Out of plans. They were giving up.

“Oh, madame, I did not see you zere,” said the serving woman, suddenly blocking her view. “What shall I bring you zis evening, eh?”

Blair asked for whatever they had that was hot.

“And may I hang your cloak, madame? Near the fire perhaps?”

Considering how drunk they were, she doubted anyone would recognize her, especially if she kept her back against the seat and her red curls in the shadows.

She handed the cloak over, ignored the way the woman’s eyes bulged when she got a look at her hair, and scooted as far back as possible, feeling far more exposed than she’d expected. But the woman had been right. Her cloak was wet and wanted hanging. And if the dark little man entered, he would still not recognize her.

Somewhere near the entrance, a man argued with a woman. The woman gasped and Blair could hear her footsteps as she ran away. A heartbeat later, the dark little man appeared, walking toward the gentlemen’s table.

She leaned forward to listen, knowing the little man would be hard to understand, especially if he turned his back to her. But he didn’t stop at the table. He walked right past it.

Was he blind? Hadn’t he been asking where to find them? Were there so many similar sets of men dining or drinking in the auberge tonight, then?

He scurried through a door at the corner of the wall, then disappeared like a rat. The door closed silently behind him and a shiver rolled through her.

Blair looked back at the table where both of Ash’s friends had lain their heads on their arms, while he sat back in his chair with the crown of his head resting on the wall behind him. With the candle on the table doused, it was impossible to determine whether he was sleeping or staring at her. For all the movement, they might all be dead.

The notion was impossible, but she panicked just the same.

She tried to remember what the little man had done as he passed the table. His nearest arm had been visible. She remembered recoiling at the filthiness of his sleeve. But what could he have accomplished with his other hand? A
silent
shot from a pistol? Impossible.

She pushed her table away and stood, willing the big man’s eyes to widen with recognition. They did not.

She glanced at his body. Impossible to tell if he’d been wounded. Blood would hardly show well against the black of his clothing.

Deciding there were things more important at the moment than her anonymity, she stepped around her table—just as Stanley let out a snort.

She froze.

He turned his head to the other side and rested it once again on his arm.

Alive.

The big man didn’t move, but she assumed he was in the same sad condition. And if they were all unharmed, then what had the little man wanted?

Again, she looked at the table while she wavered on her side of the aisle.

Had he simply stolen a bite of food on his way past? Had he been so certain noble men would have food on their table for the taking? If so, why had he paid the man in the alley for telling him where they could be found instead of purchasing food for himself?

Her eyes rested on a folded note next to a plate of rolls. Had it been there before? Was it their bill?

Her view was blocked by the serving woman once more.

“Ees somesing wrong, madame?” She looked from Blair’s hands and back to her face.

“No. Nothing wrong. Something smells good, aye?” Blair sat and pulled the table back toward her so the woman could set down a bowl of soup.

“A bit of mulled wine for you, perhaps? And your cloak is certain to dry quickly.”

Blair nodded. The woman smiled and turned away. Then she walked to the men’s table, put one hand on her hip, and looked them over. Blair prayed she wouldn’t start taking dishes away lest she think to take the note as well.

Finally, with a shake of her head, the woman reached up and took hold of a thin curtain and pulled it across the front of the table, creating an alcove. Perhaps she could expect a good tip if she allowed them to sleep it off.

For a moment, Blair was disappointed, but soon realized that curtain would give her some privacy as well. She took a few bites of her soup while she considered the steps she would take to get behind the curtain. Then she took a few sips of the wine to bolster her courage.

Anything for Martin.

Satisfied the shadows would hide her absence as well as it hid her presence, she slipped around the table once again. No patrons were facing her direction as she glided silently across the aisle. She did pause for a peek behind the material, however, to see that her heroes were still sleeping.

They were.

So she slipped around the curtain and paused again. Though she was fair to certain her heart could be heard by all and sundry, none of the men stirred. The conversations of other patrons went on without interruption. Footsteps neared, then passed without pause.

Blair looked down and realized her skirts might be seen below the hem of the curtain, so she stepped around Harcourt’s chair, deeper into the alcove. She tried not to dwell on the fact that she’d also stepped away from a quick escape.

For Martin
, she reminded herself, and reached for the note. It hadn’t been sealed, so there was no fuss and no noise made when she opened it. Unfortunately, it was too dark to read it. She closed her eyes for a wee moment and listened to the heavy breathing around her. The fumes from their drinks swirled against her nose and she coughed.

Stanley’s snoring stopped, as did her loud heart. She opened her eyes but found no one looking back at her, but the fact she could see them so well meant her eyes had already adjusted, praise be. She peered at the note once more. The letters were barely visible, but she managed by deciphering them one at a time. The hand was legible.

The message was brief.

Gentlemen,

10,000 English pounds.

27th day of June

The abandoned monastery south of Charleville.

Or an unspeakable death for your friend.

Waste no time.

Finally! Dear God, finally!

She hugged the note to her and silently wept. But before the first tear fell to the floor, she realized, though this was a miracle, it wasn’t hers at all.

She knew where
Northwick’s
kidnappers were. Not Martin’s. It was possible these villains would not bother with any but wealthy officers. After all, what profit could be gained from kidnapping soldiers for whom they see no ransom?

She refused to continue the thought. This was her only, last, and best hope of finding her brother. She must assume there was only one band of kidnappers in the area, only one place her brother could be, since she’d fairly turned the district topsy-turvy with her searching and found no trace of him. Givet Faux truly had been the last stone to turn. And if Northwick and Martin were not inside when the others had searched, then it was likely they were being held nearby.

Her problem now? If these blackhearts did have Martin, this note still meant little hope for him.

These Englishmen had another two weeks to either gather the ransom or rescue their friend. And the former might be the simplest. Divided between the three of them, it was not such an impossible number. A little over three thousand pounds each. Easy enough for a future duke, an earl, and a Marquis, not to mention Northwick’s own money.

Easier, say, than fighting their way into Givet Faux.

In fact, they might believe paying the ransom would be the safest way to get their friend back unharmed.

But Martin? Martin’s ransom had not been paid, would never be paid. Even if the kidnappers realized she was unlikely to afford the ransom and had, instead, sent a ransom demand to their father, there was no telling whether or not her father received a ransom note, let alone read it. But if they were waiting for a payment from Scotland, it would at least have bought Martin more time.

Villains would surely not feed a hostage indefinitely. If Martin was still alive, it wouldn’t be for long. Not long at all. And his only hope resided in his blade-wielding sister, who could only do so much.

But a trio of English gentlemen, trained for combat, was a boon.

What Blair needed were three
alert
and vengeance-minded men to help her raid the place, not careful men who might look for a safe and peaceful way to get their friend back.

She needed them as determined as she was. They needed to believe the danger to Northwick was immediate. They would need fire in their bellies to do what she required of them. Therefore,
they could not know about the ransom note
. They could not know they had two weeks to act, for Martin couldn’t wait two weeks.

If they attacked the keep and found nothing, the English would still have time to gather their money and meet the ransom demands. If they didn’t find Northwick, she would tell them all. They would still have hope. Surely they would forgive her if they still had hope.

Harcourt mumbled. She hid the note behind her before looking down, but the man was still asleep. A quick look around the table proved the others were equally unconscious, but still she watched them as she made her way to the curtain and escaped. Then she moved quickly to the large fireplace.

She would have tossed the note in straight away, but she worried she might forget a detail, so she read it yet again. The message took up only the top half of the parchment, so she tore it off. Waste not, want not.

She prepared to toss the message into the flames, but paused once more.

It was a betrayal, to be sure.

She imagined the look on Ash’s face when he discovered it, but her brother’s face pushed its way to the fore.

She took a deep breath and fed the fire.

“Anything for Martin,” she muttered as she watched it burn.

“Have you finished, Madame?” Blair jumped at the woman’s sudden presence.

“Oh, uh, no, I haven’t. Could I trouble you for a pen and some ink?”

“
Certainment
,” the woman said, turning away. “Do you need parchment also?”

She held up the blank half of the note. “No. I have what I need.”

Quarter of an hour later she sat before an empty bowl, an empty cup, and a finished note of her own.

Our villains are at Givet Faux.

Meet where you left me your horse.

Sundown. Thursday.

I will enter without you if I must.

Scotia

That would give them half a day to sleep off their drink, she reasoned.

A new set of customers were led to the table next to Blair’s and she cursed under her breath. With the curtain still drawn, she could hardly walk past their table and toss the note on the rolls. The little man had been foolish to do so in any case—if the Englishmen staggered away without a good look around, they would have left the note behind. It might have been tossed out with the rubbish and ended as a snack for a pig!

For all his trouble, all that distance in the rain, the little man must have been exhausted indeed to toss the note and run off. Perhaps he was not welcome in the auberge and ran out before he could be tossed in the street.

Foolish man.

But now, here she was contemplating the same dilemma.

How to make certain they read the message? And get away besides? For indeed, she did want to get away without a fuss. If they woke, alert, and found it tonight, they would no doubt come looking for her and demand to know how she’d learned the truth. She’d much rather face them just as they are about to rescue their friend. Perhaps they’d be much less interested in her and her sudden information if they are moments away from the prize.

Yes, facing them the following night would be much better. Besides, with Ash looking into her eyes, she was afraid she might tell him anything he wished to know, that a forced rescue of their friend was not necessary. And he could not know the truth. Not until she had a chance to save Martin.