In the Commodore's Hands (18 page)

‘It has everything to do with him. Why do you think the British Government has sent an envoy to Paris so soon after the Ambassador left, if not to oversee a conspiracy to undermine the elected government of France, something
the Ambassador could not condone?’ He stood up suddenly. ‘I will leave you to think about it, but do not take too long. I will meet you in the foyer of the Palais de Justice tomorrow at noon. Bring me the names Monsieur Robespierre wants and your brother could be free by tomorrow evening. If not, Henri Canard will have his way.’

He bowed, replaced his hat on his head and left her. She heard him speak to Madame Gilbert and then the front door slamming. Only then did her taut muscles relax and she sank forwards on the sofa with her head in her hands. She was being torn apart—Jay or Michel? Michel or Jay? If Mr Wentworth had been right about the conspiracy to stage a counter-revolution, then the sacrifice of two or three lives might be considered justifiable compared to the saving of thousands. But if the two or three were people she knew and respected and, in the case of Jay, had learned to love, what then? It was like a refrain going round and round in her head, driving her insane.

It was late when at last Jay and Sam came back. She heard Jay bid Sam goodnight and then he joined her. It was immediately obvious he was stiff with cold and suffering from sore
feet. He hobbled to a chair and flung himself into it. ‘I have never walked so far in my life,’ he said. ‘Harry must have legs of steel. I do not think there is a corner of Paris we have not explored and some of it extremely noisome.’

She had been waiting to have the whole matter out with him, to demand answers, to be told the truth, not only about his mission to France and how it affected Michel, but what Lord Portman’s presence really meant, and most of all, the exact nature of his enmity with Gerald Wentworth. It was not fear of his temper that made her hold back, but an overwhelming feeling of tenderness towards him. He had been wounded freeing her father; she and Papa owed their lives to him, she ought not to forget that. And even now, he suffered on her behalf. How could she betray him? How could she tell him about the blackmail, for blackmail it was, and give him something else to worry about?

She bent to pull off his shoes. They were old ones in keeping with the lowly garb he wore and the soles had worn right through. No wonder he had sore feet.

‘Lisette, you should not be doing that,’ he murmured. ‘I will go up to my room by and by and make myself respectable.’

‘No, stay there.’

She went to the kitchen to fetch a bowl of warm water, a towel and, after a search of the kitchen cupboards, some salve and soft muslin to make a bandage. When she came back he had fallen asleep. Gently she knelt and removed his ragged stockings and put his feet into the water. He did not stir. She looked up into his face; his eyes were shut as if asleep. Carefully she bathed and dried his feet, then applied some of the ointment and bandaged them. She could not put his stockings back on, they were full of holes and covered in blood and mud. Still on the floor, she sat back and surveyed him.

In repose the stern look had left him. He was more like the man she had come to know at Highbeck, the man who loved his home and his children, the man who had a keen sense of humour and was the epitome of genteel behaviour, the man respected, even loved, by his tenants and servants, the man she had come to love. How could she even think of betraying him? But what of Michel? What of her father waiting patiently at Highbeck for her to return with her brother? There had to be a way, there had to be, even if it meant sacrificing her own life.

He stirred and opened his eyes. ‘Lisette.’ His voice was husky and full of sleep. ‘What are you doing down there?’

‘I, as a good wife, have been tending your wounds.’

‘Wounds? I am not wounded.’

She indicated the pink water in the bowl. ‘Your feet were a mess.’

‘You did not need to do that. I could have done it myself.’

‘It was my privilege. You must have found walking very painful.’

‘Sailors, unlike soldiers, do not learn to march long distances and I have grown soft.’ He leant forwards to take her hand. ‘Thank you, my dear. They feel better already.’

The feel of his hand covering hers, his gratitude, his blue eyes looking into hers with such trust and tenderness was too much to bear after the turbulent day she had had. Her eyes filled with tears.

‘Crying, Lisette?’ He reached out and touched her cheek, catching a tear as it fell from her bottom lid. ‘What is the matter? Has something happened today?’

He was altogether too perspicacious. ‘No, nothing,’ she said quickly, blinking hard. ‘I’m tired and you must be too.’

‘I shall be right as ninepence in the morning.’

She pulled herself together. ‘Have you had anything to eat? Shall I fetch something for you?’

‘I ate with Lord Portman at the Cross Keys. All I want now is to find my bed.’

‘Then, if you will excuse me, I shall go to my room.’ She attempted to get to her feet, but sitting on the floor with her legs under her had made them go numb. She stumbled and fell into his lap.

He caught her and held her. ‘Oh, Lisette,’ he said. ‘You do try a man, don’t you?’ And then he kissed her.

His lips were warm on hers, not demanding, not hot with passion, not tentative either—nothing Jay did was tentative—but it was enough to set her body trembling as the warmth spread right through her. No one had ever kissed her like that before, no one had stirred all her senses in the same chaotic way. She put her arms about his neck and allowed it to go on, then found herself responding, clinging to him, wanting more. She was, for that brief moment in time, deliriously happy, and when he would have drawn away, she pulled his face down to hers again.

He came to his senses before she did. ‘Go to bed, temptress, before I forget myself entirely,’ he said, gently pushing her from him.

She scrambled to her feet. ‘I…’ She stopped, lost for words.

He looked up at her. Her hair had come loose, her clothing was in disarray and her eyes were dark with passion. With an effort of will, he resisted the temptation to pull her back on to his knee. ‘Go to bed, Lisette.’ His voice was flat.

She fled, leaving him to dispose of the bowl of pink water and his ruined stockings. He took them to the kitchen, musing on the almost-forgotten sensation of kissing a beautiful woman. She had been so pliable, so receptive, naïve and yet knowledgeable in that instinctive way all women seemed to have when it came to men. In the heat of the moment he had forgotten his avowed intention to keep his distance. She was a danger to his peace of mind, always had been, ever since he had first met her, and, he suspected, always would be. Whatever he was doing, she filled his thoughts when they were apart and all his senses when they were together; she made him feel both protective and exasperated. And, yes, he loved her. How that had come about he did not know, nor did he know what to do about it.

Madame Gilbert was dozing by the fire in the kitchen, but roused herself to get up and take the bowl from him. ‘Your wife had a visitor this afternoon,’ she told him.

‘I do not deny my wife visitors,
madame.’

‘This was a gentleman, an Englishman, dressed very fine.
Madame
did not refuse to see him.’

‘Why should she?’ he said evenly. ‘He is her uncle. Goodnight, Madame Gilbert.’

He climbed the stairs to bed, deep in thought. The
concierge’s
revelation, coming on top of Sam’s earlier news—that he had seen a gentleman emerge from La Force who was undoubtedly an Englishman and one he had seen somewhere before, though he could not remember where or when—ruined the euphoria of those last few minutes with Lisette. Passing her room, he was tempted to go in and demand to know what was going on, but refrained. Tackling her when he felt hurt and betrayed would not help.

That it was Wentworth he was certain and Wentworth undoubtedly knew who she was, but what he was unsure of was the man’s motive. was he hand in glove with the Revolutionary government, inflaming passions against Britain, or was it personal? From what Lisette had told him, it was probably the latter and he felt he could deal with that, if only she would confide in him. But in honesty he had to admit he had not confided in her. Had he been afraid to?

He flung himself on his bed and fell asleep,
only to have the recurring dream that had plagued him ever since Marianne died. Someone had come to tell him there had been an accident and he was riding hell for leather to Wentworth Castle. It wasn’t an old building, not medieval at any rate, but it was huge and ostentatious. It was also shabby and the garden overgrown. Why he noticed that in the heat of the moment he did not know, but the image was etched on his mind as if put there with a branding iron. He flung himself off his lathered horse and rapped on the door with his riding crop.

A footman in livery admitted him and asked him to wait in the great hall, with its threadbare tapestries, blackened furniture and cantilever staircase, while he went to find his master. The servant was gone a long time and he was about to go in search of someone when the Countess came down the stairs.

‘Commodore, you are too late,’ she said. ‘She is dead.’

‘Dead?’ The sound of that word echoed in his sleeping brain. ‘When? How?’

‘She was thrown from her horse while jumping a ditch. The horse fell on top of her. She was alive when she was brought here, but in spite of our best endeavours, died an hour ago.’

‘I want to see her.’

‘Naturally you do. I suggest you make arrangements to take her body home. We do not want it here.’

Gerald and his brother, the Earl, came downstairs to join them. Gerald was white-faced, his brother cold and unbending. ‘Take her away,’ the latter said. ‘It was bad enough having a live whore here, a dead one is too much.’

Whatever Marianne had done, he had to defend her from that. ‘She was never a whore.’

‘Oh, no,’ Gerald said with a sneer. ‘Then you did not know your wife very well, Drymore.’

‘I hold you responsible for her death, Wentworth. I should have ended your miserable existence when I had the chance.’

‘This discussion is pointless,’ the Earl said. ‘I must ask you to leave, Commodore, and make arrangements for your wife to be removed. I am sure you will find a suitable conveyance for hire in the village.’

He turned and left. The scene changed abruptly, as dreams often do, and he was back with a covered cart drawn by two horses. A footman conducted him to the room where Marianne lay. ‘Do you want help carrying her?’ he asked in a whisper.

‘No, I can manage.’ He bent over the corpse, expecting to see the face of the wife he had
married seven years before, and recoiled in horror. The dead face was that of Lisette Giradet.

The shock of it was enough to wake him. He lay bathed in sweat, trying to make sense of it. He had relived that time in his disturbed sleep many times, but the woman he picked up and carried down the stairs to the waiting cart had always been Marianne, beautiful and still in death. The image of a dead Lisette set him trembling. Did that mean she was so like Marianne she would suffer the same fate? Would she, too, betray him?

When morning came, he decided to say nothing, but give her the opportunity to tell him of her visitor without being asked.

He dressed in clothes befitting a gentleman and stooped to remove the bandages on his feet, smiling a little at the memory of them being put on. Then he put on fresh stockings and his own shoes and went downstairs. Lisette was already in the breakfast room and Madame Gilbert was dispensing coffee. He waved her away and sat down next to Lisette. ‘Good morning, my dear.’ It was said cheerfully.

‘Good morning.’ She looked heavy-eyed, as if she had not slept, but managed a smile. ‘How are your feet?’

‘Oh, they are as good as new, thanks to you.’

‘Do you have any more walking to do today?’

‘No, a gentle stroll perhaps.’

‘Has anything been decided?’

‘What about?’

‘Don’t tease, Jay. About freeing Michel from prison, of course.’

‘I’ll tell you after I have seen Robespierre again.’

‘Are you going to appeal to him to let Michel go?’

‘I doubt that would serve, Lisette. The less he knows about our real errand, the better, don’t you think? Our government would not condone any interference with the way France dispenses justice.’

‘You call it justice!’

‘No, but the revolutionary French do.’

She sighed. ‘I suppose you are right, but does that mean you are going to have to get Michel out without official help?’

‘It does indeed.’

‘Then why go back to Robespierre? Why not simply leave?’

It was obvious from the hunch of her shoulders, the way she held her head and gripped her hands in her lap, that she was tense, like a coiled spring ready to fly off goodness knew
where, and he needed her calm and doing as she was told. ‘I must conclude our discussions on my official errand,’ he went on patiently, taking her hand. ‘I cannot disappear without doing that; Robespierre must believe I am simply an envoy returning home and I also need a permit to get us safely through the barriers. His signature will ensure it.’

‘And is that going to be soon?’

‘Very soon, my dear, if you can curb your impatience just a little longer.’

‘How much longer?’

‘Until this evening. Be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.’

‘You said you would tell me what you were planning to do when the time came.’

‘So I did. Suffice it for you to know that Commodore Drymore and his lady will leave Paris this evening at six of the clock to go home after his fruitful discussions with the Revolutionary Government, all legal and above board with all the necessary papers. That is important if we are to stay ahead of anyone trying to follow us.’

‘And Michel? Will he be with us?’

‘It is to be hoped so.’

‘How are you going to effect his release?’

He hesitated. Dare he tell her everything? He
decided it would be prudent to hold back on the finer details. ‘Harry and the others will do that and bring him to us.’