Lady Alexandra's Excellent Adventure: A Summersby Tale (18 page)

“Hurry up!” Alexandra called down to them from her perch on the coachman’s seat. “Stop twiddling you thumbs and get in. We haven’t much time.”

“Let me help you,” Ryan offered, taking hold of Andrew’s other arm and easing the load for Michael.

“Leave him,” William snapped. “He’ll only slow us down.”

“What?” Michael and Ryan exclaimed at once.

“You can’t be serious,” Michael added, not moving as much as an inch in spite of the fact that Bertrand would be upon them shortly. “We can’t just—”

He didn’t have a chance to finish before William’s large hands grabbed hold of Andrew’s jacket and snatched him out of Michael’s grasp, discarding him with a careless shove.

“Are you coming or what?” Alexandra yelled, her impatience quite audible in her voice.

“I’ll explain later,” William muttered as he caught Ryan by the arm and steered him closer to the carriage before shoving him inside. He then snapped his eyes back to Michael and nodded in Alexandra’s general direction. “Up you go.”

Michael wasn’t one to miss a cue, not when his life and those of others depended on it, yet he still couldn’t help but pause at the sight of Andrew who was writhing and groaning upon the ground. It was a damnable mess to be sure, but if William insisted on leaving his friend behind, he must have a good reason. With one final glance over his shoulder he leapt up onto the coachman’s step just as Alexandra whipped the horses into motion, barely escaping the tip of Bertrand’s sword. A loud curse filled the air behind them, forcing him to look back. Bertrand was already clambering aboard another carriage and shouting instructions. Would it really have been too much to hope for that the blasted man would just let them slip away?

“Is everyone accounted for?” Alexandra asked as he scrambled up beside her. She didn’t look at him, her eyes completely trained on the two horses as she steered them along at an increasingly haphazard pace. A shot sounded from behind them—too far away to make much difference, yet a solid reminder that they were being pursued.

“Everyone except Mr. Finch,” Michael told her. He watched as her jaw clenched and her hands tightened against the reins, whipping them a bit more roughly to mark her irritation.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice carried a detached coolness that Michael couldn’t help but note as the mark of a true soldier. Fact and logical reasoning. Once again, he was more than a little impressed.

“I’m not sure.” He stared forward, bracing himself as she jerked the reins to the right at a hard angle that almost sent the carriage careening sideways as the horses did their best to follow, turning down a narrower street. “He got shot and William insisted we leave him behind.”

She looked at him then, her eyes narrowing as if she thought to learn more by simply regarding his face. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair had half come undone—strands flying backward in the wind. And all Michael could do was stare—she looked magnificent.

“Here,” she said, thrusting a pistol into his lap. “It was under the seat. I suggest you take a look back there and let me know how we’re doing. We can’t keep riding about until the horses give out. Somehow we have to lose them.”

Nodding his understanding, Michael turned half about and braced his hand against the hood of the cabin. It was a precarious position to say the least—especially with the way Alexandra was driving, but it afforded him the necessary backward glance.

“Well?” she asked just as the carriage lurched left and turned down another street.

Michael couldn’t help but wonder if he ought to start praying as he held on for dear life, fearful of toppling overboard. Straightening, he soon managed to regain his position just as the other carriage rounded the corner. “They’re still after us . . . and gaining, it would seem.” In fact, he was rather sure of that detail since he was now able to make out the murderous twinkle in Bertrand’s eyes as he raised his pistol and . . . “Get down!”

The shot rang out with a deafening force. “Are you all right?” Michael asked.

Alexandra nodded. “I think it’s about time you did something.”

Under normal circumstances, he would have shot a remark right back at her, but he knew she was right. Besides, this was no time for lightheartedness and if they didn’t get rid of their pursuers they’d very likely find themselves killed. Resuming his position, he noted that Bertrand was busy reloading. It wouldn’t take him long, but it might just give Michael the reprieve he required. Stilling himself as much as possible against the bumpy ride, he took aim and fired. A loud yell sounded, and he watched as the other carriage lurched, the coachman gripping his arm while Bertrand shouted a string of oaths in utter rage. Michael took advantage, aimed again, and fired. “
Merde!
” Bertrand roared as something clattered away in the distance.

“What happened?” Alexandra asked, whipping the reins to increase the horses’ pace.

“I believe our count has dropped his pistol. His coachman’s wounded and his carriage seems to have slowed marginally.”

“Just marginally?”

They rounded yet another corner to the sound of splintering glass as one of the side lanterns struck a wall and shattered. “Good God, woman! We’ll be lucky if we don’t lose the wheels the way you’re handling this thing.”

She shot him a glance that was clearly meant to admonish. “If you think you can do better, then by all means, be my guest.”

“Gladly!” he replied, trying not so smile in response to the look of annoyance that wrinkled her features. Grabbing the reins, he kept up the pace while smoothing the horses’ gait and, he hoped, allowing for a less bumpy ride.

“Is that you, Michael?” he heard Ryan call from somewhere inside the cabin. Or perhaps the younger Summersby was hanging out the window, he really couldn’t tell.

“Yes,” he shouted back.

“I knew it!” And Michael couldn’t help but hear the note of appreciation in Ryan’s voice—apparently, he hadn’t been the only one who’d thought Alexandra was a far worse coachwoman than most. She said nothing in response, though Michael sensed that she probably rolled her eyes.

“Turn here,” she suddenly said, and he did.

“Where are we going?”

“I’ve no idea, but we’ve a better chance of losing them if we don’t keep to the same road indefinitely.”

It made sense.

A few turns later, at Alexandra’s direction, they barreled out onto rue du Louvre, barely managing to dodge another carriage which, luckily enough, managed to block Bertrand, increasing the distance between them by another five seconds. Michael maneuvered the horses to the left until they were running parallel with the River Seine.

“We’ll have to jump!”

Michael recognized William’s voice coming from behind him. “What did he say?” he asked Alexandra as he whipped the reins to encourage the horses. He wasn’t at all sure he’d heard him correctly.

“We have to jump,” she repeated. “Bertrand won’t stop, and as long as we’re sitting in this carriage we’re nothing but a big target. He’ll catch up with us eventually, of that you may be certain.”

Michael gave her a sidelong glance. Her face was serious—deadly so. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll jump in the water, but we’ll need cover. If we jump now, he’ll see us.”

“What do you propose?”

Something stirred inside him as she asked the question. For a moment he couldn’t tell what it was, but then it dawned on him. She trusted him implicitly, and it warmed his heart and soul in a way few things ever had. “I’ll make a sharp turn at the next bridge. We’ll have to be quick, no doubt about it, but if we can manage, the carriage ought to shield us when we jump.” He began securing the reins so the horses would keep on running once he let them slip. “Do you think you might be able to climb down to your brothers? I know it won’t be—”

She was already on her way, no doubt balancing in a highly dangerous fashion as the carriage bounced along the street. All Michael could do was hope that she didn’t fall off when he made the turn.

Approaching the bridge, Michael glanced back one last time, his eyes squinting against the darkness. Bertrand’s carriage was still visible, though not as clear as it would have been in the light of day, and that gave Michael hope. Now, if only he could find some means by which to distract him as well. Turning the horses onto the bridge, he angled himself, aimed his pistol at the carriage lantern that hung just left of Bertrand’s shoulder, and fired—a loud crack sounded, followed by a splintering burst. And then, without a moment’s hesitation or further thoughts for his own safety, Michael turned around and jumped.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

T
he water was freezing—much colder than Alexandra would have expected as she splashed about, gasping for air. She’d have to make a mental note that swimming in an evening gown was not the easiest thing in the world.

“This way,” William said in an urgent whisper, pointing toward a spot where the embankment appeared to be completely shrouded in darkness.

Alexandra watched as Ryan followed. “Where’s Michael?” she hissed, looking about as she began making slow, even strokes through the water. If anything had happened to him . . .

“Right here.” Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice coming up behind her, and she suddenly realized with shocking alarm, just how frightened she’d been for his safety. “Miss me?”

“Just making sure we all made it,” she muttered, reaching the shore in another two strokes and grabbing hold of Ryan’s outstretched hand. Michael was beside her in a second, his dripping wet hair falling into his eyes.

“And here I was, thinking that you might be just a little concerned for my safety,” he said and sighed in a highly disappointed fashion as he placed his hand against his chest in mock pain. “I’m crushed.”

“Michael, I do believe you missed your calling—the theatre,” Ryan said, grinning.

“Really? I always did wonder how I might fare in the role of Romeo,” Michael said, as if he was seriously contemplating such a drastic career change.

“Now
that
I’d like to see,” William said, his eyes darting toward the bridge. “Do you think he fell for it?”

“Bertrand?” Michael asked, his voice returning to the severity of their present situation.

Alexandra was stunned as she tried to follow their odd conversation, unable to wonder if Michael had even as much as glanced at the pages of
Romeo and Juliet
before.

“I believe he did,” Michael was saying. “Though it might be wise for us to get moving—he won’t be fooled forever.”

“Well, we can’t go back to the apartment,” Ryan said. “It’s too risky.”

Michael’s face seemed to harden. It looked to Alexandra as though he was going over all their options in his head. “Agreed.” His voice was low but assertive, and then his eyes shot toward William. “Any ideas?”

“What about the house?” William suggested.

Alexandra stared at him.
What house?
What was he talking about now?

Michael nodded, apparently quite aware of what William was referring to. “I did consider it myself. I just wasn’t sure if—”

“Come along,” William said, already striding away. “We’d best hurry.”

Alexandra blinked. She hated to just tag along without knowing every little detail of where they were going or what to expect. She looked at Ryan, but found no dumbfounded ally there. Instead, he merely shrugged his shoulders and headed after William.

“Do you plan to stand there for the rest of the night, or will you join us?” Michael asked.

She felt her feet begin to move. “Will you please tell me where we’re going?”

He grinned ever so slightly, and it was enough to force her head around to look at him. But his expression wasn’t one of amusement as she’d expected. Instead, his eyes were sweeping over her in a most approving fashion. “I do believe we ought to get you wet more often,” he murmured, so seductively that she couldn’t fight the flash of heat that assaulted her body.

“Please answer the question,” she said, trying for an unaffected voice and failing miserably. He chuckled, quite openly enjoying her sudden discomfort.
Annoying man
. If only she had a club so she could hit him over the head with it.

“Very well,” Michael said, his voice returning to a more serious tone. “There’s a small house on the outskirts of the city—a place the foreign office keeps in the event that an agent’s cover becomes compromised. There won’t be a staff, so we’ll have to take care of ourselves for however long we remain there.” He paused. “I hope you can handle food better than you handled heating milk.”

Alexandra halted in her tracks. “What—” she barely managed.

“You know—the process of making food.”

She searched for the humor in his eyes, convinced that he must be mocking her somehow, but there was none. Apparently he really expected her to start keeping house. “Urgh!” Would anyone really blame her if she strangled him now? Clenching her hands at her sides, she raised her chin and turned away to march off after her brothers, muttering a string of unveiled oaths that were very clearly directed at the man she’d just walked away from. Her gown clung to her body while her hair flopped in a most ungraceful manner, the water from it dripping down her back. And if she would have turned, if she would only have looked back at Michael, she would have seen that he was smiling with unabashed pleasure.

T
wo hours later, they were all settled in the small house that Michael had mentioned. As it turned out,
small
might have been an exaggeration. The truth of the matter was that it was tiny, though it did have three rooms and a kitchen. William and Ryan had immediately suggested that they share the larger of the three rooms, in spite of the fact that it had no beds since it had clearly been intended to serve as a drawing room of sorts. They’d merely shrugged however, claiming that the sofas present would do well enough, at which Alexandra had looked rather dubious. For a good minute she’d tried to determine how her brothers’ large figures could possibly manage to fit into the confining spaces that the sofas offered. However, she could hardly complain, given the fact that this afforded her with a comfortable room of her own while Michael had taken the other.

“I think it’s time you told us what happened,” she found herself saying as they all convened in William’s and Ryan’s makeshift bedroom. Of all the things the house had to offer, Alexandra had been most relieved to discover that there were dry men’s clothing of varying sizes in the closets, along with some money, hidden away in a box beneath a floorboard. Percy really did think of everything, she mused, even if the clothes had probably been there for a good number of years without being used. “Why did you insist on leaving Andrew behind, William? He doesn’t stand a chance on his own, especially not as wounded as he was.”

Silence filled the room as they all turned to William for an explanation. His eyes darkened. “Finch wasn’t who we thought him to be,” he muttered after what seemed to be an unbearable amount of time. “He let me down in the worst possible way. Indeed, he let us all down. You came here, intent on accusing me of treachery.” His eyes turned to Michael who seemed to want to deny the claim, but William stopped him, saying forcefully, “I would never dream of betraying my country or my people . . . my family for God’s sake. Though I must admit that in your situation, Ashford, I probably would have had my doubts as well—especially given the fact that you didn’t know me. However, the true culprit as it turns out, was Andrew.
He
is the double agent, not I.”

“What?”
Alexandra gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. It couldn’t be—surely not. “You two were such close friends—you’ve known each other for years. You went to Oxford together for heaven’s sake. Why on earth would he do such a thing?”

“Because, as it turns out, Finch was too greedy for his own good.” William’s mouth was set in a grim line. “He requested an exorbitant amount of money in exchange for the information he was selling, and was very swiftly locked away as a result. Apparently, Bonaparte was not to be fooled. He knew Andrew would run straight back to England, only to sell whatever secrets he’d learned about the French.”

Alexandra stared at her brother for a long moment. “So what you’re telling me,” she finally managed to get out. “Is that I risked all of our lives to save a man who should have been left exactly where he was.”

“Yes,” William said simply. “That pretty much sums it up.”

Alexandra buried her face in her hands. “I am by far the biggest idiot there is,” she mumbled.

“Well, perhaps not the biggest idiot,” Ryan put in. “There was that Hatchfield fellow who married the Italian woman—the one who took off with all his family heirlooms. I never did understand why he failed to see that one coming when everybody else did. But to put it bluntly, you’re not far behind.”

“Urgh,” Alexandra groaned. She was disgusted with herself. She’d been so wrong, so foolishly stubborn and headstrong. She’d blown William’s cover and . . . dear Lord, had he even managed to complete his mission before she’d done so? If not, then she’d single-handedly ruined everything. She dared not even look at Michael.

“I’m terribly sorry about this mess,” she muttered, wishing that there was a carpet for her to crawl away under.

Alex, you mustn’t put all the blame on yourself,” Michael said, grabbing her attention. “Truth is we’re all to blame for this mess.”

“But it was my idea.”

“And Ryan and I went along with it quite willingly, did we not?”

“I feel like I coerced you,” she moaned, looking away.

“Alex?” he asked her seriously. “Did you know that Finch was attempting to sell information to both the English and the French before we helped him escape?”

“No,” she groaned. “But if I’d only spoken to William, then—”

“Stop blaming yourself,” Michael exclaimed with a small degree of frustration. “It wasn’t your fault any more than it was mine or Ryan’s.”

“He’s right, you know,” Ryan told her gently. “None of us knew.”

“I need a drink,” William suddenly stated.

“I could make some tea,” Alexandra offered. At least she knew how to do that much, as long as Michael would see to lighting the stove.

William snorted. “Seriously?” He turned to Ryan. “Have a look in that cabinet next to your chair, will you? Surely, Percy will have supplied us with some stronger stuff.”

“It seems we are in luck,” Ryan announced with the delight of discovery. “It’s only half full, but it is indeed a bottle of whiskey.”

William strode over to him, taking the bottle from his brother’s outstretched hand with a smile of glee. “Fetch some glasses will you?”

His request wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, but since neither Ryan nor Michael seemed to stir, Alexandra eventually got up and went to the kitchen. Returning with glasses in hand, she placed them on a table and watched as William began to pour himself a large glass. “How about the rest of you?”

“I’ll have a glass too,” Michael said.

“Just half a glass for me,” Ryan added.

“To victory,” William then said, raising his own glass as soon as he’d supplied both Ryan and Michael with theirs.

“What about me?” Alexandra asked, feeling quite left out. How typical of them to think she wouldn’t care to join in. The three men turned to her, their glasses paused mere inches from their lips, their look of surprise unmistakable. She tried not to smile too much at their befuddlement and shrugged instead. “Why not?”

“Why indeed?” Michael muttered, his eyes brightening with amusement as he offered her his glass. “Pour me another, Summersby.”

William did and then repeated his toast. “To victory!”

Alexandra watched as they each tossed back their glasses, before following suit.

A split second later, she thought she might die. Heaven help her. This was not at all like the wine or champagne she was used to. This . . . Lord have mercy . . . but it burned. She opened her eyes, realizing that she must have closed them in anguish, only to find the men trying terribly hard not to burst into fits of laughter.

“You truly are too stubborn for your own good,” Ryan choked out.

Inwardly, Alexandra couldn’t help but agree. But her pride forced a different reaction. “Laugh all you want,” she said carelessly, holding out her empty glass toward William. “In the meantime, I’ll have another.”

William complied without question, knowing full well that arguing the point would come to no avail. Instead he refilled his own, took a large gulp, then set his glass down and began to pace. There was still an awful lot of information that he had to get out, and he couldn’t do it sitting down or standing still. He needed to move.

“Bonaparte will begin his campaign tomorrow,” he finally said as he glanced about, taking in all of their expressions. He was glad to find that they didn’t look worried or startled by his statement. Instead, they waited for him to continue. This was, after all, the reason they were there.

“When Bonaparte returned from Elba,” he continued. “He had about fifty-six thousand troops, of which only forty-six thousand were ready to do battle. As of last week, that number has risen to a staggering one hundred and ninety-eight thousand with another sixty-six thousand in various training camps around the city. How many men does Wellington have? Do any of you know?”

“I believe it must be roughly ninety thousand,” Michael replied.

William nodded. “And Blücher?”

“The Prussian?” Alexandra asked, with a frown. “I’ve no idea.”

“I would give an estimate of one hundred thousand if I were to place a bet on it,” Ryan said.