MV02 Death Wears a Crown (6 page)

Victoire resisted the urge to upbraid the man. “I am a traveler, just as the rest of you are,” she said in the hope that he would be satisfied with that declaration; she already felt dangerously exposed.

“If that is the fiction you like,” said the schoolmaster with a conspiratorial leer. “There must be mischief afoot for your husband to entrust his dispatches to you instead of the soldiers. Has there been bribery or some other act they might wish to conceal?” His eyebrows raised and lowered. “Or is this a matter for discretion, some indication that the wife or daughter of a high-ranking officer has been found in the wrong bed?”

“Nothing of the sort,” said Victoire bluntly. “Not that I am privy to what my husband bids me carry,” she added mendaciously so that she would no longer be pressed for juicy details.

“We will keep your secret for you, whatever it is,” promised another of the travelers, a portly man of middle years who carried a case filled with upholstery material.

This time Victoire did not respond, for she realized that it would be impossible to convince the schoolmaster or the other passengers of the truth—that she was traveling the least expensive way she could because she could not afford any other transportation, and not because she was attempting to deliver the dispatches in secret.

“Your husband must be a very crafty man,” said the cloth-factor, his prominent eyes bulging a little. “To think of sending you on such a mission, and by such a ruse.”

“He is,” said Victoire, watching the other passengers nod, smug in the knowledge that they were now privy to a state secret.

“Do not worry, Madame,” said the schoolmaster. “We will not ask you any more awkward questions. We are aware when we ought to keep quiet.”

Victoire knew better than to suppose it was so.

THE OFFICER
watched until the footman had left the room. Then he unfolded the newly cleaned and braid-covered uniform coat over his desk. As he expected, a folded piece of vellum fell onto the desk. Carefully setting the coat aside, he read the note.

It had begun; the sacred mission was under way. He was to watch for anything that might warn the mission had been compromised. Its last line implied he should kill anyone that got too close or threatened the mission. It was signed by the secretary of the monarch, to whom he had once pledged loyalty. He had broken that oath.

* * *

Their next posting inn was halfway between Abbeville and Pont-Remy, where they arrived shortly after sunset, the lanterns on the coach doing little to augment the fading light. The ostlers hurried out to greet the passengers and tend to the team, and were at once gratified and alarmed to discover that the Guard escort had assigned itself the task of watching after one of the passengers.

“You must assign her a private parlor; she is the wife of an important officer carrying secret dispatches,” ordered Corporal Feuille to the landlord as he entered the Vigne et Tonneau ahead of the rest. “She is under our protection.”

The landlord glowered, then wreathed his pliant face in smiles. “Of course, of course, of course,” he enthused. “I will tend to it at once.”

“And be certain that a servant sleeps outside of her room tonight,” said Corporal Cruche. “She has important information entrusted to her that must not fall into the wrong hands.”

Victoire looked at the two soldiers in exasperation, and said to them as calmly as she could, “It might be wise not to discuss my mission.” The fear that she had succeeded in mastering reasserted itself.

“You may rely on our discretion,” said Corporal Feuille, bowing to her a little as he stood aside to permit the other passengers to enter the inn. “We have been warned about the danger of too much loose talk, and we are guarding against it.”

“Do you think so?” Victoire asked, but the question was lost in the general babble of arrival.

Within the hour all the passengers had been assigned rooms and had their luggage deposited in the proper chambers while the landlord presided over the taproom, serving generous amounts of red wine to wash down the lamb stew he offered his guests.

Victoire dined on collops of pork cooked with mushrooms in a heavy wine sauce in the isolation of the private parlor; there had been no mention of cost, but she knew it would be more than what the others were paying for their simpler fare. “I am convinced your intentions are good,” she remarked to Corporal Feuille, who had appointed himself her servant for the evening, “but I fear that you are doing little more than making me conspicuous.”

“Permit me to be the judge of that,” said Corporal Feuille.

“Are you convinced the isolation is necessary?” Victoire inquired as she took a long sip of wine and listened to the rumble of conversation echoing in the corridor.

“Most definitely,” said Corporal Feuille. “We have little say as to who comes to the taproom, but here we are entitled to admit no one but yourself.” He was proud of this stratagem, and it showed.

Victoire realized that she would not be able to change his mind easily, and so she tried a different tack. “But who’s in the taproom you could suspect?”

“There are travelers,” he said obscurely, and made sure her wineglass was full.

“Hardly astonishing in a posting inn,” said Victoire, and sighed a little when she realized that Corporal Feuille had not recognized the humor of her remark.

“You speak truly, Madame Vernet,” he responded earnestly. “We have searched their luggage, but there is nothing that cannot be properly accounted for. Even the musician has his instrument with him, a horn. He says he earns his bread with it. The landlord has agreed to charge him less if he will play tonight.”

“A musician,” said Victoire, who thought that there were few groups of people more harmless to the Republic than musicians.

“He is bound for Paris. He carries a letter engaging him to play at the Hotel de Ville. He claims he has recently come from England, where he was engaged by the manager of a theater there, but that might not be the truth, musicians being what they are.” He watched her eat, unable to wholly conceal his own hunger.

“There is no reason to suspect him, is there?” she inquired, and continued to eat.

“No, nor the three men traveling in their own carriage. They have bona fides from the magistrate at Dreux, who states that they are traveling on business for the town. That accounts for their two out-riders, their coachman, and servant. One of them is an English valet. We took care to be certain he is a true valet, and not a rogue intent on deceiving us.” He was proud of himself and expected praise.

From the taproom came the sound of a horn playing a series of hunting calls, and then the first phrases of a concerto by Mozart. Without the orchestra, the music seemed strangely disembodied.

“I see,” she said. “And how did you arrive at that conclusion, pray?”

“We asked about the care of coats and the proper way to shine boots. The valet knew it all, and the latest fashion in tying neck cloths. He offered to show us how the Beau Monde was done.”

Victoire took another slice of bread and considered everything she had heard. “How many are there in the party, in total?”

“Oh, possibly ten or eleven,” said Corporal Feuille. “Corporal Cruche is the one who has elected to deal with the stable-hands. He will know more about the coachman and the others.” He smiled.

“And that will satisfy you, will it?” she asked, and had another sip of the wine. She sighed, for it was very good, but it awakened again the fear of what it would cost. It was useless to suppose that her guardian corporals would be willing to pay for the position they had imposed upon her.

“It will be within the scope of our duty,” he said, his head held very high. “And then I will be able to tell everyone how we have helped to assist an Inspector-General through caring for his wife.”

“Quite an accomplishment,” said Victoire, making no effort to disguise her sarcasm. “I am impressed.”

“And perhaps you will mention the service we have rendered to your husband when you are once again in his company? Tell him of the good service we have rendered you?” The hopeful light in his eyes was almost comical, so eager and openly hungry for advancement that Victoire very nearly granted him a modicum of support. But he pressed his luck and lost his advantage when he said, “You do understand how we have helped you, don’t you?”

“Oh, I do understand,” said Victoire, and finished her supper.

* * *

The chambermaid was waiting for Victoire as she went up to her assigned room. She curtsied and called Victoire “Madame” a great many times, then indicated the way she had unpacked all of Victoire’s things and deposited them in the armoire. “But I did not touch the small case, the one you and the soldiers said I was not to open.”

“Yes,” said Victoire, aware that the maid would expect a doucement for her efforts, needless though they were. She looked at her empty luggage and wondered how long it would take her to repack it, for she needed only her night rail, her robe, and the one traveling costume for the morning. All the rest might better have been left in her luggage.

There was a sound at the door, and she turned to see a stranger glancing in. “Yes?” she said in a tone calculated to halt any advances and to conceal her apprehension.

“You are the Inspector-General’s wife?” the man asked, his accent striving to be as fashionable as possible. “I am Claude Montrachet; I play the horn.” He lifted the case he carried so that Victoire could see it. “I’m honored to be at the same inn as you are, Madame.” He bowed slightly, then went off down the corridor without further ado.

“A nice-spoken gent,” said the maid as she watched the musician disappear at the end of the hall. “They’re often like that, aren’t they—musicians?”

“I suppose they are,” said Victoire, paying little heed. She indicated the bed. “Did you use my sheets, or will I have to change it?”

“I used Madame’s sheets,” the chambermaid assured her. “And I have made sure there are no holes in any of the blankets, or feathers lost from the pillows. The blankets are not musty and there are no mice in the room.”

“Very good,” said Victoire, and reluctantly dug into her reticule for two silver coins to hand to the young woman. “For your good service,” she said as she offered them.

The chambermaid curtsied and then did her best to smile. “Thank you, Madame,” she said eagerly. “Thank you very much.” She seemed inclined to linger.

Victoire did not want that, so she yawned conspicuously and tugged at the fichu she had worn around her shoulders. “Travel is so exhausting,” she hinted.

At that the chambermaid curtsied and started toward the door. “Sleep well, Madame. I will be sure you are roused in time to have breakfast before your diligence leaves.”

Aware that this service would also require a doucement, Victoire sighed. “Thank you.” She trusted that the lack of enthusiasm would be attributed to fatigue instead of the cost.

“My pleasure to serve you, Madame,” said the chambermaid as she backed out the room and closed the door.

Victoire sat down on the bed and felt for the money-belt she wore around her waist. It was depleted beyond her expectations, and she began to worry that she would not be able to finish the journey without stringent economies. Perhaps, she thought, she could plead travel sickness at the next stop, and not have to pay for meals. That would save her a little, unless her two self-appointed guardians should override her orders.

Methodically she opened the case and took out the pistol Vernet had given her, wishing it would banish the fright that niggled at her. She charged it with care, then slipped it under the pillows, satisfied that she had taken every reasonable precaution. Next she deposited her reticule under the other pillow, and then she began to undress, shivering a little at the chill in the air. Then she repacked most of her luggage. How very tedious this journey was becoming, she thought as she took down her blonde hair and began to brush it. When that was done she braided it loosely and secured it with a ribband, sighing a little as she turned back the covers and slid into the bed, reaching to pinch out the candles on the stand beside the bed next to the ewer of water before drawing the bed curtains around her. In the darkness she tucked the dispatches into the money-belt that she continued to wear, and wished she were not afraid.

As she lay back she turned her mind to what she would tell Bernadotte and Berthier. With those perplexing possibilities in her thoughts, she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Two of the men who had arrived in the private carriage were waiting in the stable yard when the kitchen door to the inn opened and Claude Montrachet came out, a pistol instead of an instrument’s case in his hand.

“Why the hell have you taken so long?” one of the two men demanded in English that sounded of Northumberland.

“The scullions were still working and I didn’t want them to see me,” said Montrachet, also in English though his was flavored with French vowels and r’s. “And I might ask you why you are here and not farther along the road.”

“We had to replace one of the wheelers,” said the first man. “It took a day while the horse was traded. In these towns such things can’t be hurried.”

“You are more behind schedule than ever,” said Montrachet, making it an accusation.

“It couldn’t be helped,” the first man insisted.

“If we’re out here too long, we might be noticed. And suspected,” the other man declared. “If only those soldiers weren’t here.”

“They’re no danger to us,” said Montrachet. “They’re all puffed up with guarding that officer’s wife.” His chuckle was low and unpleasant.

“You don’t suppose there’s anything to their claims, do you?” the second asked. “Surely she’d have more escort than that if she had anything important with her, wouldn’t she?”

“Do you think she really is carrying anything important?” asked the first at the same time, looking around nervously.

Montrachet shook his head. “I doubt even Napoleon’s officers are that foolish. But it might be wise to be certain,” he added with a significant nod.

“You’re not planning—” the first said.

“Let me worry about what I am planning,” said Montrachet. “If we can gain useful information before we join up with Sackett- Hartley once more, then we can be of more use to him than we are now.” He looked around the inn yard. “In the meantime, you’d better get back to your rooms, unless you have something more to tell me?”

“Nothing much. Our weapons are in the floor of the coach. So far the patrols have not thought to look there.” The second man was not as nervous as the first, but he was not at ease, either. “We have a pair of pistols in the coach, in case there are questions about protection, and those the patrols have ignored.”

“More fool they,” said Montrachet. He held up his pistol, a small masterpiece by Manton. “This is easily concealed in the case with my horn.” His face registered distress. “I used to love music. Once we are back in France and in our rightful positions once again, I swear I will have that damned thing melted down for scrap.” He spat.