The Tide Watchers (15 page)

Alec drew a sigh of relief. By the shrewd look in both Zephyr's and Grenville's eyes, he knew a meeting would take place over port. He smiled at Lady Grenville as the footman seated him.

He'd forgotten how long a “country dinner” took among the English aristocracy. At home, nobody knew who'd turn up on any given night, children ate in the Great Hall with the family, and Granddad liked hearing the pipes played as he ate, so mealtimes were loud and fun. Here, everything was done with decorum. Four courses at least—the soup, the salad, the main course, and dessert all took their time. The servants at least worked with efficiency.

Good old stodgy England, with her long-winded rituals and addiction to appearances by the ruling classes. Bonaparte would have to shove war in her face before she realized he was up to something. Then the government would have dozens of meetings to discuss the
possibility
of war before they made a declaration. By then Bonaparte would have his Grande Armée marching across the fields of Hastings on its way to London—but naturally, England couldn't be expected to respond to that threat until the fourth course was complete.

At last the covers were removed. Lady Grenville and her companion retired to the withdrawing room while the men drank port and spoke of things ladies didn't want to hear.

The butler returned with the port on a silver tray, poured three glasses, and left with a bow. Then Windham spoke. “Well, Apollyon, trot it out. It must be big to bring you from your self-imposed retirement in the wilds of Scotland. Who sent you—Abaddon or Tide
watcher?”

Of course Zephyr knew which of the Destroyer Twins he was; the scars he'd received during the Glorious First of June sea battle gave him away. Cal's scars were less noticeable: stains on his mind, sword cuts on his memory. Hating the code name as much as ever—from the Bible book of Revelation, Apollyon and Abaddon both meant “destroyer” in Greek and Hebrew, Zephyr's nasty little joke—he said, “It was Tidewatcher, sir. He has vital news.”

“Well, don't waste time. The ladies await us.”

Grenville sat quietly, port in hand. Grenville was not only Zephyr's cousin, he was also related to Pitt: a former foreign minister who'd resigned with Pitt on conscience matters. He was privy to every
on-dit
passing through the Alien Office.

Alec spoke of Duncan's meeting with Archbishop Narbonne, what he'd discovered on the Channel Coast: the reason he'd returned to active duty without asking Zephyr's permission. Then he handed Windham a packet filled with letters, notes, and drawings. “His team gathered this information over several weeks.”

After reading a page, Zephyr passed it to Grenville. “If it wasn't you bringing me this, I'd think you'd filched it from the Greek tragedies. I'll need to think on this.”

Grenville put the information in his jacket pocket. “The ladies await us.”

Zephyr nodded. “Quite right.” The piercing glance at Alec was punctuated with a frown, but it was to his cousin that he spoke. “Hell and damnation, Will, the navy's a mess, our best ships in the Caribbean . . .”

Grenville shook his head. “Anne must see no sign. It would distress her, especially with Thomas—” He stopped, flicking a glance at Alec.

Alec kept his face neutral; but even in remote western Scotland, Lady Grenville's little brother had become a byword. All the world and his aunt knew the Pitts had shelled out enormous sums to keep Lord Camelford from prison. His ungovernable temper, his expert use of all
kinds of weaponry, and his belief in his superiority to the rest of the world would see him shot or hanged one day. What had the unbalanced baron done this time?

When one was in England, one played the game. If everyone pretended all was well, then it was. Lady Grenville wasn't barren; her brother shouldn't be committed for insanity; Bonaparte wasn't preparing for war or invasion; and someone wasn't about to kill the king. At least not until the ladies retired for the night.

Alec held in the chuckle, imagining Grandmamma's reaction, should any of her male relatives attempt to keep such important information from her.

The cousins passed through the western-facing door to Lady Grenville's sitting room. Alec followed, ready to keep country hours. If he knew Zephyr, the spymaster would wake him around 3 a.m. with his instructions, and he'd expect them to be carried out immediately.

When he reached the room, he sent Duncan's horrified valet off to London to the western Thames docks, to give a note to the captain of the fishing sloop he'd hired to take them to the usual dropping-off point. They'd be leaving for France at first light.

Rue de Miromesnil, Faubourg Saint-Honoré, Paris

August 27, 1802

T
HE DAY THAT HAD
begun clear and bright was turning oppressive in its heat and the threat of an oncoming summer storm. Lady Georgiana Gordon, youngest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Gordon, looked up at the threatening clouds and hurried with her maid from the coach to the opulent house Mama had rented from the cousin of the Duc d'Orléans before they'd come to Paris. “A bath, if you please, Prunella,” she said to her maid, handing the collection of bandboxes to the footman. “I will take tea in the afternoon room.”

“You have visitors, m'lady,” the footman said, before he followed in Prunella's wake. “An English gentleman and a . . . lady.”

Intrigued by the little pause that spoke volumes by servants, Georgy felt her brows lift. The smile her admirers assured her turned her into a goddess, despite the buckteeth she so hated, came alive. Not that much had made her smile since Francis had died in March. She might not have loved him, but she'd liked and sincerely respected him. Marriage to him would have been no hardship—and since her friend Lizzy Sunderland's defection she'd needed someone to replace her. Francis had been that, a gentle soul with an unexpected streak of mischief, sweetly poking fun at their world—and being a duke, he was a friend her fastidious mama had approved of. She'd become even more vigilant since Lizzy had run off with the “wrong sort” of man last year, ruining her family's good name and her reputation. It seemed Georgy had been tainted by association.

“You ought never to have looked below your station, even for a friend.” Mama had scolded her so many times Georgy had long since
gotten over her impish desire to say,
But, Mama, you're also a baronet's daughter.

Two days before their engagement was made official, Francis had died suddenly of a mysterious illness. Nasty whispers circulated that he'd died of an overdose of the Duchess of Gordon's ambition. Mama, in her duty visit (as she'd put it) to the sixth duke, Francis's brother John, had been told in no uncertain terms not to expect him to step in for his brother to make her daughter a duchess.

The Polite World had spent weeks laughing at the silly, ambitious Duchess of Gordon and the daughter no duke wanted . . . so here they were in Paris. Had been since June, without a single offer in sight. The attention of the Vicomte de Beauharnais, Napoleon's own stepson, was a balm, but even to Mama it was obvious Eugene wasn't serious.

Georgy shook herself from her reverie and went into the afternoon room to greet her visitors. She turned to the gentleman, leaving the . . . lady . . . obviously more worthy of her interest, for later.

But the gentleman sitting on her chaise longue took her aback. Harsh featured, hook nosed, and a known woman hater, he jerked to his feet with his customary objection to manners, refusing to admit that a Gordon could outrank a Pitt. “Lady Georgiana,” Lord Camelford greeted her, with a bow bordering on insolence. “I know we haven't been formally introduced. I hope you don't mind that I've called on you.”

His voice said clearly that she should acknowledge the honor he'd done her in coming—but the words popped out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Good gracious, surely you of all men aren't here to propose to me. You don't need my money, do you?” Then her hand almost slammed over her mouth. If the Mad Baron took offense—

To her relief, Camelford chuckled. “I like the word without any bark on it. I don't need your money, nor do I want you. I do need something from you, however.”

She sighed. “Thank heavens for that. But I am intrigued to know . . .” Suddenly recalling Camelford wasn't her only visitor, she let her gaze shift to the right—and she gasped.

She'd never seen or imagined a woman so—so, well,
beautiful.
Truly, a poem could be written to her sylphlike loveliness. She was Venus arising from her shell. Small and gently curvaceous, skin like real peaches and cream, hair of a perfect strawberry blond with a subtle overtone of moonlit silver through it, so glossy—melting blue eyes, a classic nose, and even dimples in the creamy skin . . . a luscious peach-pink mouth that truly tipped up in that mysterious half slant that men called “the signature of Venus.”

For the first time in her social whirl of a life, Georgy had seen a young woman who fit the clichéd soubriquet of “The Incomparable.” She was certain that, once seen, this perfection of face and form would never be forgotten.

“Lady Georgiana?”

Oh, heavens, even her voice was soft, as lyrical as music! This woman would set London on its ear. She couldn't believe Camelford wasn't even looking at the woman . . . Georgy knew she was being horribly rude, but she couldn't stop staring. Belatedly she pulled herself together. “Yes, I am Georgiana Gordon. How good of you to call, Madame . . . ?”

“Recamier,” the other murmured, smiling: a Botticelli come to life. “Jeanne Françoise Recamier, my lady. I hope you'll forgive the impudence of my calling when we've never met.”

“Certainly,” Georgy said stupidly, holding out her hand, then retracting it and curtsying as good manners required. In a lemon silk day gown, when Madame Recamier also curtsied, she looked like liquid sunshine. “You're most welcome. I've already called for tea for us.”

“Tea is pap,” Camelford snarled, breaking in on the dreamlike state Georgy had fallen into. “I need to talk to you without this woman here, and I'd appreciate it taking place now.”

“I'd heard you were eccentric, but I assumed you'd been taught the manners of a gentleman. It seems I was wrong,” Georgy said, using the gentle but chilling tone she turned on impudent tradesmen or social climbers. “If you will return tomorrow at two, my lord, I will see to it that my mother and I are at home for you.”

Camelford jerked to his feet and stormed out.

Madame Recamier winced a little as the door slammed behind
him. “Well, one cannot say he doesn't know how to make a lasting impression,” she said, mouth quirked up, eyes glimmering with fun.

Impressed by both the humor and the discretion—not speculating on what Camelford wanted from her—Georgy smiled back. “Madame, I can only—”

“No, my lady, do not apologize for Camelford's appalling manners, when it was I who ensured he would make such a request, and that you would, ah, ask that he leave. I have, as you might say, a way with men . . . either for good or for bad.” Her eyes still twinkled. “I annoyed him greatly by not respecting the grand name of Pitt.”

Georgy blinked, but found nothing to say.

“I'd heard you appreciated pound dealing,” Madame Recamier said, in unaccented English. “Is that not so?”

“Um, yes, I do like plain speaking.” Georgy blinked again, frowning as she looked again at the vision of feminine perfection before her.
Not so much as a smear of rouge,
she thought in wonder. “Since we are being open, I will ask: who are you?”

The woman leaned forward, hooking a finger toward her. Georgy too leaned in. Then the woman whispered, “In certain circles I am known as The Incomparable.”

Georgy almost laughed aloud at the appropriate soubriquet. “By whom?”

The lady looked in her eyes: message or warning. “I have the honor of training certain important people who love our nation to gather intelligence for us. The cousin of the gentleman who just left us would deeply appreciate your help. He believes you may help with the, ah, small issue of that gentleman's current geography, and with other delicate matters of state. You are also in a position to help your friend Elizabeth Sunderland, who is also working for us.”

Duncan counted getting through Abbeville alive as another minor miracle. “Delacorte's allies have deserted him,” he said to Cal. Anything to
keep from focusing on the burning in his leg or Lisbeth's fragility. He'd covered both their injuries with a blanket stored at the boat's stern. No point in giving the evening fishermen a view they could describe to the gendarmes.

“I counted on it.” Cal kept the stroke shallow, propelling the boat along. The men followed his lead.

Fifteen minutes later they reached Eaucourt, with its crumbling fortress castle at one end of the village, a small farm prison at the other. They passed the house that held Lisbeth's son, and Duncan saw nothing out of place. Delacorte's men were hidden well.

The next town, Pont-Remy, was a sleepy village consisting of a scruffy inn and a few farms, and a half-built shipping canal going nowhere. A candle lit a window here and there as night fell like a heavy curtain dropping over the land.

Again all seemed quiet, but barely seven miles from Abbeville, it would be easy to have gendarmes awaiting them in the darkness.

As if in answer, he heard hooves in the distance. “If Delacorte sent riders ahead . . .”

Cal answered through puffing breaths and pulling strokes, “How could he? After this afternoon, he's lost the gendarmes. There are Jacobins enough in Abbeville to be related to half the population, so he's lost the townsfolk. He's injured and on the run, and knows Fouché will soon be on his trail. We're safe until he finds the funds to buy new men.”

Duncan's fury at Cal's being sent to watch over him subsided. The pain was clouding his mind. “I suppose you know where he keeps his son, as well?”

“Oh, aye, we passed it not long ago—but you knew that.” A small smile touched his face, lighting nothing within. “The lassie's right to want her bairn back. No child should be raised by that man and his mother. Cruelty is his amusement, and the poor lady barely knows her name. It's said she dropped the bairn recently. Luckily he fell back into the cradle.”

Duncan sent up silent thanks that Lisbeth wasn't awake to hear that.

By the time they reached the farming hamlet of Fontaine, the wider canal turned pewter in a sullen sunset. The scent of rain was in the air. Halfway up the hill, the spire of Église de Saint-Peter pierced the low-hanging cloud. Candlelight dotted windows of small farmhouses as women worked in the kitchen, and men in barns or sitting rooms. Cockerels split the air with their last calls of the day. Cows lowed, needing relief from full udders. The yowling of copulating cats came from nearby. Somewhere a dog barked, but only once.

Everything seemed undisturbed; neither the rumbling of wheels nor suspicious silence to break the tranquility. He looked at Cal. “Seems safe enough.”

The Scot nodded. “D'ye have a dislike of natural healers? This woman uses herbs and the like. Some of her neighbors call her a witch.”

In Cal's eyes, Duncan saw knowledge of the labyrinth of unbalanced prejudices he'd been forced to accept during his youth, lest Annersley whip or throw him in the cupboard again. “No.” Lisbeth was shivering even with his cloak around her. “Land here.” He pointed at a tiny punt, barely an indent in the canal with two dories tied to it. “Push the boat under, then find the midshipman and help him bring the coach to the house. Even after treatment, Miss Sunderland won't be fit to be carried far.”

“I can do it, sir,” Burton offered, with a significant look. Though as brave as a lion in battle, Hazeltine was a disaster on two feet, often with one of those feet in his mouth.

Duncan shook his head. “Just do it, Hazeltine. Help me up first.”

Cal leaned forward. “You can't carry her. I'll get her there sooner, lad.”

He hated to admit Cal was right. “If the glass goes in any farther . . .”

“I'll care for her as if she were my own sister.” Cradling her like a babe, Cal stepped off the rowboat with caution and strode up the pier and onto the path.

Duncan turned inward, concentrating on his own pain. In any case, she was probably safest with Cal. Within a week of their first
meeting Lisbeth was half dead, her life in tatters. Like father, like son. No matter which father—Broderick Stewart or Charles Urquhart Aylsham, thirty-fifth Baron Annersley—they had both destroyed everything they touched.

Eddie would tell me to stubble it.
Guilt and fear are time-wasting indulgences. Just do your duty.
“Help me out of the boat.”

His men held his elbows, but even straightening his leg made him gasp. “Burton.”

Burton slipped his arm under Duncan's to keep him up. “Go, Hazeltine,” he ordered, panting through the pain by the time he was on the pont.

By the midwife's gate he was nauseated, his head pounding and his leg in agony. “Thank God.” The two men made their way down the muddy, rock-strewn path to the farmhouse. There was light at the rear left side of the house. “That way.”

The midwife lived in a country house of ancient wattle-and-daub plaster, with wooden beams crossing every which way to hold the structure up. The windows were small and shuttered, facing away from the punishing Channel winds. The door was thick oak, expensive and modern, likely replaced during the Revolution or the Terror, after what he didn't want to think.

“Come,” a feminine voice answered when Burton hit the door. Burton pushed it open with his foot, half carrying Duncan in. The room was big and wide, with a cavernous fireplace that had a bubbling copper pot of some stew that smelled delicious. Even through the pain Duncan's stomach growled; he hadn't eaten in a full day. Several hooks hung from the ceiling, dried-grass ribbons holding drying herbs and flowers together.

A strange structure stood near the fire, a thin, waist-high bed. Lisbeth lay on it on her back while a woman worked on her wounds, Cal assisting her.

Duncan blinked. He'd expected a comfortable woman of ample proportions, or a scraggy woman muttering incantations like the witches in
Macbeth
. This woman was lovely. In her forties, she was tall and curvaceous, with dark hair touched with gray in a neat chignon. Her cotton
gown fell over gracious hips, feet encased in slippers. Her small nose twitched, as if smelling for changes in her patient. Her lips were lush, her top lip curved up as if she found the world amusing. Wide and brown with thick lashes, her eyes were fixed on Lisbeth as she worked.