The Tide Watchers (19 page)

“He'd have succeeded then but for foul weather in the Irish Sea,” he replied, with a quelling look. “You have no idea how close he came to being Napoleon I of England.”

Chastened, she waved a hand. “Go on.”

“I tried to enter Boulogne-sur-Mer just before we met.” His voice was measured. “The land and sea levels of security surrounding the town beggar belief. One of my men got in with forged papers, but I haven't heard from him in days. He's been compromised at the least, dead at worst. Bonaparte's arriving in seven weeks, and security levels have doubled.” He looked around before he leaned in. “The government refuses to recall the army from Egypt or Ireland, or the navy ships from the Caribbean. A spy of rank must take point, discover what's there in time for Britain to recall our ships and set up defenses. We need time to prepare for war.”

The whistling wind snatched some of his words from her; she pieced them together by thinking. “How can the American help?”

The look on his face was a warning to lower her voice. Her gaze flicked to the right and left. When she looked back at him, he nodded and, with difficulty, moved his chairs so they were flush against hers. Even leaning so close to her, she had to strain to hear. “Fulton's been working on submersible boats for almost a decade now. If we could use one of them to pass the ships in the harbor unseen, we'll find what the French want to keep hidden.”

Through her shivering, she felt excitement stir. Boats that could sail underwater had existed since the time of da Vinci, and even she'd heard of Robert Fulton, the current world's expert. He'd astonished people for years with underwater travel. How wonderful if she could see one of his boats close up! But if she showed too much excitement, the stranger
would take advantage of it. “Why not hire one? Aren't most inventors always short of funds?”

He nodded, with a wry smile. “Good thinking, and he is—but we'd need a navigator as well as someone able to work the contraption. I can navigate above water, but beneath . . .”

“Could Fulton teach you the difference and work the submersible for you?”

He grinned wryly. “Ah, there's the rub. He's a firm believer in republicanism. While he approves of French espionage in Britain, he objects to our spying in France. I've tried many times to bring him to our cause, but despite my best efforts to charm him, he doesn't like me.”

Forgetting her pain, she chuckled. “I'd give a monkey to have seen you trying to charm a cranky republican—or anyone for that matter.”

“Using cant terms, are we? Most unladylike, Miss Sunderland.” There was a lurking grin in those haunted eyes. “But you see the weakness in my plan. Charm isn't my
métier
.”

Still smiling, she shook her head. “I was to woo him to the cause?”

He nodded. “You were to become his housekeeper and assistant, to learn as much as you can about these boats.”

“Tell the truth,” she said, sharply even though she kept her tone low. “No prevarications or lies, if you please.”

A long hesitation. “You may like him . . .” He hesitated again and shrugged. “If you do, anything else would be your choice, Lisbeth.”

He'd changed tenses in speaking, as if she'd already agreed. It was the first time he'd used her name since the tunnel: another tactic to soften her. It meant that much to England, then. It certainly wasn't personal. Duty drove this man down a blind alley of damnation. “I told you at the beginning, I won't do pillow talk. That will not change.”

He almost mumbled his question. “Even if it saves your country—your family—from the rape and pillage Boney wreaked on Parma and Piedmont? Even if it saves your son from being raised by Delacorte?”

She didn't know if she blushed or whitened. “Is that how you justify asking me to ruin my life?”

“I thought you'd done that already.” When she turned her gaze out beyond the ship, her hands curled into fists, he jumped in. “I beg your pardon. I shouldn't have said that.”

She stared at the wild world beyond the ship, lead-washed sea and turbulent cloud. Her stomach churned as the ship pitched, but the cold, clean air kept it under control. “Why not? I've been called worse.”

“Not by me,” he said, voice rough with self-condemnation. “I beg your pardon. The troubles in your life—your decisions—have been partly forced on you by others.”

She turned to him, searching his face, but he was staring out to sea. “And?”

“I ask nothing of you that I haven't done myself,” he said, voice heavy.

She uncurled her fists. “That's immaterial, and you know it. A man can have a dozen lovers at once and the world admires him for it.”

“I judge myself. I've hated myself many times.”

Flushing, she floundered into silence. This territory felt far too intimate.

At last he went on. “For me, needs must when duty drives—but I can't force you.”

Needs must when duty drives.
It was a saying she'd never understood until now—until she heard the personal ghosts in the commander's unseen carriage, driving him down a dead-end alleyway filled with self-loathing. But she felt no desire to mock him. It felt too much like looking in a mirror, seeing her cut and battered face there.

“Is there another woman who can perform this task? One who may have done this before?” She winced as her fingers probed the padding over the scar on her cheek.

He kept his gaze on the sea. “Besides you, there's one woman in France who can play the part with any semblance of truth. I don't know her name or nationality. She could be a princess, an actress, or a brothel madam, or a dozen other professions. She's known from London to St. Petersburg as ‘The Incomparable.' Her mission in Paris
is as crucial as ours—and from what I hear she's older than you, and too . . . sophisticated. Fulton would see through her. He likes . . .”

“Young women.” She shivered and pulled the blanket closer over her body. “I promise nothing. He may not like me.”

“He will.”

“You sound very confident,” she remarked, almost accusing.

He shifted on the deck chairs, as if his back hurt. “I have to be. You're all I have.”

A little laugh burst from her. “You really don't know how to charm, do you?”

He grinned as he shrugged. Did her scar show up as much as his did when he smiled? But his scars made him look like a Barbary pirate. Red, swollen, her scars made her look plain ugly.

Yet he believed she could do it.
Do it for Edmond,
her heart whispered.

“I can't go like this.” She waved at the rough dress, the woolen slippers.

“We're almost at port. If you give me your specifications, I'll find a dressmaker to ensure you're dressed as a lady.”

To port? Where were they? She peered over the deck to land, but in this miserable weather, she couldn't recognize a landmark. She fought a longing to ask if she was looking at England. She'd show no weakness until Edmond was safely with her. “I've lost weight.”

“I'll bring a woman on board to measure you—but you must promise not to speak to her, or ask where she's from.”

It seemed she must learn to control her natural curiosity in some instances, make the best use of it in others. She fiddled with her fingers again. “What if he finds out who I am?”

“He's a gentleman, madame, never fear. He'll ask you to leave, or if he likes you, he may decide to give us a boat.”

Oh, how she hated that she needed the reassurance, and she hated more that he knew she needed it. Of course he knew. From the night they met, he'd led her to this moment. The idea of spying in Le Boeuf had never been more than incidental. She was the center of this mission.

More than anything, she hated that she had no choice but to accept if she wanted her son, and to return to England. “I want to write to my mother.”

“Certainly, madame. Give any letters you wish to send to me.”

Running out of excuses, she repressed the urge to sigh aloud. “Leave me to think,” she said coolly, trying to hide the aching in her heart and throat. She'd thought there wasn't a sacrifice she wouldn't make for Edmond, but this—

“Of course.” He pushed himself to his feet and limped away. A silent reminder of the sacrifices he'd made to save her.

When he was gone, she grabbed his blanket, and wrapped herself in it to stop the shivers. Even when she'd been in Abbeville, she hadn't felt so cold or alone.

Rue Laboratoire, Ambleteuse, France (Channel Coast)

September 4, 1802

I
MIGHT HAVE KNOWN
you were behind this particular miracle.” Pale and mussed, Robert Fulton glared at Duncan. “My gratitude hasn't changed my principles. I won't enhance the British Navy's already indecent power in warfare with my inventions. To protect itself, France needs a weapon capable of counterbalancing your navy.”

In the failing light of late afternoon, Duncan stood outside the dark, crooked house, lost in a tangle of wild-growth brambles above a gorged rivulet leading to the sea. Its roof tiles were clunky and its windows too small, but the attic ran the length of the house, the doors were thick, the locks sturdy, and there were no neighbors for a mile—which was why Duncan had paid a year's rent in advance for the house. When First Lieutenant Flynn told him France wanted to seize his inventions, Fulton had pulled out the inner workings of the badly damaged
Nautilus
and destroyed every schematic for good measure. But if Fulton's turbulent relationship with Boney had sunk to a new low, it didn't change his ideals or lessen his prejudice against Britain. “France doesn't need protection from us, Mr. Fulton.”

“Oh, certainly. After invading the Americas, New Holland, and the African continent, Asia, and India, imposing British rule, language, and culture on its hapless inhabitants—at least those you allowed to stay alive—Britain fears the struggling little nation across the water,” Fulton retorted in a withering tone.

Acknowledging the hypocrisy in silence, Duncan thought,
How many countries has the struggling little nation invaded, raped, and pillaged since declaring itself a republic?

But it was obvious Fulton was spoiling for a fight. Duncan felt too amused to give one. The inventor's rhetoric engendered a vision of a mouse attacking an elephant. “It seems your presence and your work are unappreciated in France, Mr. Fulton.”

Fulton bristled. “That will change.”

“Bonaparte isn't known for his capriciousness.” Despite having tried to charm him many times before, Duncan didn't care if Fulton hated him. The trouble and cost of moving the American's paraphernalia to this isolated seaside village was less than nothing, if it gained Britain an underwater boat in good working order. “We'll pay to repair
Nautilus.
Your work with the bombs”—he saw Fulton bristle, and amended, “ah, torpedoes and carcasses, will be easier with a fully equipped workshop and several qualified assistants.”

Fulton drew himself up. “This house is acceptable, and the five hundred francs I have . . .” He snapped his mouth shut, cheeks burning with awareness of his hypocrisy. The francs, like the relocation costs, had come from Duncan's pocketbook: more than three hundred pounds sterling and far more than many men earned in a lifetime.

Recognizing futility, Duncan shrugged. “Use it wisely, sir. Bonaparte will never have such faith in you.”

“He will when I make the propulsion—you won't trick me into speech!” Fulton snapped.

“I wasn't trying to trick you.” Good God, these inventors were brilliant, but as paranoid as a prince's aging light o' love when faced with a young, beautiful replacement mistress.

Fulton gazed over Duncan's shoulder. “I will not allow Britain to turn my inventions into death machines.”

He almost laughed aloud at the man's willful blindness. “If we don't, Bonaparte will. It's the nature of men.”

“Maybe it's the nature of those
you
associate with.” Fulton's look burned with disdain. “I won't work in the British Admiralty with the impertinent and imperious always at my shoulder, awaiting an opportunity to turn
my
inventions to
their
profit. France is finally indepen
dent of selfish kings and greedy lords and should thus remain. I wish you a good day, sir.”

As the funny door with its diamond-carved insets was about to close in his face, Duncan asked, “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Fulton?”

Fulton's head popped around the half-shut door. “One sheet of glass cut onto four circular shapes for the observation dome, to this specification.” He shoved a piece of paper into Duncan's hand. “Twelve iron sheets, and twenty strong rivets. Thirty-eight pounds of steel in strips, as high a quality as you can procure. A pair of bellows, and a portable forge in the stables, mounted on an iron cart and on wheels for ease of movement.”

He'd had a list ready. Duncan almost laughed at the audacity. “It will be done as soon as may be.”

“Also a horse and cart, reasonable size, and a man you trust to help me with transporting a large item. I need the equipage before first light. I want no one to see what I'm transporting. This item is of great value to me.” The defiant look told Duncan Fulton wanted him to ask, so he could go on the offensive again—but why bother? Whoever he sent with the transport tomorrow would give him full information.

“I'll arrange it.”

Fulton's frustration boiled over. “Do what you will, you will never buy me.” The door closed in his face.

Duncan turned on his heel and walked past tangled gorse shrubs that grew wild above the rock-strewn creek leading to the beach. At the end of the path, he headed northwest across the scrubby grass and sand. Aware of the limp that made him more obvious to any observer, he was glad of the swift night falling. In the dark cloak, he was invisible. Unidentifiable.

At a small cove north of Ambleteuse, he boarded the launch. Twelve sailors rowed him back to the black-painted ship, sitting just inside French waters. Firelight and three lamps lit the commander's quarters when he walked in. He reported to his commanding officer without reserve. Burton and Flynn guarded the doors. “It's useless, sir.
He won't change allegiances in our lifetime. He believes democracy will work here, and that Bonaparte's another Washington.”

“Certainly,” William Windham snapped, “and the French Revolution never collapsed on itself and killed its own people by the thousands.” The former British minister at war shook his long, thin head in disgust. “Has he any idea of the economic and military mess Britain's in, thanks to nine years of war forced on us by France's enforced spread of republican ideals across the Continent?”

“I think we can include two failed harvests, the House of Lords always voting to attack Ireland to keep their lands intact, and the Prince of Wales's rabid overspending,” Duncan said dryly. “In my opinion, Britain could benefit from some of Boney's financial genius and self-restraint.” Indeed, Boney had dragged France from four hundred and seventy million francs of crushing debt to a small surplus in under two years: an amazing feat.

“What are you, a bloody Revolutionist? Are you willing to give up
your
future title and lands to the revolutionary rabble?” Zephyr snapped. “Shall we bring over the guillotine while we're at it? Because we'd all be dead within the year, and then the rabble will turn on one another to lift themselves above the rest!”

He ought to have held his tongue. “I beg your pardon, sir.” Huge waves were breaking against the ship. Duncan's thigh ached as he struggled to keep balance. If this was any indication, it was going to be one hell of a winter. “In any case, anything Fulton knows is from Boney's rhetoric against us.”

“If he believes that hysteria, he probably thinks Boney wants peace in Europe instead of becoming the next Alexander. Madame de Staël was right: ‘He can live only in agitation, and only breathe freely in a volcanic atmosphere.'” Windham put his hands in his hair, remembered he had a wig on, and blew out a sigh. “Boney
thrives
on war.”

If he thrives on it, it's odd that he keeps offering the world peace treaties, and it's us, the Austrians, and Russians that keep declaring war on him.
This time, Duncan kept his thought to himself. Zephyr was so thoroughly
a man of the upper class he saw declaring war on anyone wanting to change the status quo as an act of defense.

After the long walk to the house and back, Duncan's leg was throbbing like the dickens. Holding on to the edge of the desk, he said, “Fulton has two types of underwater boat bombs that have the potential to revolutionize sea battle: the torpedo, which is a sticky bomb; and the carcass, which is a barrel bomb he's attempting to shoot out of something called a propulsion chamber. If Bonaparte seizes them, he'd give them to the Ministries of Science and the Marine. Within months France could devastate our fleet and invade without fear of retaliation. The army at home is a shambles of drunkards and boys. They'd be helpless against this new
Grande Armée
he's assembled.”

“Shall we recall the professional soldiers from Egypt and Ireland, allow those nations to be invaded or run rampant, to relieve your fears?” his superior mocked him. “Show them some proof, and the government might do something.”

“It's said he has a hundred thousand trained soldiers besides the twenty thousand around Paris and the ten thousand guarding the Channel Coast,” Duncan went on, refusing to be baited. “All he needs is the means to get them across the Channel, and Britain's lost.”

Windham snapped, “So much for Boney's wanting peace, then! In any case, why do you think I let you relocate Fulton so close to Boulogne, only three miles outside the first posting of guards? If you find evidence that this
bête noire
of yours exists in truth, Fulton might realize Bonaparte's true intentions and turn his coat.”

It was Windham's way to belittle and deride, then act decisively when proven wrong, so Duncan stuck to the point. “We need more ships patrolling the Channel, sir.”

“There are none to spare. A hundred ships are chasing privateers across the Atlantic, and a score of them are ship prisons on the Thames, or transporting criminals to Sydney Town. Dissidents are gathering arms in Dublin, so Addington's ordered fifty ships westward. The Admiralty only spared us the half-dozen ships we have because Lord Nelson insisted. You can try to interest the Guernsey privateers with
promises of booty, but I doubt they'll move without the king's written permission.”

Irritably wishing Windham would ask him to sit, Duncan hung on to the edge of his desk. “We must obtain a submersible boat from Fulton, and a navigator. The house and five hundred francs I gave Fulton won't last long. His inventions are expensive to make and repair.”

Zephyr slanted him a look of pure derision. “To give him more until he's given allegiance to Britain is absurd.”

Duncan kept his mouth shut about the further promises he'd made Fulton.

Frowning, Zephyr fiddled with a quill and the inkpot glued onto the desk. “Addington will refuse to see the French threat until Ireland's safe. He hangs on to that bloody Amiens Treaty like it's made of diamonds instead of barefaced lies.” He shrugged. “Keep your team close. Something's foul in the wind, and these ports are too close to Britain.”

Beneath the pithy nature and contempt for the mental acuity of his fellow man, Duncan knew he could rely on Windham to support his operatives. “Fulton doesn't like me, sir.”

“So send him someone he will like,” Windham snapped sotto voce. “He's lacking assistance. You have a shipwright, don't you, and an engineer?”

“I used Flynn to trick him into leaving Le Havre, sir, and Carlsberg, though an excellent engineer, couldn't convince anyone he's French.”

His spymaster thought for a minute. “I've heard he likes pretty young things. The sailors were speaking about a girl on board. If she's pretty, and capable of playing a loyal republican, let him play with her. Maybe she'll wiggle a promise out of him in pillow talk.”

Though it echoed his plan, Duncan balked like a horse on a high jump. “Fulton seems a moral kind of man, sir. An idealist.”

“It doesn't extend to his bed, trust me. Madame Barlow lived with Fulton for two years while he paid her gudgeon of a husband for the privilege. High ideals.” He harrumphed, pacing the cabin. “He likes young, married women with complacent husbands—or better yet,
absent.” He frowned. “It's Eddie Sunderland's girl on your ship, isn't it—the one you were looking for?” Zephyr stopped at the fire, holding his hands out to warm them. “Hmmm. A pretty girl with charm to spare like her mother, married and with a damaged reputation.” He slanted Duncan a questioning glance.

Clasped behind his back, Duncan's hands curled into hard fists. It took all his self-control to speak in a cool, disinterested tone. “She's only nineteen, sir.”

“Don't be a muttonhead. Do you want Fulton's boat or not? I told you he likes pretty young things, and more so if there are no fathers about, or any chance of virginal entrapment.”

Duncan felt an odd constriction in his throat, knowing what Eddie, Leo, and Andrew would say to that. It would probably destroy poor Caroline. “Lady Sunderland is ill.”

“So let Eddie come for the girl,” Zephyr retorted. “He's not tied and gagged in Norfolk.”

Since it was an echo of his own belief, Duncan didn't even try to defend Eddie. “She's twice refused the pillow-talk part of the plan.”

“Damn it. She's already ruined—so what's her issue?” After a few moments, Zephyr clicked his fingers. “Chit's after redemption, eh? So give her what any girl of our class must want. Get Eddie's promise of forgiveness, or better yet, get her mother to write, praising her courage. That'll give her incentive.”

The echoes of his plan rang in his conscience like a bell tolling. From Zephyr's mouth, it felt like a premonition of disaster.

Having taken Duncan's assent for granted, Zephyr had moved on. “Trouble is, Fulton will suspect anyone coming to him now.” He clicked his fingers again. “Damage her.”

Only strong self-discipline prevented him from sputtering. “No,” he said coldly.