Lord Harry's Daughter (17 page)

Chapter
29

The dark winter days dragged slowly by while both armies set about preparing their spring offensives. Mark, under the pretense of exercising Caesar every day, rode out of the city in all directions, getting the lay of the land and a sense of the quality of the roads. He also made a point to ride by the Hotel de Brissac at roughly the same time of day he had seen the condesa riding toward Bayonne.

Hating himself for being suspicious, yet unable to banish the memory of the scornful expression in Sophia's eyes as she had alluded to the condesa's singular interest in British troop movements, he was torn between wondering if Sophia was jealous or if he was a complete fool. And what was the condesa? Mark could not be sure what he wanted the answer to be, but he was certain of one thing, and that was that he wanted some sort of solution to the puzzle, and soon.

The first day he rode by Diane's door all was quiet, and Mark was beginning to congratulate himself on the correctness of his own point of view when, returning to town after his invigorating gallop, he caught sight of one of the servants leaving the condesa's stables on horseback. This, coupled with the rider's nervous glances over his shoulder and the general direction in which he appeared to be heading made Mark halt Caesar in his tracks, turn him around, and follow at a safe distance. Once they had passed by the outskirts of town, it was quite easy for Mark to establish the man's destination as Bayonne, without being seen himself.

Having witnessed enough to decide that there was a pattern worth watching, Mark set his batman to keeping an eye on the activities at the Hotel de Brissac and prepared to call more regularly on the lovely condesa.

Several days later, using the portrait as a pretense. Mark knocked on the impressively carved door of the Hotel de Brissac. A serving girl answered the door. “Ah, monsieur, le majeur, Madame has been hoping you ... ah ... pardon. I shall inform Madame that you are here.” She greeted him in a most friendly fashion before leading him to the salon where the condesa, elegant as usual, in a muslin morning dress with a falling lace collar and Vandyke trimming, welcomed him warmly.

“Milord Adair, I am delighted to see you. This weather has been so
affreux
that I have been confined to the house until I am quite dull with boredom. And all of you English are too busy to come brighten the hours of a poor widow.” Taking his arm, Diane led Mark to the sofa near the fire, and disposing herself gracefully upon it, patted the seat next to her in a most inviting fashion.

“Come now, tell me that it is the plans for Bayonne and not my poor conversation that has kept you away.” She leaned forward with an enchanting smile that revealed just a hint of the dimple at one corner of her mouth.

The smile, however, was lost on Mark, who looking into her eyes, suffered an unpleasant frisson of recognition as he recognized the sly expression from Sophia's portrait. Stealing a glance over the condesa's shoulder to the easel by the window where the portrait was now prominently displayed, he was furnished ample verification of this impression. How could he have been so blind? Rapidly recalling his other encounters with the beautiful Frenchwoman, Mark realized that every one of them had included some pointed questions about the British troops.

“...and when the rain lets up for more than three days at a time, I suppose I shall have to steel myself to bid you all adieu...” The condesa's words broke into Mark's unwelcome reflections. That anyone should be taken in by the Frenchwoman, no matter how lovely she was, was bad enough, but that an exploring officer in particular, and someone who was widely acknowledged for his skill at disguise, had been taken in by the oldest trick in the world—a woman's flattery—was lowering in the extreme. The fact that it all had been brought to his attention by another young woman, one who was the complete opposite of the condesa was almost more than he could bear.

“Ah, my dear condesa"—Mark leaned forward, allowing the hand lying along the back of the sofa to slide imperceptibly until it rested on the lady's shoulder—"my time is not my own, else I would spend my days at your feet instead of on the endless paperwork the duke gives to me."

“Poor Major Adair.” Diane leaned toward him so that the musky perfume clinging to her skin enveloped him in a seductive cloud. “All those maps to survey and battle plans to prepare.” She thrust out her full lower lip into a delicious pout that would have driven anyone less suspicious than Mark to kiss the inviting red mouth right then and there.

“Nothing so exciting, I assure you. We have been so constantly on the move that no one has been able to make a comprehensive report of our last movements for our leaders in Parliament. The task has fallen to me, and I swear that I can tell you more now about what we have done in the last six months than you could ever want to know. The people at home are sticklers for detail—how many killed, how many wounded, how many taken prisoner, who is deserving of recognition."

“How very dull for you.” The condesa's pout grew more pronounced.

“All the more reason that I crave the diversion of your charming company.” The hand that had slipped to the condesa's shoulders now pulled her to him.

With a sigh, Diane slid both her arms around Mark's neck and gave herself up to his expert lovemaking.

The major emerged some hours later, physically satiated, but otherwise unsatisfied. While he had not given up any information to the condesa, he had not discovered any either, and the mission of an exploring officer was to do both, withhold and find out information. On the other hand, rendered acutely sensitive by both his own and Sophia's suspicions, he had been able to remain sufficiently detached during the passionate interlude to determine that the condesa's passion was as forced as his was.

Oh, he had enjoyed himself well enough. The condesa was a beautiful woman with a stunning body which she displayed to its best advantage and used with consummate skill—a skill, he noted wryly, that could not have been perfected by the young and faithful wife of an elderly Spanish conde who was often away with the army. It was obvious to the major that at least one of the Frenchwoman's assertions was patently false—she had not suffered years of lonely widowhood.

And just how many other things about her were equally untrue? In the next hour he was likely to discover, for he knew that Finbury, his batman, was waiting back at their quarters to give him a full report on the comings and goings at the Hotel de Brissac.

When he arrived at his quarters he learned just how duplicitous the lady was. “It is just like you said, sir,” Finbury reported, his grizzled countenance wrinkled more than usual by his expression of disgust. “Every day at midmorning, a servant, or the lady herself, rides off in the direction of Bayonne and then returns, regular as clockwork, two hours later. Now I figure that no one could ride to Bayonne and back in that short amount of time, especially a lady, so it appears to me that they must be meeting someone near our own forward posts at Barroilhet. Being on foot, I could not follow, but it would not be too difficult for someone on horseback to track them down. The Bayonne-Saint Jean road is the only one passable at the moment, the rest being ankle deep in mud. And the fields are not much better. A rider might avoid being seen by cutting across the country a little bit of the way, but anyone who wanted to cover any sort of a distance would be forced to use the road at some point. So I say they are meeting someone coming from Bayonne."

“Excellent work, Finbury. I appreciate your observations. I shall take it from here."

“Very good, sir.” Privately, Finbury thought it would never have occurred to him to be anything but suspicious of the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna and her household in the first place—she was a damned Frog, after all, lady or no lady, Spanish husband or no Spanish husband—but Finbury was the first to admit that the ways of the quality were sometimes obscure. The major, despite being from the best of the quality, was more comprehensible than most, but even he sometimes behaved in ways that caused the batman to scratch his head in puzzlement. Take this French lady, for example. She seemed to have turned the heads of all the officers, his master included, when it was as clear to Finbury as the nose on his face that she cared nothing for any of them and was using them for all they were worth.

Shaking his head, the batman went off to brush the major's dress uniform, leaving the fate of the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna in his master's hands.

Chapter
30

The very next day Mark decided to seal the lady's fate, one way or another. The high-flying clouds the evening before had promised another day without rain, a day fine enough that the lady herself might make the trip.

Having determined the direction in which she always rode, he felt confident enough to leave town well in advance of the hour that riders usually left the Hotel de Brissac. He rode Caesar along the promenade and toward the headland where he had first seen the condesa and then, dismounting behind a rocky outcropping so he was hidden from view from the beach or on the road, he peered around the rock until he had good visibility of the road.

Within half an hour. Mark's vigil was rewarded as he observed a lone rider approaching from town. The rider paused, looking out toward the ocean as though enjoying the view and then, assuring herself the road was deserted, trotted swiftly off toward Bayonne.

Mark waited until horse and rider disappeared from view, threw himself on Caesar's back and galloped off in hot pursuit. The more powerful horse and more experienced rider reached the road in no time and soon had their quarry in their sights.

The flat coastal plain from Guethary to Bidart did not offer much cover, but fortunately the condesa—by now he had assured himself that it was the condesa—having made sure that she was not observed, did not turn around to reconnoiter a second time, but pressed on toward Bayonne.

Ready to leave the road at any moment and hide behind one of the hedges or clumps of trees that presented themselves along the way, Mark followed at a distance great enough not to be heard and near enough to keep the condesa within sight.

They rode on in this manner for the better part of an hour until suddenly, the condesa slowed to a walk. Sensing that she was nearing her destination. Mark hastily pulled Caesar off the road into a convenient copse and waited.

He had concealed himself not a moment too soon, for the condesa stopped, turned around to satisfy herself that she was unobserved, and then made a sharp turn to the right to pick her way carefully across the fields, heading in a northwesterly direction.

Mark waited a minute or two to make certain that all her attention was concentrated in front of her, then turned right himself, to follow a parallel path. Fortunately for him, he could keep just out of sight by sticking to a small ravine. Picking his way carefully, he emerged from the ravine every so often to assure himself that the condesa was continuing in the same direction.

At last he caught sight of a cottage surrounded by hedges. Sure that this was her goal, he pressed forward until he came to a point that he figured was directly in line with the building.

Emerging cautiously from the ravine, horse and rider made quickly for a small stand of trees near the cottage, arriving just in time to observe the condesa pulling her mount up next to another horse tied outside the cottage. The next minute a man emerged and, hurrying toward the lady, caught her in his arms as she slid from her horse, and led her into the cottage.

Still too far away to make out any detail. Mark dismounted, tied Caesar to a tree, and glancing swiftly in all directions, ran forward, keeping low enough to be out of sight.

Gaining the hedge near the cottage, he crouched down and strained to catch any sound of the activity inside, but he was too far away and the wind rattling the dry branches of the trees made it impossible to discern a thing.

Not being sure how long the interchange would last, but knowing from Finbury's reports that it probably would not be long. Mark did not dare move closer, but remained crouched uncomfortably behind the hedge until the creak of the door and the stamping of the horses warned him that the two occupants of the cottage were emerging.

Inching forward, Mark peered through the hedge.

Though much of his view was obscured by the horses and the hedge, he was just able to make out the skirt of the condesa's riding habit and legs encased in the green uniform of a French officer of the heavy dragoons. But now he was able to pick up snatches of their conversation.

"Au revoir, ma belle. Restes tranquil. Les Anglasis,
they are stupid. They think that with winter here, and having beaten back Soult's surprise attack in December, they are safe to let down their guard. You worry too much because you cannot yet discover their exact plans. Perhaps they are planning nothing, or, at most, to lay siege to Bayonne. This Wellington, he is not the strategist our emperor is, or Marshall Soult, for that matter. He can only react, so it is up to the French to plan."

“But it is so long. I wish to be with you, Etienne.
Ces Anglais,
they are gentlemen enough, but they know nothing of love. How much more must I wait, Etienne?"

“Patience,
cherie.
It will not be long now. But you must continue to send me reports regularly so that I may constantly feast my eyes on your charming face."

There was a long pause as the hem of Diane's riding skirt swirled around the officer's boots and Mark, crouched behind the bush, held his breath for fear he might call attention to himself.
You fool,
he chided himself cynically,
no one with his arms around the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna would notice anything so mundane as the snapping of a twig or the crunch of dead leaves.

At last the couple broke apart. Diane was hoisted into the saddle. She bent down for a final kiss and then trotted away, heading for the road to Saint Jean de Luz.

The French officer, only a lieutenant, Mark noted with some satisfaction, took a last look around, then he, too, mounted and headed across the fields toward Bayonne.

Once he had made certain that no one observed his movements, Mark walked back to the cluster of trees, untied Caesar, mounted him, and headed back toward the road, pondering what his next move was to be.

From the conversation that he had overheard it was clear that the condesa had not been able to gather any definitive information as to what the British Army's next move was to be, so it seemed that little actual damage had been done. Mark knew that only a few of Wellington's aides and Sir John Hope were aware that the British were planning to cross the Adour below Bayonne instead of above it, and that Hope's corps were the only part of the army concentrating on the city while the rest were to bypass it.

He decided that the best thing to do would be to lull the condesa into a false sense of security, feeding her misinformation about the army's plans to lay siege to Bayonne, but he rejected this strategy almost immediately. If he been played for a fool, he wanted to know it for certain, and he wanted to know the reasons behind it. Was the condesa selling information to the highest bidder or was she acting out of loyalty to her country and her countrymen? Did she find the French officer more attractive than she found him? Was he a better lover?

Unable to stifle these thoughts. Mark urged Caesar to a gallop, hoping to catch the condesa and confront her before she reached Saint Jean and the Hotel de Brissac. He wanted her alone, face-to-face, with no one else as an audience to lend her sympathy and support.

The faster he rode, the more angry Mark became, angry at the woman for her duplicity, angry at himself for having been so easily taken in, even angry at Sophia for having seen through the condesa and predicted the outcome of events with such stunning accuracy.

Catching sight of the lone rider ahead, he urged Caesar to greater speed. At first his quarry, hearing hoofbeats behind her, quickened her own pace, but then realizing as he gained on her that outrunning her pursuer was futile, she slackened her speed and, when he was within shouting distance, stopped altogether.

Diane turned around to identify the horseman behind her. “Why, Major, how delightful to see you. If I had known it was you behind me, I would have slowed long ago, but the weather looked threatening and I was trying to get home before it broke."

Mark raised one dark eyebrow in patent disbelief as he glanced at the clouds racing overhead. “Surely you were not away so long from your homeland as to forget that clouds moving so high and so fast never bring rain."

“Major, I am but a woman. What do I know of weather and clouds? You military men, on the other hand, are most astute about such things."

"We
military men. Military men such as the French lieutenant you just met?"

The condesa's eyes flicked anxiously from his face toward Bayonne and back again. She licked her lips nervously. “Why, Major, what an absurd notion. What would a daughter of the de Brissacs have in common with one of those
sans-culottes?"
She tossed her head haughtily in the direction of Bayonne.

“Precisely what I was wondering myself. Does Etienne know that you consider him a
sans-culotte?
I would doubt it."

The color drained from the condesa's face. “Why, my lord, what are..."

“Cut line, my lady. I know you have been sending messages regularly to the French, if not in person, through your servant. I know that you cannot wait to join your French lover Etienne who is a lieutenant in the heavy dragoons and though he may not be so much a gentleman as we English, is a better lover.” Mark's mouth twisted into a bitter smile as he watched the stunned expression spread over the condesa's face. “Yes, I heard everything. There is no hope of denying it."

“What would you know about it,” the condesa spat. “Years of enduring poverty, of being forced to marry a man who was over twice my age, all for what?
La Gloire,
and the pride of the de Brissacs? Pride, bah, stupidity more like. It is a stupidity that denies life. You think me a traitor. I am no traitor. I am a Frenchwoman and I am doing what I can to defend my country. So, do what you wish, I have a clear conscience. I at least am worthy of being called a daughter of those ancient warriors the de Brissacs for I have done what I could to defend my country against foreign invaders."

“The de Brissacs, a family whose aristocratic blindness you deplored just moments ago.” Mark shook his head and turned Caesar toward Saint Jean.

“What? You are going to leave just like that? You are going to do nothing? Are you afraid to bring charges against a woman? What cowards you British are!"

“Your sex, madame, has nothing to do with it. Your effectiveness, or lack thereof does. Your precious information that you are passing along is nothing more than what any peasant working his farm between here and Bayonne or any fisherman selling his catch in the surrounding villages knows. Why should I do anything? It is a waste of my time.” Mark dug his heels into Caesar's flanks and was out of earshot before the condesa, seething with frustration, could frame a reply.