Authors: Brenda Novak
A drunk man lying amid the garbage in the gutter sat up as she passed by. “Ahoy thar, pretty maid,” he cried out.
Startled into a run, she flew around the next corner, hoping to find light and people near the water. Sailors were reputed to be an unsavory lot known for carousing the night away, but their company was better than no company at all.
The street sloped down to meet the wharves and the rest of the fog cleared, giving Jeannette her first glimpse of the night’s moon. A mere sliver of light that appeared to curve into a jeering smile, it mocked her fear and her flight. It touched the harbor with a silvery glow that caused the black, inky sea to glisten like a field of crushed diamonds. Large merchant brigs, smaller clippers, and a frigate farther out rocked upon the waves. The lanterns attached to their masts looked, from a distance, like so many yellow eyes staring back at her.
Two men approached on a street intersecting her own. Before they could see her, she darted into the shadows to wait for them to pass.
The stench of wet wool and sweat trailed after them. They had to be heading toward the noisy taverns along the harbor. That was the only section of town that had any life at this hour. The light and music tempted Jeannette, as well. She hesitated to visit such disreputable establishments, but she hardly felt any safer on the streets.
In the end, the miserable weather became the deciding factor. She followed them before she could lose sight of their stocky forms, telling herself she’d let them lead her through the streets. She longed for the warmth of a fire and a safe place to rest, if only for a few minutes.
A chorus of music, laughter, and male voices swelled as her guides stepped into a pub named, by a crudely lettered sign, The Stag.
A moment later, Jeannette followed.
Glad to escape the rain that was dripping into her face despite her beleaguered bonnet, Jeannette hovered near the entrance, feeling rather conspicuous in her peasant garb. Surely only women of ill-repute frequented these taverns. But she would have crawled into a beast’s lair if it meant a reprieve from the dark, the wet, and the cold.
Although the Stag wasn’t crowded, it smelled strongly of ale, wood smoke, and foul cheroots. The barmaids were haranguing a few snoring stragglers, trying to get them to remove their slumbering bulks to the rooms upstairs. But judging by the empty glasses cluttering the vacant tables, most had already moved on.
A huge fireplace took up one whole wall. Eager for its warmth, Jeannette sank down on its hearth and rubbed her freezing fingers before the crackling flames. Her hair lay plastered against her face and neck. And her skirt clung to her shivering body. Ah, for a warm bed, or a change of clothes...But she had no coin to purchase either.
Content that she was safe for the moment, she stared into the flames and tried to think. She couldn’t stay long, would have to press on come morning. Otherwise, St. Ives stood a good chance of finding her before she reached Lord Darby. And, as her husband, the baron could legally drag her back to his home, beat her, do almost anything he pleased.
Jeannette thought of Henri and her parents and hoped they fared well. No doubt they were worried about her.
How she wished she were back in France, safe in her home. She longed for the life she’d known before the Revolution. But every morning when she opened her eyes to England, she knew those days were gone, probably forever.
Leaning wearily against the stones, she forced back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. Her nose was beginning to run. She reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, but, realizing she didn’t have one, shrugged and wiped her nose on her sleeve, too dejected to care.
A clatter brought Jeannette’s head up. Guffaws rang out from a group in the corner as a barmaid tried to keep the tankards she hadn’t dropped from joining the one she had.
“That ought ter cool yer ardor,” she said, swinging her hips as she moved around the table.
Jeannette pushed the straying tendrils of hair out of her eyes. Five sailors, roughly dressed, sat at a table with three others, dressed in the formal blue-and-white uniform of officers in the Royal Navy. Ignoring the overturned cup and spilled ale at their feet, they laughed as mugs of the same brew were placed in front of them.
The girl who delivered their drinks giggled as the man she’d doused pulled her onto his lap. “Not ’ardly,” he vowed.
Another barmaid, taking an interest in the revelry, sauntered toward them and leaned so low over the table that Jeannette expected her to knock over more drink.
The sailors didn’t notice—the ale, anyway. Their eyes were riveted to what Jeannette could only assume was a spectacular display of cleavage. All except one particular officer, who wore the single epaulette of a lieutenant. Tilting his chair back against the wall, he watched the maid with a scowl.
“What’s wrong? Don’t ye like what ye sees?” she teased, singling him out.
Another young man with short-cropped hair spoke up. “Ah, don’t mind Lieutenant Treynor, Molly. He’s been dour all night. Besides, he’s not all he’s cracked up to be.” He shot the officer in question a quick smile, as if to soften his quip, but the man called Treynor merely shrugged.
“Well, I’m not askin’ ’im ter marry me,” Molly retorted.
The others hooted with laughter.
“’E’s in love then? Got a jealous wife?”
“No,” the young sailor replied. “He’s just too concerned with his duty to enjoy a good romp. At least one he’ll tell about.” He winked. “A lieutenant’s got a lot on his mind, you know.”
The man called Treynor set his chair back on all fours with a bang. “Indeed. I must make sure you gentlemen make it back to the ship come morning, along with the beef we were sent for.”
“You know you can trust us, Trey,” the younger man said. “Anyway, the
Tempest
puts in at London before we head back out to sea. If I was going to desert, I’d do it there, where I have family.” He stood and took the barmaid’s hand. “Come on, Mol. My coin’s as good as his, and I’ll keep you warmer.”
Molly paused, her reason obvious, at least to Jeannette, who had never seen a more handsome man than the lieutenant. White, straight teeth gleamed between full lips. A slight cleft in his chin and a strong, square jaw complemented a rather crooked smile. Brows a shade darker than his sandy-colored hair arched above light eyes. Although Jeannette couldn’t determine the exact color of those eyes, they seemed intelligent and expressive, even from across the room.
“That’s the way of it, then?” the maid asked with obvious disappointment.
“I’m not worthy of your charms, Molly love,” Treynor answered with an unexpected grin. “Go and enjoy yourself with Dade. He’s a much younger man and will no doubt be quicker, if not more to your liking.”
The sailors chortled at Treynor’s insult, and someone close enough to Dade nudged him in the ribs.
“I wish ye’d let me be the judge o’ that,” the girl sulked, but when Dade appeared wounded, she curved her lips into a grudging smile. “Oh, all right. ’Tis gettin’ late, and I’m not one ter plead fer a man in my bed. Most o’ the time, the likes of ye are beggin’ me!”
“No doubt.” The lieutenant agreed amiably enough, but Jeannette couldn’t help wondering if he was merely being kind.
Molly and Dade moved away from the table with the other maid and the man who’d captured her. The four of them headed to the stairs as Treynor got up. Impressive by any standard, he stood a head taller than his comrades.
After throwing a few coins on the table, he turned to the officers who remained. “I’ll expect you up at first light.”
“I’ll be there. But will they?” Another of the officers hitched a thumb at the departing sailors. “Why you’d let ’em go a-whorin’ on their last night of shore leave is beyond me.”
Treynor chuckled. “If only for the chance, I have no doubt you’d be trailing a skirt as well. Anyway, I’d rather they have their fun here. The
Tempest
looks like a bawdy house whenever we put in.” Tossing back the remainder of his ale, he left the room with only a slight sway in his step to reveal that he, too, had indulged in his share of drink.
As Jeannette watched him go, a plan formed in her head. The sailors were leaving early in the morning and, according to the man called Dade, they were heading straight to London, which would probably take about two days.
Any other form of transportation would take at least a week.
Rain thrummed on the windows of the baron’s drawing room, slapping the glass and cascading down in sheets. The wind howled through the eaves as well, bending the trees against the house and drawing Percy’s attention to the dark night beyond.
His bride had gone missing more than three hours ago. But she was out there...somewhere.
“Will you not answer to these charges?” the count demanded when he didn’t speak.
Percy turned from the window and once again faced his bride’s family. “It’s rubbish, of course. No more than the wild imaginings of your boy here, I suspect. What other answer could there be?”
Henri stood in the middle of the floor, his face flushed. “I imagined nothing,
monsieur
. Those men talked of my sister. I heard them say ‘Jeannette’ and make”—his eyes darted back to his parents—“certain disrespectful remarks regarding her beauty and...‘ripeness.’”
“Mon Dieu!”
The count jumped to his feet while his wife remained on the sofa, crying. “I demand an explanation!”
“The charges are ridiculous.” St. Ives ignored Henri and directed his comments to Jeannette’s father instead. “Whoever the boy heard—and he gives no names—could have been drunk and talking about their own lustful fantasies. Surely you can see that.”
“I see nothing,
monsieur,
only that my daughter is missing. My son—” the Comte de Lumfere motioned to Henry “—seems to offer the only clue.”
Percy drew himself up to his full height, however lacking he knew that to be. “I beg your pardon, sir. Does my reputation not count for anything in France? Does the blessing your own cousin, Lord Darby, gave this wedding not stand as a witness in my favor?"
“Until I get my daughter back safely, I care little for a man's reputation, or another’s recommendation.”
The baron strove to keep a tight rein on his temper. It had been a humiliating, disastrous evening. But at least the Bouchers had come to him with their accusations instead of adding to his problems by simply disappearing as their daughter had.
“I realize how difficult this must be for you.” Percy kept his voice as level as possible. “But please try to understand my own dismay. This unfortunate misunderstanding has poisoned my wife against me. Do you not see? We are both victims.”
The Comte de Lumfere grunted. “Jeannette would not have offended you without good reason.”
Percy eased himself into a chair, trying not to wince at the pain such movement caused his gouty foot. He was so tired; they were all tired. It was getting late. The guests who had traveled long distances slept in the east wing. The others had departed. Even most of the servants had retired for the night. Except for the steady rain outside, the crackle of the fire to his right, and the echo of their own conversation, the house was quiet.
“She was misled. It is as simple as that,” Percy insisted when he felt capable of sounding calm. “And I am as concerned as you. We must find my wife before something terrible happens.”
“We
will
find her,
monsieur,
and when we do, we will surely get to the bottom of this matter—”
A brisk knock interrupted. At Percy’s command, Sir Thomas and Desmond entered, pulling a sopping Richard Manville along with them.
The baron came to his feet as quickly as he could. “Sir Thomas? What have you here? You’re supposed to be searching for my wife.”
“That’s him,” Henri exclaimed, pointing a finger at Richard. “That is the man I heard talking about Jeannette.”