The Lure of the Moonflower (23 page)

“No! Yes. But that’s not the point.”

What was the point? Jane wasn’t sure. Or, rather, she was fairly sure she didn’t want to be sure.

This was ridiculous. They had a queen to rescue, didn’t they?

Wrenching the gate open, Jane strode briskly forward. “If anything goes wrong in Peniche, there’s a boat waiting off the coast of Berlengas. There’s a signal. I’ll show it to you.”

“You’re going the wrong way.” Jack caught up with her in a crooked alley between houses, tugging a reluctant Hippolyte behind him. “Why should anything go wrong?”

Aside from her going the wrong way?

They retraced their steps past the marketplace, Jane trying to put a finger on her feelings. “It’s what you said . . . about
amigos de Peniche
. There’s something I don’t like about this. Something smells wrong.”

“Lingering eau de hot spring?” When Jane didn’t return Jack’s smile, he said, “That saying dates back to Sir Francis Drake.”

Jane couldn’t quite explain it. Something was niggling at her, something she had missed. Why would the Queen leave Alcobaça in such a hurry? Why go to Peniche rather than continuing on to Porto?

Amateurs, Jack had said, and that much was true. Amateurs were unpredictable.

“All the same,” said Jane slowly, “it’s foolish to charge in without thinking through all the contingencies. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nothing ever goes quite as planned.”

She glanced up to find Jack’s eyes on her face. “Once we have the Queen—”

Something about the way he was looking at her made her feel like a girl at her first assembly, waiting breathlessly to be asked to dance. “Yes?”

“We bring her to this boat you mentioned?”

Jane swallowed her disappointment, giving a short, businesslike nod. “It’s called the
Bien-Aimée
. The captain is named Lord Richard Selwick—he was formerly the Purple Gentian.”

“Formerly?”

“It’s a long story.” There was no more time for stories, long or otherwise. Jane shoved that depressing thought aside, forcing herself to concentrate on the matter at hand. “The signal is two longs and a short, followed by two shorts and a long.”

“That’s all? What about a signal for distress?”

“That,” said Jane dryly, “generally consists of waving one’s arms about in the air and shouting loudly.”

“It won’t work,” said Jack dismissively. “It’s miles to Berlengas. They’ll never see a lantern from the coast.”

Did he think they hadn’t thought of that? “There’s a lighthouse. With any luck, the keeper is amenable to bribes.”

Jack frowned. “It’s chancy.”

“Do you have a better plan?” Jane stalked forward, the road hard beneath her thin-soled boots. “Everything is chancy. Life is chancy.”

“Jane.” Jack caught her arm, the momentum swinging her around to face him.

“What?” she demanded. “What?”

Whatever he had been about to say, Jack thought better of it. “Do you think we’re walking into a trap?”

“I’d prefer that we not,” said Jane. She felt suddenly very tired. They were both behaving like children. Like spoiled children.

This was why one didn’t allow oneself to embark on affairs of the heart, not while on mission. The Purple Gentian had blundered into a trap because he was busy mooning over Jane’s cousin Amy. As for Miss Gwen— No, Jane didn’t want to think that closely about her chaperone and Jack’s father. Suffice it to say they had allowed themselves to become distracted while on mission and leave it at that.

And Jane had watched, superior and slightly scornful, knowing she had the sense not to tumble into that particular trap.

Nicolas had been different. She hadn’t been in love with Nicolas.

“Jane?” Jack waved a hand in front of her face. She was staring. She hadn’t realized she had been staring. “Jane? Are you all right? You’ve gone green.”

“Just thinking,” Jane said quickly. “About Peniche.”

Jack did not appear entirely convinced. “What about it?”

Jane tried to remember what she’d been thinking before inconvenient topics like love got in the way. “Amateur conspirators make me nervous. They’re unpredictable. It’s a weakness.”

Jane’s steps faltered as an idea teased at the edge of her consciousness.

Slowly, she said, “The Gardener is very good at exploiting weaknesses.”

Jack looked at her sharply. “You’ve thought of something. What?”

“What if it was a trap, but it wasn’t meant for us?” She couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before. “Amateur conspirators use simple codes. They’re painfully easy to copy. It would be child’s play to infiltrate their organization and find the key.”

Jack’s eyes met hers. “And once he had it . . .”

“He wouldn’t even need to go after them. He could just sit in comfort and wait for them to come to him.”

“It’s brilliant.” His voice was warm with admiration, and not for their old adversary. “You’re brilliant.”

Jane made a self-deprecating gesture. “It’s only a theory.”

Jack had already gone into full planning mode. “If Thomières did arrive in Peniche as planned, how many men will he have?”

“A full battalion, plus a detachment of artillery. Oh, and fifty dragoons.” She’d nearly forgotten the dragoons.

“So . . . three hundred–odd men? I don’t want to underestimate our mutual talents, but that might take more than a saber and an épée.”

“I left my épée in Paris,” said Jane. “And my pistols in Santarém.”

She didn’t miss the épée, but she did regret those pistols. Not that a pair of pistols would be terribly much use against an entire French battalion, however travel-weary or battered.

They couldn’t hope for much by way of reinforcements. The island fortress of Berlengas was held by a handful of British marines. Richard might have brought five men, six at most.

Jane looked up at Jack, bracing herself for objections. “We haven’t the resources to storm the castle . . . but we can infiltrate from within.
I
can infiltrate from within.” Quickly, Jane added, “If the Gardener isn’t there, I can pose as a distressed Frenchwoman. And if he is—”

Jack’s arms were folded across his chest; his features might have been carved out of granite. “All right.”

“I
’ve had more experience— What?”

“All right,” Jack repeated. Hippolyte emitted a bray of protest as Jack strode forward, his pace forcing the reluctant donkey into a trot. “If we find a French garrison there when we arrive in Peniche, you go in.”

Jane hurried to catch up with him. “You’re not going to argue with me?”

The frozen earth was hard beneath the soles of Jack’s boots. “Would I like to single-handedly storm the fort, rout the entire garrison, and present you with a queen on a platter? Yes. Do I stand a chance? No. You do.” Relenting, Jack slowed a bit, looking sideways at Jane. “Do I like it? I’d rather be pounded with a mallet and roasted over hot coals.”

“One seldom roasts over cold coals.” Lightly Jane touched Jack’s arm. Softly she said, “Thank you.”

“For what?” He could feel her touch like a brand. “For stepping back and letting you do all the work?”

“No.” She looked at him under the brim of her hat, seeming painfully young in her boy’s garb. “For trusting me.”

He could brush it off, make it less than it was. “I would sooner trust you than anyone,” said Jack gruffly.
“But
.
”

“But?”

“We don’t leave anything to chance.” Jack tramped grimly forward. “We need a strategy before you go in. A plan. And we’re going to make bloody sure we’ve thought through every last contingency.”

Something that would provide him with a spurious sense of control while the woman he loved surrendered herself to her former lover.

Jack glanced sharply at Jane. Loved? He hadn’t meant loved. He’d meant—

Loved.

Damn.

Jane, mercifully, didn’t seem to notice that he felt as though he’d just been kicked in the head by the donkey. “Even the best-laid plans go awry.”

Striving for normalcy, Jack said, “I believe the phrase you’re looking for is ‘aft gang agley.’”

Love? No, no, no. That wasn’t part of the plan. That wasn’t part of any plan. Jack tried to conjure the image of Jane as he’d first seen her, frilled, jeweled, and dismissive in a rented room in Lisbon, but, while he could recall the picture of her, he couldn’t recall the animus that had gone with it. He knew too much of her now; he knew that beneath that supercilious poise lay a deep desire to do right, an earnestness that rendered her infinitely vulnerable. The spoiled society beauty he had met in Lisbon didn’t exist, any more than the peasant boy trudging beside him.

There was just Jane, quick, clever, earnest. Passionate.

“You read Burns?”

“What?” It took Jack a moment to realize what she was saying. “No. My father used to read me Burns.”

It was one of those memories he’d chosen not to remember: taking refuge with his father late at night, after the others were in bed, his father reading the verse by the light of a single lantern, his voice deepening into the rolling Highland brogue that had belonged to Jack’s grandparents in a misty green land far, far away.

It was easier not to remember that. It was easier to remember only the unhappy hours.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner that I knew your family,” said Jane quietly.

There was so much he wanted to ask, but to do so would be to admit that he wanted to know. That he cared.

Jack shrugged. “It wasn’t relevant to the mission. You did what you needed to do. And we,” he said firmly, pushing aside any thoughts of what they’d done, “need to find that Queen and get her out. Get you both out,” he corrected himself. “So. How are we going to do this?”

Jane eyed him sideways, but didn’t push the topic. “It’s really very simple. I go in. I ask for Nicolas.”

“And if he’s not there?”

“I pretend to be a distressed Frenchwoman lost on the road,” said Jane promptly. “I have the white silk gown from the abbey. If I claim to be under the Comte de Brillac’s protection, no one will molest me.”

Jack didn’t need her to spell out what was meant by “protection.” “In other words,” he said, folding his arms across his chest, “you’ll pose as Brillac’s mistress.”

“The easiest roles are those with a touch of the truth.” Jane’s pale eyes met his, rueful, questioning.

Jack bit his tongue. Hard. It wasn’t fair for him to condemn her liaison with the Gardener, any more than it would have been fair for him to pretend that there had been no one before her, or that none of them had mattered in their way, at their time. They were neither of them youths just out of the schoolroom.

“Just so long as it’s only a role,” muttered Jack, and then felt like a cad. “Fine. You go in. You ask for the Comte de Brillac. And then?”

Jane looked away. “And then,” she said, “I imagine Nicolas will offer me a glass of wine.”

Hippolyte gave an indignant bray. Jack loosened his stranglehold on the donkey’s lead. “If the Queen’s not there,” he said, his voice flat and hard, “you get out. You get out quickly.”

“Agreed. And if the Queen is there?”

Jack frowned. “You won’t be able to shift her on her own. She’s a large woman. The odds are that she’ll be heavily drugged.”

“Rendering her limp, and thus even harder to move.” A faint smile crossed Jane’s lips. “We could take a leaf from the conspirators’ book—you and Richard could infiltrate the fortress, disguised as priests.”

Jack raised a brow. “Richard? Not Lord Richard?”

Jane looked him quizzically. “Lord Richard is married to my cousin Amy. He’s like a brother to me.”

Not that Jack had thought otherwise. Not really. Oh, the hell with it.

Jack shoved his hands into his pockets. “Irritating as all hell, but always there to watch your back?”

Jane smiled ruefully. “Precisely. We can only hope he hasn’t brought Amy. She is in a delicate condition, but I’m not sure that will stop her from wanting to swing through the window on a rope and single-handedly confront the Gardener.”

“If he’s busy delivering a baby,” said Jack bluntly, “he won’t be chasing you.”

“All the same, I would prefer my next godchild not be born in a French fortress.” She winced, and said hurriedly, “I don’t know whether Richard has the appropriate clerical garb on board, but it shouldn’t be too hard to come by.”

Jack reluctantly dismissed the plan. “Two priests dragging the limp body of the Queen through the courtyard might arouse attention.”

“Could we lower her by rope?”

Jack tried to recall what he knew about the fortress of Peniche. “The windows on the seaward side aren’t large enough.”

Jane grimaced. “Had I known it would come to this, I would have commissioned a plan of the fort. The fort is old; it was constructed over successive generations by multiple architects. There must be some forgotten entrance or exit, something discreet, something a new arrival wouldn’t necessarily have found.”

They walked in silence for a moment. Half to herself, Jane said, “It’s a pity it’s such a small garrison. If it were larger, you and Richard might slip in disguised as members of the detachment of dragoons. But with a force this size, after traveling together for so long, a newcomer will stand out. Unless we wait until after dusk?”

While Jane sat in her white silk gown, sipping wine with the Comte de Brillac.

Sipping wine . . .

Hippolyte nearly ran into Jack’s back as he stopped short. “Is the Queen in the custody of Thomières or the Comte de Brillac?” he asked abruptly.

Jane looked at him quizzically, but she answered readily enough. “I would imagine the comte. He would want the credit.”

“Thomières doesn’t outrank him?” The plan Jack had in mind was contingent on the Gardener’s being the orders that would count.

“Perhaps on paper,” said Jane thoughtfully, “but I doubt Thomières would dare to countermand him. There are times when self-preservation is more important than protocol.”

Ordinarily the Gardener’s power would have annoyed Jack; at the moment it worked in their favor.

“So,” said Jack, his eyes meeting Jane’s, “if the Comte de Brillac were to sign an order for the Queen to be moved, it would be obeyed?”

Jane’s breath caught in her throat. “An order specifying that the Queen was to be transferred—to the fortress of Berlengas, perhaps?”

Jack smiled smugly. “How well can you imitate the comte’s handwriting?”

“Well enough.” Jane’s face fell. “But I’ll need his seal. They won’t honor his orders without his seal.”

It wasn’t the sort of seal one could counterfeit. Jack knew that seal of old. It had signed the orders directing him to kill his mentor—and, he was sure, the order commanding Jack’s own death.

“There are opiates in my bag,” said Jack. “Enough to give the Gardener some very interesting dreams. Can you get them into his wine?”

“After Santarém,” said Jane wryly, “he might not be so eager to take food from my hand.”

Jack grinned. “I’d forgotten about that. Zounds, that felt good.”

“Not for Nicolas,” said Jane.

Jack’s grin broadened. He couldn’t help it. It was childish, but the thought of the Gardener bent over a chamber pot just made his day.

“Can you carry it off—despite that?”

Jane thought seriously about the question. “Yes,” she said at last. “As odd as it seems, he may not have connected me with his stomach upset.”

“Even though you ran?”

Jane glanced wryly up at him. “I’ve run from him before. It seemed easier than continuing to say no.”

It was hard not to feel just a little satisfied by that. Jack tried to focus on the matter at hand. “Hell hath no fury like a man scorned. If it’s not safe—”

“Nicolas,” said Jane wearily, “believes that flight is merely an invitation to pursue. It is a game to him.”

“It’s not a game to me.” Had he said that out loud? Jack hastily backtracked. “Er—the Queen, I mean. Saving the Queen.”

Jane cocked her head. “Didn’t you once say this was a fool’s mission?”

“Yes, but we’re the fools assigned to it.” Oh, hell. Who was he deceiving? To the choppy waters of the ocean, Jack said brusquely, “And I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

The air smelled of salt. The irregular shape of the fortress was already in sight across the spar of land that joined Peniche to the mainland. Jack could feel time slipping away from them. He wanted it back.

Weeks and weeks they had had together, but it felt like minutes, too quickly gone. What had they done with that time? Jack willed the waters into the distance, willed the stones of the fortress to crumble and fall away into the sea. Let Rome into Tiber melt and let the road roll on and on.

But it didn’t. The stones stayed firmly in place, closer now, and a gull cawed over the waters.

With unspoken agreement, they turned off the road, into a copse sheltered by large boulders. Hippolyte grazed among the thin stalks of winter brown grass. Plucking off her hat, Jane shook her hair free. It sifted down around her shoulders, the color of winter wheat in the sunshine. Jack’s hands tingled at the memory of it, the feel of it against his palms, sliding through his fingers.

Jane took the white silk dress from her pack and shook it out. In another minute she would be back in her gown, back in her role, ready to confront the Gardener in his den, leaving Jack wondering and waiting.

He couldn’t let her go. Not like that.

Jack braced his hands against a boulder. “Jane. About last night . . .”

Jane’s hands stilled on the dress. Without looking at him, she said carefully, “Is this really the time?”

“We might not have another time.” Jack took a step forward, and then caught himself.

Nicolas believes that flight is merely an invitation to pursue.
He didn’t want her to feel caught or cornered. But he needed her to know—

Abruptly, Jack said, “We never discussed—if there should be a child . . .”

It wasn’t what he had meant to say.

Jane ducked her head, hiding her face from him as she carefully smoothed out the folds of the gown. “You needn’t worry. My courses—it would be highly unlikely.”

The jerkiness of her movements might be attributed to embarrassment. Jack was a little surprised. Jane wasn’t generally missish about the practicalities.

The word left a bitter taste on his tongue. Practicalities. He shouldn’t be talking about practicalities. He should be telling her that she hung the moon in the sky, or that her eyes were the same color as some flower or other, or some such romantic drivel that didn’t even come close to how he felt.

“Nevertheless,” Jack persisted doggedly, “if there should be consequences, you’re not on your own.”

It might not be what he’d intended to say, but he meant it. The idea of any child of his out in the world on its own—no, no, and no.

That was a lesson, Jack realized, he had learned from his father. Who, no matter the circumstances, no matter the inconvenience to himself, the demands on his purse, the ribbing of his messmates, had never denied any of them.

Jack had never thought of himself as emulating his father—in fact, he had very determinedly attempted not to—but in this, the old boy had a point.

Jane glanced at him sideways. There were fine lines between her brows. “You would abandon your post?”

“Rather my post than you,” Jack said gruffly. “Or our child.”

The words seemed to echo in Jane’s ears. Her hands tightened on the white gown, crushing the material between her fingers. Slowly, carefully, she set the dress aside, drawing in a long breath through her nose.

She had never particularly pined after a child of her own. Yes, she enjoyed her goddaughter and the children of her friends, but her time with them had never awakened any burning maternal desires in her breast. In her line of work, a child would be worse than an inconvenience; it would be a disaster. Jane had seen what happened to other agents. The obvious discomforts of pregnancy were the least of the matter. How could one make clear choices knowing that one’s child might be taken as hostage? It was a vulnerability, a potentially fatal vulnerability.

Once the war was over . . . Yes, perhaps. Jane had never devoted much thought to the prospect. The idea of a child was something vague and distant, something for a misty and decidedly unlikely future.

But in Jack’s voice, the concept became very real indeed. Jane could smell the downy head, feel it cradled in her arms.