say that you are?“
Meriel hesitated. But she very badly wished to trust someone, and this engaging
young man seemed as though he might be an ally. Still, she hesitated for a long
moment before she replied.
„Meriel ‘… Greye. Yes. Tell him that. But who are you?“
„You must call me Louis,“ the stranger said, smiling a little bitterly. „It is forward,
I know, but I have had no other name in our glorious Republic these dozen years.“
Chapter 16
The Lion in the Oak
As soon as Wessex had walked into the Parisian cellar, he’d known that this was
a trap. He did not recognize any of the members of this Underground cell – and he’d
been forced to use the cover of M. de Reynard in contacting them, knowing that the
Red Jacks had blown that nom de guerre months ago and that in all probability they
would know him for an English political agent. And so, it seemed, they did.
„Come in, M’sieur de Reynard… or whatever your real name is,“ the leader – a
brunette who must once have been beautiful but who now was merely striking – said.
„Do not try to leave – you will be dead before you do.“
„I’ve come for information,“ Wessex said evenly. „I am not one of the Red
Jack’s dogs.“
„It does not matter whose dog you are, if you are not ours, hein?“ the woman
said. „You will tell us what you know, and then… we shall see.“
„If I knew anything of interest, I would not have come to you,“ Wessex
responded. In his persona of the Chevalier, he wore a saber at his hip, and carried a
number of other little surprises about his person, but he did not wish to kill anyone
here tonight, much less attract undue attention. „Can’t we behave as reasonable
people? My people have always supported the Restoration of the true government of
France – you have worked with us before.“
„Times change,“ the hard-eyed brunette said. She seemed upon the verge of a
drastic decision, when suddenly there was a small commotion from outside the
door, and Victor Saint-Lazarre walked in.
He appeared taken aback by the sight of Wessex.
„Zette! What are you doing?“ he demanded.
„What I must, Victor,“ Zette replied stonily. „Do you think we dare to trust our
so-called allies at this time of all times? They would steal the bone themselves- – “
„Be quiet!“ Saint-Lazarre snapped. „Can we behave like the sans-cubttes and
hope to save France at the same time? This man is a friend – “
„This man has no name,“ Zette noted dryly. „He says he is the Chevalier de
Reynard – but the Chevalier de Reynard does not exist; he is a shadow cast by an
English spy.“
„I know this man,“ Saint-Lazarre said, gazing steadily at Wessex. „I will vouch
for him. He means us no harm and has done me a very great service.“ He turned his
attention to Wessex. „What have you come here for… m’sieur?“
So Saint-Lazarre was willing to keep his secret. Wessex spared a moment to feel
relief. But Saint-Lazarre knew he was the Duke of Wessex, and now knew him for a
spy. Try as he might, the Frenchman could not keep the expression of distaste from
his face, for a spy was the lowest of back-alley skulkers, and to find that a nobleman
had descended to such a level…
„I came to see if the rumors that the Tyrant was behind the disappearance of
Princess Stephanie of Denmark were true. Her ship has vanished, and I do not
believe that she is dead.“
„The little Princess who was to have sealed the treaty,“ Saint-Lazarre said. „She is
gone?“
„Her ship has vanished.“ Wessex admitted only what the whole world knew.
„And the Marquis de Sade is discovered as the Tyrant’s emissary at the Danish
court. What can he be doing there, I ask?“
„De Sade is a foul name indeed,“ Saint-Lazarre said, shaking his head in disgust
„But we cannot help you, m’sieur. The Princess is not in Paris. And I advise you to
go home, Englishman. France will determine her own destiny without England’s
help.“
And so Wessex had left Paris. But he had not gone home.
All his instincts assured him that Princess Stephanie had been kidnapped, and the
only power that could wish to abduct her was Imperial France. But the Princess had
not vanished alone. A Hundred-Gun Ship of the Line carried over eight hundred men
as its crew; over a thousand men and women had vanished with the Princess, and
Wessex did not believe that Bonaparte had executed them all… the little Corsican
was too canny a gamesman to have done that.
They must be somewhere. To search all of France for them was like searching for
a needle in a haystack. But where better to search for a needle than in a haystack
made of needles?
* * *
The medieval walled city of Verdun bestrode the road to Paris like an angry
colossus, but the colossus was a tame giant in the pay of La Belle France. Within the
city’s walls lay all those who did not swell the numbers within French prisons –
enemy soldiers on parole; neutrals who could not be allowed to pass; others who,
though prisoners, had not been judged enemies of the state.
If Avery deMorrissey had been able to escape from the place, Wessex mused, he
himself should certainly be able to get in. He lacked the papers that would allow him
to enter the city’s guarded gates as a bureaucrat or tradesman upon lawful business,
and hacl little interest in entering Verdun as a prisoner. The only remaining possibility
was a clandestine entry that eluded the sentries, and Wessex was considering how he
might effect one when his attention was caught by the sound of hoofbeats on the
road behind him.
Dismounting, he led his horse off the road into a small stand of trees. They would
not conceal him completely, but it might serve to screen him from casual attention.
A few moments later, a lone rider on a neat-footed grey gelding came trotting up
the road. The man was in uniform and cut a fantastic figure, from the leopardskin
saddlepad beneath his saddle to the arcing eagle’s wings that thrust skyward, making
a faint keening sound as they cut through the air.
Wessex stayed where he was. He was too far away to recognize the rider – and
many of those who wore that uniform now served Bonaparte – but the Andalusian
gelding was impossible to mistake.
Illya Koscuisko reined in. Spangle stopped, bowing and prancing.
„I do hope it’s you cowering there in the bushes, my dear fellow. I’d hate to have
to shoot another in a series of minor French bureaucrats in order to cover my
traces,“ Koscuisko said.
For a long time Sarah had only come near the surface of wakefulness before
being forced down again into darkness by the sick-sweet taste of laudanum. In her
mind, her drugged state became the insensate period just after the carriage accident,
when she had been reshaped by careful instruction into the semblance of the
Marchioness of Roxbury.
But now that shaping had fallen away, and having been caught so once, she could
not be beguiled so again. She was Sarah Cunningham of America – and it was that
peculiar stubborn independence of mind, forged in the aftermath of a war this world
had not experienced, that allowed her to force herself awake at last The drug still
anchored her body in the bed like the press of a heavy hand, and her head felt made
of lead, but at last she could open her eyes and think—-after a fashion.
Geoffrey Highclere had found her and Lady Meriel in Talitho, drugged them, and
brought them… where?
The room she lay in had the same impression of heavy stone and hint of damp
that Sarah associated with the chapel at Mooncoign, only here the sensation was
magnified a thousandfold. The bared plaster upon the walls was stained with
moisture, and in places the plaster had flaked away to reveal the grey shapes of
dressed stone beneath.
The ceiling was crafted of massive age-darkened beams, adding to the sense
Sarah was gaining that she lay within the walls of some medieval fortress. When she
at last managed to lift her head, she could see that a window – the sole source of
light in the room – was set deep into the opposite wall. Two cross-bars blocked off
that avenue of escape.
Groaning, Sarah levered herself into a sitting position. The room contained only
the bed she was on – a thing of delicate curved and gilded and enameled wood that
looked jarringly out of place in this rude medieval keep – and a rough wooden table
upon which sat a carafe of water and the ominous blue bottle of laudanum.
The upright position brought with it lightheadedness and thirst. She was still
wearing her traveling clothes, down to her cloak and shoes, and wondered how long
she had lain drugged. Her hair felt sticky and disheveled, and her feet had swollen as
she lay abed until they ached like a bruised tooth. Using the frame of the bed, Sarah
dragged herself to her feet, wincing at the pain. The room reeled savagely around
her, but she was determined to prevail. At last she managed to make her way over to
the barred window.
She was in a castle.
Outside her window, the tower wall dropped sixty feet to a stagnant moat almost
overgrown with water lilies. The landscape stretched soft and green, verdant with
summer growth. In the distance she thought she might be able to see the spire of a
village church, but she couldn’t be certain.
England… or elsewhere? Meriel had planned to go to Lisbon –
Where was Meriel?
Still light-headed and groggy, Sarah turned and looked around the room. No
Meriel. Sarah shook her head, trying to clear it. Mr. Highclere had meant to bring
both of them with him. Was Meriel being kept somewhere else?
Sarah ran her hand through her light brown hair, dislodging the last of the pins and
sending it cascading down her back in a tangled mass. Gould she get out of the
room to find out? Sarah studied the stout, iron-bound oaken door with misgivings.
She wasn’t certain she even had the strength to drag the heavy door open – and
what if it was locked?
She was spared having to make that discovery. There was a rattle of keys (so it
was locked!) and a groaning of unoiled hinges as the massive slab swung inward.
A young woman dressed in country homespun entered, carrying a large wooden
tray containing a bowl and a pitcher. Behind her came Geoffrey Highclere, neat and
immaculate in Revolutionary black. He looked like an elegant ferret, and Sarah felt
even more disheveled and grubby by contrast.
The servant uttered a distressed squeak at the sight of Sarah on her feet, and
scurried over to the table to set down the laden tray burden. Mr. Highclere merely
smiled.
„So you’re awake then, Duchess? Well it saves me the trouble of wakening you.“
„Where is Meriel?“ Sarah demanded with Yankee bluntness. If he expected fits or
vapors, Mr. Highclere was going to have to look elsewhere for them.
He smiled, obviously about to spin her some faradiddle, and Sarah’s frayed
patience snapped. „And the truth, if you please, Mr. Highclere! I am in no mood for
one of your Banbury tales.“
„You ought, you know, to be more conciliating,“ Mr. Highclere pointed out in
hurt tones. „After all, you are my prisoner.“
Sarah’s only response was an unladylike snort „Oh, get out, girl, and go tell the
Monsignor that he can talk to her now,“ Geoffrey snapped in French.
The frightened maidservant bobbed deeply and scuttled from the room.
Sarah faced Mr. Highclere. Her heart was fluttering frantically, but she knew that
her face was an expressionless mask, and that such a Sphinx-face would unnerve
him. Her enemy was a soft city-dweller, and he would not survive a day in the
boundless forests of her homeland. If she could only escape from this keep, she
could vanish into the French countryside beyond his ability to trace her. tcYou may
think you have the upper hand, but the Monsignor won’t care for that. He’ll break
you the same way he shells a walnut; he has but to tighten his fingers –
„And then he can eat me,“ Sarah supplied helpfully. „Well, while I must admit it
sounds a useful party-trick, Mr. Highclere, I can hardly see that it is of the least use
here. You are a traitor to England, Mr. Highclere, and while I have some passing
sentiment for traitors and revolutionaries, I cannot approve of the way you have
treated Lady Meriel,“ she said firmly, returning the conversation to the matter she
most wished to know.
„It is nothing to the way I would have treated her,“ Mr. Highclere snarled, „and I