Giselle grew uneasy and put a hand to her brow. “Do you still believe the one who will buy the book is a double agent?”
Ramsey nodded. “We do. We have planted the lie among those we think are double agents that good drawings of the town are in that book. We have a list of those whom we suspect send information of our troop numbers and movements to Boulogne.”
“That list comes from Lord Appleby’s wife Vivienne?” Giselle had never met the lady but had heard her life story from Gus and Amber after she had arrived in London months ago. All four of them here had met the woman who had imitated her older sister in order to return to France and learn the fate of their middle sister. What Vivienne had learned from René Vaillancourt’s lips was that her sister was not only a French spy herself, but she ran a network of them here in Britain.
“It does,” Ramsey said. “Viv has been very helpful in that. Her older sister sent her a list of names before she died.”
Vivienne’s older sister, Charmaine Massey, had been a famous Drury Lane actress. As Charmaine made her way into the bedrooms of British politicians, she had also sent to Vaillancourt all the news she collected.
Vivienne had discovered her sister’s treachery from Vaillancourt himself. When she arrived in England with her new husband, Tate Cantrell, the Earl of Appleby, Viv had confronted Charmaine with her betrayal. Charmaine had planned nothing less than setting up Viv to take the blame for all her double dealing. When Viv vowed never to see her sister again, Charmaine—who was dying—hoped to resurrect any fondness from her youngest sister. So she revealed the names of her friends and double agents to Viv. It was that valuable list of names that aided Scarlett Hawthorne’s network here in Britain to capture Bonaparte’s spies.
Giselle glanced at Amber and Gus. “I had hoped to be finished with my drawings of Brighton before now. Because I was unsure about my guard, I confess that I have not done as much research as I usually do. To complete them, I need a few more days.”
“You have it,” Amber assured her.
“Go out about town now with the added security of our new man,” Ramsey said.
“I will.” Giselle picked up her tea once more. “But I worry. Summer is the best season for Bonaparte to sail toward us. I wonder if ourtime grows short to make an impression on the shipbuilders for the dimensions of those flat-bottom boats.”
Ashley came round to sit in a chair and lean toward Giselle. “We’ve learned from our agent in Boulogne that the French draftsmen of their navy have changed the shore elevations for their amphibious landing craft.”
“How have they changed them? When?” she asked, frightened all her work was for naught. Everyone on this project knew that the French designers of naval ships were not qualified shipwrights. Their practices were never uniform, and one ship might be seaworthy, another not. Many were so poorly designed that they were potentially deadly to the crew. Many a ship’s crew had to pump water from the hull to keep it from sinking. Many fell apart after one voyage.
The worrisome news more than a year ago, that the French shipbuilders questioned the depth of English shore elevation, had been the impetus for Giselle’s drawings. That and her own desire to foil the French and gain freedom for herself in a land other than the one of her birth had become her goals.
Ashley folded his hands. “We’ve learned that their amphibious landing ships have flaps that drop into rock and sand.”
“How deeply?” Giselle envisioned the challenges of the French. “They must want their soldiers to wade ashore easily from those boats.”
“Exactly,” said Ashley.
“Fully armed, too,” added Ramsey.
“So…how deeply do those flaps drop into rock and sand?” She held her breath.
“Sadly, we do not know the dimensions of the new flaps,” Ashley said. “Our agent there tells us she knows only that they’ve changed them as per new intelligence.”
She?A woman was their agent in Boulogne? Giselle knew they had an agent in the encampment in Boulogne. But she had never imaginedthat person might be a woman.
“And that whatever the dimensions of the flaps,” Ramsey added, “all are the same.”
Giselle did not know whether to laugh or cry at her next conclusion. “So they will use the same amphibious ships for all coastal cities?”
“You drew Dover, Margate, and Eastbourne with approximately the same elevations. Those are likely invasion points. Do draw Brighton with a different sea elevation,” Ramsey urged her. “Higher or lower, it matters not. The French must think the elevations of the least likely ports of call are of a different dimension. In variety there is believable viability.”
“We can pray,” said Ashley, “that their landing flaps are for deeper water than necessary.”
“So that when their soldiers do try to wade ashore from those boats,” she said with satisfaction, “they drown.”
The horror of thousands of soldiers in their armor and with weapons drawn floating dead in the English Channel paralyzed her. However, only for a moment. Defeat of Bonaparte’s plan was a victory. Success was a magical freedom.
Might she soon be finished with her work? Then she could concentrate on other things, cooking and flowers and perhaps even a bit of fun. Might she go so far as to allow herself the enchantment of having an affair?
“We need to finish the job,” Ashley said.
“So our line of sketches look complete,” she added. “And they have no fear they have been duped.”
“Until they realize it occurred at the hand of their own misinformed French agent.” Ashley grinned.
