Both his companions stared wordlessly at the enthusiastic Scot. Privately, Henrietta thought there was more chance of her father allowing Flossy behind the wheel, but she was too polite to say so. Her grandfather, on the other hand, had no such sensibilities and bluntly told Dougal to feel free to ask, providing he could swim.
Things very quickly went rapidly downhill from there, and as they began to attract attention, Henrietta frantically looked round for some sort of diversion. After a few seconds, she realised they were across the road from the Poulton’s Hotel. Recollecting that the hotel had served a rather agreeable plate of biscuits on her last visit - and since Raphael Augustin was still in London as far as she was aware - Henri quickly proposed they take advantage of the hotel’s proximity to enjoy an impromptu afternoon tea.
Fortunately, her suggestion put an end to the burgeoning quarrel, and five minutes later the three of them were enjoying the warmth of the Hotel’s tearoom after being seated by a large picture window, which took delightful advantage of the agreeable view over the harbour.
Thinking of her last visit, Henrietta couldn’t help looking round a little nervously, though whether that was on the off chance that the King’s agent had returned to Torquay or the thought that somebody present may have been witness to her earlier faux pas. As her eyes travelled round the genteel room, her glance alighted on a table situated not six feet away. On it were sat two gentlemen leaning close to one another in earnest conversation.
She couldn’t have said what it was about them that drew her attention, but whatever the reason, she found herself surreptitiously watching and listening as they waited for their tea. At first, she was unable to make out any words at all, but as her ears became more attuned to their murmured voices, she suddenly realised that one of them definitely wasn’t English.
Frowning, she turned her chair slightly towards their table. In truth, foreigners were not all that uncommon in Torquay, but this man’s accent, while a lot thicker than Raphael Augustin’s, was not entirely dissimilar. Allowing her companions’conversation to flow over her head, Henri concentrated on the voices coming from her right and, seconds later, her heart jumped into her mouth as she heard a name she’d only heard recently.
Montclair.
Six
Rafe rubbed his forehead wearily, which did nothing to alleviate the throbbing over his right eye. He’d been searching through documents for the better part of the day, but the only success he’d had was a name - Claude Fontaine. The man had seemingly appeared out of nowhere in August 1808, claiming distant kinship to the murdered Marquis. He’d set himself up as caretaker of the Montclair estate and, as far as anyone knew, had lived quietly in the chateau ever since.
Raphael sat back in his chair, his lips pressing into a thin line. According to the report, after Fontaine’s arrival, an agent of the Crown had remained in the area to keep a close watch on the self-appointed custodian for a full six months but had observed nothing to arouse suspicion. There had been no investigation into the man’s background.
He thought back to his father’s comments about Philippe de Montclair. The two men had remained good friends despite the distance between them, and Rafe well remembered how distressed his father’s had been when the news of the Marquis’s murder reached him.
Frowning, Raphael had a sudden thought. After they’d left France, Etienne Augustin had maintained a diary right up until his death in 1817, confessing to his son that it helped alleviate his guilt at abandoning the country of his birth. The box of diaries had been left to Raphael by his mother on her passing a mere twelve months later.
Though Rafe had never admitted it, reading his father’s words had always been simply too painful, and it had been far easier to leave the diaries to gather dust in the box they’d arrived in. Out of sight and out of mind…
Sighing, he climbed ruefully to his feet. Maudlin sentimentality wasn’t high on the list of traits a ruthless intelligence agent would readily admit to, and it was one Raphael had determinedly quashed during his long career. But then, neither was stupidity – and stubbornly ignoring a possibly valuable source of intelligence was exactly that. Grimacing, Rafe shook his head. His father’s diaries had been left untouched for too long. Some bloody spy he was.
A half an hour later the diaries were piled on his desk in order of date while he helped himself to a brandy.
Reading his father’s meanderings was as painful as Raphael had imagined, but what he hadn’t bargained for was howcomfortingit was. It felt as though his father was in the room, and for the first time in years, the hardened spy felt actual tears gather at the back of his eyes.
To his relief there wasn’t anything to either threaten or serve national security within their pages and Rafe allowed relief to swamp him. He had no idea what he’d have done if something of vital importance had remained concealed due to foolish sentimentality. Losing his job would have been the least of it.
However, just as he was about to close the penultimate journal, a folded piece of paper slipped out from between the pages and dropped onto the floor. Frowning, he bent down and picked it up. Unfolding the paper, he quickly realised it was a letter. Seconds later, his heart slammed in his chest as he read the informal signature.
Philippe.
Straining, Henrietta did her best to hear the conversation, but despite her focus, she was only able to make out the odd word. She wanted to scream in frustration. Then, just as she was about to give up, she heard the name of her father’s ship. The wordsFaith and Fortunewere followed by, ‘Oui, he is onboard.’
Who was onboard?
Henri was so focused on the table next to them that she didn’t initially register the arrival of their tea, and she jumped when her grandfather tapped her on the shoulder. ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ he quizzed her, his eyebrows raised in enquiry. As he spoke the two men were climbing to their feet and Henrietta wanted to cry. Helplessly she watched them go, the tea remaining in the teapot in front of her.
‘Is something the matter, girl, you look as queer as Dick’s hatband?’ her grandfather commented gruffly as she finally lifted the teapot.
With trembling hands, Henrietta poured out the tea. As she handed the cups over, a large plate of biscuits arrived, much to Dougal’s delight. Helping himself to a wafer, the Scot pattedher kindly on the arm. ‘Dinnae fash yerself, lass,’ he murmured spraying bits of wafer everywhere, ‘Ah ken a biscuit’ll put ye tae rights.’ He held out the plate, completely oblivious to the pieces of wafer now decorating her bodice.
‘I think those two men were talking about my father’s ship,’ she whispered after making sure the objects of her attention were gone.
Her grandfather frowned. ‘What were they saying?’
‘I couldn’t hear exactly, but I know they mentionedFaith and Fortune.’
Dougal shrugged. ‘It be a bonny ship, lass,’ he commented, helping himself to another wafer.
‘You don’t understand,’ Henri answered fearfully, ‘I think one of them was French.’ She paused as her two companions stared at her. ‘He said,Oui, he’s onboard.’
‘Thunder an’ turf,’ the Reverend breathed, we’ve got a Froggie spy sailing with us.’
