“I suppose ’tis too late to request the same for our supper from Eliza’s kitchen.”
“Pasties are a thoroughly English dish, remember.”
“I dare not offend the French chef, you mean.” He cleared his throat. “What was that marvelous concoction he served us last time when Captain Lennox came to dine?”
Esmée’s mind was blank as new paper. Beef ragout? She hardly recalled it, given the company.
With a stifled yawn, her father returned his hat to his head. “I doubt I’ll be back in time for supper anyway, as Dinwiddie is fond of conversing so late.”
“I hope he serves you something amidst all that secrecy.”
“Something Scottish, no doubt, as befits his humble roots.” He looked out the window, occasionally raising a hand at passersby who recognized their coach.
She fisted her gloved hands in the folds of her skirts, knowing Henri was somehow at the very heart of these meetings. “Father, if I may be so bold, what have you to do with all this intrigue and conniving?”
To her relief he chuckled. “You make it sound downright villainous. Far more interesting than it is.”
“Well? ’Tis how it appears to those of us on the outside.”
“On the outside? You have a touch of Eliza’s dramatic flair, ’twould seem.” He waved again as they passed Bruton Parish Church. “The governor and his officials are merely consulting me about maritime matters in case there’s to be a war.”
War, war. Would they talk of nothing else? “You don’t believe we’re in danger of becoming French colonials rather than English ones?”
“Bah! You’ve been reading one too many broadsides and papers. Coffeehouses aren’t called penny universities for naught.”
Would he have her believe it was merely gossip? “Perhaps I need to revisit my French lessons of old.”
“Which is why Captain Lennox is being considered for the task.”
Her gaze narrowed on his shuttered face. “So there’s ataskto consider?” She tried to piece this confounding puzzle together. “Because the captain is part French and speaks French?”
And such mesmerizing French that it sounded like a song. A symphony.Euphony, Mama once called it. Years ago, Henri had not simply said goodbye. He’d leaned in, his breath warm against her ear, and whisperedma belleand other endearments. Even the memory, long relegated to the trash heap, sent her stomach plummeting to her shoes.
Her father smiled enigmatically, looking like the freebooter he had once been accused of being. “All in good time, my dear.”
“No doubt it involves danger,” she said grimly. “A prolonged cruise.”
The coach lurched to a stop in the courtyard behind Quinn and Eliza’s townhouse, sparing him further elaboration. Feeling like a kettle left too long at the fire, Esmée gathered her hat and gloves off the upholstered seat and stepped down once the door opened.
Would she ever have answers?
Dusk gathered about Henri like a gray cloak. Thieves were prevalent along the byways and backroads of rural Virginia. Few traveled at night because of it. He kept a loaded pistol close, careful of shifting shadows. He’d hoped to see Williamsburg by dark, but night was rushing in fast and another stop was required. The lights of the almshouse shone just ahead, and beyond it countless hovels of the French refugees, the smoke from their chimneys trailing crooked gray fingers into the darkening sky. Fragments of French conversation drifted to him as men and women sat outside smoking clay pipes.
Tonight was not the time to ponder their plight, these displaced souls now the bane of cash-strapped Virginia. But the sound of his mother’s language never failed to move him, ushering in a dozen different recollections of her, each bittersweet.
He relaxed the reins, slowing Trident to a walk. He’d timed his arrival at the almshouse carefully so as not to attract attention, when most of the residents would be done with their labors and supper and in their rooms, if Jago Wherry had told him right.
The night watch was on patrol, halting him as he approached, lanthorn held high.
“I’ve business with the trustee, Mr. Boles,” Henri told him, dismounting.
“Is he expecting ye, sir?”
“Nay, but he’ll be glad of it.”
With a nod, the watchman left him, and Henri opened his saddlebags. Soon he was escorted toward a small building that served as both living quarters and office for the supervisor of the entire almshouse. Wherry had spoken well of Boles but less so of the trustee matron. Henri regretted finding them both in one place, having tea by the fire, clearly taken aback by his sudden appearing—or rather irritated by the intrusion, judging from the matron’s sour expression.
“And you are, sir?” Boles inquired politely, coming forward.
