The tall, well-dressed gentleman made his way carefully down the dirty cobbled street that led to the Flying Gull Tavern. The air carried the stink of the Thames River, and he held a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. The rats scurried about, following him like tiny shadows on this dark evening.
Tonight he would meet with Pierre Dubois. Dubois was well-known for his cruelty, a slave trader, a pirate of the worst kind. His stomach turned at the idea of dealing with such a man, but funneling secrets to Dubois was his path to finally being able to leave this godforsaken country. Dubois had Napoleon’s ear, and if he could show his worth to these two men, he might be able to return safely to France and reclaim his ancestral lands. He had barely escaped France with his life five years ago. His lands, his family, all taken from him by a mob of angry Jacobins.
Reaching the door to the Flying Gull, the gentleman tucked his handkerchief away neatly in his breast pocket, straightened his shoulders, preparing to go in and meet with the devil himself. Even though he had never met the man in person, he spotted him immediately upon entering the tavern’s main room. Large, thickly muscled, with long black hair wild about his shoulders, Dubois sat like a king at the head of a long table filled with sailors. He had a tankard of ale in one beefy hand and a woman in his lap, giggling in his ear.
As he approached, Dubois rose from his seat, setting the wench aside with a slap on her rump.
“Count Moreau, I presume.” He gestured with his tankard. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you. What, may I ask, am I doing here? I thought our dealings were meant to be a secret.” Moreau spoke in French, slipping into his mother tongue. He doubted any of the patrons of the Flying Gull spoke French.
Dubois also switched to French. “Don’t worry, no one down here would recognize a gentleman like you, and I am in England for the first time in some twenty years.” He sat down heavily, the wooden chair creaking under his weight. “I have just been with our general. He is very pleased with the information you have been able to acquire. There will be a place for you when you return. He is back from Egypt, and he needs to know who conspired against him there. He is certain there are more spies in his regiment. He needs names.”
Moreau sat back and relaxed marginally. A place for him on his return-he liked the sound of that. He stroked his well-groomed goatee. “I am glad to hear that piece of news. I can have something new for you shortly. My informant and I have a rendezvous planned in a fortnight. Why are you here in England after so many years? Is it not dangerous for you?”
“Money. Money that was stolen from me many years ago by a man named Jamieson. I have just learned he is finally dead. The money will certainly go to his daughter if I can’t get my hands on it first. I’ve had a tip she is here in England, and that his will contained a map to where he has hidden his riches…my riches.” He banged a fist down on the table, rattling every tankard. “She is the key to getting the map. And when I get my hands on the map, I will finally have my revenge.”
Moreau recognized that thirst for revenge. His family had all been killed in the riots, his uncle and aunt, who had been like parents to him. They had pulled him into their large family and treated him as though he was their own son. Both met their fate with the guillotine. Once he returned to France, he would hunt down those responsible and have his own revenge.
“Have a drink with us, perhaps a nice piece of flesh.” Dubois motioned for the harlot to come back. Her assessing gaze moved over him and she gave him an approving grin. Moreau recoiled at her missing teeth and pox-marked face.
“No…thank you.” He wasn’t interested in getting any diseases from the girl or from the clearly unwashed tankards of watery ale. He rose. “I must be getting back. I am expected at a regular night of gaming with a few acquaintances of mine.”
Dubois shrugged his massive shoulders. “You can contact me through the proprietor here at the Gull. I’ll be aboard my ship most of my time here in England.” His attention shifted. He pulled the girl back into his lap, roughly fondling one breast. Moreau took it as a dismissal and quickly backed out of the room, glad to have lived through his first encounter with the unsavory Captain Dubois.
Chapter Fifteen
The news Captain Dubois could possibly be in town made Vivian twitchy all week. Saturday evening, she waited impatiently with Gabrielle in the foyer for her aunts to join them before heading out to Lord and Lady Downing’s ball. Soon, Aunt Grace hurried down the marble stairs in a flurry of silk skirts and flowing scarves.
“I’m ready, my dears.” She trilled. Then she glanced around. “Oh, but where’s Evelyn? I was sure I’d be the last one down.”
“I’m right here. No need to be flustered.” Aunt Evelyn glided down toward them. “No one cares what time we arrive as long as we grace their party at some point this evening.”
Vivian tugged up her elbow length gloves as her aunt assessed her attire for the evening with a careful eye. Giving a nod of approval, Aunt Evelyn led them out the door to the waiting carriage. As Vivian stepped out into the warm evening air, the hair on the back of her neck stood up on end. She glanced around as she made her way down the brick walkway to the drive. Everything appeared normal.
George, the footman, held the carriage door open for her aunts, one hand extended to help them alight. Fredrick, their coachman, smiled at them as they approached. He gave them his usual tip of the hat. Still, the sense they were being watched crept up her spine. She peered out past the torchlights attached to the iron columns flanking the walkway, trying to see if anyone lurked beyond the drive.
“Vivian, why are you standing there like a post? You’ll make us late.”
Vivian rolled her eyes at Aunt Evelyn’s sudden concern for the time. She hurried the last few paces and joined her family in the carriage.
The Downing’s lived in a grand house with sweeping stairs leading up to the front door. The gardens were ruthlessly manicured to perfection and tonight were lit by dozens of little lamps atop tall poles along the paths. Vivian and her aunts, along with Gabrielle and George, were swept up the stairs and into a large foyer by the crowd of other party guests. Their wraps were taken, and they were properly announced before entering the grand ballroom.
Lady Downing must have spent a small fortune tonight, for everywhere Vivian looked were bouquets of tropical flowers. Garlands of glossy, dark green banana leaves hung from the chandeliers. Small, potted palm trees graced the corners of the room. And near the refreshment table stood a large birdcage with two colorful birds inside.
“What do you think, my dear? Is it paradise?” Lady Downing asked Vivian as she greeted her in the receiving line. “You will be able to tell me the truth.”
“It reminds me exactly of home, Lady Downing.” She gave the lady a smile.
Vivian and Gabi settled themselves into a less crowded corner of the ballroom while George went to fetch them something to drink. Her aunts were already making the rounds of the room. She had informed them of her desire to seriously look for a husband this year. They were giddy to start the hunt.
Despite her new vow to let go of her infatuation with Captain Aston, Vivian couldn’t help but check the entrance to see if Jack and Caroline had arrived.
As George came back with their lemonade, she spotted them entering the ballroom. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of the captain. He looked so handsome in his formal attire. He wore a black jacket, fitted perfectly across his broad shoulders, matching breeches, and a dark green vest. A beautiful cravat pin in gold with a dark green emerald winked against the white of his cravat. His gaze scanned the room, his gray eyes assessing everything.
****
Jack escorted his sister into the ballroom. He took in all the tropical-themed decorations. The hostess must have gone to great expense—a pity most of the flowers would die within days of the party. He shook his head at the extravagance.
