“I already ate,” Brewster said stubbornly. “And I’m not letting you walk off with a bloke what was just found over a dead body, knife in hand, especially a man from the Frenchie army. They were good at killing, weren’t they? It’s not me what will be explaining to your missus why I let you go alone.”
As I could not blame him for his suspicion, I didn’t argue. “Come along, then. But stand out of earshot. I have a feeling he won’t want to be overheard.”
“If you speak to him in French, it won’t matter, will it? Don’t understand a word beyond oui or merci.” He pronounced them wee and mercy.
Brewster was never as thick as he pretended to be, and I conjectured he knew more than that. But again, I did not argue as we continued on our way.
The vast square was bustling today, but with more ordinary activities, the riotous mob from yesterday but a memory. A market did business on one end, and a contingent of ladies on a morning walk wandered across the other. Coffee houses had set out tables so gentlemen could linger as they drank, taking the fine air.
Moreau waited for me in a relatively empty patch near the middle of the square. I walked to him, and Brewster, despite his protests, did halt a discreet distance away.
As I’d observed yesterday, Moreau dressed simply, in coat, trousers, and boots meant for tramping about. His suit had obviously been tailored for him, but it was of sensible wool, not a more costly fabric. Moreau wore no hat on this warm morning, and his light brown hair stirred in the breeze.
His grey eyes held intelligence but no shame. Did he mean to tell me he knew damn well where we’d met before, perhaps threaten me to stay away from him? Or would he apologize for what had happened?
How could a man whose soldiers had nearly killed me in a most brutal fashion simply say, I beg your pardon?
“I did not lie to Vernet when I told him I didn’t think you murdered Gallo,” I said in French before he could begin. “The theory that someone followed him from the comte’s home is likely the best one, and I did not see you at the comtesse’s ball last night.”
Moreau regarded me calmly. “I would not have been invited. I am from a family of no note, and I departed Lyon before its siege to follow a young Bonaparte when his career was rising. Was with him on the Italian peninsula and then in Egypt. The citizens of Lyon are respectful to me, but the aristocrats decidedly are not.”
“Those in the comte’s circle seem ready to return to the old ways,” I agreed. “I spent some time in Egypt recently. Fascinating country.”
“I was not there long. Your fellow Englishmen saw to that.”
I inclined my head. “Indeed, the Battle of the Nile was quite a coup for Admiral Nelson. A great tragedy when he later perished.”
“It was the end of our navy. And the end of the war, but we did not see it then. You recognized me,” Moreau stated bluntly, his focus on me intensifying. “And remembered.”
I gazed across the square to the ladies in their light summer frocks, parasols aloft to keep the sun at bay.
“Difficult not to remember,” I said, my voice light. “The entire incident is indelibly fixed on my mind. Not to mention on my left knee.” I tapped my booted leg with my walking stick.
“I believed you dead,” Moreau said. “When I cut you down, I was certain you had already perished. They would not obey me, those men. Wild and drunk—deserters I was trying to herd back to camp.”
“You have no need to explain yourself,” I said. “It was war. We were enemies.”
Moreau’s expression hardened. “There is war, and then there is needless cruelty. I knew it was hopeless trying to make those soldiers obey, but I could at least let you rest with dignity. I hid you the best I could so they would not desecrate your body. I left them there, asleep and drunk, knowing I could not save them. No one ever saw them again.”
“They were killed,” I said. “British soldiers came upon us. They killed or captured your men but didn’t see me. They probably would have gutted me by mistake, so it was a good job you did hide me.”
Moreau’s brows went up. “They did not take you back with them? Then how did you?—?”
“Survive?” I sent him a mirthless smile. “As my commander likes to say, with my be-damned stubbornness. I don’t have the sense to know when I’m beaten, he claims, to give up and die.”
“I see.” Moreau looked me up and down, his gaze unreadable once more. “I am pleased that you did not give up and die.”
“My commander was not as pleased, but that is neither here nor there. If you seek forgiveness …” I shrugged, albeit stiffly. “As I say, it was war and a long time ago. Who knows what I would have done had our positions been reversed?”
I would have given my men hell for torturing a helpless prisoner, I could say with certainty. But the French soldiers had been, as Moreau indicated, drunk and trying to desert. They might have simply shot Moreau if he’d tried harder to stop them.
“In the end, we both lived,” I told him. “And here we are.”
“As you say, Captain.” Moreau gave me a rigid bow. “Alors. I will say good day to you, sir.”
I bowed in return. “Bonne journée, Colonel.”
We studied each other, both of us awkward. Moreau at last gave me a nod, and then turned and strode briskly toward the north side of the square.
