I tried to recall the name, but I could not. Again, I might well have seen him during the turmoil of the war or during my time in Paris.
The man faded into the crowd along the quay, and I decided that he was a mystery for another time.
We crossed the bridge, and Fernand took his leave from us to travel south along the river, back to the factory. Gabriella and I walked to our rented home, she happy with her purchases from the market.
Rubble from Lyon’s Roman past littered the slopes of the hill we climbed, nestled among the monasteries and churches there. The wealthy lived in large villas on the hill’s summit, including the one Donata had procured for us.
She’d decided it would be more practical if we did not stay with or even near the Auberges, my first wife’s family, though they had a rather large house on a fine patch of land south of the city. Donata had pointed out that the first wife and the second living too close was not a good idea, and I’d readily agreed.
Gabriella had asked leave to spend some nights with us, which her mother hadn’t liked, but I’d of course encouraged. I didn’t mind at all rising early with Gabriella when she stayed with us, walking out with her to the market streets. Her two half-sisters had come to visit from time to time, filling the echoing villa with girlish laughter.
Brewster, somehow, had heard of the altercation in the Place Royale. He confronted me as soon as we entered the villa’s inner courtyard.
“This is why I dog your steps, guv.” Brewster scowled at me after Gabriella had greeted him sunnily and scurried inside. “Safe as houses, ye said. Well, houses can fall on a bloke, can’t they?”
“All was well, Brewster,” I assured him. “The mob wasn’t after me. I was simply observing. Fernand Devere was the one almost caught in it.”
“Not sure about that family,” Brewster muttered darkly, with a quick glance at the door Gabriella had darted through. “Something wrong there.”
“They are far more respectable than I feared they’d be,” I said. “Highly regarded and well off, not scratching for a living.”
“Brought themselves up from nothing.” Brewster’s tone held working-class suspicion of those who got above themselves. “Labored for the kings and queens until they opened their business to anyone who could pay.”
“So did many a person who supplied things to the royals,” I told him. “The palaces of old were hives of industry. Anyway, how do you know all this? You’ve been insisting you don’t speak French.”
Brewster shrugged his massive shoulders. “Words here and there, and some in this house speak a bit of English. It don’t take much to get the point across.” He skewered me with his annoyed glare. “Don’t go wandering about town without me again. Think about keeping your daughter safe, if nothing else. What if she’d been in the square when that lot decided to strike?”
The first thing I’d done was to make certain Gabriella was nowhere near the commotion, but I didn’t argue. “I take your point, Brewster. You made guard my heels from now on.”
Brewster did not look any happier as he stumped back into the house and in the direction of the kitchen.
My wife was still abed, as it was not her habit to rise much before two in the afternoon. I watched Gabriella sort her purchases in the high-ceilinged sitting room—ribbons and lace and other frills, she explaining to me what she’d use each one for. I mostly had no idea what she was talking about, but I enjoyed that she wanted to share the preparations for her wedding with me.
Once a maid helped Gabriella fold the things away, she declared she’d have a nap, to rest for the long evening ahead Donata had planned.
I conceded that she had a good idea and adjourned to my own chamber. A peek into Donata’s as I passed it showed her room dark and shrouded, the hangings around her bed firmly closed. I smiled as I softly shut the door, my wife’s habits ever predictable.
My bedchamber was vast, its bed with brocade curtains set squarely in the middle of the room. The ceiling was a soft blue, painted with cherubs in the cheerful Rococo style. I wasn’t used to such sumptuousness—our South Audley Street house was decorated with restraint—but happily, the bed was comfortable.
I drifted quickly off to sleep once I lay down, but I’d used my bad leg too much this morning. A deep ache jabbed at me, even in my full slumber.
The pain turned my dreams to the incident that had caused the injury in the first place. In the scrubby hills of northern Spain during the Peninsular War, I’d been captured and tortured for the pleasure of a group of French soldiers. One of them had crushed my knee with his boot heel, slamming into it again and again, while I couldn’t halt my cries of agony.
A second face broke through the haze of dreams, and I sat straight up in the bed, gasping.
I knew full well where I’d seen the Frenchman called Colonel Moreau before. It was clear, in turn, that he’d recognized me.
Chapter 3
Sleep was now out of the question. I rose and slid on my boots and coat, too agitated to summon Bartholomew, my valet, to assist me. I paced the room in the late afternoon sunshine, which further hurt my leg, but I could not calm myself.
I’d managed, I thought, to put the entire experience behind me. But then the memories would rise from nowhere, stealing my breath and drenching my body in cold sweat.
In April of 1814, shortly after the Battle of Toulouse, my commander, Colonel Brandon, sent me on a mission to report on the movements of a French company.
Unbeknownst to me, Brandon hadn’t meant me to return. He’d sent me into a hillside crawling with French soldiers, a sure chance to cause my death.
I’d hidden, using all the skills I’d learned in a dozen years of campaigning, and waited for a chance to make my way back to camp. Unfortunately, I’d been discovered by a knot of French troops, who’d decided to desert and live off what booty they could capture from the nearby villages or any soldier who happened to stumble their way.
