The man made a face that might have been a forgiving smile but which looked like a grimace. Regardless, Christoff hadn’t punched him in the face, so perhaps Malcolm was forgiven.
“Are you still willing to help the cause?” Malcolm asked without preamble.
The man gestured for Malcolm to take a stool, then he pulled the stopper from and already open bottle and poured them each a glass.
If Christoff were a fellow Englishman, Malcolm would ask in jest if the wine were poisoned in retribution for the egregious yet unintended insult, but that wouldn’t go over well with the Frenchman.
They clinked glasses and took a good swallow. Cerise was a fruity, jewel-toned wine, and Malcolm knew Bonaparte had enjoyed it in the past, which was why Randall had targeted Christoff.
“Will you take your wine to the emperor when he arrives?” he asked. Malcolm wanted him to supply wine to Boney, and each time he did, to try to learn more of his plans. Specifically, they hoped to learn whether the emperor intended to be the aggressor, sending troops out to France’s borders and beyond, or if he would set up only a line of defense against the coalition.
Monsieur Christoff considered. “I have thought it over.” He drank down the wine and set his cup down. “What is your purpose? If Bonaparte can escape an island, rebuild an army, and return triumphant — all without firing a shot against another Frenchman — then he should lead my country, no? Who is better? Not our fat king.”
Malcolm had been afraid of this. Many of Christoff’s fellow Parisians felt the same way. But allowing Bonaparte to remain would mean the fragile peace those in Vienna had spent nine months constructing would shatter. The entire European continent would be plunged into war before Christmas. The allies needed to secure France and then continue to work on stabilizing Russia, Prussia, and Austria.
Or someone did, at any rate. Yet not Malcolm. He would be done. Hopefully sooner rather than later. And when Boney was defeated again, Malcolm would be back on English soil before the ink was dry on the emperor’s next banishment decree. And then, he would knuckle under and submit to his obligation to find a Lady Branley.
To Christoff, he said, “A week ago, you gave my associate your word. Nothing has changed. France is not an empire, and it doesn’t need an emperor, a greedy one at that.”
Christoff crossed his arms. “I don’t think the British have the right — nor the power when it comes to it — to decide for France. We shall work it out ourselves.”
Well, shit!Malcolm set the glass down. It had been his experience when an ally became a foe, it was best to put distance between oneself and him. Especially if one had called the man a prick-head!
Rising to his feet, he turned to find a number of men standing nearby, watching, listening, most with arms crossed, all of them wearing hostile expressions. While not quite surrounded, Malcolm was certainly outnumbered. Four to one.
Randall needed to be a tad more discerning in discovering partners for this battle with Boney. And Malcolm would tell him so — if he survived the vintners’ marketplace and made it back to the relative safety of the upstairs room of the Café de Chartres.
With calm intent, he walked directly toward the closest of the three men, despite there not being room for him to squeeze between them. At the last moment, when he was nearly within their arms’ reach, he swerved to the left, pushing between two others, using his height as a vantage point from which to shove them hard to the side. Then amid barrels stacked three high, he tried his best to disappear.
They yelled behind him, and he moved faster, hardly pausing to duck for cover until he got far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to see where he went. And then he saw her — his copper-haired goddess!
As quick as a rabbit and as straight as the crow flies, he hastened toward her. She was marking sheets of paper, perhaps inspecting orders, and dressed in a pale green gown. Despite the situation, he was certain her dress went perfectly with her eyes.
“I need a place to hide,” he said. Without waiting for her response, he dodged behind her worktable to the neat barrels behind her and ducked out of sight.
If she gave him up, so be it. He had a feeling she wouldn’t let him be caught, perhaps a foolish hope based upon nothing more than how he thought her too lovely for words.
Footsteps and shouts were close behind him.
“Did you see a tall, brown-haired man go by?” someone asked her a few seconds later.
“Yes, of course,” she responded, and his heart skipped a beat. “He ran that way, toward the exit.”
The footfalls hurried away, a number of them — hopefullyallof them — but he was going to wait in any case.
For a few moments, nothing happened. Someone else came close, and they discussed the excitement of a chase in the Halle aux Vins. Then another person came by and asked how many barrels to take to each of three restaurants on the Champs-Élysées. And then, again, silence.
Malcolm’s heartbeat had slowed, and he was crouched inside a small prison of wine casks, his thighs burning from the position he was in. But he hadn’t been caught, nor betrayed by the woman, so he didn’t give a damn.
After another few minutes, she came close.
“Thatisyou, is it not?”
What did she mean?Of course it was him, but if she hadn’t clearly recognized him, it might be better not to remind her, and thus, he said nothing in response.
“You are the man from the café,oui?I think you should stay right where you are for a while, at least, maybe until we close and go home for the night. Your friend, Monsieur ‘tête de noeud’ looks very cross walking around, trying to sniff you out like a dog.”
Malcolm sighed. The Crown should have sent his friend Denbigh. The man had a better command of the French idioms. Nevertheless, taking her point that it was unsafe to come out, he tried to shift his weight and sit on his bottom. There wasn’t room and the barrels at his back seemed to wobble. If they toppled onto him, he’d be done for.
