Chapter Twelve
Christian reached Portsmouth by mid-morning. He paid for his passage on a ship bound for Le Havre and spent the time allotted to him to inquire at the inns along the harbor front. At the Pelican Inn, he discovered a lady and her page had spent two nights and departed on the morning tide in the Marquess of Ramsbotham’s schooner, the Narcissus. Filled with disquiet, Christian returned to his ship. He would inquire again at Le Havre, but with a day’s grace, the women would be long gone, and he must travel directly to Paris. Where was Beaumont? Had he returned safely to England with his brother-in-law? Or would it be Christian’s next mission to snatch them from the jaws of the guillotine? If his own assignment went smoothly. And if it didn’t, as a government agent, he understood that if he struck trouble, no help would come.
* * *
Anthony shook his head with a wry smile. Philippe, despite his weakened state, had fallen in love with Mademoiselle Bourget. French men were incorrigible; Anthony was sure they would flirt while breathing their last. To give the couple time alone, he took himself off for a walk. They must leave soon or risk discovery. Although Philippe’s condition was improving daily, moving him now could be disastrous. His wound might re-open and he could bleed to death before they reached home. A decision needed to be made soon.
Anthony strolled through the orchard, reached up and plucked a red apple. Took a bite of sweet white flesh. Munching, he worked on a safe means to get them back to England. Philippe was unable to ride, and the cart would be slow. Impossible to escape the soldiers.
He tossed the apple core and stepped out onto the lane, planning to return to the cottage. the sound of rapid hoof beats came from somewhere behind him. A group of horsemen appeared, and he broke into a run, and darted between the apple trees, his eyes on the forest ahead.
“Over there! Halt!”
Anthony pushed past brambles and moss roses that caught at his clothes. He leapt fallen logs, and ran on, until he no longer heard voices. Doubled up, gasping, he swung around to peer into the wall of vegetation and his foot slipped on the mossy bank. He fell, rolled to the bottom, and landed breathless on a bed of pebbles in a shallow stream. Damp and winded, his knees and elbows bruised, he crawled beneath shrubbery growing along the bank. The soldiers’ excited voices came nearer, while he fought to quiet his breath. They searched for Philippe. As an English lord he might be able to talk his way out of it, but he wasn’t a gambling man, and didn’t like the odds. Their blood was up, and they’d likely shoot him first and ask questions later.
The commotion the soldiers’ made faded. They moved away. Anthony crept from his hiding place and scrambled up the bank. He had to get to the cottage and warn Phillippe. He reached the lane and was gaining confidence when a shout went up, followed by the crack of a rifle. Then a volley. A ball burned into his arm with a flash of hot steel. He didn’t slow, running south, away from the cottage, forcing himself on until his breath came in agonized spurts. Blood dripped down his arm onto his right hand. He smiled grimly. How ironic. He’d come to rescue Philippe and now needed help himself.
Winded, he fell to his knees and crawled behind a tree. Pulling off his cravat, he wound it around his arm, then raked a pile of leaves over himself. He lay still and listened. Again, it seemed they’d failed to catch him for he heard nothing but bird song and the rustle of some small animal. An hour passed, it would soon be dark. When night fell, he must go back. Had to take a chance. An hour later, under the cover of darkness, he crawled from his hiding place and made his way stealthily to the cottage, worried about what he would find.
Mademoiselle Bourget stood in the center of the room with her hands to her face. She rushed forward. “We’ve been so worried.” She saw his bleeding arm. “The soldiers?”
“Did they come here? Is Philippe all right?”
“Oui, the soldiers came, but they didn’t find him.” She grabbed a candle and picked up her skirts. “Quickly, come upstairs.”
Anthony’s strength ebbed as he climbed the stairs. His legs were like lead. He reached the upper floor, and held onto the banister, swaying. “Where is he?”
Mademoiselle ran to a cupboard and, with Anthony’s help, pulled it aside. Behind it was a small door leading into the roof cavity. She pulled it open. Inside, Philippe lay on a pile of blankets. He gazed owlishly up into the candlelight. “Good God. Anthony! I feared something had happened to you.”
“They winged me, but it’s not much more than a scratch.”
“I must dress your wound.” Mademoiselle Bourget brought a chair. “Sit here.”
She returned with a bowl and cloths then set about cleaning the wound. After she’d wiped most of the blood away, she studied his arm. “The ball is still inside; it has missed the bone, but it must come out.”
“Can you do it?” Anthony asked.
She met his gaze calmly. “Oui.”
“Then do so, please.”
She returned with a tray containing a paring knife, tweezers, a jug, and mug. “Apple brandy to ease the pain. This will hurt.”
Anthony poured the drink and swigged it down. Sharp yet sweet, it did little to sedate him, but at least, it warmed his cold insides. “Go ahead.” He put down the empty mug.
She dipped the knife in the alcohol then held his arm and made a small cut to widen the wound. He dug his fingers into his thigh with his good hand. The room spun. Mademoiselle dipped the tweezers in the brandy then pushed them into the wound. She was skillful, and a minute or so later, she removed them along with the ball.
“Bless you, mademoiselle,” Anthony muttered, cursing his weakness.
“I’ll fetch your food. Then you must rest.”
He listened for horse riders on the lane as he and Philippe ate Josette’s wonderful potage, thick with pieces of hare she had been fortunate to kill that morning. Anthony’s anger burned in his stomach, a pain worse than the wound in his arm. What a fool to make a target of himself. How long before he was in a fit state to help them?
* * *
After Henrietta fell asleep, Verity tucked the small bottle into the pocket beneath her skirts and blew out the candle. She shut the door behind her and walked down the corridor to Ramsbotham’s cabin. Close to midnight, through a porthole, the moon sailed serenely across a cloudless sky. The boat’s gentle rocking on calm seas had spared Verity from having to deal with Henrietta’s continued seasickness. She’d been demanding to be allowed up on the deck. Verity had distracted her with a game of cards. They continued to play until Verity feigned a yawn and said she’d go to bed. Henrietta, exhausted from her malaise, dropped into the deep sleep of the young and innocent.
Ramsbotham answered Verity’s knock, and she stepped inside his lavishly furnished cabin, with oak paneling and silk damask draperies. On a table, a bottle of champagne and two crystal glasses sat on a silver tray.
