“Is she indeed?” The captain eyed her as he slipped off his gloves. “Yet you lied to me, did you not, mademoiselle? You told me your brother ran this farm, but he is dead.”
Josette jutted out her chin. “Do you blame me? I feared for my life.”
“You were right to, mademoiselle,” he said dispassionately. He turned to Anthony. “And who might you be?” He held out his hand. “Your credentials?”
Anthony drew his wallet from his pocket. “Viscount Beaumont, a member of the British parliament. I urge you to be careful how you treat us. England is not at war with France.”
The captain stroked his chin as he studied Anthony’s papers. “And what might an Englishman nobleman be doing in this small village?”
“I came to take him home to England. It would be wise for you to allow me to do just that.”
“I’m afraid not. The baron will accompany me to Paris.”
Anthony stepped forward. “I demand you release him the baron is my brother-in-law.”
The captain’s cold eyes studied him. “Then it seems we have captured two birds with one toss of the stone. You shall come with us too, my lord.”
* * *
In the village of St. Agnon, the inn-keeper told Verity that Anthony had asked for directions to the Bourget farm several days ago. But soldiers had been seen in the area.
Worried about what they might find, they left a road and turned into a narrow lane that ran beside an apple orchard. At the small cottage, Verity pulled up the horse. She had a very bad feeling. It was too quiet. The chimney didn’t smoke, and the gate of the pigpen lay open, with a pig wandering the vegetable patch.
While Henrietta released the horse from its traces and set it free in a field, Verity crossed to the door, listening for signs of habitation. Nothing but the rustle of leaves and the few scrawny chickens scratching over the ground.
Henrietta knocked on the door. After a moment of silence, she opened it. She stared at Verity with alarm on her face. A chair was upturned in the small parlor. On the table, a bottle lay on its side in a pool of golden-brown liquid. Henrietta ran up the stairs. “There’s no one here,” she cried in a panicked voice. “The house has been ransacked!”
“Come here, Henrietta.” Despite her inner turmoil and bitter disappointment, Verity spoke calmly.
Henrietta walked down as if her shoes were too heavy, her lips trembling.
“Sit down,” Verity commanded. “Drink.” She pushed a mug toward the distraught girl. There was enough left in the bottle for half a glass each of apple brandy.
The brandy burned its way down Verity’s throat, giving a welcome boost to her flagging energy. Color flooded into Henrietta’s pale cheeks. “What can we do?” She asked, her bravado deserting her.
“The soldiers will have taken them to Paris.”
“We must go there, but how? We cannot take this horse.”
“If we treat him well, he will get us there,” Verity said. “Never fear.”
A tear trickled down Henrietta’s cheek. “I found blood on the stairs.”
“Let me see.” Verity examined it. “Not a lot, a few drops at most. Not enough to mean…”
“We must leave. Now!” Henrietta threw back her chair and jumped to her feet.
Verity walked down the stairs. “The horse needs to be rested, fed and watered,” she reasoned. “Otherwise, he will not carry us even part of the way to Paris.” She opened all the cupboards. “There’s a heel of bread, a rind of cheese, and some potage.” She bent to sniff the pot. “Fresh enough. We’ll spend the night here.”
Henrietta shook her head, her eyes filled with panic.
“We leave tomorrow at first light,” Verity said. “You will dress in women’s clothing. We’ll both be actresses.”
Henrietta blinked. “I’m no longer a page?”
“Your disguise isn’t good enough to fool most men.”
“But the marquess…?”
