The Riddle of the Deplorable Dandy (18 page)

Leading a likely looking bay hack, Joel Skye came up with them as they reached the waiting carriage and declared that he would ride escort.

With a stern glance at his cousin, Valerian said pithily, “You risk more than you know, Skye.”

“We owe you our thanks for interceding for us with that Coast Guard officer,” said Sir Simon. “I only hope you may not pay a high price for your kindness, Lieutenant.”

With his ardent gaze on Elspeth's lovely face, Skye answered, “I'm only grateful that I could be of some help, sir. Ballard is an old friend and a good fellow. Still, we were lucky to squeak past, I think.”

“This time,” grunted Valerian, regarding him without delight.

“Pay no attention to my grouch of a son,” advised Sir Simon laughingly. “He'll not rest easy 'til I am safe in Italy. Do you go to the pension with us?”

“And all the rest of the way,” said Skye. “For
I'll
not rest easy 'til Miss Elspeth is safely back in England!”

He handed Elspeth and Freda into the carriage while Valerian engaged in a brief conversation with the coachman.

Herbert loaded their luggage into the boot, then hurried forward to help Sir Simon inside, but Valerian motioned him aside and himself aided his father.

Pausing on the step, his arm across his son's shoulders, Sir Simon asked shrewdly, “What maggot is plaguing your mind now, Gervaise? After all this time you have succeeded in bringing me safely to France, so the first half of your task is almost completed, is it not?”

“It is indeed, sir,” said Valerian with rather too hearty optimism.

“Then 'tis the rescue of young Clayton that concerns you. But you said a rescue attempt would be unexpected and easy of accomplishment.”

“Aye, and so I think—at least if your friend Lord Boudreaux is to be believed. There are details I must discuss with the coachman, so I'll ride on the box. Now, in with you, sir. And no more fretting. If I have concerns they are to do with my silly chub of a cousin, and the so sickeningly smitten Lieutenant Skye! Gad, what a revolting demonstration of Cupid's archery!”

Sir Simon, who had his own thoughts about Cupid's skills, smiled and climbed into the carriage.

Valerian ordered Herbert to ride with Skye, then slammed the door and swung up onto the box. The coachman cracked his whip, the four sturdy horses leaned into their collars, and the big coach lumbered and creaked on its way with Herbert and Skye riding alongside.

They were surprised to find a small forest in the very heart of the port city and they were intrigued by the abundant bird life. Geese, wild ducks and herons were everywhere, only diminishing when the flat land gave way to fields and occasional low hills, framed always by the bright gleam of the river.

When they were clear of the town and bowling along country roads that were in even worse repair than those in England, Valerian entered into an involved discussion with the coachman regarding their further plans. Once the details were known to him, he lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

The miles slipped past, the short winter afternoon began to fade to dusk and still Valerian said nothing. The coachman glanced curiously at the stern face and wondered if this elegant young man was daunted by the role he was to play in the rescue of Monsieur Clayton.

In point of fact, Valerian had not been entirely truthful with his sire. There was indeed a “maggot” plaguing his mind. The words of the
garde-cote
officer who had detained them on the quay still echoed in his ears: “We are warned to be on the alert. Some dangerous spies they will seek to enter France. There is a beautiful young lady of Quality in their party…”

The silly clod had been blind to Elspeth's beauty, noting only that she was a servant. But he had said, “We are warned.” If the fool had a brain in his head their adventure would have been brought to a tragic end. “We are warned…” Who had warned them? Not the British authorities, surely, for even if they knew of his attempt to smuggle his father out of England, they'd be unaware of Elspeth's part in this venture. Skye had very obviously been stunned by her participation. Unless … was it possible that the relentless Intelligence officer, Joshua Swift, determined to finalize his long hunt for Sir Simon, had ordered Skye to pursue them without revealing his awareness of the part Elspeth was to play? But—no, that was not possible. Not until last evening had any of them known of her involuntary involvement; so how had the authorities learned of it so soon?

He frowned, worrying at it.

Clearly, someone wanted them caught. That someone might very well be an enemy of Jacobites in general or Sir Simon in particular. Conversely, he could be a French diplomat, working behind the scenes for the overthrow of the powerful and dangerous Marquise de Pompadour.

Either way, thought Valerian, their opponents presented a formidable challenge that must be met with the utmost caution. Regardless of who they were, they'd been incredibly fast in relaying the word that Elspeth was with “Mrs. Newell's” little party. From here on there could be no more slips with names—or anything else! They must be ever alert and on guard, for even at this stage of the game it was all too possible that his father could be apprehended and returned to England for trial—and execution!

*   *   *

Peering from the window as the coach lurched to a stop, Elspeth exclaimed, “What a pretty little house! How lovely it will be to sit at a table that does not leap up and down!”

Skye had already dismounted and now swung open the carriage door and let down the step. “It's almost dark, Valerian,” he pointed out. “D'you think your cousin will be able to find the blacksmith?”

“I think Herbert couldn't find the end of his nose without guidance,” grunted Valerian, who was very tired.

“And I wish you could find it in your heart to be kinder to the poor boy,” chided Elspeth.

“‘If wishes were horses beggars might ride,'” he quoted dryly.

Sir Simon murmured, “Herbert is in unfamiliar country and did not force his mount to lose a shoe. Nor was he obliged to risk his life so as to help in this perilous enterprise.”

“True, and clearly I am judged a great villain,” sighed Valerian. “But let's make sure we're in the right place before we send out a search party.” He jumped down the step, and after a few words with the coachman, he strode up the path to the front door of the cottage.

Sir Simon patted Elspeth's hand. “Try not to judge him too harshly, m'dear. He's had very little sleep and worries too much about me. And to be fair he sets a much higher standard for himself than for others. Poor Herbert cannot always meet it. But in truth Gervaise is more fond of the boy than he admits.”

Skye said, “Put up your hood, Elspeth. It's coming on to rain.”

Valerian hurried back to them. “This is the right place, thank heaven, but curse this damp! We'd best get you inside, ladies. 'Fraid you'll have to remain Mrs. Newell for another day or so, Father.”

Elspeth scanned the lane as he handed her down the step. Logically enough, everything looked strange and unfamiliar. She'd already discovered that Herbert's command of the French tongue was limited and she again wondered uneasily if he would be able to find his way here from the smithy.

Valerian said in her ear, “Stop looking so betwattled. I'll go back for the lame—for my dear cousin.”

“Not alone!” she said sharply. “Your papa told me you've had hardly any sleep, and don't forget those two riders we thought followed us from the quay.”

“The more reason to fish Herbert out of his predicament. Now hurry into the pension, and try worrying for yourself instead of for everybody else. We'll bring home the lost sheep, if he really is lost.”

At that instant Herbert was feeling very much the lost sheep. He had been quite proud of himself when he'd found the smithy in the failing light, and despite his far from fluent command of the language he had managed to convey his requirements to the sooty blacksmith. The smithy was little more than a cluttered yard and an overgrown shed with large and ill-fitting doors now standing wide. An elegant coach, poles up, waited in the cobbled yard while one of the horses received a new shoe. The procedure seemed to Herbert to take an inordinate length of time, but when at last it was completed it became evident that what the blacksmith lacked in speed he made up in salesmanship, and he convinced the coachman that one of the coach wheels was in need of attention.

The darkening sky caused Herbert's apprehensions to increase, but his attempts to have his own mount shod before the smith worked on the coach wheel were brushed aside. The smith muttered something to the coachman about
les milor Anglais,
and they both looked at Herbert from the corners of their eyes and sniggered.

Fuming, he struggled to come up with a sharp demand for immediate service and, trying to speak as authoritatively as his cousin would do, stammered,
“Aussi vite que je peux!”
which caused them both to roar with laughter. Clearly, his command had not been received as he'd intended. The smith waved a placating hand at him and said something he interpreted to be a suggestion that he be at ease, and a promise that his horse would be shod very soon. This seemed doubtful; the smith's movements were leisurely and he paused often in his work to chat with the coachman. Herbert realised that he stood little chance of leaving the smithy before the light was completely gone. Unhappily aware that Valerian would judge him a proper gudgeon if he became lost and delayed them, he stamped out into the lane.

It was already almost dark and there was no sign of a moon, besides which it was starting to rain. He peered about hoping to fix some familiar landmark in his mind so that at least he'd know which way to turn once he started off. There was a tavern of sorts a short distance from the smithy; perhaps he could enquire there for directions to the pension. If he could recollect the name of the place…! With a smothered groan at his own stupidity, he turned back into the smithy, only to recoil with a shocked exclamation as a yelp sounded directly behind him.

“Do please take care, sir!” cried a childish and very English voice. “You stamped all over him!”

Jerking around, Herbert faced a boy of about seven who clutched a small dog in his arms. Both boy and dog regarded him resentfully.

“My apologies,” he said. “I didn't see you. You're English, aren't you?”

“I am half English. My mama is French. You may stroke my Tueur if you want to make up with him. He may forgive you, though he is very fierce.”

Undaunted, Herbert availed himself of the offer; the small ears went back, the dog wriggled ecstatically and licked his hand. “Tueur,” he repeated uncertainly. “He doesn't seem very terrible to me, but I think I am forgiven.”

“Course. Animals are better forgivers than people are.” The boy giggled and added mischievously: “You don't speak French, do you sir?”

“Very little, I fear. Didn't I pronounce it properly?”

“Oh, yes, only
tueur
doesn't mean ‘terrible.' It means ‘killer'! I named him that 'cause my papa calls him a non-dog, and Tueur's feelings get hurt. I could tell you didn't speak much French when you made the blacksmith laugh. My papa says the fellow is of an impert'nence.”

Herbert felt his face get hot. “There was nothing to laugh at,” he said defensively. “I simply told him to shoe my horse as quickly as he can.”

The boy giggled again.

With a rueful grin Herbert asked, “Didn't I?”

“No, sir. You told him—you told him to … to do it as quickly as
you
can!”

They both laughed heartily and the small
tueur
barked with excitement.

A lantern was raised, sending a beam directly into Herbert's eyes. Dazzled, he heard a male voice exclaim in English, “By Jove, sir, but you've a charming smile! Small wonder you've captivated my son.”

A large hand was extended. Blinking, Herbert took it and introduced himself. The shadowy stranger, who was materializing into a tall, stout gentleman, responded with the information that he was Sir Harold Walters, conveying his son, Luke, to Paris to visit his maternal grandparents. They exchanged a few commonplaces, Sir Harold confiding that the blacksmith was a curst lazy fellow who worked with the speed of an intoxicated snail. He was excessively bored and invited his fellow traveller to join him in a game of dice while they waited.

Herbert hesitated. Sir Harold had a rather odd way of leaning very close and scanning his face penetratingly. Ruddy-complected, he had a ready smile that revealed yellowing and uneven teeth, but despite rather harsh features he seemed an amiable gentleman. Herbert, very aware that he was not quick-witted, found it a pleasant change to be so immediately approved of and accepted as an equal. The end of it was that they adjourned to the coach, Sir Harold's coachman lit the lamps, dice and a board were brought out, these soon augmented by a flask of wine. The two players were fairly well matched at the game and enjoyed a discussion on French customs and cooking. Sir Harold called to his son to come in with his “non-dog.” The boy and his pet climbed into the coach and proceeded to fall asleep, and time slipped away pleasantly enough until the carriage door was wrenched open and an irate voice cried, “So here you are!”

“Oh, egad!” gasped Herbert, confronted by a handsome but enraged countenance.

Tueur woke up and yapped half-heartedly.

“You were not asked to speak!” Valerian informed the small animal.

Recognizing the voice of authority, Tueur sat down and wriggled hopefully.

“Nor were you asked to sh-shcold our non-dog,” observed Sir Harold, who had not stinted himself with the wine.

Valerian ran a scornful glance over him, then demanded, “What the deuce are you about, cousin?”