The Tide Watchers (14 page)

And Fouché would be the one holding the strings to make the new king dance.

Somme River, Abbeville

B
RING HER TO THE
trapdoor. I'll cover you.”

Cal's voice right behind his ear startled Duncan. He moved faster, ignoring the glass digging into hands and knees. Cal went to the only possible exit, now that the walls were gone: the trapdoor over the river. He lifted it for Duncan, and then piled up wall rubble around himself for protection.

As Duncan passed a sprawl of bodies, one head lifted. Luc Marron's bleary eyes met Duncan's, and saw the knife in his hand. “I have four daughters. Please. I wouldn't hurt Elise.”

He ought to question the man—but if Cal had been part of the group for months, there would be little he didn't know. He glanced at Lisbeth lying in dirt and blood, and saw the mark of a handprint on her cheek. He turned back in time to see Marron wince. With cold precision he pulled the Nock off his back and whacked Marron on the head with the side of the stock. If the Frenchman's slump were a ruse, he wouldn't stop him from taking the girl.

His gloves and breeches shredded on the broken glass as he crawled; little shards lodged in his skin. Shots whizzed past him. Cal answered with shots. “Hurry, lad.”

An eerie silence fell as Duncan reached her. Not even a bird chirped. Delacorte must be alone now, either looking for discarded weapons or reloading. Or he was watching, waiting to shoot.

Lying flat, Duncan cut her bonds. A tiny exhalation came from her lips; blood pumped from her shoulder, sluggish. The glass had gone in so deep he didn't dare pull it out. With his arms beneath her back
and legs he strapped her to him, but every movement he made caused fresh bleeding. Rolling onto his back, he laid her body across him, feeling her blood drip on his skin.

Cal hissed, “I'm out of ball shot. Give me yours.”

“She has glass in her shoulder. If I don't hold it together, she'll bleed to death.”

A new volley of shots began. Cal lifted the trapdoor, ordered, “One of you, arm yourself and get up here. The other, throw me a weapon!”

Duncan laid Lisbeth's head on his shoulder, keeping her neck motionless with his hand. Her breaths were shallow and fast against his torn shirt and chest. He inched toward the trapdoor on his back. Glass shards tore his layers of clothing and lodged in the skin of his back as he inched on. Every twenty seconds he halted, waiting to feel her breathe again.

“Move left, lad. Less glass and fewer bodies. That's it.”
Boom.
An answering shot, and Duncan coughed out the acrid pall from his lungs. One of his men had joined Cal. “Come around to the right, back toward me. Aye, head straight now and you'll make it.”

Without time to think, Duncan followed Cal's advice.

More shots, closer. Delacorte was moving in. Cal fired off another shot. “I've only enough powder for two shots. Hurry.”

Duncan found the trapdoor, inched his way around as fast as he could, swung his legs into the hole, and slowly sat, cradling her the whole time. “Help me,” he ordered down the hole.

“I'm here, sir.” His third lieutenant, Hazeltine, put his hands at Duncan's back.

He felt his way down another ladder with booted feet. Hazeltine helped him settle on the bench, with Lisbeth cradled like a babe against him. Looking down, he saw the pale, peaceful blank that presages death. He whispered fiercely, “Don't let go, do you hear me? You have a son to raise. Damn you, girl, fight!”

Cal and Burton stepped down into the boat.

“She needs a doctor,” he said as Cal sat across from him, searched
Duncan's pockets for pistols, laid them on the bench beside him, and grabbed two oars. He nodded, and Hazeltine and Burton pulled oars in time with him. “There's one aboard ship, but there's no time. I hear there's a midwife in Fontaine. We could be there in half an hour.”

“I know her,” Cal said shortly. “What of your ship, lad? Where is it anchored?”

Duncan stared at this man who called him “lad” and “brother” so easily and seemed to know all his secrets. What was it with these Stewarts? They interfered in his life with total ease and no conscience. “I gave orders to anchor off the marshes by Le Crotoy every night at first watch, six bells, until mid-watch, eight bells—two hours before sunrise.”

“I was in the navy, lad. I know the terms,” Cal said mildly.

Duncan looked at the man who was almost an unscarred mirror of himself and said, “So who were the Jacobins waiting for in the barn last night, and what are they planning? And how did Delacorte know exactly where to come to be able to accuse us of working with the Jacobins?”

The boat jerked left toward the riverbank. Before they could right it, a shot rang out. Duncan forced himself to remain still, shielding Lisbeth with his body—

Bloody virtue was not its own reward this time. The ball ripped through the top of the rowboat and into his thigh. He flinched. “Aaargh!”

Lisbeth moaned as the boat rocked, and he couldn't hold her still.

“Commander,” Hazeltine cried, jumping toward him.

“
Stroke,
” Cal snapped in French. “We must get out of here! Faster!”

Duncan glared at Hazeltine, gritted teeth, low voice. “Not . . . commander here.”

Another shot hit the boat near Duncan, embedding in the bench.

“The shooter stands seventy degrees northeast of you, monsieur.” Burton handed Cal two pistols. “I primed every remaining pistol while I waited for you.”

“Good man. It's Delacorte, Duncan,” Cal said softly. “He's trying to sink us. Are you well enough to keep going?”

“I'll make it.” Duncan turned his head. Even in a mist of pain he could see the man on the riverbank. The height and breadth, the blond curls . . . he could almost imagine the bright, cornflower-blue eyes. Such angelic beauty was rare in a man without appearing effeminate.

No wonder Lisbeth had run off with him. He was the epitome of physical masculine splendor. With a poetic tongue feeding her sad tales of his youth in revolutionary France, he could easily turn a young girl's head.

Still less was he surprised that, after a year of experiencing Delacorte's dirty peccadilloes and his painful methods of control over women, she'd trusted
him,
Duncan, so easily. If he was Vulcan to Delacorte's Apollo, mongrel bastard to the other's purebred, Delacorte had shown his soul within hours of Eddie refusing him entry to the house. Why he'd joined the Jacobins was no mystery. He might be of the noble class, but ambition and paranoia, the love of violence and need to blame others had dominated everything he had done since the death of his father.

Sweat broke out with the effort of holding Lisbeth in his pain. “He's reloading.”

“Pull faster!” Cal aimed and fired one pistol and the other, right-handed and left.

A scream rang out in the fading sky. Cal nodded in satisfaction. “I thought hitting his leg in the same place an appropriate farewell, plus it will slow his pursuit of us. Seems he likes receiving pain less than giving it. He won't be chasing us for a while.”

Lucifer, son of the morning, how thou art fallen.
Duncan watched Delacorte's perfect face twist in anguish and redden in unbridled rage. Again he forced his mind from his own pain, checking the glade and surrounds. “Looks like no one's with him. To Fontaine, double time.” He wanted to tell Cal to kill the bastard, but if Cal hadn't done so already, it was because he had orders to keep him alive. Only Zephyr had that kind of authority—but why would the spymaster want Delacorte kept alive? He'd find out before he was much older, that was bloody certain.

“How will we reach Le Crotoy? Isn't Valery-sur-Somme guarded also?” Cal asked.

“Not so thoroughly as Boulogne.” Duncan forced himself to think through the pain that was making him light-headed. “My fourth lieutenant should meet us with a coach and four horses, plus horses for us as outriders. He'll meet us at the crossroads above Fontaine.”

“Actually, sir, Hill's doing that,” Hazeltine said.

Duncan gritted his teeth. Hazeltine was both physically clumsy and with a mouth that tripped over itself, and he wouldn't have kept him on his team if he'd had the choice. But Hazeltine was cousin to a viscount who steadily voted for the continuation of the Alien Office on the occasions such debates returned. “Don't use surnames. Why is a midshipman doing this?”

Hazeltine's hesitation was pregnant with tension and fear. “We're here with you, the first lieutenant fulfilled his mission and is returning from Le Havre, and the fourth lieutenant—well, he's done a runner.” Hazeltine peered at Duncan, his honest eyes alight with anxiety. “He took a rowboat and disappeared about two hours after you left ship. He stole the Jaulin papers. It seems Mark—uh, Marcus René went with him.”

When Lisbeth moaned, Duncan realized he'd squeezed her in his fury. He softened his hold, but his mind whirled. His new fourth lieutenant had joined them
after
he'd been with Archbishop Narbonne. While he was waiting for Alec to come to him, Narbonne sent word that a young priest had been killed outside the church as they'd spoken, another tied up.

Idiot!
He should have been suspicious when his fourth lieutenant had disappeared, with Haversham conveniently at hand to replace him. But in the peace, too many ships had been decommissioned, with hundreds of sailors and officers hanging about the docks desperate for paid work. Lost in the archbishop's information and fear for Lisbeth, he'd let Flynn hire the replacement lieutenant. On board ship with him for one night, he'd never looked at the man.

There must be good reason why both Pitt and Admiral St. Vincent had given Haversham such a thorough recommendation. The imposter
must be a man of birth and means to have their interest—or were the papers forgeries? If so, they were expensive ones to fool Flynn. Why would the man risk death . . . to join
his
ship? If he'd wanted to get to France so badly, why not just take the packet at Dover?

The next shot hit the end of the launch an inch above the water line. “Faster, damn you!” he snarled. “We can outrun—”

Then he froze. Someone had to have been listening in on his conversation with the archbishop: a man who'd killed a priest without thought for the consequences.

This missing lieutenant, an efficient seaman, had given him a recommendation by
Pitt.

Only one man was stupid enough to forge the former prime minister's handwriting and believe he could get away with it . . . because he probably would.

Duncan didn't know he'd tensed until pain tore through his injured leg. But damn it, by his inattention he'd let the Mad Baron loose in France—a violent man who hated everyone born beneath him. And Mark, the ambitious Cockney cabin boy far too smart for his own good, had decamped with him.

Alec Stewart arrived at Dropmore House at six, the country hour to dine.

He'd learned Zephyr's whereabouts by visiting the British Alien Office in Whitehall, pretending to be Cal. From an undersecretary unfamiliar with the Stewart brothers, Alec had learned that Zephyr was staying at his cousin Lord Grenville's home in Buckinghamshire, only twenty-five miles away.

Alec had stayed in Duncan's rooms on Jermyn Street, where Duncan's finicky valet gave him a bed and nightshirt, fussed over his hair, insisted on a night shave and having his clothes pressed. “Commander Aylsham always does so, sir.”

Alec gave in. He supposed this namby-pamby would faint if he saw Alec sleeping naked. No wonder Duncan didn't take him aboard ship.

The next morning the valet took him to buy the latest in evening attire before he left for Buckinghamshire. “Lord Grenville is a stickler for the observances where home and ladies are concerned, sir,” the man said, eyeing Alec's clothing with ill-concealed distaste.

A suggestion that he could wear something of his brother's made the valet stare in shock.

So Alec forked out a hundred pounds for ridiculous London wear: bloody uncomfortable knee breeches and waistcoat under a tight cutaway coat. His hair was artfully arranged in curls instead of simply tied back with a ribbon, dropping over his face enough to annoy him. With his height and breadth, the frills on the shirt cuffs and the intricacy of the cravat made him look like a giant dandy. To top it off, he had to bring Duncan's man for dressing. “Lord and Lady Grenville would be shocked if you didn't bring me, sir,” the valet insisted.

Once admitted to the magnificent house, the butler led him down a wide hallway into an anteroom. “Please wait here, Mr. Stewart.” The butler closed the doors behind him.

Lifting his brows a little at the exquisite rudeness, Alec looked at family portraits, the highly decorated doors, walls, cornices, and shelves. A ridiculous-sized house for two people, but probably they'd still expected to have children when it was built twelve years ago.

He'd been cooling his heels for ten minutes. He'd expected better manners than this. Twelve minutes . . .

Then Lady Grenville pushed the doors open. The plump, pretty woman curtsied to his bow. “My dear Mr. Stewart, I do beg your pardon! You have come in this horrible weather! So naughty of Lord Grenville not to have told me you were coming! Never mind, it can be fixed in a trifle. You'll stay the night, of course.”

She told the butler to make up the second-best guest room and take the valet upstairs. Bustling Alec through the Blue Room and the creamy-colored morning room, Lady Grenville entered the dining
room. Two thin men sat talking in low tones. Both wore old-fashioned wigs and de rigueur
knee breeches, cravats, and exquisite fitted jackets for a dinner of ten years ago. Although they had a basic familiarity of features one could expect from cousins, one man had a contented face and pleasant eyes, but the other—William Windham, Zephyr—was sharper faced, his gaze constantly inquisitive. A little lady sat beside him, either a paid companion or a poor relative, well dressed but without jewels, frills, or furbelows. She sat quietly, smiling and nodding at appropriate places.