The Tide Watchers (25 page)

Wimereux (Channel Coast)

September 24, 1802

B
OOM-BANG
—THE DEEP RESOUNDING THROUGH
the scrubby forest told a tale Duncan, waiting at the cross paths just inside Wimereux for Argenteuil to return, didn't want to hear.

A second boom came from a different weapon. The echoes of both returned to him in waves, pulsing like changing tides; then there was nothing but the howling of air currents moving in from the Channel. The boy must be dead, and he must let the body rot on a forest path in France, as if he didn't matter to anyone. It was time to run.

The dead are unimportant; deal with the living:
this was the inflexible rule in his world. Disobeying orders could bring death to hundreds, even thousands. He'd left dozens of bodies to rot or sink beneath the waves, with a silent prayer to God to take care of them.

This time his prayer felt blocked by the voice of his conscience.

Damn the girl for changing him. Ever since he'd seen her lying in her own blood, she'd stopped being a faceless sacrifice for her country. Her near death made him sick to his stomach. Pushing her at Fulton when she was so delicate robbed him of sleep. The scar on her face made him second-guess every risk he'd asked her to take.

She wasn't just “the girl,” or Eddie's daughter making the acceptable sacrifice. Fragile and brittle, terrified and still trying to fulfill a mission that went against every principle she'd been raised by—willing to destroy herself to save her baby—she'd become Lisbeth: a damned little heroine in his eyes.

Now Argenteuil had become Símon, and he was young, so brave and young.

Damn it.
He ran down the path toward where the fading explosion still echoed.

“Hold, lad. The Frogs'll be on us in a minute.”

Without thinking, Duncan pulled his pistols, loaded and cocked . . . then the accent penetrated. The man came into view, a great hulking brute in a black cloak, carrying the boy.

Duncan scowled. By the scar near his ear, it was definitely Alec Stewart this time. He ought to have known the man would keep interfering.

Stewart slipped into a barely noticeable side path off the major one, heading northeast. “This way, lad, or they'll know the boy's not alone.”

Gritting his teeth, Duncan moved onto the side path. When Stewart crouched down behind scrubby growth, he followed suit. “You were supposed to stay in England,” he whispered.

Stewart grinned. “Zephyr sent me as backup, lad; you knew he would. Now come on.”

He barely heard. “Why you and Cal both keep involving yourselves with me—”

Stewart turned on him, frowning. “You've met Cal? Where is he?”

Duncan frowned, wondering why Stewart didn't know where his own twin was. “He was in Abbeville until a month ago, infiltrating the Jacobins.”

“Ready to protect you at a moment's notice, you mean,” Stewart muttered. “It's why we joined the cause in the first place.”

Duncan sighed in frustration. Bloody Zephyr with his plots and plans, using all three brothers as each other's alibi. The spymaster would use, destroy, and toss away all of them if it meant peace for Britain. “I didn't force either of you to become my alibi, nor to become the Destroyer Twins—
Apollyon,
” he murmured, mocking their code names: Apollyon and Abaddon.

Following his usual manner of ignoring Duncan's hostility, Stewart only shrugged. “So where is Cal?”

“He's in Eaucourt, trying to rescue—”

“Your lass's son,” Stewart filled in when he hesitated, sounding exasperated. “Bloody idiot thinks he's Jason and all the Argonauts together. Has he got backup at least?”

Duncan nodded, refusing to discuss Lisbeth. “Three of my men.”

Stewart peered around the bushes onto the path. “Whoever shot the boy must have gone for reinforcements first.”

“Give me the boy,” Duncan whispered fiercely.

With Argenteuil cradled in his arms, Stewart grinned. “And have you run off when I have the pleasure of your company?” Alec pulled some rags from his cloak and began wadding the boy's injury, high on his chest.

Duncan ground his teeth. “Do you wear that cloak to make fun of me?”

“No, lad, I do it to protect you,” he retorted in a gentle scold, just like a brother. Like Leo treated Andrew.

Duncan kept his aching jaw clamped until he could control it. “There's a rumor that one of the Destroyer Twins is being implicated in the rue Saint-Nicaise killings of 1800. I know it wasn't me. So was it you or Cal?”

Argenteuil's wound was strapped down tight. Stewart's head tilted. “So my brother's
Cal,
but I'm not Alec?”

“Answer the question, damn you.”

Stewart shrugged. “It was me.”

The three words carried a world of unspoken ghosts: a silent symphony of requiems, each one with his or her face. It seemed Duncan had more in common with this unwanted half brother than he'd have believed only minutes ago. He opened his mouth, but closed it. What was there to say? This Destroyer Twin carried more pain than his laughing mask showed, and he of all people ought to have known that.

“Hush now,” Stewart whispered, cocking his head down the path. The thuds of booted feet came and slowly faded. Both men stayed still for several minutes in case they returned.

Stewart looked down at Símon's wound. “The boy needs more help than I can give.”

“Give him to me.” Duncan held his arms out.

Stewart shook his head. “Are you aware there's talk about incarceration of all foreigners—especially those on the Channel Coast? A British spy was shot in Boulogne-sur-Mer the other day. Boney's visit must be close, and Fulton's getting a name here. They don't know your lass is English yet, but it will soon be dangerous for her.”

“A British spy was shot in Boulogne?” Duncan asked sharply, stomach sinking.

“A dark-haired man, midtwenties. He was yours?” With a heavy heart, Duncan nodded. Stewart said quietly, “I'm sorry, lad. They threw his body in the river outside the city walls with a chain around his neck, calling him a British spy seeking Boney's life.”

Poor Peebles.
Duncan struggled to think. Who'd found Peebles, and more important, what had he given away? Who'd given him over? Was it the rat in his team who'd given Peebles's name to the French?

“I intercepted a semaphore from Boulogne two days ago,” Stewart whispered. “Did you receive notice of it?”

Duncan shook his head wearily. Confirmation received of that damned double agent on his ship, but at least he had a definite lead now: he could check which of his signalers was on duty at the time. “What did it say? What time was it?”

“It's all written here.” With a short struggle, Stewart managed to pull out a wad of paper wrapped in oilskin. “All the details are there. Only you could tell if it's from your man or not.”

Duncan pocketed it with brief thanks. “We have to get Símon to help first.”

Lisbeth. Símon. Peebles.
Had Camelford made it inside Boulogne? Would the next body be that of a cheeky, red-haired Cockney cabin boy with an uncanny eye for trouble?

All raw recruits under twenty-five, all sacrificed in the name of king and country. Would the king ever know their names? Would their names be on lists of national heroes?

Wishing his team was anywhere but here, Duncan muttered, “Did Zephyr send you?”

“He asked me to keep an eye on the situation. Somebody has to scuttle the assassination if Fulton and your lass are to stay safe.”

It sounded odd the way his fluent French was interrupted by the totally Scottish
lass
. “I thought you weren't Zephyr's—quote—‘puppet' any longer, Stewart. And don't use the words of your nation, it gives us away,” he said coldly.

The smile was evident in the other's voice. “We go this way, lad.” With that, Stewart led the way through the eastern side of the scrub, off the main path onto a small creek bed. They trudged in silence, avoiding slippery rocks and pools of water. Then Stewart looked at him, eyes somber. “This has rattled you, hasn't it—the boy's injury? You're blaming yourself for it?”

“Who else is there to blame?” Duncan whispered fiercely. “I sent him.”

They stopped off to one side of the creek. Stewart sat down, cradling the boy in his arms. “He chose his path,” Stewart said, voice gentle.

“He had no idea. He's twenty-two.” Duncan looked down at the boy, with the pale stillness that comes before death. Lisbeth had survived it by the miracle of Clare's knowledge, but Clare wasn't here. “Peebles was twenty-five. I sent him into Boulogne, and now he's dead. Símon had only five months' training, and he's been shot. I should have gone—I'm the experienced agent.”

“How old were you on your first mission—seventeen?” Stewart shot him an intense look. “How old is the girl you sent to Fulton? How much training did
she
receive, a week, two? I note you don't suffer the same pangs of conscience over her, yet she's younger, and nearly died only a few weeks ago. Do you not worry about her because you expect her to work on her back?”

Duncan's hands curled into quick fists—

One of Stewart's arms came out from holding the boy and flashed across his chest, blocking the attack. “No, damn you, answer me! Why the hell are you making a whore of that poor girl? Hasn't she suffered enough?”

He snarled back, “Like the fifty victims of the rue Saint-Nicaise? How old was the youngest child that died—seven? How do you justify
your
duty that day?”

Stewart whitened. “I don't.” Two words slamming a door on a house full of ghosts.

He hadn't expected to feel so shamed. Duncan lowered his gaze. “I'm sorry.”

“I am too. You'll never know how much.” Looking into Duncan's face, Alec didn't bother to hide the suffering. The damage.

So that's why he resigned from the Alien Office.
Duncan hated the insight. He didn't want to like Alec Stewart, and he didn't want to empathize with him.

“There was no one else to send,” Duncan murmured, wondering when he'd sat beside Stewart. “Eddie sent me to find her, to see if she was well and happy, and bring her home if she wasn't. The situation was thrown into my lap the night I found her. She was working at the tavern where political dissidents meet. While I was trying to recruit her—just to listen in at the tavern—Delacorte set us up for murder and tried to have her killed. I got her out.”

“I understand the need, but why not send her home when she was so injured and ask Zephyr to send a more experienced woman?”

Duncan hunched up one shoulder. “Didn't you hear me? There was no
time
. Fulton's no fool. He'd have seen through an experienced woman, but he has a weakness for young girls. And she's not working on her back,” he growled. “Fulton's a gentleman, and she's still fragile.”

“Too bloody fragile to be here.” Alec shot Duncan a look, and his face softened. “That's why you're camped by the house. Why you're handing over assignments to your men. If Fulton crosses the line, you'll take her away.”

He caught himself just before he nodded. He didn't want to bond with Stewart, the perfect mirror of all he could never be: a family man, a brother—and legitimate. Now he'd become the mirror of his conscience, seeing Lisbeth as he saw her—so young and vulnerable. Now Stewart was saying everything Duncan had been trying to deny
these past weeks. His duty, even saving a nation, was no justification for destroying her. There was no such thing as acceptable sacrifices of innocent girls. That was something monsters like Fouché and Delacorte did.

He jerked to his feet. “I should go.”

“One day you'll trust me,” came the quiet voice from behind him.

Duncan swung back. “I told you: I want none of you, or your family.”

“Yet you turned to me in need. They're
our
family, Duncan.” Stewart wasn't the slightest bit out of breath from carrying the unconscious Argenteuil, even when they climbed up the other side of the creek bed to a small road. “Your mother, Meggie, was younger than your lass when she had you. She was an orphan, alone and scared after our father died, which was why she took Annersley's deal. She died of an inflammation of the lungs many years ago. We're all you have.”

“I have no one.” Early life had proven it to Duncan beyond doubt. He wasn't Annersley, with all the inbred disdain for and abuse of those in a lower position. He'd never quite be a Sunderland. But he'd
never
become a Stewart. Why did Alec keep bothering with him?

He had a life of duty to king and country. It was his pride, his purpose.

“You do have us,” Stewart said gently. “Our grandmother's in her eighties and frail. Granddad's ninety-two and hale enough, but he can't last much longer. They pray every day for you to join the family before they die. It means everything to them.”

That was beyond his comprehension. How could the Baron and Lady Stewart want to know the bastard-born child, the son of a chambermaid—and the cause of their son's death? “We need to get the boy to someone who can give him medical help.” Conversation closed.

“You can't take him to your lass. It puts her in greater danger.”

The calm assumption of authority irked Duncan, as did the continual references to his
lass
. “Doesn't your being here put me in danger, since our resemblance is so strong? Isn't that why Zephyr recruited you and Cal in the first place?”

“Odd the way you'll name Cal, and not me. Must be something I've done,” Stewart stated with a return to that infuriating cheerfulness. “Right now it seems we're all needed where we are, or Zephyr wouldn't have sent us. But, aye, Cal and I have acted as your alibi on many occasions, as you've done for us. In fact you've saved my life more than once just by being somewhere else, including when you were in London while I—during the rue Saint-Nicaise debacle.”