“Chef is outside.” Elbow-deep in suds, the kitchen maid lifted a dripping hand and pointed to the back door as Michael pushed through it.
“Dr. Franklin asks this morning for that pastry you make, lemon with poppy seeds,” she called to him.
“I thought we had more poppy seeds. There are none left.” Michael’s forearms strained under the weight of a burlap bag large enough to hide his chest and face. He flung it onto the slab of marble as if wrestling an opponent to the ground, and a cloud of white flour exploded from the fibers.
The baker glowered as he slapped his hands together, casting more flour into the air. His eyes were wary when he noticed Daniel. “What do you want?”
His grim tone surprised Daniel. Michael was friendlier the other night with Hannah, Augusta, and Becca. “I must speak to you, but I can come back if you are working.”
“I apologize. Now is good.” Michael raked a hand through his hair, leaving behind more white flour. “This death on the roof. We are all anxious. Two servant girls have already left their positions.”
The kitchen maid placed another plate on the wooden counter as she watched Daniel. Yes, they were all anxious and all suspicious.
“Let’s talk outside,” Daniel suggested. Within moments, the two men stood overlooking the vegetable gardens, divided by broad dirt paths and lime trees. A breeze cooled the sweat at Daniel’s hairline. Even between meals, the kitchen was uncomfortably warm.
“I am not usually so rude to guests.” Michael stared into the woods behind the house. “I must apologize again.”
“You seem more distressed by the murder today than when it occurred,” Daniel said. “Has something else happened?”
“I cannot say.” Michael’s severe features tightened.
“What does that mean?” Daniel asked. “You cannot say, because you don’t know or….”
“Because servants do not insult their betters if they wish to keep their position.” Michael’s tone was bitter.
Daniel understood. His father, a shepherd in Cornwall, had trained Daniel from a young age. “‘Yes, sir,’ ‘No, sir,’ and, on Christmas Day, ‘Thank you for the goose, sir.’ I don’t care if your hair’s on fire. That is all you will say to the master.”
“I am an American, Michael. We insult each other all the time. Tell me.”
“Your friend, Monsieur d’Aumont, asks me if I want to move to Versailles and make cakes for the king. He thinks to steal me from this place.”
“That doesn’t sound like an insult. It sounds like talent being rewarded. Congratulations.”
“I would starve before I agreed to feed him.” Michael spit on the grass. “I say no. I am polite when I want to lift him by his collar and throw him out the door.”
The baker might love liberty, but he was careless, passionate to the point of danger. Perhaps not the best choice for a partner. Was trusting Michael wise? Daniel wasn’t certain. But he needed a driver tonight if his plan had any chance of working, and he didn’t have a better option.
Daniel wrestled the conversation back to his purpose. “I am here to ask a favor. I need you to drive me to Paris and back tonight.”
“And it is so important you reach Paris tonight?” Michael kept his head lowered, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
“It is.”
“Why ask me?” Michael pulled the beige-colored towel tied at his waist and wiped his hands.
“For one, you have tender feelings for Mrs. Hannah.”
Michael scowled. “That is none of your business.” A pause. “You can tell?”
“You seek her out. You want her opinion on herbs. You bring her pastries to try.” Michael was a man of few words, except when it came to Hannah. He wore his feelings on his sleeve.
“And what if that is true?” The baker crouched suddenly and plucked a purple weed from the ground. He pinched the long green stem, releasing the scent of mild onions. “Chives. We have more in one of the gardens. Perhaps I’ll add it to tomorrow’s bread.” He tucked the herb into his waistband.
“That is why I am asking this favor,” Daniel said. “Because of your feelings for Mrs. Hannah.”
Michael’s high forehead furrowed as if Daniel made no sense.
“Take a walk with me.” Why risk being overheard? “Someone close to this house may have killed Jude Fenimore. Who’s to say he won’t come after another of us?”
“Why would he hurt Han–someone else?” Michael’s strong hands flexed, then formed fists.
“Who is to say why murderers do what they do?” Daniel shrugged.
“Someone close to the house, you say. You are following someone who lives here into Paris?” Michael asked.
Daniel nodded.
Michael frowned. “What do you require of me?”
The setting sun painted the sloping lawn and the skyline of Paris with a golden glow. Daniel pulled a stalk of hay from the collar of his linen shirt and flicked it over his shoulder.
“Any sign of him?” he asked Michael. It was seven p.m. Edward Bancroft would be driving by any minute.
“No,” the pastry chef answered.
Daniel burrowed back into the cart with only a thin layer of hay to cushion the rough plank floor. Pulling the scratchy burlap tarp over himself, he asked himself again whether involving Michael had been wise.
The pastry chef hated the French monarchy, and he was inspired by the American Revolution. Was he inspired enough to kill a British agent like Jude Fenimore if it meant protecting Benjamin Franklin?
Michael was strong enough to have lifted Fenimore to the lightning rod. But Daniel couldn’t think of a reason Michael would want to call attention to his crime in that way.
Michael couldn’t have known Jude would arrive at Franklin’s home the morning he was killed. In fact, Daniel couldn’t think of a way that Michael and Jude could know each other at all.
Beneath the burlap tarp, Daniel walked through the steps he’d set in motion. The scullery maid should have run to the stable to hand Mr. Bancroft a note. Terribly sorry, Daniel had written in slow, careful penmanship. But I won’t be joining you tonight. The merchant I intended to meet has taken ill with a terrible migraine. Perhaps we can visit Paris together another time.
Daniel had never intended to ride with Bancroft. He asked to accompany the man at a specific time, at seven p.m., to ensure that Bancroft left for Paris only when Daniel was ready to follow him.
The crunch of wheels on gravel grew louder. Horses whinnied as they passed the cart, and then the sounds softened. Daniel lay still, inhaling the clean, sweet scent of fresh hay.
“That was Mr. Bancroft,” Michael whispered.
Daniel began a slow, silent count. When he reached twenty-five, he called to Michael. “Is he far enough ahead of us now?”
“Oui.” The chef made a clicking sound, and the cart’s two horses pulled forward.
There is little cheer in spending hours standing behind a copse of bushes and trees while watching strangers enjoy themselves. That was all Daniel had discovered this evening. Parked several blocks away, Michael must be cursing his bad luck to be caught up in Daniel’s scheme.
Candlelight, music, and the trill of women’s laughter streamed through the open windows of the townhouse across the way. Edward Bancroft had entered the home hours ago. Daniel had watched from the Tuileries Garden ever since.
“Garden” was a humble name for the flowers and bushes that led to the royal palace, this Tuileries Palace. In the darkness, it was merely a hulking shadow. King Louis XIV might have loved his Paris palace, but his son and grandson had virtually abandoned the abode for Versailles.
For the first hour, Bancroft hovered by a piano near the center window. Later, Daniel caught glimpses of him framed in one window and then another, drifting from one group of guests to the next.
The male guests were interchangeable in their stiff poses and formal evening wear. Coats, waistcoats, and breeches. Silk stockings. Linen shirts with lace at the cuffs and a cravat at the neck. Through the tall paned window, they looked virtually alike. It took him more than a moment to pinpoint which was Bancroft.
Why did Bancroft need to borrow the magistrate’s coach if all he intended was to make an appearance at a society party? It was a party—an innocuous party—like so many that Daniel had attended since arriving in France. Why did he need to keep this visit a secret? Was he meeting someone in particular inside the townhouse? For what purpose? Who owned the house? He wouldn’t get any answers standing here tonight.
Daniel shifted his weight from one leg to the other. His attention wandered. He wore clothes like those of the men framed in the light-filled windows to blend in his new role as Mr. Barnes’s agent in Paris. When Becca leaped from the carriage, she had acted as if his new clothes made him a stranger. Didn’t she want him to be a man of substance? Wasn’t that what he wanted?
Footsteps echoed nearby. One man half a block away, Daniel guessed. He pulled behind a tree trunk, the bark rough against his back.
The footsteps were replaced by the sound of a chain clinking through metal. The nighttime street darkened even more as if a curtain had fallen.
Daniel exhaled with relief. Just a street lighter lowering lamps and extinguishing the candles that lit Paris. The worker passed moments later, dousing another taper just yards from where Daniel stood.
In the darkness, he admitted defeat. Dr. Franklin’s personal secretary was cross, judgmental, and arrogant. That didn’t make him a traitor or a killer. Why Bancroft felt it necessary to borrow the magistrate’s carriage to attend a party was still a mystery. But it wasn’t a crime.
And it was time to end this farce. Daniel stifled a yawn. He’d kept Michael from his bed long enough.
Which was when a dagger of light, almost long enough to illuminate Daniel, shot across the street. Daniel leaped back. Two men and a woman exited through the newly opened door. He tensed at the sound of voices. One was familiar: Bancroft’s.
Two carriages pulled up to the front of the townhouse. A servant must have alerted a stable boy to have the carriages brought around.
The impatient hollow sound of horses’ hooves on cobblestone echoed down the late-night street. A carriage door slammed shut. One of the two carriages pulled away.
Bancroft’s voice carried. “Too much to drink. Give me a few minutes. I best make use of the king’s garden before we leave.”
The driver laughed.
Daniel scrambled for cover beneath nearby bushes. Lying on his belly in the moist dirt, he watched Edward Bancroft stride into the garden. His pace was steady. He didn’t appear fuddled with drink. And he headed straight for Daniel, stopping yards away. The silver buckles on his black shoes gleamed in the moonlight.
Daniel tensed for the sound of buttons opening. He wouldn’t manage to stay hidden if Bancroft relieved himself right here. He slid his hand silently toward the pocket where he’d secured a knife.
But Bancroft shifted direction, jogging to the tree where Daniel had spent most of the night. He crouched there as Daniel had minutes ago. One arm yanked back. His elbows pulled out as if he was working with tools or pulling at something.
What’s he fussing with? Daniel couldn’t tell. But when Bancroft rose, he was empty-handed. He strode back to the coach.
Carriage springs squeaked. Daniel imagined Bancroft grasping the carriage door frame as he stepped up, the coach dipping in response to his weight. Bancroft laughed at something the driver said, and a door clicked shut. The driver crooned to his horses as the coach moved forward slowly, then more quickly. The jingle of the harnesses grew faint, then disappeared.
The after-dark music of summer crickets was all that remained.
Daniel plunged forward, sweeping his hand over the ground where Bancroft had seemed to search for—something. Small pebbles scratched his fingers, and then he felt it, a string. He tugged, feeling a light resistance on the other end, and pulled again. A small glass bottle emerged from a hole within the tangle of roots at the base of the tree.
Daniel gripped the narrow-mouthed bottle and felt a trace of warmth from Bancroft’s hand. In the dim moonlight, Daniel could just see a rolled page within the dark glass.
A borrowed coach. An hours-long party. All to leave a message beneath a tree. What purpose required such effort, such complexity? What have you hidden, old man? Daniel wedged the bottle between his right arm and his ribs and pulled out the cork that held its contents in place. He pulled out the delicate, rolled paper with his left.
A soft click, one pebble rolling into another, was all the warning Daniel had. He jammed the paper into his pocket and flipped the bottle in the direction of the sound. He could live with the embarrassment if all he did was scare a raccoon. But a satisfying whoof told him that the jar had found its target.
Something hit his head. Sparks of light exploded, clouding his sight. Daniel spun, leaned forward to run, and fell. The left side of his skull was numb, cold. The buzzing in his ears rose until the sound erased the world. There was no pain. Not then, and he was surprised to feel the earth beneath his belly, since all his senses told him that he was twisting and rolling toward the ground.
He flipped onto his back, triggering a wave of nausea. He’d had a knife. Where was it? Was there one attacker or three? He saw three. At least he would die facing his killer. The shadows grew larger. A hand patted his vest, his pockets. A new sound intruded, even louder than the buzzing in his head. A voice. A roar. The hand searching his clothes was gone.
And then his thoughts sank down the deep well of his mind. Daniel set the image of Becca before him, the flash of her broad smile, her half-closed eyes when they made love, the way one eyebrow rose when she was convinced he was wrong. She was as clear to him as if she stood before him in bright daylight. His vision narrowed to a pinpoint.
A dome of stars and the sound of horse hooves greeted Daniel as he woke. Where was he? He lay on a prickly blanket of hay. One stalk poked his waist. Hay? What was he doing in a hay cart in the middle of the night? Who was driving? He lifted himself to his elbows. A shot of pain and nausea forced him down again. What’s happened to me? He lay still, panting, eyes closed as the cart slowed to a stop. He’d worry about the where, when, and why later.
The cart bounced as someone jumped in.
Daniel opened one eye.
Michael stared back. “I thought you were dead.” He exhaled with relief and surprise.
Daniel next opened his eyes to find Hannah hovering over him in the darkened sitting room at Dr. Franklin’s home. There was a pillow beneath his head. A blanket covered him. He lay on the floor with a rug and a sheet beneath him. He recalled his arm around Michael’s shoulder, Michael’s hand around his waist.
“You are a lucky man, Mr. Alloway.” Hannah pressed a cool compress to the side of Daniel’s head.
“I don’t feel lucky,” His skull was alive with pain.
“You are an idiot, sir.” Becca sat near his feet. She sounded as angry as he’d ever heard her. He heard tears in her voice, too.
He agreed with her assessment.
“Will he be all right?” Benjamin Franklin asked.
“Of course, he will,” Augusta said.
Their voices seemed to hover over his head, as if they stood looking down at him. From his vantage point on the floor, he caught a glimpse of Augusta and Dr. Franklin seated on the nearby couch. Michael stood behind them. Each heartbeat pounded his skull. He raised his head to speak again and felt the earth spin.
Hannah’s voice was closer. “It is too soon to tell how long it will take you to recover. Your mind has been rattled.”
He tried again. “Rattled as a general matter or just at the moment?” His voice sounded rusty to himself. There. Speaking didn’t make the pain worse, and, besides, hearing his voice might remove the panic he saw in Becca’s red-rimmed eyes.
“You’re talking. That is a good sign,” Hannah said with satisfaction. “Can you tell us your name?”
“Really, Hannah,” Augusta said. “Why would you ask that?”
“Really, Augusta,” Hannah replied. “Patients with a head injury can be confused.” She turned back to Daniel. “Please answer the question.”
“My name is Benjamin Franklin.” There had to be some humor in all of this.
The group gasped.
“Or call me anything you like, even Daniel Alloway.” Daniel shifted to study Becca. She let slip a smile. At least he’d succeeded in that.
Hannah’s hand pressed on his shoulder. “Best lie still for now.”
“Who did this to you, Daniel?” Becca asked.
His memory was a thin, tenuous thread. A thread. A string. He clutched at the memory of a string, but nothing came. He didn’t know what it meant. “I stood across the street from a townhouse.”
“You were searching for….” Dr. Franklin prompted
Hannah interrupted. “That won’t help. Let Mr. Alloway remember.”
“We left here to follow….” Daniel struggled for the name. “To follow Mr. Bancroft.” The recollection made him feel as if he’d won a race.
“Bancroft? You didn’t mention you were following Mr. Bancroft,” Franklin said with surprise.
“You told us to….” Daniel stopped. Fenimore was dead by the hands of someone with access to this house. Franklin and Gabriel d’Aumont asked them to investigate. He remembered that much, at least.
“And then?” Becca asked.
“And then….” A thick curtain of emptiness separated his memories of before and after. “And then, I was here.”
“You don’t remember.” Michael’s voice was weary.
“No.” Daniel supposed he should be upset, but the accident had dulled all his emotions, even anger.
“Mr. Alloway’s memory may return,” Hannah said.
“You are not certain?” Franklin asked.
“Memories of the time just before an accident sometimes return,” Hannah added.
“And sometimes don’t?” Franklin pushed.
Hannah shrugged.
“They are coming too close, too close entirely,” Franklin muttered as if he’d forgotten there were others in the room.
“Who are ‘they,’ Dr. Franklin?” Becca asked. “What aren’t you telling us?”
It was hard enough to breathe around the pain in his head. He would worry about why he couldn’t recall who slammed his skull another time.
The clock struck four a.m.
Michael sighed. “I must go. The bread cannot wait.”
“I can’t thank you enough for bringing Mr. Alloway home.” Becca lifted her hand to her heart.
“It was the bread, you see.” Michael stepped around the couch. He crouched near Daniel’s feet.
Daniel appreciated the effort. It was easier to watch the baker this way. “The bread?” His tongue felt thick in his mouth. It took effort to speak. Hannah was right. His brain was rattled.
“You followed Mr. Bancroft to the Tuileries Palace,” Michael began. “You tell me to park away but not too far, and you will come soon. You do not come. I watch the moon move across the sky. At one, I think, if we don’t go now, I will get no sleep tonight because of the bread. I am up at four every day to make the bread.” Michael stopped as if waiting for Daniel to say, “I recall.”
But he didn’t recall. It was the oddest feeling to hear what he’d done just hours ago, as if it had happened to a stranger.
“It is bad in Paris late at night. I walk quietly to hear if anyone follows. I see you. But it is not you. It is a man in a cloak. There is a half-moon. He has a club. A long stick. You are on the ground.”
Franklin leaned forward. “The man with the club. Who was he?” The deep shadows beneath his eyes looked carved from stone.
“I tell you this already, sir,” Michael said. “I could not see. I yell. I run at the man. I am aiming low to make him fall, not looking at his face. His feet come up. He almost falls, but then he runs.”
Becca asked quietly, “What about his feet, then? Do you remember anything about his shoes?”
Her logic was impec…impec. Daniel couldn’t remember the rest of the word. Her logic was very good. Where had his mind gone to hide, he wondered, and would it come back?
“Leather. He wore leather shoes.” Michael stares at the corner of the ceiling as if the man’s feet would materialize there. “I hit him low and feel leather against my shoulder. Shoes with a buckle. Something metal. It tears me when I hit him.” Michael corrected himself. “Scratches me.”
A flash of memory rose like smoke. Bancroft stepped out of a house across a street, Daniel recalled. He’d pressed behind a tree. Daniel’s thoughts thinned and evaporated. He struggled to remain awake.
“You weren’t moving. I thought you were dead,” Michael continued. “And then I lifted you over my shoulder. At least I knew you are breathing. I am glad you are alive, sir.”
“I wish I could erase that memory for you,” Daniel said. Some things were better forgotten.
“And I wish I had come before, earlier.” Michael rubbed his shoulder with one hand, stretched his neck. He examined his palm and frowned.
Hannah stood. “I’ll look at your shoulder.”
“But Daniel needs you,” Becca protested.
“I will return soon. All we can do is watch Mr. Alloway for now.” She stood gracefully and strode to the sitting room entrance, waiting for Michael.
“Chef,” Franklin called.
In the doorway, Michael turned.
“After you finish the bread, take the day off.” He paused. “And be careful.”
“Harm can come whether one is careful or not,” Michael said as Daniel’s eyes fluttered shut.