Mortal Enemy
Friday, March 30
Anne went to her room with the unopened letters Paul had delivered to her and sat by the window to gain its late afternoon light. Her grandfather André’s message was brief but poignant. A deep man of few words, he missed her sorely but hoped she was enjoying Bath. He reported on his visit with Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin. Friendly, a genuine man of honor, he could be trusted. Anne should invite him to stop over in Hampstead on his return journey to France.
She gazed at her grandfather’s bold signature, her eyes tearing. His reaction to Paul pleased her, all the more because she understood his strong resentment toward officers of the French king.
The letter from Barnstaple, her solicitor, provoked a frisson of apprehension. He rarely wrote. She quickly broke the seal and read:
My dear Miss Cartier,
I should alert you to the fact that Mr. Jack Roach is living in Bath. He may pose a threat to you. Although I’ve known his whereabouts for a year, I’ve had no reason to mention it until today when I heard you were travelling to that city.
Anne shuddered at the reference to Roach and laid down the letter. Last year she had told her solicitor she didn’t want to hear about the man unless absolutely necessary. Even the thought of him had distressed her. She should have spoken to Barnstaple before leaving Hampstead. With a sigh, she resumed reading.
I’ve learned of a new development in your case against Roach. The magistrates of Bath had previously chosen to ignore my requests that he be held for the assault he committed upon you in Islington. This morning, I heard from Mr. Dick Burton, a Bow Street officer. Bath’s magistrates have called upon him to look into fraud and extortion Roach is alleged to have committed in their city. The officer believes he may also give you justice. He has your address, so I presume he will call upon you.
Respectfully yours, Edward Barnstaple, Esq.
Anne reread the letter, then rose from her seat, troubled by this rash of disconnected, unexpected events—her call to tutor Charlie, Paul’s arrival in pursuit of Fitzroy, and now the news of Roach’s presence in the city.
A knock on her door startled her. A maid walked in with hot water and towels. Time to wash and dress for this evening’s party. Anne folded the letters and slipped them into a drawer. She would deal with their implications later.
***
When the maid had gone and Anne was alone in her room, she heard faint sounds of music. Without warning, an attack of nerves struck her. She breathed deeply to calm herself. Tonight would be a special evening. She and Paul would dance together for the first time. She nervously smoothed the folds of her light blue muslin gown and studied its delicate pattern, then tightened the dark blue sash at her waist.
Glancing at herself in the mirror, she pouted half-seriously. Other women would be much more splendidly dressed and adorned with expensive jewelry. They would notice the paste diamonds on her necklace and bracelets. Hopefully her appearance would please Paul. Nothing else mattered. She stepped a country dance around the room, flaring her skirt, and pronounced herself ready.
She left her room, crossed the antechamber to Charlie’s door and knocked, forgetting for a moment the boy was deaf. Then she remembered the cord hanging to the left of the door that worked a mechanical signal in the boy’s room. Still no response. Tentatively she opened the door and saw Charlie absorbed in a book. He seemed to sense her presence and glanced over his shoulder. Startled at first, he smiled wanly, then gazed at her. “You’re beautiful, just like a princess,” he said, his eyes wide with a child’s wonder.
“Thank you, Charlie.” She was deeply touched by his remark. “I’m going to the party downstairs. I’ll look in on you later.” How lonely he must feel, she thought, no companionship with children his own age, no affection from his family. Delicate, as well. Little wonder that he should look and act like a boy of nine rather than eleven. She waved to him from the door.
At the stairway she met Paul, dressed for the evening in a well-tailored buff suit with a fawn vest. His eyes shone when he saw her.
“You look lovely, Anne.” He bowed and kissed her hand. “This is for you, from Paris.” He handed her a small spyglass encased in mother-of-pearl. “A clever little invention. The lens points forward or diagonally. I bought a little telescope for myself.”
“Thank you, Paul. I’ll try it now.” She stood at a right angle to the bust of a Roman emperor in a nearby niche and looked straight ahead. Then she turned the lens to the diagonal position, lifted the spyglass to her eye and focused on the sculpture. “What an evil-looking man!”
“That’s Nero,” Paul remarked. “Mean crafty eyes, fleshy features, malign twist of the lips.”
“Reminds me of Jack Roach.” She slipped the glass into her purse. “Barnstaple says the rogue’s in Bath. A Bow Street officer is coming to investigate him.”
Paul looked at Anne with concern. “Georges and I shall be on guard.”
“Roach be damned!” She took his arm. “Let’s join the party.”
They descended the stairs together to find the first floor rooms already filled with a lively, fashionable crowd. Lady Margaret was standing in the entrance hall, as her husband had said, easily the most beautiful woman in the room and well aware of it. She had chosen a high-waisted, low-cut dark green silk gown to accent her creamy white skin. A golden silk ribbon embroidered with pearls crowned her lustrous auburn hair.
Sir Harry was at her side smiling easily, belying the rumors of a rift between them. Anne marveled that his lightly patterned cream colored suit subtly matched her complexion. He greeted newcomers with characteristic affable charm, passing them along to his wife. Nearby in crimson livery stood Jeffery, the tall black footman, at their beck and call. Anne found herself momentarily gaping at the three of them, an extraordinarily attractive group on display.
Sir Harry presented Paul to Lady Margaret. “I’ve heard from my husband about you, Colonel,” she said, her green eyes gaining brilliance as they studied him. “He told me you speak English and have a taste for sport. But I sense you are also gallant. You must grant me the pleasure of a dance later in the evening.”
“Your wish is my command, Lady Margaret.” Paul bowed, then stepped back to allow an arriving guest to approach her.
Anne and Paul left the hall. “What was that light I saw in her eyes?” she whispered in his ear.
“Ardent desire,” he whispered back with a teasing smile. “If she has an ulterior motive, I don’t know what it is. Like Sir Harry, she probably knows who I am and why I’m here. Would she also want Fitzroy packed off to France?”
Anne shrugged. “She may be more cunning than we give her credit for.”
They reached the drawing room which had been converted into a gambling den and was doing a brisk business. “Isn’t faro illegal in England?” Paul asked Anne, tilting his head toward a table at the far side of the room. A banker sat there selling chips and dealing cards.
“Indeed, it is,” replied Anne. “But the magistrates prefer not to enforce the law in great private houses like Combe Park.” She pointed to a tall, fashionably dressed young man approaching the faro table. “That’s William Rogers, Sir Harry’s nephew. He’s usually away at school but is here for the season. His friends are fops his own age whom Sir Harry detests and won’t allow in Combe Park. He wants William to learn the social graces of a gentleman. By the look of it, he’s fonder of the vices.”
They drew close to the table and stood next to Rogers. He acknowledged Anne with a scant sidelong glance as if to say he would do as he pleased and didn’t care who observed him. But his hands trembled, beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead. He bought fifty pounds worth of chips and bet them on the sequence of the last three cards. Five other gamblers also placed bets on the remaining combinations. The banker dealt out the first, then the second, finally the third card. The young man groaned.
“Better luck next time,” Anne said politely, though she felt little sympathy for him. She had long known that a fool and his money were soon parted. Rogers had lost in a minute what a hard-working artisan might earn in a year.
William glanced from Anne to Paul, apparently calculating whether he might borrow from them.
“Mr. Rogers,” Anne began, “you’ve not met Sir Harry’s guest for this evening, Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin from Paris.”
The young man mumbled a hasty, distracted greeting, concluded these people weren’t likely to lend him money, then looked around the room for more compliant faces.
Several persons avoided his gaze; others shook their heads. He was well known to visitors at Combe Park. With a pull on his coat lapels and a careless air, he left the room.
“What should I know about that young man?” asked Paul, drawing Anne off to a quiet corner.
“His late father left him a modest legacy that Sir Harry administers. He grants William a small allowance, not nearly enough to support his gambling. He must be in debt to someone. His character is nasty. I’ve heard he torments the young house maids. He’s also a sneak.”
She described the peepholes in her room. “He had an unhealthy interest in Mary Campbell. I’m wondering if he might have had something to do with her accident. He would be the third man who might have wished to harm her, together with his tutor, Critchley, and Captain Fitzroy.”
“I’ll tell Georges what you’ve told me. He may have opportunities here and in the city to learn more about Miss Campbell. I’m particularly intrigued that Fitzroy might be involved. If British justice were to overtake him, we would have come here in vain.”
Paul then glanced toward the faro table which had attracted three eager young men. “The banker looks confident.”
“He works for Sir Harry, turns a profit for him. It’s like stealing candy from children.” The frenzied atmosphere of the room began to irritate Anne. “Have you seen enough, or do you want to lay a bet?”
“I’d rather dance with you before Lady Margaret catches me.”
Anne took his hand. “Follow me.” She led him back through the entrance hall, evading Lady Margaret’s eye, and on to the far end of the building into a large ballroom that had once been a chapel. To the left on the rear wall was a gallery supported by slender pillars. To the right on a stage in the former chancel, a band of musicians were playing the last notes of an air.
“After a short intermission,” Anne said, “we’ll have a country dance.”
Paul appeared hesitant. He explained that his London friends, Captains Gordon and Porter, had introduced him to the dance while in America, but he needed coaching.
Anne took him aside and walked him through the steps, humming a tune all the while. By the time the musicians reassembled, Paul professed he wouldn’t seriously embarrass himself or Anne.
After a hesitant start, he proved himself competent. The dance was simple, and it was easy to imitate the other couples. Anne felt exhilarated. They spun around the hall, exchanged partners, came together again. When the music ended, they were breathless.
As they left the dance floor, Lady Margaret entered the room and looked about. Anne tapped Paul on the shoulder. “Her Ladyship has arrived.” He turned as if about to go to her, but Anne seized his arm and drew his attention to another man moving toward Lady Margaret. “There’s your villain, Captain Fitzroy, the man you’ve been pursuing since January. He’s going to ask her for the next dance. Let’s watch.”
They were a striking, well-matched pair. He was a dashing figure in a blue military coat with red lapels and gold epaulets, buff waist coat and breeches. His hair was powdered and brushed high. When she took his hand and bowed, her face seemed to gain color and her body tensed in anticipation. He called to the musicians for a minuet. The other dancers yielded the floor. Alone, the center of the crowd’s attention, the cousins executed the elaborate movements of the dance with perfect grace. As they drew near, Anne observed that Paul’s face had grown taut. A frown worked on his lips. She shuddered. His contempt for Fitzroy was almost palpable.
The next time the cousins danced past him, he seemed to have mastered his feelings. He took out his little telescope and studied the pair. “They appear to enjoy what they’re doing, but do they really care for one another?”
Anne looked through her spyglass. “The smiles aren’t genuine. And the eyes are hard to read. It’s as if they’re wearing masks.”
Midway through the dance, the cousins again drew near. “They are speaking to one another,” said Paul. “But I can’t hear them over the music and the chatter of the onlookers. You read lips. Can you make out what they’re saying?”
“Not enough to make sense. They move too fast. I can’t get a clear view of their lips. Wait. He’s looking this way. I think he’s talking about you: ‘French colonel…’ And she’s answering…” In a few moments the couple danced out of range.
“What did she say, Anne?” Paul insisted, brow furrowed.
Anne had grasped the lady’s facial expression much better than her words. “I’m not sure, but I think she told the captain to mind his own business.”
Paul reflected for a moment. “I guess he tried to warn her away from me.”
The dance finished to a round of applause. Still smiling but avoiding one another’s gaze, the cousins bowed, left the floor, and disappeared into the crowd.
Anne and Paul remained in the ballroom to hear Harriet sing an air. Anne then joined her on the stage in a duet. Sir Harry was in the crowd, his eyes fastened on Harriet, his lips slightly parted as if he were panting. The man’s infatuated, Anne thought with horror, her voice threatening to break. She struggled to gain control of her feelings. As the women finished their song, Sir Harry slipped away.
After a few more dances, Anne and Paul had had enough and left the ballroom. They were walking in the hallway when Jeffery came toward them with a tray of drinks. He knocked on the door to Sir Harry’s study. A voice sounded. The slave opened the door and entered just as Anne and Paul were passing by. She glanced into the room, gasped, then gripped Paul’s arm. “Keep walking,” she flustered. “Look straight ahead.”
All the rooms on the first floor bustled with guests eating, gambling, singing, and dancing. There wasn’t a quiet spot to be found. “Let’s go to your room,” said Paul, a note of alarm in his voice. Still gripping his arm, her heart pounding, Anne nodded.
He closed the door behind them and drew chairs up to the fireplace. After stirring the embers, he sat opposite her and took her hand. “What has shocked you, Anne?”
“When Jeffery opened the door to the study, I could see Sir Harry standing by his desk.”
“Yes?”
“He was talking to Jack Roach.”
“Do you think Roach recognized you?” He slowly released her hand and sat back in his chair.
“No. But he might have seen me earlier.” She stared into the fire. “What could Sir Harry and Roach have been talking about? About me? Or, someone else?”
“We must find out quickly. But what concerns me now is whether Roach might attack you tonight.”
The fire slowly died down. Paul drew a deep breath, then rose to his feet. “I’ll ask Jeffery if Roach is still with Sir Harry in the study. And, whether he’s a guest in this house. Georges will have Roach followed until we’re sure he’s no danger to you.” He knelt by her side and put an arm around her shoulder. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“I’ll check on little Charlie,” she said, regaining a measure of calm, “and lock myself in.”
***
Downstairs, Saint-Martin found the black slave in the entrance hall awaiting calls for his service. As the colonel approached to ask him about Roach, he saw a man step out of the study, turn around, and bow to someone within, presumably Sir Harry. The door closed behind the departing visitor, a large fleshy man with sandy hair, slack-jawed, wearing a red coat and tight buff breeches.
“Jack Roach?” murmured Saint-Martin. “The Red Devil?”
“The same,” responded Jeffery, barely moving his lips.
Roach crossed the hall, peered into the parlor, then walked toward the ballroom. He’s looking for someone, Saint-Martin thought. For Anne? He asked Jeffery to call Georges Charpentier to the entrance hall.
Georges arrived just as Roach left the ballroom followed by a tall thin man with lank hair and ill-fitting dark clothes. “I know the thin one,” Georges whispered. “Mr. Critchley. Recently hired to tutor William Rogers. Serves also as Sir Harry’s personal clerk—and spy. The cook says he’s a petty thief.”
Roach turned, said something out of the side of his mouth to Critchley. The thin man nodded and stepped back into the ballroom. “Watch the man in red,” Saint-Martin whispered to Georges. “That’s Jack Roach.”
Roach walked through the entrance hall and out onto the dark portico, passing by them with a preoccupied air.
“It’s cold, damp, and windy out there,” said Georges. “He’ll have the place to himself.”
“Wait,” the colonel cautioned. “He’ll soon have company.”
In a few minutes, the thin man left the ballroom, passed through the entrance hall as preoccupied as Roach had been, and joined him on the portico. “You can be sure Roach is dealing in mischief,” said Saint-Martin. “We’ll wait for them.” Ten minutes later, the thin man left the portico and returned to the party, a smile on his face. Shortly afterward, Roach also left, but he went directly to the main entrance and out the door. “See that he leaves Combe Park, Georges. I’ll wait for you here.”
Georges returned to the entrance hall in twenty minutes. “A servant and I followed him to the river and watched him cross the bridge into the city. The servant will keep watch on him. But I doubt he’ll come back tonight.”
“What can he be doing with Sir Harry’s clerk?” Saint-Martin asked.
“Critchley’s nose is in everything,” Georges replied. “He must spy for Roach as well as for Sir Harry.”
“That means Roach is aware of Miss Cartier and planning to harm her. Find out where he lives. Have someone follow him for a few days. We may discover what’s going on in this house.”