A Poor Rich Boy
Saturday, March 31
Georges walked briskly to the city, urged on by a wet, mild, southwesterly wind. His spirit was troubled and gray, like the clouds scudding overhead. He had just served breakfast to Anne and assured himself she had passed the night safely. But she had been testy with him. And rightly so. He had rudely entered her room, embarrassed her. And for no good reason. The maid could have told him all he needed to know.
“Georges, you bungling idiot!” he exclaimed aloud. He took aim at a stone in his path and gave it a mighty kick. He wanted Anne to think fondly of him, and he had made her angry. Well, the experience would teach him a lesson. Even a police officer must show consideration to others. He would try to improve his manners, especially toward women.
A light rain pattered on his oilskin coat. He could have taken one of Combe Park’s carriages, but he preferred walking to driving in the city’s crowded streets, and walking helped clear his mind. He needed to find a way to deal with Jack Roach. A dangerous fellow, slippery as an eel. At Milsom Street he discovered with dismay that the shop was closed. Odd, he thought. Then he noticed a sign in the window: the shop would open at ten. He glanced at his watch. Barely eight o’clock. A bit early to call on a lady without warning. He shrugged, drew a deep breath, and knocked boldly on the milliner’s door.
Pleading urgency, he persuaded a reluctant maid to lead him upstairs to the parlor and call her mistress. A few minutes later he faced an irate Madame Gagnon at table in a pink silk dressing gown, hair in disarray. He recalled with shame his recent commitment to good manners. To salvage some self-respect, he spoke his best French, wrinkling his brow with regret. “I’m sorry, Madame, but there’s no time to lose.”
She glared relentlessly at him over coffee and rolls and said nothing.
He increased the sympathy in his voice and began to plead. “Baron Breteuil will be most grateful for your help.”
“What’s so urgent that brings you here unannounced?” she huffed. “You routed me out of bed. Didn’t even allow me time to put on a decent face.”
Georges knew how to appear contrite, and it was necessary in this instance. For Madame Gagnon’s features, suffering from the ravages of time, required significant cosmetic remedies. He excused himself with as much solicitude as he could muster. “I would not dream of intruding like this, Madame, were it not that a life is in danger.” He explained how Jack Roach had attacked Anne Cartier in Islington a year and a half ago and once more threatened her. “We will take every precaution to protect her, but we must also anticipate his moves. Roach may have stumbled upon Miss Cartier at Combe Park by accident. In any case, he’ll try to harm her. He may also be mixing his hand in the question of little Charlie Rogers’ paternity, which could complicate our pursuit of Captain Fitzroy.”
Madame Gagnon sighed, sipped her coffee, gathered her thoughts. “The Red Devil’s well-known to me. He lives in the North Parade, a row of fine town houses. It’s a short walk to the Pump Room where he spends much of his time digging up scandal. He can be seen there shortly.”
Georges made a mental note to visit the place.
The milliner warmed to her story. “I know for a fact he extorts money from several of my customers or their husbands. His spies discover that these people—they’re usually wealthy merchants—deal in smuggled goods. Tea, brandy, lace. He threatens to expose them to the excisemen. His victims agree to pay him part of their profit from the illegal trade. If they don’t, he informs the excisemen, who confiscate the smuggled goods, fine the culprits, and give Roach a reward for the information. He seems to enjoy what he’s doing, and it earns him a good living.”
“And the hatred of his victims,” Georges remarked. “It’s a wonder he’s still alive.”
“He’s shrewder than he looks.” Madame Gagnon bit into a roll, chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “You say he’s meeting with Sir Harry. That tells me Roach is branching out into an even more rewarding line of work.” She gestured to the pot of coffee.
Georges leaned forward, filled her cup, and poured one for himself. “Nothing we know about Sir Harry suggests he’s a likely victim of extortion. Where’s he vulnerable? Selling slaves is perfectly legal, a respectable trade in this country. Adultery? That’s hardly ground for extortion. Wealthy, powerful men like Rogers cheat their wives without shame.”
The milliner broke in. “But if she were unfaithful, Roach would be very interested. Sir Harry might have asked Roach to help him make a case for divorcing her. He’d have to convince Parliament. A long, hard task.”
“Assuming you’re right,” Georges conceded, “when could she have done anything to justify a divorce? The servants say Mr. Critchley, Sir Harry’s personal spy, keeps her under close scrutiny.”
Madame Gagnon stared into her cup for a moment, then looked up. “Roach would need to go back eleven years. Harry Rogers, a wealthy widower, went out in search of a bride. He found Margaret Pakenham of Westmeath in Ireland, a striking beauty and recent widow, the youngest daughter of an Irish baron in need of cash. Rogers paid off the father’s debts and received Margaret in return. Shortly after their engagement, Rogers sailed to Jamaica for several months on business. Upon his return to England, they married and he bought his title.”
“Aha!” Georges sat up straight. “Was she faithful while he was away? Is Charlie Sir Harry’s boy? That’s the question.”
“But no one asked it then.” The milliner shrugged. “Charlie was born eight and a half months after Rogers’ return. Neither he nor any one else suspected her, not for many years afterwards. Then Captain Fitzroy appeared at their town house in London in January. Gossips recalled he had visited Margaret at Pakenham Hall while Rogers was in Jamaica. They concluded she had had an affair then with Fitzroy.”
“Gossip isn’t enough,” Georges interjected. “Rogers would have to prove to Parliament that Margaret had deceived him on an essential point of the marriage contract, like Charlie’s paternity. Even then, Parliament might not be persuaded to grant a divorce with the right to marry again.”
“The House of Lords approves only three or four private bills of divorce per year,” Madame Gagnon admitted. “But, difficult as they may be, Sir Harry seems bent on getting one. I’m sure he’s willing to pay Roach a handsome sum to find the necessary witnesses, documents, or other evidence.”
“How did you come by this information?”
“Mostly from Lady Rogers’ maid. She often shops here. If she comes later this morning, I’ll have her to tea. She might know someone familiar with the time Sir Harry was away.”
Georges rose to leave, then had an afterthought. “Could you tell me the inns that Roach frequents?”
She shook her head. “I’ll contact a few people who would know.” She winked at Georges. “If you could give me an hour, I’ll take you to the Pump Room and show you Jack Roach at work.”
***
At nine, Georges returned to the millinery shop and found Madame Gagnon groomed for public viewing in a fine gray woolen dress, her hair brushed and lightly powdered. She had engaged chairbearers who carried them to the Abbey Yard, the busy open area in front of the great church. They made their way on foot across the yard to the Pump Room, a simple, elegant structure whose most prominent feature was the north facade of five large rounded bay windows.
Inside, a mixed crowd of men and women gossiped or gawked at one another, glasses in hand. Among them were a lord or two, a few bishops, country parsons, wealthy merchants and country gentry, as well as several preening dandies and courtesans. Many of the visitors, afflicted by gout and other diseases, limped about, leaned on canes, or sported bandaged limbs. To them, the water promised relief or a cure. Georges gave a snort of disbelief.
“Would you care to try the water?” the milliner asked in a teasing tone. The pumper and his maids were selling the warm sparkling fluid at a nearby counter, while musicians played lively tunes in the gallery. Georges purchased two full glasses and gave one to his companion. Guarding their drinks, they wove through the crowd to an open bay on the south side of the room. “Down there is the King’s Bath,” said Madame Gagnon, pointing to a small shallow pool crowded with pink-faced bathers up to their necks in hot sulphurous water, men and women alike wearing shapeless canvas garments for modesty’s sake.
Georges had raised his glass and was about to sip when a wayward thought entered his mind. He stared at his glass. “Where does this water really come from?” He glanced down at the pool.
Madame Gagnon caught his meaning, wrinkled her nose. “Not from there, silly man!”
Georges twirled his drink, then sniffed. Rotten eggs, he thought. His thirst vanished. He lowered the glass and began scanning the crowd for signs of Jack Roach.
“There he is,” said Madame Gagnon, pointing to a man in a red coat pressing his thick body up to the counter. “Watch him carefully.”
Roach bought a glass of the mineral water and looked around the room. A flash of recognition lighted up his face. He walked over to a fashionably dressed lady conversing with several other women. She froze momentarily as he approached, regained composure, spoke a few words. He smiled thinly and stepped back to the water counter. A few minutes later, the woman beckoned her servant standing by and ordered him to fill her glass. Unnoticed by her companions, she slipped a small package into the servant’s hand and whispered in his ear. He went to the counter, gave Roach the package, and ordered water for his mistress.
“That’s typical of him,” said Madame Gagnon in a pained voice. “I’ll leave you now. I must return to the shop. Call on me early in the afternoon. I hope to have something for you.” She slipped away into the crowd. Georges moved closer to Roach, who sipped from his glass, glancing over the rim at the people milling about him. At one point, he lifted the glass to a nondescript man who sidled up to him and spoke in a whisper out of the side of his mouth. Roach replied in like fashion. The man drifted away. Part of Roach’s gang, Georges thought.
From the Pump Room, Roach moved to a public breakfast in Spring Garden across the Avon, Georges following at a safe distance. Musicians entertained while a crowd chatted noisily over their food. Georges recognized many of them from the Pump Room. Roach took payments from another well-dressed woman and a man and met with a pair of dandified cronies.
At one o’clock in the afternoon, eager to match wits with Roach, Georges returned to Milsom Street. Madame Gagnon led him into a private room in the rear of her shop. Cabinets lined the side walls. Rolls of ribbons, a measuring stick, and cutting shears lay on a long table in the middle. Sunlight sifted evenly through a large high window in the back wall.
“I have something for you,” she said. “The maid from Combe Park knows of an elderly Irish woman from Pakenham Hall, Betty Murphy, who nursed and raised Lady Margaret, then looked after Charlie until he went to Braidwood’s institute. She’s retired on a pension from Sir Harry. Lives with a younger invalid sister in Bristol. The maid didn’t know the address.”
“That’s a good start,” Georges said. “We must find Betty before Roach does.”
Madame Gagnon furrowed her brow. “What does this have to do with capturing Captain Fitzroy?”
Georges leaned against a cabinet and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Roach would try to bribe the old nurse to testify against Lady Margaret. If Parliament were to grant the divorce, Sir Harry would cut Lady Margaret and Charlie off without a shilling, and Charlie could no longer inherit Sir Harry’s fortune. That money is what Fitzroy is really after. Without at least the likelihood of it, he would leave Combe Park and his capture would become problematic. Therefore, we must make sure nurse Betty does not give out any damaging information about Lady Margaret. I’ll try to persuade Colonel Saint-Martin to get that address in Bristol and go there tomorrow. In the meantime I must keep track of Roach. Where can I find him in the evening?”
“At The Little Drummer on Avon Street.” Tapping her chin, the milliner stepped back and inspected Georges. “If you go there, you’ll want a disguise.” She opened a closet. “Old, worn costumes from the theater. Take your pick.” She pressed a key into his hand. “Use the back door. It opens on to John Street. Come and go as you like. No one will notice you.”
***
After the stress of the training session, which had left Charlie overwrought, Anne felt she must divert the boy’s attention to something positive. She coaxed him to the classroom with the promise of a treat later on. From eleven o’clock until noon, they worked hard at reading lips, a difficult but essential art he happened to be good at.
Today’s lesson followed their usual routine. They began with letters, words, and short phrases the boy encountered almost every day, as simple as “come” and “go.” He read them off cards and observed while Anne spoke them. She also taught him to distinguish words that looked the same to the eye by discerning their context. In the classroom, for example, Mr. Critchley would tell him to “mark” not “park” or “bark” his lesson.
He needed to anticipate words and phrases that people around him were likely to use and especially to grasp the meaning of their gestures and facial expressions. Anne had earlier devised a pantomime of typical activities at school. This time, just for the fun of it, they would switch roles: Charlie the teacher, she the pupil. She guessed the boy had a talent for mimicry. Fear of offending others kept him from using it at Combe Park. She assured him he could express himself freely with her.
He hesitated, glanced up at her shyly. “Really?” he asked.
“Yes, really.”
He drew himself up straight, mouthed a phrase rather carelessly and questioned her with a look of authority. She hesitated, unable to discern his meaning. He cupped a hand to his ear for an answer, then shook his head. She made a guess. He shook his head and asked again with a frown. She tried once more. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he listened impatiently, raised his arms in despair, and began pacing the room. He suddenly stopped, jabbed a warning finger at her, mouthed the phrase again, cocked his head attentively for a moment. She guessed correctly this time. With a condescending smile, he patted her on the shoulder.
“Is that how I look?” she asked with mock indignation.
“Well, not exactly,” he confessed. “I exaggerated a little.”
Anne was pleasantly astonished. The boy spoke fluently, once free of the fear of ridicule.
***
At lunch with Charlie in the servants’ hall, Anne glanced out the window. A steady drizzle fell from a leaden sky. For the boy’s treat she’d have to think of something to do indoors.
“When we’ve finished eating, let’s go to the tennis hall. It should be empty then. I’ll teach you a new trick.”
Intrigued, the boy clapped his hands and swiftly cleared his plate.
As they entered the building, they were met by loud grunts. Jeffery was in the training room, stripped to the waist, stretching his muscles. “I felt stiff from sparring this morning,” he explained with a fleeting glance toward Anne and Charlie. While the boy gaped at him, Jeffery began rhythmically lifting a pair of large iron balls. His skin soon shone with sweat.
“We shall leave Jeffery to his exercise,” Anne said to the boy, leading him to the tennis court. She found a trove of tennis balls in a corner of the room. For several minutes she and Charlie tossed the balls back and forth. “Watch me,” she said and began to juggle three of them. Charlie stared eagerly, his mouth gaping in amazement. She kept the balls flying for several seconds, then caught them.
“Now, you try it, Charlie.” She smiled encouragement and tossed two balls to him.
After several attempts, Charlie managed to keep both balls in the air at the same time. “You’ll soon juggle three,” Anne told him. His coordination was excellent.
He juggled the balls ever higher until he lost control and they fell to the floor. Turning to Anne, he smiled broadly, then glanced over her shoulder. His smile faded. Anne swung around apprehensive. Roach?
In the shadows of the antechamber, Jeffery was watching them. Aware he had been noticed, he came forward. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your game.” He bowed and started to leave.
On impulse Anne called to him, “Would you like to try it?”
He hesitated for a moment, then returned to the training room. He came out with three sixteen pound balls cradled in his arm. He said to Charlie, “I learned this as a boy and still enjoy doing it.” He tossed the three balls in the air, one after the other, until all three were rising to incredible heights.
He kept the balls going for a minute or so, with little apparent effort and much grace. In her many years at Sadler’s Wells, Anne had never seen such strength and skill. She glanced at Charlie: in his mind the black man had reached heroic stature.
Sensing the boy’s admiration, Jeffery winked at him and caught the balls. He beckoned Charlie to follow him, paused, and turned a questioning eye to Anne. She picked up her skirts and joined them outside. The mouldy scent of decayed wet leaves filled her nostrils, but the drizzle had stopped. Thin shafts of sunlight broke through the clouds. Jeffery led them to a level clearing in the pine grove that served as a bowling green. It stretched to an embankment at the far end, where a large square block of wood rested on top of a thick pole.
Jeffery had brought one of the iron balls along. He took a balanced stance, swung the shot a couple of times, stretched out his left arm toward the target, drew back his right arm with the shot clasped in his huge hand, and threw it. The shot knocked the wood off the pole. He must often practice here, Anne realized.
The boy gestured, he’d like to try it. Jeffery found a small bowling ball and gave it to the boy, who imitated Jeffery’s pitch. It missed the block but not by much. Pleased, he turned to Anne. “May I play with Jeffery?” he asked, articulating each word clearly and glancing toward the black man.
Anne gave Jeffery an inquiring look.
He shrugged. “I’m free for a few more minutes.”
“Free?” Anne asked herself. Yes, even a slave could elude his master’s grip for a short while and do what he wished. She watched the boy and the slave in conversation, Jeffery squatting to Charlie’s level explaining the rules of bowling. What an incongruous pair! She couldn’t keep from smiling. Charlie might have found a friend.
***
“Visit Bristol tomorrow?” Saint-Martin glanced at his adjutant over lunch in the colonel’s room. Georges had just returned from a morning spent following Roach and had reported what he had learned from Madame Gagnon.
“I think we must,” Georges replied, then explained the visit’s connection to capturing Fitzroy. “Let’s hope we reach Charlie’s old nurse Betty before Roach does.”
“We’ll leave early tomorrow morning.” Saint-Martin laid down knife and fork and leaned back reflecting. Betty would be frightened off by two strange men at her door, asking questions about Lady Margaret. They had to find a way to gain her trust. In an instant he had a solution. Charlie, the boy she loved. She’d open her door for him. “What do you think, Georges? Shall I ask Miss Cartier to join us and bring little Charlie along?”
“Shrewd idea, sir. Wish I’d thought of it.”
Saint-Martin resumed his meal, then paused again. “And another thing, Georges, after our talk with nurse Betty, we should visit the harbor. That’s where we’ll embark for France, if we ever lay hold of Fitzroy.”
***
In the late afternoon, Anne and Paul found Sir Harry, Lady Margaret, and Captain Fitzroy together in the parlor. Unsmiling, stiffly facing one another, they were drinking tea and straining at conversation. Jeffery stood by, waiting to serve them. Anne had welcomed Paul’s suggestion. Now she addressed the proposal to Lady Margaret with side glances to Sir Harry: a Sunday in Bristol with Charlie, leaving by Combe Park coach at about eight in the morning and returning in the late afternoon before sunset. Charlie would pay a visit to his old nurse and see the ships in the harbor. Colonel Saint-Martin, who also wished to inspect Bristol’s celebrated harbor, would accompany them for safety’s sake.
Lady Margaret appeared surprised by the request. “Charlie’s nurse?” She stared blankly for a moment. “Yes, of course, old Betty! It’s been three years since Charlie’s seen her. She was so good to him.” She smiled radiantly at Anne, then at Paul. “That would be lovely. I have the address somewhere. I’ll write a note for you to take along.”
While Anne spoke to Lady Margaret, Paul observed Captain Fitzroy, who was questioning Sir Harry about the forthcoming fight and the terms of a bet. They reminded Paul of a pair of his fellow officers arranging a duel. At Anne’s mention of a visit to the old nurse, the Irishman glanced at her, then at Paul, and an odd, calculating expression flitted across his face.
As Paul and Anne left the parlor, Sir Harry walked them to the door. He touched Paul’s elbow. “When you visit Bristol harbor, call on my ship, The African Rose. Critchley will write a note to introduce you to the captain. The ship’s being refitted for a voyage to Africa.” It was a brig with a copper-sheathed hull, he explained, one of the fastest ships in his fleet. During the American War, it carried twenty guns and captured many prizes. “By the way, The Rose will make a call at Bordeaux and take on a shipment of wine. There’s nothing like fine French wine to help us build good will with the governors of our forts on the slave coast.”
“I agree,” remarked Saint-Martin politely, then stepped into the hall. When the door closed behind him, he thought how convenient for the ship to stop at Bordeaux.
***
Colonel Saint-Martin went to the stables to arrange for a coach. Peter Hyde, Sir Harry’s coachman, had just returned from London. He was a heavy middle-aged man of medium height with thinning gray hair and the broad, battered face of a fighter. Sunday should be his day off, he said gruffly, but he would consider making a trip to Bristol. The colonel promised to pay him well.
“I’ll prepare a coach for you and drive it myself. I like your man, Georges. Stout fellow. Met him Wednesday in London. Owe him a pint of ale. He can ride guard with me up front.”
Saint-Martin felt reassured and returned to his room where he laid out his traveling clothes. At eight o’clock in the evening, as he was writing in his diary, Jeffery came with an invitation from Lady Margaret to join her, Captain Fitzroy, and other guests for billiards in the parlor. According to Jeffery, Miss Cartier had excused herself and had retired to her room to write letters and to rest.
The colonel accepted the invitation reluctantly, knowing he would have to meet Fitzroy sooner or later. They were living across the hall from each other. But he would need to steady himself mentally. Their meeting could explode the revulsion and anger he felt toward the man. This antipathy had been refreshed by learning that Fitzroy had accosted Mary Campbell in the kitchen and that his alibi for the night of her death came from his two dubious companions, Tarleton and Corbett. The captain had apparently pursued her with the same brutal instinct as he had Sylvie.
As Saint-Martin entered the parlor, Lady Margaret approached him. “So glad you could come. I’ve been abandoned. Harry’s gone to the theater to watch his protégé, the sweet young Harriet Ware.” She made a pouting grimace, then smiled mischievously. “So, on the spur of the moment, I decided to have a little party.” She gazed boldly at Saint-Martin, assessing him with a flirtatious eye. “You will fit very nicely into Sir Harry’s place.” She took his arm and ushered him around the room, introducing him to her guests.
At the billiard table she drew Captain Fitzroy away from the game, the cue still in his left hand. “I believe you two have not yet met,” she said, placing her hand on the captain’s shoulder. “This morning, my husband invited Colonel Saint-Martin to be our guest and gave him the room across from yours. I’m so pleased we shall enjoy his company.”
Fitzroy bowed slightly to her and smiled. “Is that so, Margaret?” He turned to Saint-Martin, extending his right hand. “Welcome to Combe Park, Colonel.”
For an instant, Saint-Martin experienced a powerful wrenching sensation. Fitzroy appeared transformed into a beast of a man, punching and kicking Sylvie. Tearing off her clothes. Throwing himself upon her. Lust and anger distorted his face into a savage, grotesque mask.
Gripped by wrath, Saint-Martin felt an urge to seize Fitzroy’s throat and strangle him. Fortunately, the horrific vision left as suddenly as it had come. It must have registered on his face, he thought. But Fitzroy did not appear to have noticed anything unusual. He stood at ease in his fine blue uniform, his mouth curled into a cool smile, his right hand waiting. Saint-Martin numbly shook it while uttering a polite greeting.
When Fitzroy turned his attention back to the billiard table, the colonel felt relieved and seized the opportunity to observe him again. Last night, he had seen him at a distance, youthful and handsome, dancing gracefully with Lady Margaret. This evening, standing close to him, Saint-Martin detected the incipient marks of a dissipated life—sagging jowls, cold lusterless eyes, a nervous tick of the mouth.
Lady Margaret beckoned Fitzroy’s companions, the two British officers, from the far side of the table. Both wore red military coats with blue lapels; swords hung at their waists. “Major Tarleton, Captain Corbett,” she remarked to Saint-Martin, “your old enemies from the American War. Perhaps you could make peace with them in a friendly game of billiards.”
“If they agree, Lady Margaret,” he replied cautiously. They did not appear friendly. Tarleton was a stocky, red-faced man, whose beady black eyes belied the hearty manner he affected. Corbett was small, dark, and wiry. His protuberant eyes gave the impression he was perpetually astonished. Gripping their cues like spears, the two officers measured Saint-Martin for a moment, then shook his hand.
“Good!” declared Lady Margaret. She called out to the black footman standing near a sideboard of food and drink. “Jeffery! Bring us two more billiard cues. The colonel and I shall join these men.”
The colonel was momentarily surprised. He was accustomed to French noblewomen playing billiards for high stakes. But Lady Margaret’s clear creamy skin, her hauteur had led him to believe billiards would bore her. Caring for her beauty had seemed to be her only concern and had left her little time or energy for anything else.
Sensing his attitude, she threw him a teasing glance, took a cue from the footman, and laid a wager on her first shot. With a practiced hand, she knocked the ball smartly into the pocket. In the match that followed she proved herself equal to the men.
Saint-Martin felt himself at a disadvantage. In the English version of billiards, he needed to drive the balls into the table’s six side pockets. In the French version to which he was accustomed the table had no pockets. The balls caromed off the cushioned wooden sides, striking one another. He was also used to playing with a French cue, called a mace. Its tip was large, square, and curved slightly upward for resting on the table while in play. The English cue tapered to a small round tip, requiring special skill from the player.
That the other players earned higher scores mattered not in the least to Saint-Martin. He had come to observe, not to win. What intrigued him was the competition between Lady Margaret and Fitzroy. Contrary to the convention of women deferring to men, she played with keen determination and threatened to beat him. The final score was close, Fitzroy winning by a point or two.
They all moved to a table where Jeffery served a fine port wine. Under its influence, Lady Margaret grew talkative, teased the men, laughed loudly. Fitzroy became sullen and glared at her. With a toss of her head, she rose, stood behind his chair, and petted him playfully. He yielded a grudging smile and agreed to a game of whist.
For yet a short while, the colonel played billiards with Tarleton and Corbett, then excused himself. On the way back to his room, he walked out on the large empty portico off the entrance hall for a breath of fresh air. The night was cool and damp. The moon breaking through the clouds cast a fitful light between the tall columns.
He pulled his coat tightly around him, looked out over the city in the distance, and set to thinking. Sir Harry had intimated his willingness, nay eagerness, to provide the ship to take Fitzroy to France. The problem was how to get the Irishman securely on that ship without, as Baron Breteuil had said, making a mess. That did not look easy, now that he had met the man and his two guardians.
A click clack of heels on the stone floor alerted Saint-Martin. He swung around and recognized the shadowy figure of Captain Fitzroy advancing toward him. Instinctively, the Frenchman tensed. His right hand rose, clenched, then dropped to his side. The Irishman’s posture didn’t seem menacing.
“Enjoying the view, Colonel Saint-Martin? I’ll join you. It’s time we get better acquainted.”
“We appear to know a good deal already about each other, Captain.”
Fitzroy shrugged. “I’m intrigued to know why Sir Harry invited you so quickly to be his guest at Combe Park.”
“He enjoys my company at court tennis.”
“And it’s remarkable that Miss Cartier, Charlie’s tutor, is also your particular friend.”
“You and I understand one another better than I could have anticipated.”
Fitzroy leaned silently on the balustrade, then straightened up and turned to the colonel. “Are you confident you’ll achieve what you set out to do in England? I should imagine Baron Breteuil has paid a pretty price for your trip.”
“I believe I shall, God willing.”
The mask of frivolity dropped from Fitzroy’s face. “You’ll need more than God’s help, Colonel. The baron has sent you on a fool’s errand. Gallant knight indeed! Will you avenge the stain on Sylvie’s honor? Preposterous! No one in England believes she’s been wronged or trusts the word of her godfather, a minister of the French king. The baron beat her, not I.”
“The English may believe what they wish,” Saint-Martin retorted. “I know what happened to Sylvie—and also perhaps to Miss Campbell.” He looked askance at the captain. “Why are you staying here?”
“Looking after the interests of Lady Margaret. As even a half-wit can see, Sir Harry is infatuated with another woman and searching for a way to divorce my cousin, leaving her and her son penniless. She’s easily bullied. If I weren’t here to advise and defend her, he could coerce her into confessing an infidelity she never committed.”
“What’s in it for you, Captain?”
“Honor. Beyond that, who knows?
Saint-Martin arched an eyebrow, kept an ironic silence.
“Look here, Colonel, I should warn you off any foolish move. I’m protected by two British officers who know my situation, and I’m armed at all times.” He drew a small pistol from inside his coat and aimed it at Saint-Martin’s head. “Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” he replied, gazing calmly at Fitzroy. “You’ve wasted your advice on me. I plan no foolish move.” He held the captain’s eye and with a finger gently moved the barrel of the pistol to one side. “Don’t point it at me,” he said softly. “If it went off, you’d be hung. A pity. I have in mind a more appropriate fate for you.”
***
Disguised in the simple, decent gray suit of a traveler, Georges sipped a glass of brandy in The Little Drummer. He had time on his hands. Jack Roach wasn’t expected for at least an hour. The Frenchman had chosen a small table with a clear view of the room and sat on a bench with his back to the wall. He had peeked into several inns on Avon Street, most of them small, dark, seedy venues for prostitutes and thieves. The Little Drummer, in contrast, comprised a large wood-panelled public room with a low ceiling. Oil lamps on the walls cast a friendly glow. The wooden furniture was worn but decent.
Clerks and artisans were drinking amiably and playing cards. At a table near the bar sat three women in cheap finery, still young and attractive. Local people called them “Nymphs of Avon Street.” A stairway at the end of the bar led up to their first floor rooms. Georges recognized in these women a way to pursue Mary Campbell’s case.
At Anne’s urging, Georges had made the acquaintance of Jeffery, the black footman. Their conversation had come around to Critchley’s claim to have spent the night of Mary’s death at The Little Drummer. His partner, according to Jeffery, had been a nymph named Fanny. That’s all the footman would say though it was clear he knew more.
Georges approached the women’s table with the ease of a man who had had some experience with their kind. He gave them his most engaging smile and asked if he could buy them drinks. Won by his friendly manner, they invited him to sit at their table. He explained he was French, a footman on an errand in Bath for his employer, a Scottish family. On closer inspection, he noticed that their gowns, though of inexpensive material, were well-made and fitted perfectly. He complimented the women. They thanked him and gave the credit to Sarah, a dressmaker next door. By this time, he had identified Fanny, a short, buxom country girl. He asked her, “Could we get to know each other better in your room?”
She rose smiling and led him up the stairs.
As he closed the door behind them, she began to unhook her bodice. He asked her to stop, then gestured to a pair of wooden chairs. “We’ll talk instead. I’m willing to pay you well for certain information.” He reached over and pressed a shilling into her hand. “That’s for a start. The Scottish family I serve are the parents of Mary Campbell. They want to know what happened to their daughter.”
Fanny stared at him, nonplused and wary.
“Have you heard of her?”
“She’s the one that fell and broke her neck…a fortnight ago.”
Georges nodded. “On that night, you were in this room with Mr. Critchley, were you not?”
“What if I was,” she snapped. “What’s that to you?”
“It’s all the same to me. Were you together until dawn?”
She frowned perplexed. “So we were.”
“Isn’t that unusual in your line of work?”
“He paid for the whole night.” She grew exasperated. “What does that have to do with Mary Campbell?”
Georges pressed another shilling into her hand. “What did you do all night?”
“Frolicked in bed. Drank an ale. Slept.”
“Did he get up in the night?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she growled. “I slept like a dead woman. Didn’t wake up till he shook me at dawn and said he was leaving.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Fanny. I had to learn exactly what Mr. Critchley did that night. I suspect he put a potion in your drink, went about other business, and returned at dawn to rouse you.”
A troubled expression came over her face. “That was odd. I usually wake up in the middle of the night. Use the chamber pot. So, he drugged me, the old sneak. Why would he do that?”
Georges waved a warning. “You’re a clever woman, Fanny.” He pressed three more shillings into her hand. “If you value your neck, speak to no one about this, not even to your friends downstairs. Just tell them what a great lover I am.” He rose to leave, put both hands on her shoulders, and looked her in the eye. “Mr. Critchley may be dangerous,” he said in a low voice. “Do you grasp my meaning?”
“Yes, sir,” she said in a small voice. “I do indeed.”
***
Back in the public room Georges fretted over another brandy as the minutes passed. His disguise couldn’t hide the fact that he was a stranger. The regular patrons might resent him and wonder what he was doing there. In case he was asked, he was prepared to admit he was French. Patrons of The Little Drummer were likely to think he was in the smuggling trade, which he knew well enough to carry on a conversation.
At nine o’clock, Roach appeared at the entrance in his characteristic red coat and squinted into the room until he recognized someone near Georges. He made his way to the table of a scar-faced beetle-browed man with wiry gray hair and sloping forehead. Roach ordered drinks and the two men began to exchange loud, foul remarks belittling the nymphs, who pretended not to notice. After Roach and his companion were served, they leaned toward one another in more serious conversation. Roach passed a folded piece of paper to the man, who tucked it into his pocket.
A few minutes later, two men looking like strangers walked into the inn and spoke to the barkeeper. He nodded toward Roach’s table. The newcomers approached him and a brief conversation ensued. Then the four men moved to a private room at the end of the bar.
Georges watched all this, increasingly perplexed. The newcomers were wearing plain brown suits, but Georges could recognize military officers even if they were naked. Tarleton and Corbett. Madame Gagnon had described them. Georges rubbed his neck. What kind of business did they have to discuss with Jack Roach?
A short while later, Roach and his three companions left the inn—without paying for their drinks. The barmaid grimaced sourly to their backs. Georges beckoned her to his table. “Has the Red Devil been here earlier today?” He pressed a penny into her hand.
She pierced him with a wary look. “You an exciseman?”
“Do I talk like one?” he asked, as if insulted. “I’m a French traveler, just getting acquainted in Bath.”
His accent disarmed her suspicions. She drew close to him, so as not to be overheard. “Nothin’ wrong saying he was here a couple hours ago. Met a pale thin man what looked like a clerk. Does regular business here with the Red Devil. Don’t make me rich.”
“Critchley doesn’t pay for drinks either,” said Georges softly to himself, as the barmaid moved on to another patron. Georges stared into his glass at the last few drops of his brandy. Smuggled, he was sure.
***
Paul lay in his bed, eyes open, restless. He had slept fitfully for an hour. Now he was wide awake. A distant clock struck midnight. When he had first considered the idea of a trip to Bristol, he and Georges had thought it would be safe to travel during the day on a well-used road. Even after his encounter with Fitzroy on the portico, he had gone to bed, his mind still at ease. But a seed of doubt had been planted, and it grew while he slept.
He got up from the bed, opened the window, and stared out into the early morning darkness. Might Fitzroy dare to attack him so soon after threatening him? Would he also risk injuring little Charlie? Or Anne? Would Roach learn of their trip and try to cause her harm?
He ran his fingers through his hair. His questions seemed pointless. These scoundrels would choose an unlikely time and place to strike where their blame could be concealed. Surely not in broad daylight on the Bristol road.
Unlikely? But wasn’t that precisely the point? Finding it impossible to release this nagging concern, Paul got up, retrieved his military pistols from a drawer and loaded them, then went back to bed and fell into a fitful sleep.