The Captain And His Innocent

Jacques nodded approvingly. ‘That’s the spirit. Let’s raise our glasses to the captain’s brother. Let’s wish him a safe journey home!’

‘To Anthony,’ they echoed. ‘A safe return.’

* * *

Gradually, the fire died down. Midnight came and went; they talked of battles they’d fought and comrades they’d known until at last, knowing they must rise well before dawn, they went off to their beds.

All of them except Luke.

The big house was quiet enough now for him to hear the whisper of the wind in the trees outside and the faint hiss of the waves breaking on the long shingle beach below the cliffs. Somewhere in the distance a nightbird called.

He went to stir the embers of the fire, lifting the metal poker with his maimed right hand by mistake. Fool. Fool. The heavy implement clattered on the hearth. He picked the poker up almost savagely with his left hand and jabbed at the logs until they roared into life.

Damn it. He was of no use to anyone, least of all to himself. He ripped off the black leather glove and stared at the two stumps where his fingers had been. The scars had almost healed, and as for the ache of the missing joints—well, he was used to it.

What he could not grow used to was the feeling that his younger brother—who’d relied on him, who’d trusted him—was lost for good. Was dead, like the others. By hoping that Anthony had somehow survived, he’d made the final blow ten times as bad for himself.

Again and again during these last few months, he’d cursed his injured hand, because it had stopped him sailing to France with Jacques and hunting the coast for clues or answers. He couldn’t use a pistol, or a sword; wasn’t even much use at helping sail a ship. But perhaps Fate was telling him that he should turn his mind to other matters.

Perhaps Fate was reminding him that the answers he was seeking could also lie here, in England, not in France at all. Perhaps Fate was telling him that here, he could find out what had really happened to Anthony and his brave comrades. Why they had been betrayed—and by whom. Even though such secrets were as closely guarded as rich men’s fortunes.

He thought again of Lord Franklin Grayfield, a rich widower in his late forties; a remote, clever man who had a son out in India whom he hadn’t seen for years. Lord Franklin Grayfield, who cared far more for his art collection, it was said, than for female company.

Yet he’d claimed an unknown French girl as his

relative—the girl Luke had met that afternoon. Harshly, he dismissed his memory of the light lavender scent that emanated, ever so faintly, from her creamy skin. Harshly, he thrust aside his awareness of her downright vulnerability and the haunting sadness in her eyes. Instead, he told himself to remember the pistol she’d handled so deftly and so purposefully—as if in mockery of his own injury.

Caroline used to squeal in girlish horror at any mention of the war and weapons. But the French girl had that dainty gun and looked as if she knew how to use it. What kind of life had she led, before coming to England? And if the pistol had startled him, what in God’s name was he to make of the compass she’d dropped?

Once again Luke remembered the astonishing inscription that he’d seen engraved upon its side—he found that his heart was speeding at just the thought of it. He also remembered the look on her face as she’d snatched it from him. No wonder she was so eager—so very eager—to get it back.

Who was she, really? And what in hell was she doing here, under Lord Franklin’s so-called protection?

Chapter Four

Ellie, too, was still awake, sitting alone by the window in the icy spaciousness of her bedroom in Bircham Hall. It was past midnight. But she couldn’t sleep, because this was a day she would never, ever be able to forget.

After the repair to the road, Lord Franklin’s carriage had made swift progress, its driver no doubt eager to make up for the delay. They’d left the main road to pass through some gates by a well-lit lodge, after which they followed a long private drive; Ellie had seen how the carriage lamps picked out clumps of winter-bare trees set amidst grassy parkland.

And as they crossed the bridge over a river, she had her first view of the Hall—stately and foursquare, with flambeaux burning on either side of the huge, pillared entrance, as if in defiance of the January night.

Lord Franklin’s country residence. It was magnificent. It was haughty and forbidding. ‘Oh, look,’ cried Miss Pringle, who was peering out of the window, too. ‘Here we are at last, Elise. And I see—goodness me!—that all the staff are outside, waiting to greet you!’

Indeed, Ellie had seen them all there in the cold: the maids in black and the footmen, straight as soldiers, clad in Lord Franklin’s livery of navy and gold.

All waiting for her. Ellie’s heart sank.

But Miss Pringle practically bubbled with excitement. ‘Such an honour for you!’ she murmured as the grooms hurried to hold the horses and lower the carriage steps. ‘Such a very great honour! And look—here is Mr Huffley, his lordship’s butler...’

‘Miss Pringle. Mademoiselle.’ The butler made a stiff bow to them as they descended from the carriage. ‘It is my pleasure, mademoiselle,’ he went on to Ellie, bowing again, ‘to welcome you most heartily to Bircham Hall. Allow me to present our housekeeper, Mrs Sheerham. Our cook, Mrs Bevington. The senior housemaid, Joan...’

The maids curtseyed to her, the footmen bowed their heads to her; all politeness, all decorum, despite the fact that their breaths were misting in the chilly air. For their sakes Ellie got through the ceremony as quickly as she could, then followed Mr Huffley up the stone steps to the house.

And only then did she remember that there was somebody else she had yet to meet.

‘Lady Charlotte will be expecting you,’ Miss Pringle was whispering at her side. ‘I declare, I cannot wait to see her ladyship again.’

The entrance hall was huge and cold, its walls hung with coats of arms and stags’ heads. All kinds of statues stood on either side of the hall: reclining figures of smooth white marble, stone busts set on pillars, precious relics that must, Ellie realised, have come from the ancient civilizations of Greece or Rome or Egypt.

It was a proud house, thought Ellie to herself with a shiver. All these priceless objects from the past seemed to be there to declare the history, wealth and importance of those who dwelt there. And in the midst of all this, as if claiming her own right to be a part of the grandeur, was a lady in her early seventies, with a lace-trimmed cap perched on her iron-grey hair and a gown of black. She sat in a bath chair. Two footmen were on either side of her, standing stiffly to attention.

‘Your ladyship...’ breathed Miss Pringle to her, sweeping an extravagant curtsey.

And Ellie was suddenly dry-mouthed as she made a low curtsey also. Nobody had told her about the bath chair. Nobody had told her...

She rose from her curtsey, aware that Lady Charlotte was raking her with hard eyes. ‘So you must be Elise Duchamp,’ she said, distaste for the foreign name etching every syllable. ‘I am Lord Franklin’s mother. I gather he has decided to banish you to Bircham? So much, I imagine, for your hopes of trapping my son into marriage.’

Ellie was shocked not just by the nature of the attack, but by its vicious suddenness. Never—never had she thought of Lord Franklin in that way. Dieu du ciel, he was surely over twice her age! ‘I do assure you, my lady, that nothing could be further from the truth!’

Lady Charlotte wheeled herself close, forcing Ellie backwards. ‘Are you really telling me that you never intended to make him your prize? Some people might—just might—believe you. I don’t, as it happens. Just remember, Elise—I shall be watching you.’

Her ladyship glanced up at Miss Pringle. ‘It’s almost five o’clock. I hope, Pringle, that you’ve shown some common sense for a change, and told the girl that we dine at six? We do not indulge in town hours here.’ She beckoned to the two footmen, who throughout all this had stared blankly ahead. ‘Take me to my room. Now.’ And Ellie watched speechless as the footmen wheeled the elderly lady away.

How could she have allowed herself to be brought here—trapped here like this? Why had she entrusted herself to these people?

Yet how could she have resisted her father’s last desperate plea as he lay dying? You must go with him, Ellie, to England. You must.

‘Papa,’ Ellie had argued. ‘We don’t know him. We cannot be sure.’

But her father had insisted. Lord Franklin will keep you safe, as I have never been able to, he’d said. Promise me...

Miss Pringle still hovered, all of a flutter. ‘What an honour for you, Elise,’ she was saying brightly. ‘How wonderful to be welcomed to Bircham by Lady Charlotte herself.’

But her hands were trembling, and Ellie realised that Miss Pringle was afraid of Lady Charlotte. Terrified, in fact. And then the housekeeper was there—Mrs Sheerham—saying to Ellie, ‘May I take you to your room, ma’am?’

Ellie followed her, quite dazed.

* * *

She found that she had been allotted a spacious suite on the second floor. Her trunk and valise had already been brought up and placed in the bedroom that adjoined the private sitting room.

She went over to them quickly, to check that the valise was still firmly locked. Looking round, she noted that thick curtains were drawn shut across all the windows; fires had been lit in both rooms and a dozen or more wax candles banished the darkness. The luxury of it all stunned her.

‘I hope everything is to your taste, ma’am?’ Mrs Sheerham was still standing by the door.

‘Yes. Thank you, it’s—it’s wonderful.’

‘Very good, ma’am.’ Mrs Sheerham’s expression softened just a fraction with the praise. ‘You’d no doubt like some tea and someone to help with your unpacking? I’ll see that a maid comes up to you shortly.’ She left and Ellie began to slowly remove her cloak.

Lady Charlotte hates me. She never wanted me here.

She’d barely had time to lay her cloak on the bed, when there was a knock at the door, and a girl in a black dress and white apron entered hesitantly.

‘My name is Mary, miss!’ She bobbed a curtsey. ‘Mrs Sheerham, she asked me to come up and see to you. And I’ve brought tea for you.’ Mary darted out again and came back in with a tray of tea things, which she set down on a small table in the sitting room, while Ellie stood back, hoping the girl wouldn’t guess that—before being taken under Lord Franklin’s wing—she had never had a personal maid in her life.

‘Now, while you drink your tea,’ Mary went on, ‘I shall start to unpack your clothes, shall I?’ Her eager eyes had already settled on Ellie’s trunk and valise, then fell a little. ‘But is that all?’

Ellie knew that most ladies of quality travelled with so much luggage that often a separate carriage was required for it. ‘There’s only the one trunk, I’m afraid, Mary,’ she answered quickly. ‘And, yes, I’d be grateful if you would unpack it.’

‘And what about the bag—?’

‘No,’ Ellie cut in. Mary was staring at her in surprise. ‘I mean,’ Ellie hurried on, ‘that there’s very little in the valise. My clothes are all in the trunk. So if you would put them away, I would be most grateful.’

‘Of course, miss!’ Briskly Mary set about unpacking Ellie’s clothes and hanging them in the wardrobe, or folding them into the various chests of drawers that were ready-scented with sprigs of dried lavender. As she did so, she exclaimed over the silk gowns, the velvet pelisses, the exquisite underwear. ‘Oh, miss. Are all these from Paris?’

Ellie shook her head. ‘They’re from London. Lord Franklin was kind enough to arrange for a modiste to make them for me.’

Mary gazed longingly at a rose-pink evening dress. ‘I don’t know when you’re going to wear these things here, miss. It’s a cold house, is Bircham Hall. And Lady Charlotte, she doesn’t have many guests or parties, exactly...’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Ellie said quickly. ‘I’ve never been interested in parties or clothes.’

‘No, miss? But it’s such a shame that you’re going to be so quiet here. Now, if you’d stayed in London... Mr Huffley told us that in London there are lots and lots of French people like yourself, who had to run for their lives when that monster Napoleon became Emperor of France. Napoleon sent armies marching all over Europe, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ Ellie’s voice was very quiet. ‘Yes, he did.’

Mary had paused to admire an embroidered silk chemise before folding it meticulously in a drawer. Then she nodded. ‘But now, Napoleon’s locked up good and proper, on that island in the Mediterranean. Miles from anywhere. And our clever politicians and Lord Wellington will see that he never, ever gets free. Are you quite sure you don’t want me to unpack that valise for you, miss?’

‘Quite sure. And I think that is all, for now.’

But Mary’s eyes were still scanning the room. ‘Your cloak!’ she said suddenly. It was still on the bed, where Ellie had laid it. ‘It will be dusty after your journey. Shall I take it downstairs and brush it out for you?’

‘No!’ Ellie had already taken a step forward, to stop her. ‘No. That will be all, Mary.’ She forced herself into calmness. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘You’re very welcome, miss. You’ve not drunk your tea yet! Never mind, I’ll collect the tray later.’ Reluctantly, Mary took one last look around. ‘It’ll be time for you to go down to dinner soon. You’ll hear the bell ringing downstairs, ten minutes before six. Oh, and her ladyship doesn’t like anyone to be late.’ Her bright voice dimmed, just a little. ‘Most particular, her ladyship is. Most particular.’

Mary let herself out. And as soon as her swift footsteps faded into the distance, Ellie leaned back against the closed door and thought, I should never, ever, have allowed myself to be brought here. She hurried across to her cloak and, reaching deep into the inside pocket, drew out her pistol and the compass in its box.

She clasped them to her.

The man. The man, on the road... She could still remember how she’d felt, standing there with him so close, so powerful and dangerous. She would perhaps never forget the way her pulse had pounded when he smiled at her.

She had to forget him. As she hoped he would forget her. You will never see him again. You must erase him from your mind.

Drawing a deep breath, she laid the pistol and compass on the bed. Then she unfastened the silver chain round her neck, feeling for the small key that hung from it, and with that key she unlocked her valise. In it were several maps and charts, carefully folded, and below them were more objects, each in black velvet wrappings. She opened them one by one.

A surveyor’s prism. A miniature folding telescope. A magnifying lens, with an ebony handle. A tiny geologist’s hammer.

She wrapped them up again and put them back at the bottom of the valise. Put the pistol and compass in there, too, then the documents on top of them all.

She knew she ought to lock the valise again and hide it from sight, but instead she withdrew one of the folded documents and spread it out, carefully.

She translated the title into English, under her breath. A map of the valley of the Loire, showing its geology. Devised and drawn by A. Duchamp, Paris, in the year of Our Lord 1809...

She picked up the map with her father’s signature on it and held it close to her breast as the memories flooded back.

Chapter Five

Ellie’s father, André Duchamp, was a geologist, surveyor and map-maker. He had lived with his wife and daughter in Paris, close to the church of St Denis in an apartment off the Rue Tivoli, which had a little balcony from where Ellie could look out on to the main street. She remembered being enthralled as a five-year-old child to one day see ranks of soldiers marching by, their tricolours held aloft, and two years later she’d seen Napoleon himself, the newly crowned Emperor of France, ride past at the head of his cavalry on a prancing white horse, acknowledging the cheers of the crowds who’d gathered to see him.

‘He is a great man,’ her father used to say. ‘He will bring peace and prosperity to France again.’

Their apartment was small, but even so, a whole room was given up to her father’s work, and he used to let Ellie watch him while he drew his maps. She was fascinated, too, by the telescopes and star charts he had in there, for he was a keen astronomer. ‘Why should I only map the ground beneath my feet?’ he would say. ‘When there are also the heavens above us to explore?’

Best of all, she loved to gaze at the array of geological samples he kept in a glass cabinet in that room. To Ellie they were as beautiful as any jewels, and her father would tell her about each one.

‘These pink crystals are feldspar, Ellie. Such a delicate colour, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, yes! And the green one, Papa?’

‘That’s olivine. And here’s a piece of hematite—such a dark, deep red that it’s almost black.’

Ellie nodded eagerly. ‘And that one must be gold!’

‘Fool’s gold, alas.’ Her father smiled at her excitement. ‘It’s called pyrites and it’s tricked many a fortune-

hunter.’

She’d gazed at him earnestly. ‘You know so much, Papa.’

He’d ruffled her hair. ‘Ah, but there’s always more to learn, little one.’

‘Is that why you go travelling?’

‘It’s my job, Ellie. I’m lucky to have a job that I love.’

She was always sad when her father was away. He went travelling for days—sometimes even weeks—at a time and only later in her childhood did she realise why he was so busy. It was because his expertise in both geology and map-making meant that he was invaluable in the planning and the physical creation of new roads that were intended to connect all of the cities and ports of France for travellers and traders.

When he was away, Ellie would gaze down the street from her window for his return, waiting for him and missing him. She was only vaguely aware of the wars the Emperor Napoleon was waging on France’s borders and beyond. But as the years went by, her father was away more and more often, for longer periods of time, and when he returned, his mood was often heavy, sombre, almost—though he always smiled to see his daughter.

When Ellie was seventeen, her mother died. She’d been ill for only a short while, and her father was brokenhearted. And that was truly the end of their old, familiar way of life, because one night, a few weeks after the funeral, Ellie found her father packing all his precious things into his leather valise. She saw how his face was etched with grief, how his hands trembled as he put them on her shoulders and said, ‘Ellie, my darling, we must flee Paris, you and I. This city is no longer safe for us.’

* * *

It made her almost smile to remember how in Brussels Lord Franklin had expressed his fear that the journey to England might exhaust her, because Ellie was used to the kind of journeys Lord Franklin probably couldn’t even imagine. She was used to travelling under a false name, and often by night; sometimes in mail coaches if they had the money, and in farm carts or on foot if they hadn’t.

They’d headed for Le Havre first, where her father had once had relatives—only to find that they’d long since disappeared, in the upheavals of revolution and war. After several cold and lonely weeks, her father came home one day with the heavy news that they were still being pursued—and so their travelling began again and they headed north.

If they felt they were safe—if they’d gone for a day without suspecting anyone was on their tail—they would treat themselves to a room in an inn for the night, even if the room was flea-ridden and furnished only with a couple of lumpy, straw-filled mattresses. More often they had to sleep in barns, or ruined cottages—places left derelict by years of war.

And Ellie had to be the strong one, because already her father’s health was failing. She had to do things she’d not have believed possible—become a liar, a thief, a fighter, even. Her father had taught her to use that small but lethal pistol, and though she’d never been forced to fire it, she’d made it plain to anyone who threatened their safety that she would—and could—shoot to kill.

She’d had to plan their route, make the decisions, and find—or steal—medicines for her ailing father, who was becoming weaker and weaker each day.

‘Soon we will be safe, Ellie,’ he would murmur each night, as he carefully unpacked his valise and checked his precious instruments. ‘Soon we will be able to stop running at last.’

For her papa, the running had indeed ended. He was dying of pneumonia in Brussels when Lord Franklin came to them—Lord Franklin Grayfield, a wealthy middle-aged English aristocrat who travelled abroad a good deal, he told Ellie in fluent French, because he was fascinated by European culture and art, and was eager to add to his collection of paintings and sculptures. To his great regret, he had been thwarted in his travels by the long war. ‘But now,’ he told her, ‘I am making up for lost time.’

He was clearly rich. He was also ferociously clever. And never in her life had Ellie been so astonished as when he told her, in the Brussels attic where she lived with her dying father, that her mother was a distant relative of his.

Ellie had been astounded. A relative? But her mother had told her that her English family had disowned her completely when she told them she was marrying a French map-maker.

‘How I wish I’d known this earlier,’ Lord Franklin said earnestly. ‘I’m afraid it’s only a few weeks ago that I was making some family enquiries and learned your mother had died; learned, too, that she had a daughter. I vowed to find you, although I wasn’t sure how. But my search for antiquities happened to bring me to Brussels. And you can imagine my surprise, to find out by chance in the marketplace that living here was a gentleman from Paris called Duchamp, whose wife was English and who had a daughter.’

Ellie had listened to all this with her heart pounding. Since arriving in this city, Ellie and her father hadn’t troubled to change their name, Duchamp, for it was common enough; but they’d done their utmost to conceal the fact that they were from Paris. And Ellie couldn’t recollect telling anyone, not even Madame Gavroche, their landlady, that her mother was English.

Lord Franklin was kind. He paid for an expensive doctor to visit her father, although it was far, far too late for anything to be done. He paid for the funeral and the burial, and afterwards he had taken her hand and said kindly, ‘You must come with me to England, Elise. And I promise I will do my utmost to make up for the dreadful grief you have had to face, alone.’

He never once asked her why she and her father had left Paris. He was thoughtful, he was generous; but she was wary of his generosity, and of him. Her strongest instinct was to stay in Brussels, in the little apartment above the bread shop, where Madame Gavroche and her son had been so good to her. But her dying father had pleaded with her to let Lord Franklin take her into his care.

What else could she do, but agree?

* * *

And so Ellie travelled to England—first in an expensive hired carriage to Calais, and then on Lord Franklin’s private yacht, across the Channel to Tilbury. And from there, they went on in Lord Franklin’s own carriage to his magnificent house in London. The city astonished her with the magnificence of its buildings, and she was overwhelmed by the elegance of the Mayfair house on Clarges Street in which Lord Franklin resided. And there, every possible comfort was offered to her by her new protector.

She was given her own maid. She was visited in rapid succession by a hairdresser, a modiste and a mantua maker. Soon a selection of expensive and fashionable gowns began to arrive for her. But Lord Franklin seemed—