Читать книгу His Forbidden Liaison - Joanna Maitland - Страница 8

The injured German was still lying unconscious on the bales of silk. From time to time, he moaned, but he had not yet opened his eyes. It was probably a mercy, for his pain must be intense.

‘I think we should stop soon, Mr Jacques,’ Marguerite said, breaking the silence that had held for nearly an hour. After those first few exchanges, when her companion’s rich voice had filled her senses, her attempts to converse with him had been politely but firmly rebuffed. He had been unwilling to talk about himself or his companion. It seemed that Mr Jacques’s attention was all still on escaping from the danger behind them, even though they had covered quite a distance. However, they had more pressing matters to deal with. The injured man needed a surgeon. ‘Marseilles is well behind us, sir, and you are both out of danger now. Those men cannot follow us.’ She was trying to sound reassuring.

Mr Jacques frowned in response. But after several moments, he shrugged his shoulders and relaxed just a little. ‘No, you are probably right.’

Thank goodness he was seeing reason, and talking to her at last, though his voice was somehow harsher than before. ‘Forgive me, but why were they chasing you in the first place? I am sure they were not what they said. Not constable’s men.’

He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Of course, you did not see them all on the quayside. I am pretty sure that they were accomplices of the two men who attacked you last night. I am afraid that you and I were more than gullible, ma’am, in taking the landlord’s word that your two attackers would be handed over to the authorities. I saw them both standing, free as air, outside the inn. No doubt they were in league with that scurvy landlord. And the other five were their accomplices, waiting for their share of the spoils.’

Marguerite exclaimed in disgust.

‘Quite so, ma’am. They all came out of the inn just in time to spot Benn and me, making our way to the diligence. Your assailants were too weak to pursue us themselves—I must say you did a good job there, for both their heads were still bandaged—but they pointed me out to their accomplices and set them on to attack us. And then one of them shot Benn.’

‘Oh, heavens! So it was all because of me that poor Herr Benn was shot? How dreadful.’ She clasped her hands together in an attempt to control her racing pulse. Suddenly, another thought struck her. ‘I suppose I should be grateful that the two injured men remained behind, for if they had recognised me, they would surely have suspected that I was hiding you.’

‘Aye. And they might have assaulted you again. You and I had the luck of it, this morning. Unfortunately, poor Benn—’ he glanced across at the motionless body on the floor ‘—has suffered grievously, even though he was snoring innocently throughout last night’s attack.’

‘He has paid for that now, poor man.’ Marguerite dropped quickly to her knees and put a gentle hand to Herr Benn’s brow. It was damp and hot. She looked back at Mr Jacques. ‘We must get a surgeon to him. He has the beginnings of a fever. If the ball is not removed…’ Her voice tailed off. They both knew that such a fever could be fatal.

‘You are right, ma’am. If it will not inconvenience you too much,’ he continued politely, as if he were conversing in some lady’s salon, ‘we could stop a moment when you change horses so that Benn and I could get down. The post-house landlord might be able to direct me to a surgeon.’

‘Let us hope so. It is a blessing that he remains insensible.’

‘Aye.’ He nodded.

‘I…I would be able to keep him so, if you think it wise. I have…I always carry some laudanum in my bag.’

‘Do you indeed, ma’am?You astonish me. First a candlestick, then a pistol, and now a phial of laudanum.You are full of surprises.’

Marguerite felt herself blushing. ‘I…I have an invalid mother. I know the value of laudanum. And also its dangers. But sometimes…well, sometimes, it is the only solution.’

‘Forgive me, ma’am, I did not mean to suggest—I am sure your phial may well be very useful if we have a need to keep him insensible. I certainly would not wish him to wake while the surgeon is ministering to him.’

‘No, of course not. Ah, look.’ She pointed out of the window to a bend in the road ahead of them. ‘There is Rognac. We should arrive in less than another quarter of an hour. I recall the posting house there was more than adequate when we were travelling south to Marseilles. Let us hope the landlord can direct you to a surgeon.’

‘Hmm. The place does look a mite small. But I trust you are right.’ He reached down to help her back on to the seat. ‘I am sure it would be best if you were not kneeling on the floor when we arrive at Rognac, ma’am, though I do thank you for your care of my companion. And I hope we have not delayed your journey too much. You have been a true Samaritan to us.’ He smiled at her then, with real generosity of spirit. It wiped the lines of care from his face and made him look years younger.

His voice might still be hard, but Marguerite felt her heart lift. And without his hand under her arm, she would have staggered as she resumed her seat, for she had suddenly begun to feel strangely dizzy.

Marguerite had refused to leave Rognac. How could she possibly travel on to Lyons before poor Herr Benn had seen a surgeon? He had groaned horribly as he was carried from the coach and into the posting house. Even now, when he was lying on clean sheets in the best bedchamber of the inn, he was still moaning.

Oh, when would Mr Jacques return with the surgeon? Herr Benn’s need was becoming ever more desperate. Marguerite soaked her cloth in the bowl of cool water once more. She was just about to lay it across the injured man’s forehead when he stirred and half-opened his eyes.

He said something incomprehensible. Not French. German, perhaps? She leant across him and bathed his brow again. His gaze was fixed on a point somewhere beyond her shoulder. She knew he was not seeing her.

He spoke again. ‘Mission.’ It was very low , but audible enough. Mission? Then, ‘ Wellington. Mission.’

Marguerite stopped dead, the cloth hanging limply from her fingers. Dear God, he was an Englishman and, by the sound of it, a spy! What. was she to do?

She forced herself to think. Mr Jacques was a Frenchman, and quite possibly a Bonapartist, as so many were. He had said he was conducting Herr Benn, a German, to Paris. But Herr Benn spoke English, and must surely be a spy. Did Mr Jacques know of it? It was impossible to say. They might be accomplices, of course, but equally, Herr Benn might be acting alone. If so, there was a real risk that Mr Jacques might betray this poor man. And there were certainly Bonapartists a-plenty who would take pleasure in executing an English spy, especially now that there were so many rumours, and so many hopes, for the promised return of their so-called emperor.

She could not take the chance. Mr Jacques’s voice and his touch might have made her senses reel, but her practical self knew better than to yield to such missish fancies. She might be wrong—she fervently hoped she was—but she had to work on the assumption that Mr Jacques and the pretend German were not fellow-conspirators. She must protect the wounded man.

She looked round wildly. Yes, her valise was here. Guillaume had deposited it in the bedchamber, all the while muttering about the dangers of taking strangers into their carriage. And he would still have been here, berating her, if he had not had to return to the yard to see to the safe disposal of the silk.

Marguerite grabbed her valise and scrabbled around in it until she lighted on the little bottle, wrapped in raw silk to keep it safe. She mixed a dose of laudanum in the glass from the night stand. Then she slid an arm under Herr Benn’s shoulders and lifted his head. ‘Forgive me, sir,’ she said softly, ‘but I must do this, for your own safety.’

She put the glass to his lips, but they were stubbornly closed. Confound it! He must take it. It was the only way to save him.

In that instant, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Mr Jacques might be returning, or Guillaume. Desperately, she seized another pillow and pushed it roughly behind the man’s head. She pulled her arm free and pinched his nostrils closed with her fingers. One second, two seconds, yes! His mouth opened to take a breath. With a single, swift movement, she tossed the contents of the glass down his throat, holding his nose until he swallowed. He gasped for breath, and groaned. But it did go down. It was done.

She settled him back more gently on the pillows, and quickly rinsed out the glass. She was just about to return the bottle to her valise when the door opened. ‘Mr Jacques!’ she exclaimed. She hid the bottle among her skirts, as she had done the pistol, seemingly hours before. Was she blushing? It seemed it did not matter, for neither Mr Jacques, nor the man who followed him, was looking at her. The new arrival was a surgeon, to judge by his clothing, and by the bag he carried.

‘Here is your patient, sir,’ Mr Jacques said, gesturing towards the bed. ‘And still insensible, thank God. You will be able to do your work without concern about the pain you may cause him.’

The surgeon crossed to the bed, took a cursory look at Herr Benn’swum, and began to unpack the instruments from his bag. ‘This will not take long, sir,’he said briskly. ‘I shall need a basin, and some bandages, if you would be so good.’

‘Yes, of course. Miss Grolier, would you be so kind as to ask the landlord for a clean sheet, or some other cloth that we may use for bandages?’

Marguerite nodded. It sounded as though Mr Jacques was trying to prevent her from witnessing the operation. It was thoughtful of him, though unnecessary, for she was not afraid of the sight of blood. She had assisted at the bleeding of her mother, oftentimes. It had rarely made much difference, though on occasion it had calmed the poor demented lady’s ravings.

Marguerite cast a last, cautious glance at Herr Benn. The laudanum seemed to have worked remarkably quickly. His eyes were closed, and he was no longer making any sound. She breathed a sigh of relief.

She hurried out of the room and down the staircase to the entrance hall, where she soon obtained what they needed. She was determined that she would not be out of that chamber for a moment longer than she could help. If Herr Benn spoke again, she needed to be there to hear whatever he might say. For now there were two potential betrayers: Mr Jacques and the surgeon. It might fall to her, and her alone, to defend the English spy.

The surgeon continued to probe into Ben’s wound. ‘The ball lies deep.’ He grunted as he worked. ‘Ah, I have it now.’A moment later, the ball rattled into the tin basin that Jack was holding. It was followed by a gush of bright blood. The surgeon calmly replaced the bloody pad of Jack’s shirt and pressed hard. ‘We need those fresh bandages now.’

‘Aye.’ Jack glanced over his shoulder to the open door. There had not yet been time. It was but a few minutes since Miss Grolier had gone downstairs to fetch the bandages. He looked back at the bed where Ben lay, very still, and almost as pale as the linen surrounding him. Jack was grateful that his friend had not come round during the operation, and yet it worried him that Ben had shown no sign of regaining his wits since they had left Marseilles. Perhaps Jack had been wrong in assuming that the wound had damaged no vital organs? ‘He will recover now, sir?’ Jack was unable to keep the anxiety from his voice.

‘Yes, with careful nursing. There is a deal of damage to his shoulder, for I had to dig deep to remove the ball. ‘Twill be a long time before he wields a sword with that arm.’

Jack was instantly on the alert. Why should a surgeon speak of swords and fighting? But he replied only, ‘It is not his fighting arm. He is left-handed.’

‘Ah. Then he has been lucky, for his shoulder will take some time to heal. How came he by this wound, sir?’

‘We were set upon by a group of footpads, in Marseilles. We were outnumbered, and running from them. When they saw that we were about to escape, one of them shot him.’

‘Wicked,’ the surgeon muttered. ‘And cowardly, too, especially now, when we are like to need every Frenchman we have.’

‘Especially now?’ Jack echoed. ‘Forgive me, sir, but I—’

The surgeon’s eyes widened and he stared at Jack. ‘Have you not heard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘The Emperor has returned. God save him!’

Jack felt as though he had been winded by a blow to the gut. ‘Returned?’ For a moment, he could not manage more than that single word. Then his common sense took hold and he breathed again. The surgeon was yet another of the many Bonapartists waiting all over France. Jack must take care. He must not allow the surgeon’s suspicions to be aroused. ‘Are you sure, sir?’ he asked breezily. ‘We heard nothing of that at Marseilles. Just that he would return.’

The surgeon paused. ‘Be so good as to keep the pressure on the wound.’ As soon as Jack had taken over, the man turned away. He began to clean his hands with a cloth and then to put his instruments back into his case. ‘Well, I suppose the rumours could be mistaken,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But the way it was told to me, I tell you, sir, it was not that the Emperor might return, but that he had returned. I pray it is so, for with fat Louis on the throne, France will always be under the heel of her enemies.’ He spun round to face Jack. ‘Vive l’Empereur!’

It was a test. Jack swallowed. He had no choice. ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ he echoed, trying to sound as though he meant it.

A sound from the doorway made him turn. Marguerite Grolier stood there, transfixed, with a bundle of white cloth clasped to her bosom.

Jack swore silently. If the lady was a Bonapartist, he might have improved his standing with her. But if she was not, he could have made himself an enemy. He wanted neither of those. He wanted her to trust him, without question. But she was standing as if stunned, her glorious eyes very wide. Was that from pleasure? Or dismay? He could not tell. He desired her as an ally, but he dare not risk treating her as anything but an enemy.

‘At last!’ the surgeon cried. ‘Bring them here, ma’am. This man is bleeding.’

The surgeon’s words spurred her into action. She started violently and hurried across to the bed. Between them, she and the surgeon tore bandages and had soon bound a clean pad on to Ben’s wounded shoulder.

‘He’ll do now, sir,’ the surgeon said.

‘Thank you. How soon will he be well enough to travel, do you think? We should not remain here, especially if the news you bring is true.’

The surgeon grinned. ‘Pray God it is, eh, sir? He promised to return with the violets. He would not break such a promise. Not a promise to France.’ The surgeon had a rather faraway look in his eyes, which sat strangely with his burly figure and bloodstained fingernails. But many Frenchmen had revered Bonaparte as a hero. Just as this man clearly did.

‘I need to know, sir. How soon?’Jack repeated. ‘How long must my companion remain here before he is fit to travel?’

‘Oh, that. A day or two only. Much will depend upon whether he develops a fever. That ball should have been removed hours since, you know.’

Jack nodded guiltily. ‘I…I know it.’ He straightened. ‘May I escort you downstairs, sir? Perhaps you will take a glass with me before you leave?’

The surgeon beamed. ‘That is kind, sir. I accept, gladly.’

Jack glanced towards the lady, who nodded. Since Ben was unconscious, she could safely be left alone to take care of him for a space, while Jack took the surgeon below and paid him for his services. There would still be plenty of light for her to continue her journey later. He would thank her properly then, and try to allay her suspicions, somehow. He wanted her to think well of him when they parted, just as he did of her, whatever her allegiance. In truth, she deserved more gratitude than he would ever be able to express, since she must never learn of their mission.

For now, that mission came first. He must stop thinking about Marguerite Grolier. His immediate task was to extract as much information as possible about Bonaparte. He would start with the surgeon. Over a glass of brandy, the man might disclose a great deal about the exiled Emperor. Was it possible? Could he really have landed in France again? Was the whole of Europe about to be engulfed in flames once more?

Now what was she to do? Herr Benn was an English spy. And Mr Jacques was all too clearly a Bonapartist. She swallowed hard, trying to control the nausea that had engulfed her when she heard those fateful words on his lips. He was a brave and generous man, he had rescued her with no thought for his own safety, but he was a Bonapartist. They were enemies, but she must not let him suspect that. She must keep him always at a distance and treat him with the utmost care. She had thought, for that fleeting moment when he touched her, that he might be a friend. Nothing of the sort. He was an enemy, to her and to everything her family believed in. She must beware of him.

Marguerite’s hands were automatically clearing away the mess the surgeon had left. Herr Benn was deeply insensible and pale as a ghost. She fancied that the surgeon was a butcher as well as a Bonapartist. He had removed the bullet, but what else had he done? She dropped the last of the bloody cloths into the basin and turned to the dressing table to wash her hands. The water there was clean. Neither the surgeon nor Mr Jacques had washed off the blood.

She shuddered. Blood! If Bonaparte had indeed returned, there would be a great deal of blood.

She glanced around for a towel. There was none. She shook the drops of water back into the bowl and turned to her valise for her own towel. In a moment, she found it, tucked alongside the raw silk cocoon which normally held her phial of laudanum. She dried her hands, extracted the phial from her pocket and restored it to its place beside the basilicum powder. It would be best to give Herr Benn no more laudanum. But did she dare to let him alone? What if he began raving? Mr Jacques was surely not to be trusted. On the other hand, Herr Benn might not recover if Marguerite kept him dosed with laudanum. It was a wicked dilemma.

Reluctantly, she retrieved the phial in its soft wrapping and stowed it deep in her pocket. She would keep it to hand, just in case.

Was that a sound on the stairs? She looked round, guiltily, to see the door opening. Quickly, she grabbed the tin of basilicum powder and whirled to meet this new challenge.

‘Mistress?’

Marguerite let out the breath she had been holding. It was only Guillaume.

‘I have ordered food. It will be served directly, in the coffee room downstairs. Will you come?’

‘No, Guillaume.’She glanced towards the bed. ‘I cannot leave him.’

‘But, mistress—’

She waved the tin at him. ‘His wound needs to be redressed.’

‘That is not for you to do, surely? The surgeon has seen to him, and he has his companion, also. You have been more than generous to them both, but it is none of our concern. We should be on our way home.’

Without a moment’s pause for reflection, Marguerite shook her head.

‘Mistress, your sister needs you more than these men. And there is the Duchess of Courland’s silk. It has to be taken to Paris.’

He was right, of course. The family’s future might depend on the Duchess’s approval. And yet Marguerite was the only person who could save the English spy from the Bonapartists. She owed a debt of gratitude, perhaps even her life, to Mr Jacques, but she could not trust him with the English spy’s life. He was the enemy. She repeated it yet again, forcing herself to ignore the tiny voice that urged her to trust him, to value his kindness.

She straightened her back and tried to look sternly at her old retainer. ‘We cannot leave so soon,’ she said firmly. ‘Herr Benn has the beginnings of a fever. That butcher may have extracted the ball, but heavens knows what damage he did in the process. And Mr Jacques, for all his bravery in defending me last evening, is no nurse.’

‘No, but—’

‘Guillaume, I cannot leave this man. Not until he is out of danger. I am sure that it will take only a day, or two at most.’

Guillaume was shaking his grizzled head.

Marguerite would not permit him to voice the protest he so clearly wished to make. ‘No, Guillaume, we are staying, at least for a day. We must take care, though, for Rognac seems to be a nest of Bonapartists.’ She ignored Guillaume’s worried frown. ‘Do bespeak a bedchamber and make sure all our supplies are safely stowed there. I want no repetition of last night’s trouble. Take the pistols from the coach and remain with our goods. It is your responsibility to ensure they are well guarded.’

He stood there, looking her up and down. She thought she detected a new respect in his gaze. ‘And tell the landlord to send up some food. I shall not be able to leave Herr Benn.’

‘As you wish, mistress,’ Guillaume said quietly. ‘Shall I bespeak a separate bedchamber for you? Or shall you sleep with the silk?’

‘Neither. I shall sleep here,’ she said flatly. She pointed to the chaise longue under the window. ‘Herr Benn will need constant nursing, and I do not imagine that Mr Jacques possesses the necessary skill. Ask the landlord to find me some extra pillows and a coverlet. I shall be comfortable enough there.’

Guillaume hesitated for a moment, but then, perhaps seeing the determination on Marguerite’s face, he nodded and left the room. A second later, she heard the sound of his boots clattering down the stairs.

Her decisions were made. She crossed to the bed and began to untie the bandages so that she could apply her basilicum powder to the unconscious man’s open wound.

She would save him at all costs, even if she had to shoot Mr Jacques in order to do so.