An Unwilling Spy Read online

  ‘Adeline, I —’ His eyes were molten and wracked with pain.

  Her heart quickened. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Adeline, we can’t —’ He stopped and blew out a sigh. ‘Life is never certain as a spy. There are too many unknowns.’

  For a brief, thrilling moment she’d thought they could have had something more than friendship. A connection deeper than anything she’d known before. But his words drained everything from her like waves sucked out to sea.

  She should have expected rejection. Their kiss had been no more than a fleeting togetherness, a tiny moment in a life lived under pressure of imminent death. He’d taken no more than Daniel had, with less ownership and far more skill it was true, but there it was, a moment in time of pure fantasy and indulgence that must be packed away and forgotten.

  Only she would never forget …

  She shook with the lingering depths of passion, aware that things had subtly altered between them and not for the better. ‘I understand. I do,’ she said. Broken inside, she dropped her gaze. She would be brave. She had to be.

  Finch cleared his throat and stepped away. ‘I hope so because I never meant to hurt you.’

  Hurt her? He’d never once taken her for granted. Never once stopped caring for her in a myriad of ways. She shook her head, bemused that the man she’d been so afraid of in the beginning had become someone she’d trust with her life.

  Finch moved to the door then turned slowly, placing his hand on the jamb. His expression was bleak. ‘This doesn’t change anything.’

  Only everything.

  At her silence, he bit back an oath. ‘I’d best send the letter to the Commandant.’

  Ah, yes, the plan. It was never far from his mind. ‘Do that. I’ll watch over Eugene.’

  As his footsteps pattered down the stairs, she slumped on the edge of the bed. He’d given her that last look, his mouth twisted in a hard line, and she’d done nothing to ease the sudden awkwardness between them. Like a knife it had cut the air and she dropped her head into her hands and moaned. She shouldn’t have kissed him like that. But it was done and if she were honest, she did not regret it. Not for a single moment.

  Exhausted by the exertions of the previous days and wrung out at what had happened with Finch, she settled next to Eugene and succumbed to a fitful sleep for some hours. When she awoke, Finch lay asleep, sprawled in a padded chair on the opposite side of the room.

  She watched his face in repose and her gaze skidded over his lips. The lips that had mastered her own with a soft caress. Even now, she could feel the imprint of them on her mouth and she touched the spot with her finger. She couldn’t let that kiss ruin their friendship or their mission. There was too much at stake, no matter how wonderful it had been. It would be better to put it behind her and pretend it was all a mistake.

  If only she could.

  She expelled a pent up breath and sat up to find Eugene sprawled on the floor next to her, quietly sketching. He’d drawn the back view of the statue and this time he’d copied down the strange text. On the opposite page, he’d drawn the stag with a huge smile.

  ‘He looks happy,’ she said, leaning over the bed to gain a better view of the animal.

  Eugene glanced up at her. ‘I think he’s lucky.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘The shepherd looks after him.’

  The stag did look important to the shepherd and she wondered if Eugene felt the need to belong to someone too. He must feel terribly adrift without his parents, like a ship without a rudder. And that only made her more aware of how vulnerable he was and how reliant he must be on Finch and her to look after him.

  Their soft voices must have woken Finch for he stretched and glanced at her with a shuttered face. Her stomach curled in on itself but with her resolution to ignore what had happened uppermost in her mind, she said with forced brightness, ‘Have you received a note back from the Commandant?’

  ‘Yes.’ He eased his body out of the chair. ‘We have an appointment to see him soon. But first we should eat.’

  She nodded, miserable at this terse exchange, and found the items she’d bought earlier. Finch tore off a piece of bread and Eugene picked up an apple. Her stomach felt too raw to consume much so she nibbled a piece of cheese.

  ‘What do I do while you’re visiting the prison?’ Eugene asked. He’d put his sketch book back in his saddle bag and crunched into his apple.

  Finch chewed and thought it over. ‘It would be best if you waited outside the prison walls. Pretend to be an urchin, playing in the square. That way if we need to disappear quickly, you are nearby.’

  ‘That’s easy.’

  ‘Good lad,’ Finch said. ‘And if we’re not back before dark, you’re to come here and wait for us. I’ll fix it with the landlord.’

  Eugene’s expression turned grave. ‘What if you don’t come back?’

  His fear of being left alone was almost palpable. ‘We will,’ she said firmly. ‘Won’t we, Finch?’

  Finch caught her eye then regarded Eugene thoughtfully. ‘I want you to mind some things for me.’

  Eugene stared as Finch drew out their money and his knife.

  ‘I can’t take these into the prison because they’ll search me,’ Finch said, handing them over. ‘And if they find them, they’ll keep them.’

  Eugene put the money in his saddle bag then turned the knife over in his hands. ‘You really want me to mind your special knife?’

  Finch nodded. ‘So we’ll need to come back to get it.’

  Eugene looked at him in awe. ‘You’d never leave your knife behind.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Finch said, his gaze steady. ‘I never would.’

  Eugene’s smile was like the sun after days of fog. Someday Finch would make a wonderful father and a vision of black-haired children romped through her mind. Adorable little scamps who giggled and chattered, each a miniature of the man before her. An acute longing to be a part of that picture pierced her, all the stronger because the picture would never materialize.

  With a deep sadness, she put on her bonnet. Finch yanked on his diplomatic coat and retied his black cravat. They both looked tidy if a little crumpled but that couldn’t be helped. The tiny statue went into her reticule then she crouched down and gave Eugene a hug. ‘Be brave,’ she said, dropping a tender kiss on his head.

  He looked at her with big round eyes then launched himself at her, his arms around her neck. He clung on and she stroked his face with trembling fingers. ‘You are the best boy I know. Don’t be sad’ — and she lifted his chin and waggled her eyebrows at him — ‘and try not to eat all our food while we’re gone.’

  He gave her a teary chuckle and she hugged him again, meeting Finch’s eyes over the top of his head. Finch’s eyes looked suspiciously moist but he turned away before she could be certain.

  They left Eugene hanging out the window and wandered down the lane and around the corner to the square. The market had finished and people were packing up their carts and trundling home. Others loitered, smoking and gossiping and a young girl chased a large dog past the guard who stood in front of the prison door. He was different to the one earlier in the day and eyed everyone with intense scrutiny.

  Doubts started creeping into her mind and she slowed and touched Finch on the arm. ‘Do you really think the statue will get us in to see Skylark?’

  His eyes narrowed as he glanced at the guard. ‘I’m not sure. We’ll use our diplomatic standing first but if that fails we’ll have no choice.’ He patted her hand. ‘Chin up and smile.’

  They approached the guard and Finch inclined his head in a cordial manner. ‘Monsieur Charles Michaud and Madame Michaud. We have an appointment to see Commandant Blancot.’

  The guard lowered his musket and studied them. ‘The Commandant is expecting you. Follow me.’

  He opened the thick oak door behind him and ushered them inside. Cool air washed over her and her eyes took a moment to adjust to the shadows in the foyer. When
they had, she shuddered. It had the same dank walls and musty smell as Weymouth gaol.

  The door shut behind her with a dull thud, making her jump. The smell of the stone and the faint voices coming from the basement caused the hairs on her arms to rise. Poor Skylark. To have been shut up here for weeks …

  The guard led them down a long hallway. With every step she tried to block the eerie sounds that wafted up from a stairwell to her right. About half-way down the hall, a majestic stag head was mounted on the wall. Huge antlers, at least two feet long, protruded from its head and two glassy eyes seemed to follow her as the guard led them to a green door at the end and knocked.

  They were ushered into a large room that faced the square. The man at the desk in front of the barred window sat in shadow but his uniform suggested importance. The prison commandant. Her gaze slid to several figurines and statues on a bureau against the side wall. Tessier had mentioned the commandant was a collector.

  ‘Monsieur and Madam Michaud,’ the guard announced. He shut the door behind him.

  Commandant Blancot stood and gestured them forward. He was a short man with dark hair cut close to his head. It left his earlobes exposed, which looked like little sausages and accentuated his sagging jawline. Pinpricks of whiskers scattered his chin and a speculative gleam lit his dark eyes. He inspected them and she shrank from his insolent study of her dress.

  ‘Welcome to Bourbourg Prison,’ he said in a high-pitched voice. ‘Please take a seat.’ He gave an inane gurgle that made her stomach clench. ‘It’s not every day we have an envoy from other diplomatic departments.’ His settled back into his chair and pushed out his rounded belly. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to be here, sir.’ Finch crossed his legs and gave an ingratiating smile. ‘But we come on specific business, as you no doubt have guessed, and we hope you can help us with our sensitive inquiries.’

  ‘Sensitive, eh? Then I will do all I can, monsieur.’ His oily tone didn’t promise any such thing.

  ‘We are seeking the whereabouts of Mr. Nicholas Mayfield. He is an important ally of France and a senior figure in our embassy. We understand he may be here. Naturally, we don’t for a moment think you are fully aware of his role within our department, for if you had then I’m sure you wouldn’t be holding him.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Commandant Blancot said with a huff. ‘The guards who captured him were under the impression that he’d been spying on French soil, making maps of the terrain.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Finch said with admirable firmness. ‘He’s been seconded to the northern department in a secretive role to ensure the army’s supplies. In light of this, we demand he be released.’

  ‘Ah.’ Blancot steepled his fingers together in front of him. ‘If you’d arrived a week ago that might have been possible. But Mr. Mayfield died two days ago.’

  A coach rumbled across the cobblestones outside. An inconsequential thing that normally wouldn’t occasion a moments thought but her mind fastened on it because the commandant’s words didn’t make sense. Skylark dead? No, that couldn’t be right. She had to bring him home to gain her pardon.

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ Finch said sharply. ‘He was a fit and agile young man, in the prime of health.’

  ‘Once, perhaps,’ Blancot said with a sniff, ‘but he was wounded and never recovered.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked. The commandant must have the wrong person.

  Blancot’s brows rose at her tone and his eyes speared her with cold indifference. ‘Madam, he was shot in the stomach. He did not live long.’

  Her heart clenched at the ring of truth in his words. Skylark — dead. She momentarily closed her eyes in pain. Skylark had died in this appalling place and now she had no agent to bring home. And Finch’s sister had no husband. Grief slammed into her, silencing her voice.

  ‘We want to see his body,’ Finch demanded, his face ashen and fierce. ‘We need to check the man is actually Mr. Mayfield.’

  ‘That isn’t possible,’ snapped Blancot, who clearly didn’t like demands being made of him. ‘He has already been buried. In the courtyard, facing outwards, so he is confined by the the prison walls forever.’

  The horrible image seared across her mind. It was barbarous. Inhumane.

  ‘The Swiss embassy is indebted to you for your prompt service,’ Finch said graciously.

  What? She sat up and stared at Finch. They were monsters. Finch couldn’t possibly be that tolerant of the people who’d buried his brother-in-law. Then she noticed the stark firmness of his jaw and knew he burned with suppressed rage.

  Blancot’s mouth turned up in an greasy smile. ‘I’m glad you understand, for we cannot leave bodies around, monsieur. The smell, you understand — and we need the space.’

  A murderous look flashed across Finch’s face. ‘Indeed. My embassy will require a full report.’

  ‘Naturally I would be delighted to provide one,’ Blancot said.

  He was not delighted. Anyone could see it irked him to have to bother with them.

  Finch smoothed his beard, his eyes hard. ‘Were there any personal effects of Mr. Mayfield’s that remain?’

  ‘There is one item,’ Blancot said with distaste. ‘A miniature snuff box he begged to keep for the pain. We agreed to his request but only after he gave us information.’

  Her mouth dried. There was no way of knowing what Skylark had told them. She only hoped he’d had the presence of mind to lie.

  Blancot stood and moved to the bureau. He pulled open the second drawer, searching through papers before drawing out a tiny round box. Wooden with engraved flowers on the side, it also had a lid carved in tiny checkered squares like a chessboard. ‘Apart from the clothes he wore, this is all he had.’ He gave it to Finch with a sneer. ‘I hope his mother enjoys it.’

  Finch didn’t answer. He opened the lid and cautiously smelled the snuff. Days old, it would have lost its pungency but a faint trace of cinnamon still drifted through the air.

  ‘A blend of spices and orange.’ Blancot dismissively waved his hand. ‘Not to my taste but it relaxed him, particularly when he grew violent.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like Mr. Mayfield.’ She frowned, pretending she had known him.

  ‘Well, he may have protested his treatment a little.’ Blancot laughed again and slammed the drawer shut with the finality of a guillotine.

  She and Finch exchanged looks and he gave her the snuff box. ‘Better you keep this my dear, for the smell is not to my taste either.’

  She slipped the snuff box inside her skirt pocket, not wanting to risk opening her reticule. Finch hadn’t been sick once on their journey but he did look pasty now. Nicholas’s death must have hit him hard and even though she hadn’t known Skylark, a strange sadness came over her. Did all spies end this way? Far from home and in cruel, lonely circumstances?

  The thought made her stomach cramp and she looked away to the window again. Out there, the late afternoon sun shone golden on the buildings in the square and freedom beckoned, a freedom she’d never wanted more. But with Skylark dead she’d never get her pardon. Her only chance for redemption would be to find the information Skylark had collected, and to do that she’d need someone to decipher the statue — if only she could get it home.

  ‘Perhaps you will forgive us if we leave you now, Commandant,’ she said. ‘It seems our request has been in vain.’

  Blancot sat at his desk again and straightened his ledger with the edgy nature of a man who has spent more time with people he’d rather not. ‘I am sorry I could not have been more helpful,’ he said benevolently. ‘Mayfield was a sick man, taken by God. There was nothing more to be done.’

  She doubted God had much to do with it. She stood, her insides taut with rage. ‘We do understand, sir.’

  Finch uncrossed his legs and stood, just as movement outside the window caught her eye. The four armed guards who had marched away from the prison earlier in the day were returning, escorting two men in greatclo
aks. The mens’ features were hidden as they had their faces turned towards the square but nonetheless, she had no wish to be here when they arrived.

  ‘We thank you for your time, Commandant,’ she said hurriedly, ‘and will await your report.’

  Blancot nodded sourly and moments later footsteps sounded in the hall. They were loud, clipped and Finch flicked her a look of concern as the commandant’s door crashed back on its hinges.

  Cold dread slid into her stomach as the two cloaked men entered the room. Laroche and Tessier — with grins like hungry dogs.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Monsieur and Madam Michaud.’ Laroche slapped his gloves onto his palm and removed his cloak, which he flung to Blancot. The commandant showed great presence of mind and caught it, but Laroche didn’t bother to look.

  Laroche gave a small smile that went nowhere near his eyes. ‘Guard them.’ He snapped his fingers and all four of the soldiers who had crowded into the room as well, lowered their muskets at the ready.

  ‘This is uncalled for, Monsieur,’ Finch said sharply. ‘I demand you call off the guards this instant.’

  Laroche shoved him back down into the chair. ‘Sit and be quiet,’ he snarled.

  ‘But this goes beyond all good manners and consideration for our position.’

  ‘And what is that position, Monsieur Michaud?’ Laroche said softly. ‘A diplomat? I think not.’

  Blancot eased out from behind his desk, his round face wobbling. ‘Sir,’ he said to Laroche, ‘to what do I owe this visit? I was not forewarned you would be coming.’

  Laroche spared him a glance. ‘I will be taking command here.’

  ‘In what capacity?’ Blancot foolishly stuck out his chin, not willing to concede.

  Laroche’s eyes narrowed to dark slits. Then softly, enunciating each word clearly as if to an imbecile, he said, ‘I will be interrogating these spies.’

  ‘Spies?’ Blancot giggled then realized Laroche was serious. He tried to cover his laugh with a cough but it wasn’t successful. ‘They said they were diplomatic officials, seeking to question Mr. Mayfield.’