A Lady’s Secret (16 page)

In boots, buckskin breeches, and a plain coat and waistcoat, he blended with the crowds of Boulogne, scrutinizing everyone who might be Varzi or a Milanese bravo. There were villainous types everywhere in Boulogne, but none that fit the bill.

It was not one of his favorite towns, and the less time he spent here the happier he always was. It was ancient and dirty with all the flotsam and jetsam to be expected of a seaport, but he’d passed through often enough to know it.

In case he was being watched, he went to the packet office and checked his booking. Only as he was leaving did he think about papers and passports. Did Petra have any? If so they certainly wouldn’t be under the name Maria Bonchurch. Devil take it, he had no practice at this sort of subterfuge. All the more reason to find a ship to take them to Folkestone and land them on the sly.

Robin strolled down the wharf, where luggage was piling up under the eyes of passengers or servants. A few people were already boarding the packet ship, but most preferred to spend the next hour or two in the comfort of an inn, enjoying a good meal.

He chose his spot and ducked into a low-beamed tavern that seemed likely to be patronized by captains as well as crew, hoping his ability to sound like an ordinary Frenchman would work. He made his curiosity idle at first. Would the crossing be smooth? Was the town especially busy? Anyone peculiar seeking passage?

He soon heard about the screeching lady with monstrous children and a mountain of luggage. She’d booked the
Jeanne d’Arc
for a price named with a snigger.

“No man to do her business for her,” said a squint-eyed salt with broken teeth. “Even her outriders are hired men and end their service here.”

Robin sighed to himself. “I heard tell of this lady along the road,” he said, in the manner of one sharing juicy gossip. “A foolish woman, as you say, and thus has suffered many mishaps, including losing the protectors provided by her husband.”

The others nodded, looking even more hopeful.

“But I heard from one of her servants, one who fled her service in Amiens, that her husband, who she says is a merchant, is more of a pirate. That he has fought hand to hand with corsairs and with buccaneers in the West Indies. That he will hunt down and torture any who harm his wife and children.”

The men shifted, shooting glances around.

“Thanks for the warning, monsieur,” said one at last. “And what is it you want in return?”

Robin ordered a round. “Passage to Folkestone.”

Eyes shifted again. “Why not Dover?” asked the one with broken teeth.

Robin took a risk. “I have something I’d rather not pass through customs.”

“Ah.”

After a moment, a dark, wiry man with a big nose said, “Costs extra, that. Harbor’s poor there.”

“Not in good weather,” Robin countered, “and the weather seems fine.”

“Never can tell, monsieur. And, of course, it’s against the British law to avoid their custom house.”

“That,” said Robin, “is definitely worth a little extra on the fare. Perhaps I might look at your boat, sir?”

The man nodded and rose. As they walked down the wharf the man said, “How many would be traveling, monsieur?”

“Just two. Myself and my sister. And no luggage.”

“Not much for a whole ship.” When Robin didn’t respond to that, he asked, “Was it true about the pirate husband?”

“I don’t know, but unfortunately I have enough connection to the lady to perhaps feel obliged to retaliate myself if she were harmed.”

“And who might you be, monsieur?”

“Name’s Robin Bonchurch, but I’m a friend of the
Black Swan
.”

“Ah,” said the man, and clearly that settled things.

The
Black Swan
was the name of a boat, not a person, but it was sailed by Robin’s friend the Duke of Ithorne. It was a pleasure yacht, but during the past war, Thorn had undertaken a few missions for the government that had involved smugglers from both sides of the Channel, and some of his friends as crew.

Thorn sailed as Captain Rose and Robin as Lieutenant Sparrow. A third friend, Christian, had joined them once as Pagan the Pirate. Thorn had declared it damn odd to take the name of Cock Robin’s murderer, to which Robin had retorted that it was even odder to take the name of a flower. They’d all agreed that for Christian to take the name “Pagan” had been inspired. Good times, and he hoped Thorn was at Ithorne Abbey when they landed, because it wasn’t many miles north of Folkestone.

“Here she is, monsieur,” the man said, stopping by a fishing smack with
Courlis
on her bow. “Sound and seaworthy, and with a small cabin to shelter your sister.”

Robin dropped down into the single-masted ship and gave it a quick inspection. “Been to Folkestone before?”

“Once or twice,” the man said blandly.

“I want no one to know I’ve hired the
Courlis
or where we sail.”

“What business is it of anyone else, monsieur? But you’ll need to go in by boat at the other end. I’ll have to signal.”

Robin knew what sort of people would come to a nighttime signal. “I’ll pay for their help.”

“They’ll be happier if I’m bringing them something, monsieur.”

Robin smiled. “By all means. Let everyone be happy, and all will be well.”

They haggled for the form of it, but quickly came to an agreement. Robin had to return to the tavern to seal the bargain even though he’d rather hurry back to the Renard and bring Petra here, where he could keep her safe.

He managed to get away in under a quarter of an hour.

P
etra didn’t attempt conversation with the nervous valet, and Coquette sulked by the door. Unable to bear her thoughts, Petra took out her rosary and sought true, deep prayer. She succeeded, and was a second late in responding to voices in the corridor.

She met Fontaine’s frightened eyes and wished she, not he, had the pistol. At least the door was locked and he’d be too terrified to open it. They both watched the handle press down and the door move slightly against the lock.

Petra went quickly to the window. Outside everything looked normal. Should she call for help? No. The crucial thing was not to open the door.

A knock. Petra gestured to Fontaine to answer.

“Yes?” he asked, his voice pitched high.

“You will open this door,” a male voice said with such calm certainty that even Petra felt a twitch to obey. He spoke French with an Italian accent. She didn’t know Varzi’s voice, but she was sure it was him.

She went quickly to Fontaine’s side and whispered in his ear. “Tell him he has the wrong room. You’re sick. Tell him to go away.”

The valet obeyed, and in his terror sounded convincing. Petra relieved him of the pistol and cocked it.

“You will open this door,” the man said in the same level tone, “or I will castrate this man out here.”

Powick!

“Blessed Virgin!” Fontaine exclaimed, hands to his head, then to his crotch.

“Devil incarnate,” Petra muttered, suddenly short of breath. But she knew, she knew instantly, her only choice. She put down the gun and went toward the door.

Fontaine grabbed her and dragged her back. “You must not! Milord said you must not!”

“Idiot!” she spat, fighting to get free. “You think he will not do it?”

“Of course he won’t. No one would!”

“Damn you!” She made a fist and struck at him as hard as she could.

He let her go, howling and clutching his bloody nose. Petra raced to the door, crying, “I’m coming, I’m coming. Don’t hurt him!” Her trembling, sweating hands fumbled the key and she kept calling, “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

She swung the door open, and there was Varzi, looking, if anything, politely bored at having been kept waiting. Powick sprawled on the floor, a long, lean man standing over him, sword drawn and pressing on his throat.

“What have you done to him?” Petra asked, moving to kneel beside the man.

Varzi grasped her arm and pulled her up. “Nothing too serious,
contessina,
and he will regain consciousness soon. If we are still here, Marco will need to be more violent.” He turned back toward the room, where Fontaine was whimpering, and said, “Be silent, or Marco will castrate you.”

Fontaine became silent.

“What did you do to him?” Varzi asked, perhaps amused.

Petra answered the deeper question. “He didn’t believe you.”

“A reputation is an invaluable thing.”

The man Marco knelt beside Powick.

Petra wrenched against Varzi’s grip. “Don’t you dare!”

“He is forcing a little potion down him, that is all. To delay pursuit. So much better for everyone, don’t you think? As long as you behave,
contessina,
there will be no further hurt.”

Marco went into the bedroom. Fontaine objected, but then no doubt drank the potion. Varzi was already drawing Petra down the narrow corridor, and she had no choice but to go.

But white fur raced out of the room, yapping. Petra tried to turn, but not in time. Varzi swung the tip of his cane, flipping Coquette against the wall. Yaps turned to yelps, and Petra knew that in a second the dog would be killed for making noise.

She broke free and gathered her, saying, “Hush, hush…”

To her astonishment the trembling little creature went silent. Petra held her close, murmuring reassurance, wishing someone could do the same for her. She tried to return the dog to the room, but Varzi grabbed her again and forced her down the corridor, around a corner and into another room. Another man waited there; a bulkier man with a leering face. There was also a large trunk, its lid open.

“Inside, if you please,
contessina,
” Varzi said.

Pointless to quip,
And if I don’t please?

Petra couldn’t leave Coquette with these men. The dog would bark again, and Varzi would kill her without a thought. She had no choice but to take the dog with her as she climbed in and lay, curled on her side.
Lucky Cock Robin,
she thought sadly.
Rid of two bothersome females at once.
And surely, she told herself as the lid came down, there will be an opportunity between here and Milan to escape. She rubbed the hard shape of the blade strapped to her thigh.

Or opportunity to kill herself. Yes, she really would kill herself before allowing Ludovico Morcini to touch her again.

Robin walked quickly back to the Renard, going over his plans. Powick and Fontaine would travel on the packet with the luggage, and he’d see if he could hire a couple to impersonate himself and Petra, at least as far as boarding. With any luck, the Milanese wouldn’t realize they weren’t there until the ship sailed. In Dover, they’d look for them in vain. He’d have to give his men careful instructions to avoid retribution. So many things to consider, so many dependents.

He entered the Renard and saw Powick on the bottom of the stairs, head in hand, a cluster of people around him.

Robin strode over. “What’s happened?”

His man looked up, then staggered to his feet, clinging to the post. “Sir, sorry, sir…”

Robin grabbed his arm to support him. “Where’s…my sister?”

“Gone, sir. Poison…don’t know…threats. Fontaine…” His words were slurred and barely understandable. “Opened door…”

Robin sat him back down again and raced upstairs, cursing himself every way possible. He should have set more guards. He should have stayed. Or taken her with him. Or…

The door stood open and Fontaine lay on the bed, pressing a bloody cloth to his face. A wide-eyed maidservant stood by.

“Punched on the nose, sir,” she said to Robin.

“Might be broken.”

Thank God it wasn’t worse. “Why did you open the door?” Robin demanded.

The valet’s eyes shot open and he tried to rise. Robin pressed him back down.

“Tried not to,” he moaned. “She hit me!”

Ice tightened Robin’s back. “She did this?”

The valet nodded. “Insisted on opening the door.”

Robin saw his pistol on the table. When he picked it up he saw it was cocked, and quickly uncocked it. It hadn’t been fired. Her story had all been lies? But why? And if Varzi were imaginary, who had attacked Powick? He’d damn well find her and find out.

“Powick?” Fontaine asked. “He is…all right?”

“They drugged him in some way, but he’s recovering.”

“Not injured?” Fontaine persisted strangely.

“No.”

The man sagged back. “They drugged me, too. Forced it down me. I feel sick.”

“Will you be able to travel? If not, you can stay here.”

He surged up again. “No, no, milord! I will manage with God’s help.”

He’d slipped into calling him my lord, but Robin couldn’t take him to task for it now. He looked around. “Where’s Coquette?”

“I don’t know, sir. She must have run away.”

“Rest for a while,” Robin said, and went back downstairs, feeling infuriatingly impotent. He wanted to rip the town apart with his bare hands to find Petra d’Averio, if that was her true name, but it wasn’t a job for one man.

In the entrance hall he found the innkeeper. “Lemans, send for a doctor for my men.”

“I have, monsieur. He should be here at any moment. I have moved your man onto the chaise in the ladies’ parlor. I have never known such scandal!”

Robin found Powick also being ministered to by a maid, and recovering. He turned back to the innkeeper. “When did all this happen?”

“Just minutes ago, monsieur. Your man here staggered downstairs, crying abduction. That the lady, your sister, had been snatched away.”

“Did anyone see her taken?”

“No, monsieur, but now I hear that two men carried a chest out through the side door not long ago. It is possible she was in it. No one thought anything of it then.”

“Yes, I understand,” Robin said. So she might truly have been captured. Absurd to feel comforted by that, especially with no explanation for her opening the door.

“Take care of my people,” he told Lemans. “Someone show me this side door.”

It didn’t tell him much. The door led from the stairs out into the innyard, and it wouldn’t be unusual for luggage to be carried down that way. He questioned some people who were gossiping there, but learned nothing new. Some thought the chest had been loaded on a cart. Some into a carriage. Some that it had been carried out. With the ships loading, there had been many chests in motion.

Then the two naval men rushed in. “What’s this I hear?” demanded Captain Galliard, eyes wild with outrage.

“They have her,” said Robin, thinking quickly. “It’s over an hour yet till anyone can sail. Can I trouble you to alert the harbormaster that a woman has been abducted and might be smuggled onto a boat in a chest? And also to ask the officials here to barricade the roads so that they cannot carry her away?”

“Consider it done,” said Galliard.

“Assuredly,” said Worsley, and the two men hurried away.

Robin turned to a gossiping maidservant. “Pass the word that I’ll pay a handsome reward for news of my sister.”

The woman hurried off, too, and Robin returned to the inn. “Can you find me some people to search through the town for these blackguards, Lemans?”

“I can give you some of my men, and they’ll know others.”

Robin nodded. “They’re to report back here.”

He went to Powick, who glared up, furious with himself. “Hit me, sir,” he said, making a great effort to talk clearly. “But after, when I was coming round, they made me drink something. Woke up all wobbly.”

A brisk young doctor came in, exclaiming rather excitedly at events. He examined Powick, murmured various erudite things, and declared that he’d been forced to consume some noxious compound but would probably recover. Robin rolled his eyes and sent him to Fontaine, but knew he’d return to report a bloody nose in complicated terms, designed to raise the bill.

Robin dismissed the maid, then asked, “Was it Varzi?”

“Like as not. Right sort. Him an’ a tall, wiry sort. Swordsman, I’d say.”

“What about Petra?”

“She was there. When they made me drink…”

“She helped them?”

“No, no, sir. She tried to help me, but then they dragged her away.”

Thank God. Whatever the reason for her opening the door, it hadn’t been some plan of hers.

“Take care,” he told Powick. “If you can, board the packet, and bribe a couple of servants to imitate me and Petra. They can slip back off later. I’ll be traveling another way.”

“You be careful, lad. These aren’t easy people. That tall one, he’d have spitted me as easily as he’d have spitted a chicken.”

“So I gather,” Robin said and went out into the hall. “No news yet?” he asked the innkeeper.

“Not yet, monsieur, but they can’t have gone far.”

“These are very cunning men.”

“Who are they, monsieur? And why abduct your sister?”

Robin repeated the story of the fleeing nun. Lemans, being Catholic, wasn’t so completely outraged, but he agreed that nothing justified vicious attacks.

Then a young lad burst into the inn and skidded to a halt before them. “At the Mouton Gris, m’sieur!” he gasped. “A man dying, and they say as a woman did it!”