Sherri Cobb South (3 page)

“My dear child,” the earl was moved to declare, “I think you are quite possibly the bravest person I have ever known.”

But her bravery was to be tried still further. They departed for Calais at ten o’clock in the morning, in full view of half the citizens of Paris. Lisette was all for slipping out under cover of darkness, but Lord Waverly was adamant: they would not indulge in any behavior which might be interpreted as clandestine. Lisette could not but think his dedication to this program extreme, as when he insisted not only upon stopping downstairs to pay for his lodgings and arrange to have transported to England those of his belongings which he must of necessity leave behind, but going so far as to make his young ward known to his landlady. Lisette was quite undone by this unexpected introduction, but Madame Valliers saw nothing in young Luc’s manner beyond the quite natural shyness of a boy on the verge of adolescence, and so Lord Waverly and his ward boarded their hired post-chaise unmolested and were soon on their way.

“C’est merveilleux!”
cried Lisette, removing the flat-crowned cap that covered her cropped hair. “Madame was not in the least suspicious!”

“And why should she be suspicious of a mere lad?” responded Lord Waverly, watching through the window as the post-chaise swung northward.

“I look so much like a boy?” asked Lisette, her smooth white brow furrowed in a frown.
“Vraiment,
I do not think that is a compliment!”

Lord Waverly abandoned his inspection of the passing scenery and turned to face her. “Do you want compliments, or do you want to reach your grandfather in England?”

“I want to reach
mon grand-père,”
Lisette replied without hesitation. “But if I
were
a boy, I would wish to grow up to be just such a man as you.”

“Good God, why? I wouldn’t wish such a fate on my worst enemy!” exclaimed Lord Waverly, rendered extremely uncomfortable by the soft glow lighting Lisette’s dark eyes. “I am no hero to be adulated, Lisette. You would do well to bear it in mind.”

Lisette would have argued the point, but seeing the forbidding expression on her guardian’s face, she wisely held her tongue. For the next eight hours, the post-chaise bowled steadily northward, stopping at intervals to exchange the winded and sweating horses for fresh cattle. Each of these delays was a fresh agony for Lisette, impatient as she was to put the choppy waters of the Channel between herself and the convent of Sainte-Marie. She bore it all, however, with stoic fortitude until they reached the city of Amiens, where Lord Waverly announced his intention of procuring a meal and a room for the night.

“Mais non!”
cried Lisette, her expressive eyes growing round with alarm. “Better that we should press on to Arras.”

“Arras? Nonsense, child! It would take another five hours or more.”

“Five hours is not so very much—” Lisette began, only to be cut short.

“Now, look here,” said Lord Waverly sternly, “you’re the one who invited me along on this little jaunt, and if you want me to get you to England safely, you’ll be quiet and let me do it my way!”

“Oui,
milord,” Lisette said meekly.

Accordingly, she made no demur when they drew up before a bustling posting-house, but donned her boys’ cap and followed Lord Waverly from the chaise. The inn yard fairly bustled with activity, most of which appeared to be centered around a small bowling-green where gathered more than a score of men of all ages and social situations. As a quartet of men took turns rolling small wooden
boules
across the green, the various members of the group either cheered or groaned, according to the fate of their favorites.

“We seem to have arrived on tournament-day,” remarked Waverly, who had not lived in France for four years without becoming acquainted with the national sport.

Lisette vouchsafed no response beyond an anxious glance at the
boules
players, but entered the posting-house in Lord Waverly’s wake. The inside, too, was crowded, and Waverly was not surprised when his request for two adjacent rooms was denied.

“Mille pardons,
milord, I don’t have an empty room to boast of,” said the
hôtelier
with some satisfaction, for he could tell at a glance that his patron was one of those debt-ridden Englishmen who had crossed the Channel in droves since
le petit général
had been banished to an ignominious exile on St. Helena.

Waverly accepted this disappointment with equanimity, drawing a golden
louis
from his pocket. “A pity,” he said, turning the coin over in his hand. “I must hope for better luck at the
Lion d‘Or.
Come, Luc.”

Whether it was the sight of the gold coin, in such short supply since the Revolution, or the mention of a rival establishment that jogged his memory, mine host suddenly bethought himself of a spare chamber which he had, until that moment, quite unaccountably forgotten. This he offered to Lord Waverly, along with his sincere regrets that he had no second chamber to offer milord’s companion. Would milord and the young gentleman perhaps desire a private parlour in which to dine?

Recalling the boisterous group outside, Lord Waverly was sorely tempted. But he was determined not to act in any way secretive, and so he opted for the coffee-room, secure in the conviction that by the time the athletes finished toasting the health of the winners and drowning the sorrows of the losers, not one of them would notice a woman if she danced naked upon the table.

He allowed the innkeeper to usher them to a table in the coffee-room and to place before them a bottle of the local wine and a pair of glasses. Lisette downed her wine greedily and reached for the bottle.

“Are you sure that is wise,
enfant?"
asked Lord Waverly, observing this action with a raised eyebrow.

“You forget that I am French, milord,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Sans doute,
I could drink you under the table, if I wished.”

“Be that as it may, I do not think this is the time to put it to the test,” Waverly replied, firmly moving the bottle out of her reach.

“You only say that because—” Lisette broke off abruptly, her frightened gaze fixed on some point over Waverly’s left shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked, resisting the urge to turn around. “What is the matter?”

“It—it appears the tournament is over, milord.”

Indeed, the door to the tap-room had opened to admit some half-dozen young bucks, all arguing animatedly about the game just ended.

“You are a great fool, Henri,” one informed another in tones of disgust. “Why did you not fire at the cork,
hein?”

“You must have known your point would be off the mark,” concurred another.

“Mais non!”
cried the wronged Henri, launching into an impassioned defense of his skill.

Lord Waverly nodded at the group as they came abreast of his table, wondering what about them Lisette had found so frightening. The players returned his nod, most affording his youthful companion only the most cursory of glances before passing on. One, however, lingered long enough to favor Lisette with a piercing stare, then hurried to catch up with his cronies.

Waverly, observing this exchange and noting his companion’s pale countenance, said briskly, “The hour is far advanced, Luc, and you should be in your bed.”

“Oui,
milord,” Lisette murmured, casting him a grateful look as she rose from the table.

After she had gone, it was but a moment before the
boules
player returned to Lord Waverly’s table.

“A handsome lad,” remarked the Frenchman, eyeing the earl speculatively. Several years Waverly’s junior, he possessed a pair of close-set, narrow eyes, a longish nose, and a pointed chin. “A relative, perhaps?”

Lord Waverly had supposed Lisette’s unflattering description other cousin to be figurative, but now realized that she had spoken quite literally. “My ward. And handsome, yes, but a bit more prettified than I would like. It is to be hoped that a few years at sea as a midshipman will make a man of him. Will you sit and have a drop?” he asked, indicating the bottle of wine.

The Frenchman demurred, pleading the necessity of returning to his friends, and took his leave. Lord Waverly let out a long breath and forced himself to remain at the table over another glass of wine before joining Lisette upstairs.

“Well, you insufferable brat,” he said, shutting the door of their shared chamber, “there is a young man below who takes an uncommon interest in you. Have you any idea why?”

Lisette nodded. “It is
mon cousin,
Raoul. Did I not say he had a face like a weasel?”

“Your cousin is here? I thought your family was fixed in Paris!”

“Mais non!
I never said my family was in Paris. They live in Amiens, where Oncle Didier is
un avocat.
You must have assumed they lived in Paris because that is where my convent was,” she added helpfully,

“Do you realize how close we came to being discovered back there?” demanded Lord Waverly, livid with anger and badly frayed nerves.

“Oui,
I feared as much,” confessed Lisette. “That is why I wished to go on to Arras.”

“Well, why the devil didn’t you say so?”

“I tried, but you told me to be quiet and let you do it your way,” she reminded him.

“Do you have to obey every word I say?”

“Mais oui,
because I am so grateful to you for taking me to
mon grand-père.”

“The more fool you,” growled Lord Waverly, and headed for bed without another word.

Chapter 3

An injury is much sooner forgot

than an insult.

PHILLIP DORMER STANHOPE,

EARL OF CHESTERFIELD,

Letters to His Son

They left Amiens the next morning while the
boules
players were still sleeping off the previous evening’s celebrations, and so departed unmolested for Arras. Here fortune smiled upon them, for Lord Waverly found an
hôtel
off the Grande Place which could offer the travelers separate rooms. Not, Waverly reflected ruefully, that such a consideration mattered any longer; Lisette had already been so long in his company that, were she to be recognized as a female at this point, her reputation would be ruined beyond redemption. But here, too, their luck held, for no one took notice of them at all beyond the idle curiosity afforded any foreign traveler.

By the time they had reached Calais, Waverly had begun to breathe easier, and Lisette had lost the hunted expression she had worn since their first encounter outside the Convent Sainte-Marie. As they boarded the packet to Dover, she fairly danced up the ladder in her eagerness to cast off. The earl, finding her enthusiasm perfectly suited to a boy of thirteen, made no attempt to dampen her high spirits, but watched in tolerant amusement as she darted below deck to inspect their quarters.

As he awaited her return, Lord Waverly fixed his eyes on the watery horizon and contemplated his return to his native soil. His reverie was at length interrupted by the sound of his own name, spoken in a distinctly British accent.

“Why, Lord Waverly, as I live and breathe!” cried his countryman, clapping him heartily on the back.

“Well met, Sedgewick,” Waverly responded, recognizing the stout, overdressed Englishman as a fellow member of White’s. “I had no idea you were in France.”

Sedgewick nodded. “Aye, these two months and more. But what of you? Never say you are returning to England!”

Lord Waverly cocked one eyebrow. “You would have me lie?”

“Why, how comes this about? I wasn’t aware that Ethan Brundy had died!”

Sedgewick laughed heartily at his own joke, but Waverly bared his teeth in a feral grin. “The last man to mention that name in my presence received a ball to his shoulder in the Bois de Boulogne.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord!” said his compatriot, more than a little affronted. “It would appear you have left your sense of humor in Paris!” he added before hurrying away, already planning how best to recount this shocking encounter to the members of White’s.

Lord Waverly turned away from Sedgewick’s retreating form, and found Lisette staring at him with wide eyes and a round “0” of a mouth.

“Milord!” she cried. “Did you challenge the English milord to the duel?”

“Not at all,” Waverly assured her. “He had the good sense to take his leave rather than risk giving me further provocation.”

“But—but what was it about?”

“Need you ask? A lady, of course,” said the earl.

Lisette stared down at the weathered planks of the deck. “This lady, she must have been very beautiful,
n’est-ce pas?"

“Very.”

“And you wished to marry her,
oui?”

“She was already married. I merely wished to entice her away from her husband. When she rebuffed me, I tried my hand at extortion, with the happy result of driving her into his arms. I told you I was no hero to be adulated,” he added with a wry grimace.

If this revelation served to dampen Lisette’s spirits, such an unhappy state did not last long. She was too young and too sanguine of disposition to brood indefinitely, and would, indeed, have found it difficult in any case to remain downcast on such a day. The Channel crossing was ever rough, but to Lisette, the unsteady dip and rise of the deck below her feet only added to the spirit of adventure. The sun danced in and out among scudding clouds, casting sparkling reflections on the waves, and Lisette, leaning forward over the railing for a better look, found herself seized firmly by the collar.

“Gently, brat,” advised Lord Waverly. “I have no intention of fishing you out of the Channel, so you’d best have a care.”

Lisette smiled up at him, and the earl, observing her bright eyes and ruddy, wind-kissed cheeks, could only wonder that her cropped hair and boys’ clothes had fooled anyone.

Four hours after boarding the packet, they disembarked in Dover, where Lord Waverly procured for them a nourishing repast.

“All right, brat,” said the earl, noting with some amusement that the sea voyage had left Lisette’s appetite unimpaired, “you are in England now. Where do we find this grandfather of yours?”