Strange Capers (22 page)

“There’s a good night’s work then,” he said cheerfully. “What seems to ail Constance?”

“I don’t feel any blood,” Aiglon replied. His hands traveled up my neck, over my head, and back down my body. I pushed them away weakly, but they continued to flutter over me.

“She’s keeled over with shock at such a mauling as you’re giving her. Constance isn’t used to that kind of carrying on. How’d she know we were here?” Mickey asked.

“How the hell should I know?” Aiglon growled, and raised my head onto his arm. “Constance. Constance, speak to me,” he ordered. His voice was ragged with worry.

“Traitor!” I tried to sneer it, but it came out in a whining, mewling whimper. His face was a blurred, black scowl above me.

“I see you’ll have your hands full talking away this night’s work,” Mickey said. “I’ll go and bring Cokewell and a few of the lads to help us round up our French friends. It shouldn’t be too long. I wish I could stick around for the show.”

“Go ahead,” Aiglon said distractedly. When he spoke again a moment later, his voice was much firmer. “Drop the bag, Mick.”

“Now if I didn’t go and forget I’d picked it up at all.” Mickey laughed and tossed the bag of gold at Aiglon’s feet.

I feared my brains had become addled by my fall. Why would Mickey bring Cokewell when they had succeeded so well in evading him all night? Their French friends had already left. The show was over except for the show of concern Aiglon was putting on for my benefit. He was trying to pull my head against his chest while he comforted me with soothing phrases.

“Get your hands off me, you despicable wretch!” I said, wrenching away from him.

He released me at once and threw his hands up in the air as though still at gunpoint. “That ain’t no way to treat a hero, Constance,” he cautioned.

“You may be a hero to your French pals; don’t expect any medals from King George!”

“My darling idiot, you’ve already made a jackass of yourself tonight. Don’t make yourself a flaming jackass.”

His words were hard, but his smile was soft. Though I hadn’t yet figured out what was going on, I knew it wasn’t what I had thought and feared. “Oh, Aiglon, have I really?”

“Most assuredly, a prime jackass.”

“I’m so glad!” I breathed, and went into a real, honest-to-goodness swoon in his arms.

My head ached abominably. My blistered heel was burning; every muscle in my arms and legs ached from my long walk, the climb up the hill, and the exertion of riding astride when I wasn’t accustomed to it. I hadn’t put on a pelisse when I fled the house, and it was freezing cold by the water. I didn’t even want to think of how I must look, but, in spite of it all, I was at peace.

Then I realized that Aiglon was restless. Once he was convinced I wasn’t seriously hurt, he began moving his position about to get a look at the sea. “What are you doing, Aiglon?” I complained.

“I’m just looking at the boat,” he answered vaguely.

“The navy is going to intercept it, isn’t it?” I asked. “The French aren’t going to get away with our guns at all.”

“No, the navy has nothing to do with this.”

“But how are you going to get the guns back?”

“What guns? There aren’t any guns on that boat.”

“I saw them with my own eyes,” I insisted. It occurred to me that I might not have gotten to the bottom of the story yet, but I was loathe to make a greater fool of myself than I already had.

“Sometimes things aren’t what they seem, Constance.”

He stood up and peered out to sea. I got to my feet and did the same. “I’m very glad to hear it,” I said, “for it certainly seems to me that you sold those guns to the Frenchies, and the boat is rapidly sailing to France.”

“Yes, it looks that way, doesn’t it?” he asked. There was a frown pleating his brow.

“If you counted on Mickey Dougherty to perform any vital part of this plan, Aiglon, you’re a worse jackass than I am.”

“Oh, my God! You don’t suppose he double-crossed me?” Aiglon gasped.

“A flaming jackass,” I said weakly.

“Aiglon, that boat is sinking!” I exclaimed. It took me two or three minutes to realize it, for its submersion into the sea was slow. As it pulled straight away from shore, nothing unusual could be detected, but as it tacked out of the bay into the channel, it was perfectly clear that the stern was listing badly. “The guns are going to be lost! Do something, Aiglon! Cokewell needs those guns desperately!”

He looked down at me and smiled a reckless smile that belonged on a buccaneer’s swarthy face. “Yes, I really must leave you now, my Inconstant one. Duty calls.”

He was gone, and after he’d taken a dozen paces, he was lost in the shadows of the night. I didn’t know what he was doing until I saw a sleek prow pull out into the bay following the Frenchmen’s boat. I darted down to the wharf, and though visibility was imperfect, I was pretty sure it was Retchling at the helm.

Various dark forms darted about, one of them presumably Aiglon. I didn’t recognize the ship, but I knew it wasn’t Mickey’s lugger. It skimmed speedily, effortlessly through the water like a shark or a mermaid. As soon as the simile occurred to me, I tentatively identified the ship.

The next few minutes were very interesting, indeed. I envisaged a chase, a minor sea battle, but it was nothing of the sort. The
Mermaid
could easily have overtaken the other boat, but she trimmed her sails and dallied about till the other boat sank slowly into the sea, its cargo lost forever. I understood then that her function was to pick up the French sailors who had plunged into the water to avoid going down with their ship. By the eerie silver light of the moon, I saw the French being hauled aboard. As no mutiny ensued, I assumed that one of Aiglon’s men was cajoling them into docility with a gun. It was a well-managed affair but for the little matter of having lost our guns!

It occurred to me, as the
Mermaid
returned to shore, that keeping a savage bunch of Frenchmen in line would be less than peaceful, and was very relieved when Cokewell, Dougherty, and about half of the militia arrived at Ware Castle. They ran down to the dock and stood, a fearsome sight, with their axes and shovels, and, in a few cases, their guns, at the ready. Personally, I’d prefer death by bullet to death by an axe. I began to think those rude arms had been underestimated. The blades glinting in the moonlight lent a barbaric touch that would frighten any enemy to death.

I had the glory of being the only female in all of Folkestone and its environs to witness the capture of the French bandits. To avoid being a nuisance to the men, I hung quietly in the background to learn what I could. As soon as Aiglon had leaped to shore, he went running toward Captain Cokewell, and I eased closer to listen.

“I’m not entirely happy with this affair, Lord Aiglon,” Cokewell said. “My understanding was that it was to be
tomorrow
night.” The rough timbre of his voice suggested that his moustache would be jiggling.

“Unfortunately, things speeded up at the last minute and we had to move swiftly. With the invasion alarm throwing us all into confusion, it was impossible to ask you to join us. I knew you had more important things to do. The safety of the people is in your hands,” Aiglon explained, with a few more splatters from the butter boat to ease Cokewell’s ire.

“That’s true. I couldn’t have abandoned my post, but I regret missing this little skirmish all the same,” he answered, somewhat mollified. “But the arms are safe, are they?”

I perked up my ears to hear how Aiglon would explain away this contretemps. “Safe as a babe in his mother’s arms. They’re in Lord Ware’s cellar.”

“What the devil are they doing there? They were to be dropped off at my depot!” Cokewell howled.

“True, but the last time they were headed to your depot, they went astray, as you may recall,” Aiglon reminded him. “It’s been decided in London that each volunteer will take his rifle to his own home. In that way, no mass theft is possible, and the men will have their guns near them at all times.”

“Trust London to come up with some impracticable plan,” Cokewell complained, but he was so eager to see the arms that he soon pressed on to demand a trip to Lord Ware’s cellar.

Apparently what he saw there pleased him. He was in his element during the next half hour setting guards on the Frenchies, marching them off to Folkestone, and arranging temporary safety for the arms in the cellar and eventual transportation of them to town.

If one person enjoyed the night more than Cokewell, it was Retchling. A new side of him surfaced. I daresay his managing powers were even more muscular than his
Pens
é
es.
He prodded a gun into the prisoners’ backs with great relish and threatened the most dire consequences if they so much as looked a revolt.

Mickey Dougherty was hanging around the edges of the group, keeping a surprisingly low profile. When I could learn nothing from Aiglon about how the guns had magically not been on the ship when I saw them being loaded with my own eyes, I decided to ask Mickey.

“One box of guns had to be sacrificed,” he admitted sadly. “We knew the Frenchies would want one opened.”

“But how did you know which one they would open, and what was in the others?” I asked.

“That’s where my particular familiarity with the French breed was helpful to his lordship.” He smiled modestly. “I was able to tell him they’d demand that the box on the very bottom of the pile was the one to be hauled out and opened, so that’s the one we had guns in. We loaded the others up with rocks. Packed in sawdust to muffle the sound, you know. The shipment arrived here this afternoon. You’d have heard maybe that my stepda bought a great load of stone statues for his garden? They came all crated, by sea, and were put ashore this very afternoon.” A broad wink explained what was really in the crates.

“Will his lordship mind that you used the castle for this job, Mickey?” I asked. Ware was known to be temperamental where his stepson was concerned. More temper than mental, actually.

“He was in alt. Especially to see I was on the side of the angels—for a change,” Mickey admitted bluntly. “He wanted to be here for the show himself, but my mama was helpful in getting rid of him. They’re dancing their dear hearts out this minute at Lady Moire’s ball in London.”

I ransacked my mind for any other details that had been nagging and asked, “Did Aiglon set the bonfires on purpose tonight?”

“Devil a bit of it. He was here all along. Firing the stacks was Shiftwell’s contribution to the project. We had to keep old Captain Moustache busy, or he’d have had a regiment here to alert the Frenchies that something was afoot. At first, Aiglon took the cork-brained notion that Cokewell might have been the loose screw in losing the first batch of arms, you know. He was one of a small handful that knew when and by what route they were coming. We kept him half in the dark all along, though Aiglon
did
give him
some
explanations. Enough to keep him quiet,” Mickey explained.

“How did you ever convince Aiglon to trust you, Mickey?” I asked. “I imagine you were one of that small handful as well.”

“I was, and no denying it. But then I’ve embraced the old Blarney stone as often as I’ve embraced a lady, so I have a little ease of talking my way out of a corner, as you might say. Now don’t look at me like that, my flower. It was all a misunderstanding about ...”

He gave me a wary look. The blank incomprehension on my face told him I was less aware of things than he had assumed, and he fell silent. “What was a misunderstanding? Who
did
sell the information to the French the first time? I hope they catch the traitor and hang him,” I said vehemently.

“Ah, there was no treason in it at all. ‘Twas a misguided act of patriotism is all it was. You English are a bloodthirsty lot, and unforgiving.” He shook his head sadly and walked away.

It was another hour before the French prisoners had been hauled away and before Cokewell and the militia had either left or were doing guard duty on the guns.

“It’s time we all go into the saloon and celebrate with a bottle of my stepda’s finest,” Mickey declared.

Aiglon, Mickey, Retchling, Aiglon’s servants, and I went into Lord Ware’s saloon and were treated to a few bottles of champagne. There was a loud, self-congratulatory discussion of the night’s activities. At one point, Aiglon and Mickey drifted off to the far side of the room for some private conversation. It wasn’t entirely peaceful, to judge by the gesturing of hands and the scowling expressions, but eventually they came to terms and rejoined us.

I happened to glance at the long-case clock in the corner and noticed that it was three o’clock in the morning. “Good gracious, look at the time! I’ve got to get home! Rachel will be wondering what happened to me!” I exclaimed.

“How did you get here, Constance?” Retchling asked. The formality of “Miss Pethel” had been abandoned with the second glass of champagne.

“I stole a horse and gun,” I said, yawning, and looked around for the gun.

Mickey picked it up and examined it. “It’d be John Forman’s old white mare you borrowed. At least this is his weapon. It would have blown up in your face if you’d tried to fire it. Just tell me where you tethered the nag, Constance, and I’ll see it’s returned.”

“I’ll have to ride it to Thornbury. I can’t walk home!”

“Every man in the room except myself is going to Thornbury. One of them can squeeze you into his rig,” Mickey said, shaking his head at my foolishness. It was fatigue that rendered me so obtuse.

When we all prepared to leave, it turned out that Aiglon’s servants had ridden and Retchling had come to Ware Castle in the curricle with Aiglon. Retchling borrowed the stolen mare, leaving me to occupy the other seat in the curricle. I wished it had been the closed carriage, for I just wanted to curl up and fall asleep. The night air was chilly, but Aiglon had a rug in which I swaddled myself for the trip. A few details still bothered me, and before my eyelids closed, I asked Aiglon about them.

“Did you find out who it was that’s responsible for losing that first shipment of arms?” I asked.