TheNight Winditself was registered through a complex web of various companies, across four different countries. If anyone decided to go to the effort of tracing its true ownership, they would be surprised to discover that it was, in fact, the property of the French Navy.
Monsale had thought up that little gem.
After bidding a fond farewell to his parents, Gus took the heavily laden travel coach over to the offices of the RR Coaching Company in Gracechurch Street. A few small tasks and he would be on his way.
The sight of four horses tethered outside the stables in the rear yard had him uttering foul words. He had been hoping Monsale wasn’t serious about the five of them conducting a company directors’ meeting this morning. The leader of the rogues of the road wasn’t normally one for rising at such an early hour. All the signs pointed to a difficult encounter.
“Well, best to get this over and done with,” he muttered.
Upstairs inside the company offices, he found the rest of the rogues of the road waiting. A sense of dread quickly descended. Instead of occupying their usual seats, lounging around the big central table, they were all standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the fire.
Grim smiles were set hard on each man’s face.
“Who died?” asked Gus, aiming for levity.
Harry and George exchanged side glances. Then Harry stepped forward. “No one, and we would like to keep it that way.”
I should have known this was coming.
Gus pulled out a chair and dropped into it. If he was going to be on the end of another lecture about not getting himself killed, he may as well be comfortable.
The Duke of Monsale cleared his throat. “We are not here to try to talk you out of travelling to France.”
Harry thrust his hand up in the air. “That’s not true. I would dearly love to stop you going, so would Alice. She made me promise to beg you not to leave for France. And in her heavily pregnant state I am loath to say no to anything she asks.”
Lady Alice Steele was due to give birth any day now. If the state of Lord Harry’s fingernails was any indication, he was more than a little nervous at the prospect of becoming a father.
Monsale glared at him, and Harry let his arm drop. “Yes, well, just wait until you are dealing with an expectant wife, then you will understand.”
“As I was saying, we know you feel compelled to go. And we understand your reasons. What we want to discuss is what happens if you don’t make it back,” said Monsale. He was never a man to mince his words.
They had all been involved in various risky and outright dangerous jobs over the past couple of years, but this was the first time one of them was going into a situation where the chances of them not coming home were high. Gus had hoped to avoid this challenging conversation. But he had come prepared.
He reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and withdrew four letters, placing them side by side on the table. Each of the other members of the rogues of the road had one addressed to them.
Stephen sighed. “Bloody hell. Do you really have to go? Can’t we pay some mercenaries to deal with this problem, rather than send you?”
Gus shook his head. Sir Stephen had been with him that day at the château. If anyone should be able to understand Gus’s need to go back and face the Lamballe gang, it was him. But it wasn’t just about settling a score. Evangeline’s letter had him genuinely concerned for both her and Armand’s safety.
If anything happens to them—to her—I won’t be able to live with myself.
He pointed at the letters. “In them you will find a personal message for each one of you. There are also instructions as to what is to happen to the valuables in my flee box,” he said.
Under the RR Coaching Company stables was a strong room containing a safe. At one time each member of the company had stored enough money and treasures in their individual flee boxes to be able to fund an escape from England. Monsale had insisted on them setting up this form of personal insurance.
As various members of the group had subsequently married and given up their criminal careers, the boxes had been retired. Now only Monsale and Gus still maintained them.
He had spent many hours poring over the letters, writing, and then changing them. How did you pen a note to someone who would only ever read it if you were dead?
In the end, Gus had taken out much of the sentimental passages and simply asked that his friends get violently drunk once a year on the anniversary of his demise. To his way of thinking, the dead didn’t have the right to dictate how others should grieve for them.
He got to his feet. “Gentlemen, I think that is all that needs to be said.”
The long journey to the coast was going to be tough enough without brooding over emotional goodbyes.
George shook his head. “Well, if there is to be no speeches, then at least a drink between friends to wish you good luck is in order.”
Monsale grabbed a bottle of rum from the sideboard and poured them all a generous glass. He handed one to Gus. “I stole this from a private party at Admiralty House last summer. I thought it appropriate that we all share it now.”
