Page 41 of The Count’s Charade

A shade of understanding came into the Frenchman’s face, and Grace thought his features lightened a little. “You have need of money? That is unusual in England, I think, for such as you, mademoiselle.”

“Unusual to do what I do, but not at all uncommon. We are not all endowed with fortune, sir, and a woman of —” She cut herself off on the point of mentioning her class, remembering that in France her class would likely have brought her to the guillotine. “A woman alone has few options,” she finished.

He nodded, and the other two men muttering at him, he moved towards her, pointing across the hall behind her. “What room is that?”

“The kitchen,” she said, stepping aside and allowing them through. Apprehensive lest the place would be found to contain half-begun preparations for the next meal, she followed them to the door and cast a swift look around. No, thank heaven. Jemima had evidently been cleaning up the breakfast things, for there was no sign of any food laid out ready to be worked upon. Loriot’s eyes were upon her.

“Where is the servant?”

“She is working elsewhere this morning.”

Before he could question this further, Grace turned and led the way upstairs, taking her time and clunking dreadfully in an effort to cover any possible sounds emanating from the lean-to. She took them first to her own room, recommending acidly to Loriot that his men should look under the bed. That they did, and also checked behind the open curtains, unnerved her. Would they check everything?

“Your spare chamber, mademoiselle?”

It had come. Her heart beating fast, Grace moved as slowly as she dared across the landing to Henri’s door, hoping desperately Jemima had managed to eradicate all sign of his habitation.

“This is where we put the wounded fellow while he was here,” she said loudly as she moved into the room. Her eyes swept frantically about, and the heavy rhythm of her heart abated. The maid had done her work well.

There was nothing left lying about, not that Henri had accumulated much beyond the borrowed nightgown, apart from snatches of torn sheet to serve him for dressings and a sling. Those books she had loaned him were piled to one side on top of the chest of drawers. The coverlet was folded and stacked, along with the blankets and pillows, to one end, as if the bed was unused.

A horrid thought assailed her. Henri’s greatcoat! For the life of her she could not remember whether Jemima had brought it up here. If not, she could only hope to heaven one of them had the sense to conceal it in the lean-to, where it must have been left. The chest along the opposite wall dragged at her consciousness, but she dared not let her eye stray towards it. If Jemima had thrown things in there pell-mell…

Loriot was moving to the window. He stood to one side of it, motionless, looking out. Just so must Henri have stood upon the last occasion these men had come here. Did Loriot suspect it? Etienne was kneeling on the floor, checking under the bed, while the stockier Augustin headed for the press.

Her back to the wall by the door, Grace watched them, her heart in her mouth, willing herself not to look at the chest. She felt Loriot’s eyes, and turned her own upon him, summoning what she hoped was a supercilious expression.

“I trust you are satisfied?”

Loriot eyed her in silence. He spoke in rapid French. The two others paused, one in the act of slamming open drawers, the other standing on the bed and checking on top of the wooden tester. Both looked to Grace and their leader’s tone was soft.

“Explain to me how it was, mademoiselle, that this man severely wounded was able to escape the house in the night with none to hear him?”

Grace let out a laugh. “It wasn’t difficult. My maid sleeps in the attic, and certainly heard nothing at all. As for myself, with this —” she gestured towards her boot — “once I have removed it, I cannot easily walk about, so I am hardly likely to go investigating any particular sound in the night, even had I heard anything, which I did not. Besides, who said his wound was severe?”

“It is what I have heard when I have questioned in these parts.”

“Well, you heard wrong. And since only myself and my maid saw the man —”

“Also the apothecary, and the men who have helped bring him up here.”

Grace let out an exaggerated snort. “If you are to take the word of country people, sir, I am afraid you will be disappointed. He had lost a lot of blood, it is true, but it transpired the wound was but slight.”

She saw disbelief in his eyes and remembered Henri saying Jean-Marc was a crack shot. For one horrifying moment, she wondered if Dunmow had boasted too publicly of removing the bullet. There was no saying who might not have heard him and given it away to this Frenchman. Loriot was no fool, and it was evident he knew just what questions to ask. She closed her mouth upon further detail.

But the fellow was not done. He gave a rapid command to Augustin, who crossed the room swiftly and walked past Grace to the door. She trod after him a step and turned to Loriot. “Where is he going? I won’t have him wandering around the house without me there.”

“He will look in the maid’s room upstairs,” said Loriot, and Augustin vanished up the narrow stairway that led to Jemima’s attic, and a box room stuffed with all manner of unused impedimenta Grace had felt unable to get rid of and brought here from the Barking home.

She breathed more freely. There was nothing incriminating to be found up there. Etienne had resumed his search above the tester, and Grace dared to hope the chest might be forgotten. Loriot was walking towards her. She braced herself, lifting her chin.

“Where was it you found the man?”

Grace was ready for that. By this time, everything would be in readiness downstairs. “In the lean-to at the back of the house.”

“Let us go there.”

What, did he take her for a fool? “Not before your man comes back. I will not have anyone wandering about up here alone. For all I know, the fellow may steal something.”