Page 65 of The Count’s Charade

Henri gave a weak laugh. “It is I who attacked him, m’sieur.”

“Ah,” said the other noncommittally.

“What would you, enfin? He had come with a purpose to kill me.”

Wooferton looked sceptical. “Kill you, sir? How would he do that?”

“Since I failed to fall into his trap I do not know, but not, I think, with his pistol.”

“What pistol?”

Henri waved a vague hand. “You will find it in the corner there, for he has dropped it when I have attacked him.”

The man was looking about. “Beats me what you wanted to go attacking him for.”

“I did not intend it. I thought to wait to find out what means he has in his head, but —” Henri half-shrugged, and winced at the pain it caused him — “I became angry, and thus I have fought him.”

Wooferton tutted. “There weren’t no need, sir. We was up to his little game. Aha!” He disappeared from Henri’s sightline.

Puzzlement was added to his present discomforts. What game? As Wooferton rose again, the pistol in his hand, Henri was conscious of satisfaction. Surely now the man would believe in Jean-Marc’s murderous intent?

“This Loriot’s, is it?”

“Yes, but he is not a fool to use it in this room.”

A grin spread across Wooferton’s dour features as he pocketed the pistol. “He ain’t nowise as clever as he thinks he is. Sir James warned me as the feller might take it into his head to try and come at you quiet like — not for to kill you, but mebbe to try and get you away.”

Henri grimaced. “It was his plan, yes. How have you found him out?”

“My man was under orders to let hisself be seen as if he were duped. See, the Frenchie bribed one o’ my lads to bring my man a tankard. My lad knowing better like, he comes to me.”

“Ah, now it is seen. You have made a plot to capture Jean-Marc?”

“To outwit him rather, sir. My lad takes the tankard and gives it to my man under the Frenchie’s eye, see. My man pretends to drink it like, and puts it to one side. By and by, he drops his head on his chest, like as if he’s sleeping.”

“Diable! A plot excellent, mon ami.”

“Well, yon Frenchie leaves his man outside and comes in here. At which point, my man ups and grabs the other feller, along o’ my second man, hiding close by, and they takes him away. Which leaves me and Mayberry waiting outside the door instead, sir.”

It struck Henri as odd. Why wait outside, if they knew Jean-Marc might seek to murder him? Or perhaps they did not know. He found himself too distracted by his ailments to concentrate on the problem.

“Your little argy-bargy bring us in pretty quick, I can tell you,” pursued the excise officer.

“For which I thank the good God. My strength is not enough to win this fight.”

Wooferton nodded sagely. “Ah, and I’d not care to face Miss Grace if you’d taken the worst of a beating, especially while you was locked in your bedchamber.”

The thought of Grace gave Henri an abrupt feeling of homesickness. He would not lie long in a state of such discomfort were she with him. He was obliged to request Wooferton to assist him to put his arm back in the sling, for he could scarcely move it.

“Also it is needed that I have help to dress for the night, mon ami, if this is not a great trouble.”

The excise officer promised to send one of the waiters up to perform this office, and added to his goodness with the offer of a glass of brandy to be brought up as well, which was gratefully accepted. With an admonition to Henri not to concern himself because both his men would be outside, Wooferton retired, locking the door behind him.

It came home to Henri that he was yet a prisoner. In light of what had transpired, he had forgotten he had still all to lose. Jean-Marc might have been thwarted tonight, but he could yet win.

Gazing at Joe Piper in mounting dismay, Grace bade him tell her the whole story. The postman recounted it with relish, apparently oblivious of his daughter’s dismal countenance. Jemima, having passed through much the same cycle of reaction as Grace had done herself on hearing of Henri’s involvement with the French Revolution, had reached the stage of bewailing the vagaries of a malignant fate, which had seen fit to throw in Grace’s way a suitor as undeserving as he was handsome.

In vain did Grace point out that Henri had been anything but a suitor. The maid had the matter fixed in her mind, and nothing would serve to convince her otherwise. But this news bid fair to revive the girl’s unaffected liking for Henri, if against her will.