Page 68 of The Count’s Charade

The waiter looked doubtful. “I don’t know as I had ought to say, miss.”

The stirrings of apprehension riffled across Grace’s mind. “Why not? What has happened? Is Mr Mayberry here, perhaps?”

A shake of the fellow’s head alarmed her the more. If neither Wooferton nor Mayberry was here, what price Henri’s safety? She threw caution to the winds.

“Has not Sir James come today? Was he not to question the Frenchman who has been kept here overnight? Pray tell me! It is of the greatest importance that I see Sir James at once.”

The waiter was looking steadily more unhappy, and it was evident he was in two minds about what to do. Grace reached out and grasped his arm, urgent now.

“Pray don’t stand there biting your lip! Don’t you know Monsieur Rousselle is the man I saved from dying? I have information for Sir James that may help this case. Now, tell me instantly where he is!”

Thus adjured, the fellow became agitated. “I dunno as you can see Sir James, miss. Leastways, not here you can’t.”

“Why not here?”

“Well, ’acos he ain’t here no more. None o’ they are.”

Unable to make sense of this, Grace could only gaze at him. “But this is mad! Where can they have gone?”

The waiter brightened. “Ah, that I do know, miss. Sir James upped and took the Frenchie off to Rainham Lodge. Ah, and Mr Wooferton and Mr Mayberry with ’im.”

“Sir James has taken them to his own house? But why?” And then it became immediately clear. “Because of the attack last night, was it?”

“Aye, miss. And them Frenchies ain’t allowed next or nigh Rainham Lodge ’til Sir James says as they can come and get their man.”

Grace’s heart sank. Her instant assumption that Henri had prevailed was premature. Her work was all before her. Yet she was spent. And Rainham Lodge was all of two miles and more from the Black Horse. What in the world was she to do?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A profound silence pervaded the book room. It was, Henri thought, an incipiently masculine apartment. It had none of the grandeur that characterised like chambers in the French châteaux of the past. Not that such splendour did not exist in England, as he knew. A gentleman of similar status in his own country would not have been contented with the plain glass-fronted cabinets and the heavy oak furniture built for utility rather than elegance. A hunting scene adorned the wall above the fireplace, and a plain wooden bench was placed between the two large windows.

From what Henri had seen of Rainham Lodge as he entered, the whole place was furnished in a similar simple fashion, its walls washed in white and lacking paper, much as he would have expected from the character of its owner. Sir James was a plain man, blunt to a fault.

“I am waiting,” he reminded Henri from across the heavy oak desk.

An involuntary smile escaped Henri. “With not much patience, m’sieur.”

Sir James’s cheeks suffused. “Damned impertinence! I asked you, young Rousselle, what the deuce that fellow intended by entering your room. Do you mean to give me a round tale or not?”

“Not,” said Henri. He threw up his free hand, for the magistrate looked as if he might explode. “I intend not to anger you, je vous assure.”

“Well, you’re making a poor hand of it, I don’t mind telling you!”

Henri shifted a trifle, for his shoulder was stiff. “Pardon.”

Sir James grunted. “Very well, but that don’t move us any further forward.”

True. It was time they did move forward perhaps. Though he strongly doubted the bluff Sir James could be brought to appreciate the true situation. Yet last night had shown him he had no choice but to hazard his life on this throw of the dice.

He glanced behind him, to where the same two officers sat by the door, Mayberry with folded arms, the excise officer with his hands resting on his knees, long arms pointing outwards at the elbow. What had been said? Had anyone questioned Jean-Marc? Of what use to delay. At least he had been brought out of harm’s way, which presupposed the episode had given Sir James to think.

“Alors, m’sieur,” he said, resigned, “let us begin.”

“Not before time,” muttered the magistrate.

Henri hid a smile. “As I said to M’sieur Wooferton last night, my compatriot had one intention only — to kill me.”

The elder man’s features showed scepticism. “A trifle melodramatic, Rousselle. Why should he do so?”