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‘Will, if you’re not going to kill him, don’t beat him,’ Elodie urged, unsure she didn’t prefer murder as an option. ‘He might hurt my son. He couldn’t best you, but he could handle a little boy.’
‘Ah, yes, your son.’ Will frowned. ‘That does present a dilemma. If I let him live, what assurance do we have that he won’t harm the boy after we’ve gone?’
‘Of course I wouldn’t harm him!’ St Arnaud cried with a show of indignation. ‘My sister has claimed him as her own, which makes him nearly a St Arnaud. Prince Talleyrand himself dotes upon the boy.’
‘I don’t know,’ Will said, twirling the blade again. ‘It would be simpler to gut you and be done with it.’
Elodie didn’t know what to think. Much as she detested St Arnaud, she wasn’t sure she could live with her conscience if she allowed Will to murder him. Which she was nearly certain Will would do, coolly, cleanly and efficiently, if she told him to.
She didn’t trust St Arnaud one bit, but she’d seen for herself that Philippe was treated as the comtesse’s beloved son, and she knew St Arnaud was inordinately proud of family and position. Nor would he be foolish enough to cross a man as powerful as Prince Talleyrand, whom he must have already had to appease after the débâcle in Vienna.
‘Madame, I swear to you, the boy will come to no harm!’ St Arnaud cried, recalling her attention.
Will glanced back at her. ‘Elodie?’
While Elodie hesitated, agonised, there was a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of a tall, imperious figure.
He halted inside and surveyed the scene, seeming neither surprised nor perturbed to have come upon a woman clinging to the back of a man who was threatening a second man with a knife. ‘Madame Lefevre,’ he said, bowing to her. ‘And you must be Monsieur Ransleigh.’
Glancing at the knife, he wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘Please, monsieur, there is no need for such vulgarities. Allow me to introduce myself. Antoine de Montreuil, Comte de Merlonville, assistant to the Duc de Richelieu, who succeeded Prince Talleyrand last autumn as Prime Minister of France.’
Turning his gaze to St Arnaud, he sighed. ‘Thierry, must you ever be rash, acting without thinking? When the Prince learned you had rushed off to … detain this lady, he informed Monsieur le Duc at once, telling him he’d made it quite clear to you that you were to speed her on her way.’
‘Speed her on—’ St Arnaud echoed. ‘He told me to “take care of her”!’
‘Precisely. However, though the Prince, ah, advises, it is the Duc who makes policy now. Only your family name and lineage persuaded Talleyrand to retain you after the Vienna fiasco. Monsieur Ransleigh has sought madame’s assistance to deal with a matter that is of personal interest solely to his family, and perhaps the British Foreign Office. His Highness the King does not need to be troubled about it, so I suggest that you cease obstructing their progress immediately … or I must warn you, the Duc is likely to be much less forgiving than the Prince.’
Turning from St Arnaud in clear dismissal, de Merlonville addressed Elodie and Will. ‘Monsieur and madame, I am so sorry you were inconvenienced. The Duc would be happy to offer you an escort to the coast, to ensure no other … recalcitrants trouble you.’
After studying the Duc’s self-professed assistant warily for a moment, Will shook his head. ‘Thank you, but I don’t think that will be necessary.’
‘What of the child?’ Elodie cried, needing to be sure about this.
‘Child?’ de Merlonville repeated.
‘Philippe. Philippe … de la Rocherie.’
‘What has the Prince Talleyrand’s godson have to do with this?’ the official asked.
‘Philippe is Prince Talleyrand’s godson?’ Will interjected.
‘Well, not officially. But the comtesse’s late husband being a close associate of the Prince for many years, he watches over the widow.’
‘I see.’ Her relief that the comtesse did, in fact, have a powerful protector who would ensure her son’s safety faded rapidly when she realised the full implications of the association.
In her wildest imagining, she might envision some day acquiring a settled home and enough coin to challenge the comtesse’s control over her son. But never in any imagining could she hope to find Philippe a sponsor who had the wealth, power and influence of Prince Talleyrand, who’d been at the highest level of France’s political life through three successive governments.
Will seemed to sense her dismay, for, after stowing his knife and pistol, he reached over to take her hand. ‘Are you ready to leave?’
There seemed nothing further to do or say. ‘I suppose so.’
Looking to de Merlonville, Will gestured towards St Arnaud. ‘If we might have a moment?’
‘Only if you’ll promise me not to carve him up once my back is turned. So distressing to the innkeeper and so damaging to the carpet, all that blood.’
‘I give you my word.’
De Merlonville nodded. ‘Monsieur Ransleigh, you will convey my kind regards to your uncle, the earl? I had occasion to meet him and some other leaders of Parliament when I visited London for the Duc last fall. And, Thierry, I trust you now understand your position? The post to the Caribbean for which the Prince recommended you has not been confirmed … yet. I’m certain you would not wish to compromise your political future by delaying these good people any further.’
‘Of—of course not, my dear Comte.’
‘Then I suggest you gather up your effects and make ready to return to Paris, while they continue on their way.’
Nodding quickly, St Arnaud pivoted to collect his coat and a snuffbox and some other items strewn about the table. While his back was turned, the comte murmured to them, ‘A lovely island, St Lucia. But an area rife with tropical fevers, not to mention the danger of pirates. Many venture there and so few return.’
He gave them a wink, then bowed himself out of the room.
After he departed, Will turned to St Arnaud. Having retrieved his personal items and shrugged on his greatcoat, he was careful to keep the table between himself and Will, while his still-florid face gave evidence of his fury and chagrin.
‘Well, vermin, it appears that you’ll get to live after all. Though I don’t count your assurances about the boy worth a ha’penny, I do respect the Prince … and his plans. Still, I want you to know I’ll be watching. You’d better pray that Madame Lefevre’s son lives a healthy, happy, prosperous life. If I learn he’s suffered so much as a sniffle, I’ll track you down and snuff out your miserable life.’
Taking Elodie’s arm, Will said, ‘I believe there’s a packet at the coast awaiting us in Calais.’
Chapter Seventeen
Though Will and Elodie had politely declined de Merlonville’s offer of an escort, even in her state of diminished awareness, Elodie sensed a subtle presence trailing them during the long days of riding towards the Channel. It wasn’t until after dark of the fourth day, when Will hustled her from the room he’d engaged at a Calais inn down narrow back stairs to a pair of waiting horses and rode off with her into the night that she realised he, too, had noted—and mistrusted—whatever force was following them.
Silently he led her horse along narrow back lanes, with only the stars and the distant lights of Calais to guide them, until they reached a small port some miles further south down the coast. Will finally brought them to a halt before a mean-looking inn which boasted only one smoky lantern by its entrance to announce its calling.
Warning her in a low voice to remain outside, he disappeared into the structure. A few moments later, he returned to lead their horses to a lean-to barn at the rear and then escort her up the back stairs to a low-ceilinged room under the eaves whose tiny window overlooked the road and the harbour beyond.
‘Sorry to drag you out of your comfortable accommodations for something I fear will be much inferior,’ he said as he waved her to the table by the window. ‘Not that I don’t appreciate the good wishes of the Prime Minister’s own man. But I’d rather return to England on transport of my own choosing—and hopefully without the Duc or the Prince’s knowledge.’
‘On a smuggling vessel? This certainly looks disreputable enough to be a smuggler’s inn. You have the most interesting contacts, Monsieur Ransleigh.’
His eyes lit at the gentle barb in her response. ‘Are you feeling better?’ he asked, pulling a flask of wine from his saddlebags and pouring them a cup.
Better? she asked herself, accepting the mug. She’d gone from agony to numbness, like a recent amputee after the opium took hold. Other than that, she felt … empty, barren as a seashell-dotted beach after a storm had swept it of its treasures, scouring it down to elemental sand.
‘I’m feeling … here, I suppose.’
‘That’s progress. You’ve been gone quite a while.’
It occurred to her that Will had been unusually taciturn for the whole of their journey north from Paris, trotting steadily beside her with minimal chat, stopping to share bread, cheese and wine at midday without attempting to regale her with any of his stories, settling them in an inn long after dark with only a brief caress before they both fell into the sleep of exhaustion.
