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Finally, Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Many Frenchmen married to Englishwomen. Why do you bother my husband?”
The pause was so long that Darcy believed they would not answer. Eventually, one of the men cleared his throat. “We seek a spy who was last seen in Brittany.”
Darcy’s heart raced. How had that news traveled so fast?
“We believe he has some connection with Miss Laurent,” the man continued.
Icy chills crept down Darcy’s spine. If they suspected his true identity, they would not give up easily. How had they discovered that connection?
Elizabeth barked a laugh. “You believe my husband might be this man, Lieutenant? We are living in Marseilles for months.” She is good. Her outrage seems quite genuine. But her accent does not suggest a woman who has lived long in France.
“You will forgive me, madame, if I do not take your word for it.” The Frenchman’s tone was oily. “When I speak with your husband, I will judge his story for myself.”
Under the window, Darcy stiffened; his accent was good, but he could not vouch for its perfection. A careful listener might notice mistakes.
Blast and damnation! The safest course would be for Darcy to depart, and swiftly, but that would leave Elizabeth and Adele—and possibly Bernard and Marie—alone and undefended. The gendarmes seemed focused on him, but they might imprison Adele or Elizabeth on a whim.
He felt for the handle of Dreyfus’s pistol in the pocket of his coat. It slid in a palm slick with sweat. Darcy had purchased ammunition and powder; however, a single pistol would not be sufficient against two or more armed men. Cold perspiration trickled down his neck and between his shoulder blades.
“My husband is not returning for weeks. Will you to sit in Madame’s drawing room for such a whole time?” Darcy wondered if Elizabeth’s words contained hidden meaning. Was she warning him that he should leave the city? She should know him better.
The man chuckled. “Madame, if your husband tries to leave the city, we will soon be informed. Our men guard
all the streets leaving Paris. At the moment we seek several spies; he is but one.” Darcy shivered. So much for their plan of sneaking quietly from Paris.
Elizabeth made a slight sound; a noise of distress? Darcy longed to put his arms around her and assure her that all would be well.
“Is this your plan?” asked Adele with some aspersion. “Sit here and await his return?” She snorted. “As he is on his way to Toulon, it will be a long wait. And I have no intention of feeding your men.”
“We shall see,” the man said smugly. The hairs rose on the nape of Darcy’s neck; did the gendarme know something about his whereabouts?
“Well, Adele,” Elizabeth said in English, “I suppose we can only wait for them to weary of this exercise.”
“Indeed.”
As the sun began to lower in the sky, Darcy crouched immobile under the window—not daring to leave for fear the gendarmes might harm the women. His muscles cramped and protested the uncomfortable position, but he could not risk the slightest movement.
There was little conversation in the drawing room. The two women talked a bit about the weather, fashion, and similar topics, pointedly ignoring the gendarmes. Adele provided a small dinner for herself and Elizabeth; apparently she had sent her niece and nephew to stay with friends. As promised, she did not offer any food or tea to the men occupying her house.
Although the gendarmes spoke little, the sounds of coughs, pacing, and muffled curses suggested that the men were tiring of the activity. Based on the noise, Darcy guessed there were at least three men. Finally, at around eight o’clock, the lieutenant stood with a scrape of his chair legs on the floor and announced their departure. Darcy breathed a sigh of relief.
“Madame,” the gendarme said in a clipped voice, “your lack of cooperation with the gendarmerie will be noted.”
“I cannot help it if my guest has left for Toulon,” Adele replied serenely.
“He will cooperate.” The gendarme’s voice had dropped an octave. “We will be taking his wife to the Temple.”
Chapter Twelve
All breath left Darcy’s lungs in a rush. The Temple was the most notorious prison in Paris.
Adele’s voice was panicked. “The Temple? She has done nothing wrong!”
The gendarme chuckled. “Then her husband will have no difficulty retrieving her.”
“It will be several days before he can return!” Adele protested.
“I assure you that she will be fed in the meantime,” the man said dryly.
