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Chapter One
Jacqueline crouched low behind the cart, peering over it at the hunter who was gesticulating wildly to his friends, trying to assure them that he’d seen a woman dressed as a man, who’d stolen his bow and quiver of arrows.
Of course, no one truly believed him.
Who would?
Hitching up the quiver strap more securely on her shoulder, she crept away, crawling along the muddy path. She slipped behind a public house, stepping in a pile of horse manure with a grunt of disgust. She scraped her shoe against a convenient stone before slipping into the rookery where she’d sought accommodations.
She quickly changed out of her men’s clothes and into a simple white muslin gown before slipping off to meet with her contact at the public house.
The publican caught sight of her as soon as she entered through the kitchen and scowled. “Have ye emptied the chamber pots? They willent do it themselves.”
“Yes, sir. Right away,” she called, a trifle mockingly before heading up the back stairs. She counted three doors from the staircase on the right then knocked twice, waited a beat and then knocked three times.
“Entrez.”
Jacqueline opened the door, slipped into the room and closed it behind her.
“Well? What do you have for me?”
She held out a small paper. “It was just where you said it would be. In the hollowed-out arrow. The hunter was none the wiser. It took me some time to find the right arrow, though.”
The man took the paper. “You have done well. Now go, Miss Strange. I will communicate your next assignment in the usual way.Vive La France.”
Jacqueline nodded curtly, wisps of her hair escaping from her cap.
“Vive La France.”
She turned smartly and left the room. Once she was outside, her shoulders dropped and she let a little bit of the blue megrims she was feeling take over. It was always like this once an assignment was done. A disorientation of the spirit, a feeling of emptiness and hopelessness. She pushed it away, pulling away from the doorway and heading for the nearest alehouse where she could distract herself with whisky and rowdy talk.
Aside from its merits in diverting her thoughts, alehouses were very good sources of information—and that was her stock in trade. She sat down at a table, nodding at the serving girl to bring her a whisky. This might not have been the life she had envisaged growing up in Champagne, France, but it was the one that she had and she would make the most of it.
* * *
“Bertram Trafford Ansel, Duke of Thybaut, may I present to you, Lord Westerly. He has been sent over by parliament to see how our troops are faring.” The Duke of Wellington had seemingly appeared from nowhere, his companion in tow.
Bertram was only glad he hadn’t been caught napping. He straightened his spine.
“Your servant, Lord Westerly.” He nodded briefly to the man, who nodded back before looking around at Bertram’s quarters.
“I see you have made yourself quite at home.”
Bertram looked around as well. His tent consisted of a mahogany table, piled high with dispatches, a red velvet chair, and his camp bed. It didn’t seem like much to him but he didn’t like to disagree with the emissary and so made a non-committal sound.
“Lord Westerly will bide with us for a few days to see how we are conducting the war effort.” The Duke’s blue eyes twinkled at Bertram and he was hard put not to smile back.
Oh, so we are humoring the gentleman, are we?
He almost smirked but restrained himself, instead adopting a mien of somberness. “We shall be glad of your company, Lord Westerly.”
The emissary bowed graciously. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
Bertram turned away if only to conceal the smirk on his face. In the midst of war, there was precious little time for oneself, let alone indulging in the song and dance that politics required. Still, it was their duty to keep parliament apprised of the war effort and Bertram just thanked his lucky stars that he had very little to do with that. It was hard enough contending with being away from his young son for long periods of time, especially since the boy did not have a mother, without having to perform the monkey dance required to keep parliament happy. He did not envy the Duke of Wellington his job.
Still, he signaled to his batman to get Lord Westerly some refreshment and set out to be as hospitable as he could.
* * *
