Falling for the Enemy

Chapter Three

“Spies?” Gregory sputtered. “You think we’re spies?”

The accusation was laughable, really, if it didn’t carry such deadly implications should they be caught and imprisoned as such. “Last I checked, English spies don’t get themselves lost or need maps. English spies speak flawless French, and if you met an English spy on the street, you’d never know.”

The color that had suffused the woman’s cheeks just moments before drained away, and her jaw fell open for the slightest of instants before she hardened it again. “You’re still Englishmen. In my country. In the middle of a war. You can have no honest reason for being here, or you would not dread being spotted by the gendarmes. Do you expect me to take your guineas or napoleons or whatever other coins you offer and let you continue on your way to the channel with no objection?”

He sent a gaze toward the heavens. “No. I want you to help us get to the channel.”

She turned her back to him.

“I’ll pay you well. I’ve only a few guineas now, but I can promise two thousand pounds sterling if you see us safely to the coast.”

The woman still didn’t deign to face him. “I told you once. I don’t want your filthy English money.”

Heat surged up the back of his neck. “My money is far from filthy.”

“Dani, don’t be a fool.” The youth nudged his sister. At least one of them had a fraction of sense. “Just think of it. Two thousand pounds is enough to buy up more of the clothing manufactory. Why, you could start your own factory for that sum.”

She swiped a strand of hair from her face. “I don’t want to start my own factory. I just want to go home.”

A large, uncomfortable lump settled inside Gregory’s stomach. Yet another thing he’d never learned at Eton or Cambridge: How to hold people hostage and drag them across half a country against their will. But the woman knew too much for him to allow a different course of action. “You and your brother are coming with us to the coast. You can either aid us with our journey and be paid in turn, or you can fight us—in which case you’ll be restrained and towed along. But either way, if you’re caught with our party, your fate will be the same as ours.”

Danielle looked out over the tangle of shrubs that circled them, then to the larger trees in the forest beyond. Planning her escape, most likely. She could handle a blade well, but she would make a poor spy. Every thought and plan flitted across her expressive blue eyes a half instant before she acted.

She sighed. “If you’re in northern France headed toward the coast, I suppose you escaped from Verdun.”

He watched her with the same hard gaze he would use on anyone he distrusted. And in the selfsame manner, he held his tongue. Let her think they’d come from Verdun, where Napoleon had interred all the English he’d rounded up after the peace treaty failed. Yes, that was the most reasonable assumption, and if Westerfield and Kessler had been interred there instead of imprisoned in a forgotten fortress, they’d likely be following this very path back to the channel.

But then, had Westerfield and Kessler been in Verdun, he’d have known their whereabouts long ago and been able to send Westerfield money to procure apartments and buy wares, set Westerfield up with a household and purchase new clothes. From the reports Gregory had heard, Verdun functioned as any normal British city would, with people attending the theater as well as gaming halls, making calls and going about everyday business. The only difference was the English weren’t allowed outside the city’s impenetrable walls.

But Westerfield and Kessler hadn’t been imprisoned in a place where they could get sunshine and a decent meal, much less the other trappings of ordinary life, not with the crimes they’d been accused of committing. Oh, no. They’d been held in one of Napoleon’s secret prisons, instead, deprived of the most basic comforts, and Westerfield had fallen deathly ill because of it.

Danielle already suspected them of being spies. If she knew the whole of it, she’d never agree to help. “Think about whether you’ll aid or hinder us. But know this, I won’t let you escape again as easily as last time.”

Gregory stood and moved to the other side of the fire, keeping one eye on her. She’d promised she wouldn’t run.

If only he believed her.

Kessler wrinkled his nose as he ate a bite of salt pork, watching Danielle and her brother the way a hawk did a field mouse while Farnsworth tried coaxing tea down Westerfield’s throat. His brother only coughed in response, and a thin stream of liquid trailed down his chin to dampen the blankets beneath his head. Gregory turned away, his jaw working back and forth. Could nothing go as planned?

He was a man of business. He made his living off predictions and plans. He predicted the Exchange, rates on interest, returns on investments and likelihood of growth for various industries. He also predicted people. His father would never invest in a shipyard—too risky given that ships would be lost during the war. Yet shipping could offer a great return on investments, and a man like Kessler would have no trouble putting money toward such a venture.

When he’d come to France, it hadn’t been on a whim. He’d had a plan, which was why he’d hired a guide, purchased coarse French clothing and carried both guineas and napoleons on his person. Yet he’d still ended up here, dependent on two French strangers for the safety of himself, his servant, his brother and Kessler.

Father God, am I doing something wrong? Please save my brother and get us safely to England.

“Can I have some?” Serge came around the side of the small fire, his eyes locked on the salt pork sitting beside Kessler. “I didn’t get supper.”

At least the young man wouldn’t choose to starve—unlike his stubborn sister.

Kessler thrust a piece at him. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Serge.” The youth settled beside Kessler, scarfed down his pork in three bites and reached for another piece.

Gregory sat on the soft earth between his brother and Kessler and took some meat for himself. Danielle merely glowered at them from across the fire, arms crossed and back rigid. Good. For some unfathomable reason, he preferred that rigid silhouette to the sight of her hunched over, arms wrapped around herself and eyes blinking as she pleaded for him not to tie her.

“Serge what?” Kessler took another piece of salt pork. “Have you a surname?”

“Serge Belanger.”

“Belanger?” Gregory set his salt pork aside. “And you say you have relatives in England?”

The boy’s brow furrowed. “Oui, an aunt and an uncle that moved there during the Terror.”

“Are you by chance related to Michel and Isabelle Belanger? They live near Hastings and have a furniture factory.”

The boy stopped chewing. “How do you know Oncle Michel and Tante Isabelle?”

Gregory ran his eyes over the lad. He didn’t look at all similar to Michel Belanger, but why would he lie about such a thing? “I’m Belanger’s man of business.”

Much to his mother’s dismay. She’d wanted him to join the church, but his brother and the other noblemen whose accounts he handled certainly didn’t complain about the money he made them. And if he happened to take on a client or two from the merchant class in exchange for a certain percentage of the money made on their investments, then so be it.

The boy’s nose scrunched. “What’s that?”

“I manage his investments.” He glanced at Danielle across the fire. Was she surprised he knew her aunt and uncle?

The stubborn woman’s jaw was still set and her body angled away from him.

“Man of business.” Serge rolled the words over his tongue. “Sounds like some fancy English farce of a position that no one needs.”

Kessler smirked. “Halston probably makes more money in one day than your father does in a year.”

Gregory rolled his shoulders. He was a bit adept at making money, yes. So much of it, at least, that whatever he spent on clothes or conveyances or housing, he easily made up and then some within the month. Which was why he allotted a large chunk to the Hastings Orphanage and a series of foundling hospitals and poorhouses in other areas of England.

“You don’t look all that rich.” Serge eyed Gregory.

Kessler laughed, the first time the man had likely smiled in two years. “Yes, Halston, why don’t you look rich?”

Gregory rubbed the back of his neck. “I usually don’t traipse about the French countryside disguised as a peasant and trying to evade the law.”

“You’re disguised as a peasant?” The boy’s nose wrinkled again. “With boots as fine as that but unmended holes in your trousers? Being rich sure don’t give you much sense, does it?”

“What, precisely, is wrong with my garments?”

“No peasant would let those holes in their trousers without sewing them up right quick—they need their clothes to last, not fall apart. No peasant would spend the money for boots like that, and no peasant would stand as straight as you do.”

Gregory stared down at his boots. Did they truly give him away? He’d wanted sturdy leather ones that wouldn’t pain his feet while walking. Who could fault him for that? His first guide certainly hadn’t objected when he’d chosen his disguise.

Then again, his first guide had probably intended to betray him all along.

“From where do you hail?” Kessler asked Serge.

Gregory blinked and looked back at the boy. He probably should have asked that before demanding that Danielle and Serge take them to the coast. If this was their first time traveling inland, would they make competent enough guides? Knowing English and having family across the channel didn’t exactly mean the woman and her brother could effectively lead them.

Though the woman’s skill with a knife would certainly be useful.

“Abbeville,” the boy stated.

Kessler merely stared.

“It’s near the coast. Just inland a bit from Saint-Valery-sur-Somme. Do you know Saint-Valery?”

“I do,” Gregory answered. “It’s somewhat across the channel from Hastings.” Which made the boy and his sister perfect guides for his purposes. They were likely familiar with the roads and terrain between here and the channel and could guide them with far less risk of getting caught than Gregory and the others could ever manage on their own. And he needed that, since the prison guards would have already notified cities, towns and gendarmerie posts of their escape.

Serge reached for more salt pork—what had to be his fifth or sixth piece of the leathery meat—but Kessler clamped down on his hand. “If you’re from the coast, what are you doing so far inland?”

“We were in Reims visiting our tante and oncle and trying to find a husband for Dani.” The boy scowled at his sister. “No one wants her, though.”

Gregory had been taking a sip of water and choked at the boy’s words. No Frenchman wanted her? He glanced at Serge’s silent sister through the smoke of the small flames. What was wrong with the men of this country? Could they not see the crystalline color of her eyes or the smooth, pale skin of her face? The riotous black waves that fell about her shoulders?

No, her hair would have been up. The men wouldn’t have known how magnificent it looked free. But even so, the rest of her was enough to bend any man’s mind toward marriage, wasn’t it?

Well, maybe not if she decided to hold a knife to her suitors’ necks.

“Stow it, Serge.” Warning dripped from Danielle’s voice.

The boy shrugged. “What? They asked. I’m just being honest.”

“Then stop talking all together. Why are you volunteering information to these strangers? Your mouth is what got us into trouble in the first place, Mr. I’m-going-to-forget-I-have-a-brain-and-speak-English-when-I-should-be-speaking-French.”

“On the contrary,” Westerfield’s weak voice filled the air behind them. “I believe his excellent English quite proves his possession of said brain.”

The youth laughed at that, his face alight with pride. “See that, Dani? He thinks my brain is just fine.”

“Though I question the intelligence of any Frenchman who doesn’t want your sister.” Kessler watched Danielle with a predatory glint to his eyes.