Joanna Maitland - His Forbidden Liaison

‘Thank you. How soon will he be well enough to travel, do you think? We should not remain here, especially if the news you bring is true.’

The surgeon grinned. ‘Pray God it is, eh, sir? He promised to return with the violets. He would not break such a promise. Not a promise to France.’ The surgeon had a rather faraway look in his eyes, which sat strangely with his burly figure and bloodstained fingernails. But many Frenchmen had revered Bonaparte as a hero. Just as this man clearly did.

‘I need to know, sir. How soon?’Jack repeated. ‘How long must my companion remain here before he is fit to travel?’

‘Oh, that. A day or two only. Much will depend upon whether he develops a fever. That ball should have been removed hours since, you know.’

Jack nodded guiltily. ‘I…I know it.’ He straightened. ‘May I escort you downstairs, sir? Perhaps you will take a glass with me before you leave?’

The surgeon beamed. ‘That is kind, sir. I accept, gladly.’

Jack glanced towards the lady, who nodded. Since Ben was unconscious, she could safely be left alone to take care of him for a space, while Jack took the surgeon below and paid him for his services. There would still be plenty of light for her to continue her journey later. He would thank her properly then, and try to allay her suspicions, somehow. He wanted her to think well of him when they parted, just as he did of her, whatever her allegiance. In truth, she deserved more gratitude than he would ever be able to express, since she must never learn of their mission.

For now, that mission came first. He must stop thinking about Marguerite Grolier. His immediate task was to extract as much information as possible about Bonaparte. He would start with the surgeon. Over a glass of brandy, the man might disclose a great deal about the exiled Emperor. Was it possible? Could he really have landed in France again? Was the whole of Europe about to be engulfed in flames once more?

Now what was she to do? Herr Benn was an English spy. And Mr Jacques was all too clearly a Bonapartist. She swallowed hard, trying to control the nausea that had engulfed her when she heard those fateful words on his lips. He was a brave and generous man, he had rescued her with no thought for his own safety, but he was a Bonapartist. They were enemies, but she must not let him suspect that. She must keep him always at a distance and treat him with the utmost care. She had thought, for that fleeting moment when he touched her, that he might be a friend. Nothing of the sort. He was an enemy, to her and to everything her family believed in. She must beware of him.

Marguerite’s hands were automatically clearing away the mess the surgeon had left. Herr Benn was deeply insensible and pale as a ghost. She fancied that the surgeon was a butcher as well as a Bonapartist. He had removed the bullet, but what else had he done? She dropped the last of the bloody cloths into the basin and turned to the dressing table to wash her hands. The water there was clean. Neither the surgeon nor Mr Jacques had washed off the blood.

She shuddered. Blood! If Bonaparte had indeed returned, there would be a great deal of blood.

She glanced around for a towel. There was none. She shook the drops of water back into the bowl and turned to her valise for her own towel. In a moment, she found it, tucked alongside the raw silk cocoon which normally held her phial of laudanum. She dried her hands, extracted the phial from her pocket and restored it to its place beside the basilicum powder. It would be best to give Herr Benn no more laudanum. But did she dare to let him alone? What if he began raving? Mr Jacques was surely not to be trusted. On the other hand, Herr Benn might not recover if Marguerite kept him dosed with laudanum. It was a wicked dilemma.

Reluctantly, she retrieved the phial in its soft wrapping and stowed it deep in her pocket. She would keep it to hand, just in case.

Was that a sound on the stairs? She looked round, guiltily, to see the door opening. Quickly, she grabbed the tin of basilicum powder and whirled to meet this new challenge.

‘Mistress?’

Marguerite let out the breath she had been holding. It was only Guillaume.

‘I have ordered food. It will be served directly, in the coffee room downstairs. Will you come?’

‘No, Guillaume.’She glanced towards the bed. ‘I cannot leave him.’

‘But, mistress—’

She waved the tin at him. ‘His wound needs to be redressed.’

‘That is not for you to do, surely? The surgeon has seen to him, and he has his companion, also. You have been more than generous to them both, but it is none of our concern. We should be on our way home.’

Without a moment’s pause for reflection, Marguerite shook her head.

‘Mistress, your sister needs you more than these men. And there is the Duchess of Courland’s silk. It has to be taken to Paris.’

He was right, of course. The family’s future might depend on the Duchess’s approval. And yet Marguerite was the only person who could save the English spy from the Bonapartists. She owed a debt of gratitude, perhaps even her life, to Mr Jacques, but she could not trust him with the English spy’s life. He was the enemy. She repeated it yet again, forcing herself to ignore the tiny voice that urged her to trust him, to value his kindness.

She straightened her back and tried to look sternly at her old retainer. ‘We cannot leave so soon,’ she said firmly. ‘Herr Benn has the beginnings of a fever. That butcher may have extracted the ball, but heavens knows what damage he did in the process. And Mr Jacques, for all his bravery in defending me last evening, is no nurse.’

‘No, but—’

‘Guillaume, I cannot leave this man. Not until he is out of danger. I am sure that it will take only a day, or two at most.’

Guillaume was shaking his grizzled head.

Marguerite would not permit him to voice the protest he so clearly wished to make. ‘No, Guillaume, we are staying, at least for a day. We must take care, though, for Rognac seems to be a nest of Bonapartists.’ She ignored Guillaume’s worried frown. ‘Do bespeak a bedchamber and make sure all our supplies are safely stowed there. I want no repetition of last night’s trouble. Take the pistols from the coach and remain with our goods. It is your responsibility to ensure they are well guarded.’

He stood there, looking her up and down. She thought she detected a new respect in his gaze. ‘And tell the landlord to send up some food. I shall not be able to leave Herr Benn.’

‘As you wish, mistress,’ Guillaume said quietly. ‘Shall I bespeak a separate bedchamber for you? Or shall you sleep with the silk?’

‘Neither. I shall sleep here,’ she said flatly. She pointed to the chaise longue under the window. ‘Herr Benn will need constant nursing, and I do not imagine that Mr Jacques possesses the necessary skill. Ask the landlord to find me some extra pillows and a coverlet. I shall be comfortable enough there.’

Guillaume hesitated for a moment, but then, perhaps seeing the determination on Marguerite’s face, he nodded and left the room. A second later, she heard the sound of his boots clattering down the stairs.

Her decisions were made. She crossed to the bed and began to untie the bandages so that she could apply her basilicum powder to the unconscious man’s open wound.

She would save him at all costs, even if she had to shoot Mr Jacques in order to do so.

‘Come in.’ Marguerite did not look up from her task of bathing Herr Benn’s forehead. It did not matter who the visitor was. Herr Benn was still safely unconscious, while she was behaving like the perfect nurse, for anyone to see.

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am.’