The Tide Watchers (21 page)

Polite calls of
hear, hear
and scattered applause filled the room,
causing Bonaparte's mouth to tip up slightly. A longtime politician, Fox knew when to be silent, but he itched to speak.
Is this what you practice in Haiti, my lord? Is this why the people rebel, and you've sent so many troops there? To reinstate this universal peace you speak of and to assure them of their rights? Or will you, as it's been whispered, reinstitute slavery there to keep peace here?

This was his third dinner at Bonaparte's generous table. Fox knew that every word of this conversation would be recounted in letters home the next day. Normally soft-spoken, Boney was almost yelling. Most at table had abandoned the pretense of polite chat and were listening avidly. Boney liked an audience, as Fox well knew by now. But what was the little bounder leading to?

“In the East Indies a man may have several wives. It should be so in the West Indies, on account of the variety of persons there. Many women inhabit the isles, and a man needs sons.”

After a swift glance at Bonaparte's beautiful, charming Creole wife, barren since her fall from a balcony two years ago, all urge to join in on this witty repartee died. The flush touching her cheeks, the distress hiding inside her calm, smiling eyes made Fox wonder if this topic of conversation was introduced solely to upset her.

A whisper came from down the table, where two or three of his generals sat. “
Le petit caporal se retire avec ce discours. Le petit caporal a peur.
”

The little corporal retreats with this speech. The little corporal is afraid.

Damn it, Fox had known those bloody troublemaking generals would push Boney to something from the moment he'd seen them here tonight. They needed the prize money war brought, and none of them appreciated cooling their heels in Paris.

Desperate to put it off, Fox attacked his plate with gusto. “Ah, nobody creates a repast like the French! This chicken is divine, my lord. My cook would never think to add crayfish and eggs to chicken as you have with this Chicken Marengo. My compliments to your chef.”

It was useless. Boney's face was suffused with heat and his eyes flashed, and Fox knew he was in for heavy weather. The excellent meal curdled in his stomach.

“So tell me, Monsieur Fox, why is it that your government again threatens my life?”

After a collective gasp, the table fell silent. Every ear bent, waiting for his answer.

Fox fought the urge to swear. Dash it, he was no diplomat! What was he supposed to say in front of thirty witnesses? Carefully, he put down his knife and fork. “My dear Lord Bonaparte, there is not the least ground for this imputation—”

“Ah, bah!” A thudded fist on the table sent glasses and cutlery rattling. “All know the two who plot and plan my murder! Your spymaster William Windham's talents are mediocre at best—he is an unprincipled, unfeeling man with no talents, his position gained through birth and inheritance. The Revolution terrifies him because in an equal world, he would have nothing!”

Bluster and truth in the words, confusing him. “Mr. Windham is above reproach—” But the diplomatic lie stuck in his throat. When the Whigs gained government again—

“It is easy for you who only know public debate. But I detest him, along with that Pitt, who have together attempted my life—both in the rue Saint-Nicaise plot and since then.”

Fox only stared, waiting for the rest. Boney watched him narrowly. He had an agenda—or was it the generals who'd pushed him into this accusation?—and there was no point saying more until he knew what was really going on here.

“My lord, if you would but speak with Ambassador Lord Cornwallis . . .”

Bonaparte made a noise of disgust. “A man who has worked against the liberties of others on three continents, for more than thirty years! What do I want with a man like him?”

With a feeling of impending doom, Fox sat silent. If that was how Boney felt about Cornwallis, what was the man's use here in Paris?

“I would have forgiven open enemies in the Cabinet or in the field.” Bonaparte slammed his booted feet on the floor. “Attempts to destroy me through the use of agents, or setting afoot the Infernal Machine
on the rue Saint-Nicaise, killing innocent children, is intolerable!”

Fox shuddered. The “Infernal Machine” two years ago had killed and injured many, including seven children. It had sparked international outrage and led Boney on a continuing manhunt for the perpetrators. Two Jacobins had been beheaded; another had apparently fled to America—but the British-made shrapnel and gunpowder would always lead to questions of British involvement. Damned clever of the conspirators to think of that.

Pushing back his chair, Fox walked over to Bonaparte, speaking earnestly. “My lord, I assure you both Mr. Pitt and Mr. Windham—any Englishman—shrinks with horror from the idea of secret assassination, especially one of this disgusting caliber. The deaths of children . . .”

The derisive snorts down at the end of the table were a masterpiece of disbelief.

“You do not know Pitt, it seems,” Boney said coldly, growing haughtier by the moment.

“Yes, I do know him,” Fox protested, “and well enough to believe him incapable of such an action. I would risk my head in that belief.”

Boney's look was compounded of disbelief and odd pity. So none at the table could hear apart from Gordon's daughter, he murmured, “Know thine enemy, Monsieur Fox—is that not an old English saying? You will never gain the ascendancy in Britain until you realize what your enemies are capable of. Or what I am capable of, should they continue to seek my life.” His eyes glittering with challenge, he looked down the table. So did Fox. The three generals tried to look humble and appreciative. To Fox's jaundiced eye, they looked triumphant.

“My lord, I do not pretend to understand these matters.” The Duke of Gordon's pretty daughter said humbly, looking at her plate. “It is frightening to think anyone seeks your life after everything you've done for France, and your hard work to bring peace to both our nations. I know I am an ignorant girl, but to my mind, you are a hero beyond this one nation, and anyone who wishes to force war upon us for their own profit must face God on the Judgment Day.”

That speech was a bloody masterpiece; but how could a girl know what Boney's generals were about? Fox watched the generals subside to low mutters. Madame Bonaparte clapped her hands once and cried, “Well said, Lady Georgiana! She is so right, my love!”

Even the chit's hard-to-please mother looked proud. The new-arrived Duke of Bedford smiled and nodded . . . and Fox began to wonder what the chit was doing in Paris.

With an abrupt movement Bonaparte waved to the servants, who cleared the table with swift precision and brought out dessert. With a smile, the first consul turned his full attention to Gordon's daughter for the rest of the meal. She made him laugh several times. When the time came for the dancing, he led the girl onto the dance floor, leading her in a boulanger.

After Fox led the lady on his other side into the ballroom, he made his excuses and left the Tuileries, heading to his temporary accommodations. Once there he immediately sat at his writing desk. Whig or Tory be damned. He was an Englishman!

The letter he sent Prime Minister Addington was long, filled with detail. The one he sent his friend Lady Bessborough was salacious, dripping with gossip over the girl who'd gained Boney's capricious interest. His wife got a note of loving reassurance that he'd return soon.

His note to Pitt was short and to the point.

My dear Pitt,

Bonaparte publicly denounced you and Windham as taking part in the rue Saint-Nicaise plot. I protested your innocence, but with his generals deriding me, it was an impossible task. Lady Georgiana Gordon is, I assume, one of yours? She diffused the situation with a few well-chosen words.

Boney will not speak to Cornwallis, who is too blunt a soldier for the task of reassurance. He must be recalled. We need a true diplomat at the embassy in Paris, and quickly.

English Channel, French Waters

September 10, 1802

S
EE HOW I DO
it, miss? Nice and steady as she goes, and hammer it to the right thinness.”

In the murky half darkness of the hold, they'd set up a makeshift stone forge. Duncan watched the ship's engineer-blacksmith teaching Lisbeth the basics of the smithy. She must know these things if she hoped to prove to Fulton she'd make an acceptable assistant.

She was alternating these lessons with others in the ship's galley, learning how to cook bread, scones, and stews and make passable tea. If she'd never become a professional cook, she was at least hardworking and adept. She'd picked up the basics of the smithy and shipbuilding with ease. Fulton would believe she'd haunted her mythical father's yard as a child.

Gaining further knowledge of housecleaning would have to come in time, apart from things she could do one-handed within an hour. Duncan insisted that she rest and recover in the afternoons. He fed her when she grew tired, helped her dress and undress each day, had even learned to brush and braid her hair. Sleeping beside her in the next hammock, waking with her every day, helping her bathe and dress, seeing her at her most fragile had turned his resentment into a thing of the past. If the intimacy disturbed his hard-won sexual tranquility, her injuries, her constant blush, and her refusal to look at him told him her dismay would be far harder to overcome. The last thing he needed now was for her to shrink from male interest. She had to be ready for Fulton.

He wasn't the only one to feel the temptation and the protectiveness. Half the crew made excuses each day to watch her, or watch over
her, especially West, who'd appointed himself her replacement father and general guard dog against randy sailors while Duncan was on duty.

“What creates the sharp edges?” she asked Jonas Carlsberg, her eyes wide and a half smile on her face. The fire lit her hair to stripes of golden honey. Her fascination with the smithy brought the charm of her unusual face to life. “Do the edges need to be smoother to be useful in battle?”

“Well said, miss.” Jonas beamed at her, like she was one of his daughters. “This is . . .”

As they watched, Flynn murmured to Duncan, “She's a quick study, and a hard worker.”

“Thank God.” She was smiling at Jonas, making the new scar crease her face. It must hurt like the dickens, but she never complained. “We have no time to start over with another woman.”

“Reports are that Fulton's frustrated by the lack of help.” Flynn kept staring at Lisbeth. “His bomb maker was recalled to the navy. His assistant was offered twice as much as Fulton can pay to join the French Ministry of Science.”

Duncan felt his brows lift. “Is Bonaparte forcing him to leave France, you think?”

“More like to go and leave everything behind, sir. He'd have had to do that without your donation.” Flynn still watched the girl. Duncan didn't blame him. By day she was pretty enough; but here in the half dark of the hold, in the pink dress the
modiste
in Portsmouth made for her, her cheeks flushed in the heat of the fire and the look of fascination in her slanted eyes showing up in light and shadow, she was a thing of grace and beauty. Even the scar on her face didn't detract from the odd appeal she wore like a careless garment.

Being the first young, pretty woman to join the crew, the male attraction was inevitable; but until now, he wouldn't have believed the career-driven Flynn would join the ranks.

This morning as Duncan had plaited her hair, she'd blurted, “Do the sailors watch me because of the scar on my face? Am I—? If I'm too ugly for the mission . . .”

Even if she had the face of a baboon, her wistful, unconscious charm would lure men without trying. “They come because we've never had a beautiful woman on board before.”

She threw him a withering glance. “Please don't lie to me. I'm no beauty. I never was.”

He shrugged. “There are many kinds of beauty, madame.” He didn't say more. It would only frighten her to know her delicacy, even her scars, made her very close to beautiful now.

Zephyr's right. The damage and her haunting uncertainty will make Fulton play the knight-errant to her lost waif.
Her intelligence and curiosity will reel him in, lure to his fish.

Duncan quashed the guilt and wrongness under his heel. Eddie hadn't returned post, which was as good a permission as he'd get. She'd save thousands of lives with this mission. He'd all but demanded permission from Eddie with his stories of the girl's courage and brilliance.

Flynn interrupted his dark musings. “Why doesn't Boney pay Fulton for the boats and bring him in on the project?”

Duncan grinned. “Because he's the uncrowned king of France. Why pay for what he can have by force?”

Flynn didn't laugh. “Bonaparte won't leave Fulton alone for long, sir, not as soon as he knows of Britain's interest.”

“He doesn't know where Fulton is yet. We have some time.” Sobered, Duncan shook his head. “October twenty-ninth. She'll have seven weeks to win Fulton over.”

Flynn stared at the girl, glowing in the fire's golden heat. “Sir . . .”

Duncan heard the hesitant determination in Flynn's voice and sighed. Being with idealistic people made him feel a hundred years old. “I know.”

Flynn's jaw hardened. “Sir . . .”

Wheeling away, he saw Lisbeth notice, glancing at him in the half light of the forge. She was as out of place on his ship as Sèvres porcelain in a rowdy pub. Carlsberg, West, Hazeltine, the sailors—even Flynn—had turned protective. Half the sailors waited for her slightest
wish, wanting to be the one to give her what she needed. She was disturbing the crew's focus.

He needed to get her to Fulton, and fast. “Get it off your conscience, Flynn.”

The words were a burst dam. “She only talks to you, West, Carlsberg, and the cook. She won't look at another man under the age of fifty, no matter how gentle or respectful we are with her. If anyone gives her something, she bolts as if he's going to rape her. How a frightened rabbit like her is supposed to seduce Fulton is beyond me. It's obvious she's . . . well, she's a lady. If Bonaparte gets wind of her . . . you know how he is with well-born girls, especially blondes. She'd have no chance.”

The vision filled Duncan's head. Boney had never pretended fidelity to Madame Bonaparte, but young, highborn blondes were his favored bed warmers. No doubt he'd marry her off to some marshal or general when he was done with her, but Eddie would never have her back. And it'd be a miracle if that marshal or general would allow her to have little Edmond with her. Most men didn't care to have reminders of their wife's past indiscretions.

A mulish set to his face, Flynn said, “Even if she's not ruined by association with Fulton or made the first consul's mistress, the more she knows about Fulton's inventions, the more danger she's in. Both sides will see her as a commodity, not a person. Whoever takes her will keep her in the name of national safety and lock her in some admiral's cage.”

“Do you think I don't know, Flynn?” It was everything he hated about the mission. In fact he hated it only less than the thousands that would die in a French invasion of Britain. It was useless for the spy to tell himself Lisbeth knew the risks, because his guilt always retorted, no, she didn't. “Inform the men I'll need the launch before first light. She goes to Fulton tomorrow.”

Flynn barely saluted before stalking out—then Hazeltine came running in, chest heaving. “Commander, a semaphore message from Boulogne,” he murmured.

Duncan snatched at the note, scanned it in moments, and frowned. He read it twice more. Something about the message wasn't right. “Tell Beauchamp to ready himself for a mission.”

IN THE DEEPEST HOUR
of night, the launch struggled through rolling seas. Not even thirty feet away, the ship had already become invisible. With French patrols crisscrossing these waters every sunrise, they had to be gone in a few hours.

Símon Beauchamp, code name Argenteuil after the town of his birth, felt the urgency in the maintained silence until they were off ship. “You have need of me, Commander?”

The commander handed Símon a slip of paper. “Don't read this until you're alone. Tell no one about its contents, and destroy your instructions as soon as possible.”

Símon didn't look around at the other sailors. The implications were clear; there must be a traitor on board, but since he'd been entrusted with this mission, it seemed he wasn't a suspect. “I understand.”

The relaxation of the commander's harsh features signaled the approval Símon had long been trying to earn—and he was determined to fulfill his mission to the best of his ability.