The Honorable Officer (7 page)

Jean-Louis turned away to assess the danger. The smaller tent was completely engulfed in flames, and servants and officers on all sides were yanking down the closest tents to drag them away. His men tore down his command tent, throwing rugs on it and stamping out sparks, trying to limit the damage to the already burning wall.

There was a loud
bang
. A musket. Men shouted. Another
bang
as Jean-Louis ran to Mademoiselle Hélène and dragged her and Ondine to the ground, trying to cushion their fall and not land on top of them. Hardi pulled little Charlotte down and crawled under a wagon as another
bang
sounded. Splinters rained down on them.

Mademoiselle Hélène babbled something about candles and Jean-Louis nodded. She must have left a candle lit.

Jean-Louis shouted, and soldiers scrambled between the neighboring tents. One man called out. Jean-Louis strode over to see: three muskets—rifled muskets for greater accuracy—with smoking barrels, their matches still smoldering, in a heap behind a nearby tent.

Fourbier ran up. “Monsieur le Colonel, perhaps it was a Franc-Comtois, seeking to assassinate you?”

“Why me, Fourbier? They would plot to kill Condé, not me. And if they were after me, they would have lit my tent on fire, not Mademoiselle Hélène’s.” The immediate threat seemed to have dissipated, but his heart still pounded. They scanned the area, jerking at every noise.

Fourbier stared at the rifles, barely masking his shock. He cleared his throat. “Do you think, Monsieur, they were aiming at—”

The two of them stood in silence. Jean-Louis took a deep breath, thinking how close someone had come to killing his daughter and everyone around her. Tent fires were notoriously hard to contain. Even with rifled muskets, shots went wild, especially in the dark.

“Find out if anyone was shot.” Jean-Louis swallowed hard. “Send for my carriage and horses. Help me with a clean shirt and coat, and I will speak to Condé immediately. We leave as soon as I have permission.”

“Oui, Monsieur.” Fourbier trotted off, pulling off his nightcap and brushing at his hair with his free hand.

Jean-Louis scrubbed at his scalp and wondered if his wig and hat had survived, then looked thoughtfully at the smoldering heap of Mademoiselle Hélène’s belongings. He shivered in the cold night air. When he strode back to the wagon where the woman and two girls still huddled, Ondine’s sobs were fading to sniffles and whimpers. “We’ll leave as soon as possible. I have to beg permission to go with you.”

Mademoiselle Hélène looked up at him, her monocle reflecting the dim lights of the moon and campfires. If it weren’t for the heap of burnt fabric and the people milling about, re-pitching their tents and grousing about carelessness, one would never know there had nearly been a tragedy.

He dropped his voice. “You didn’t leave a candle lit, did you?”

She shook her head. “We had only one candle, and I saw Charlotte to bed before I put it out. And it was on the little table, not under the tent flaps.”

“Charlotte, did you light a candle?” he asked the girl.

Charlotte whimpered.

“She was asleep, Monsieur,” said Hélène, in the girl’s defense.

“Let her answer,” he barked.

“I was asleep, Monsieur le Colonel,” said Charlotte, standing up straight but shaking, used to military discipline. “
Maman
doesn’t even let me have a candle in our tent. I woke up when the flame burst up beside me. Then Mademoiselle Hélène grabbed me and cut through into your tent, Monsieur le Colonel.”

Jean-Louis nodded. His fears were confirmed; someone had set the fire deliberately and shot at them when they emerged. It was the same scenario as the nursery fire that had driven Mademoiselle Hélène here. He looked around at the people still in the alley returning to their tents. Dawn lit the eastern sky, so some were building fires, fetching water, and starting their day.

Mademoiselle Hélène struggled to her feet, still holding Ondine. He helped her up and realized she was wearing only a thin shift and a blanket someone had wrapped around her. He dragged his eyes away from the pink breast he could faintly see in the gap of the blanket. She shivered and pulled the blanket more tightly around herself and Ondine.

Her unfocused eyes were wide. “I really don’t think Charlotte was careless with a candle, Monsieur. If she had been, it would have been just after we went to sleep. She had no candle, not even a little end.”

Jean-Louis knit his brows. “I don’t think it was her, Mademoiselle.” He twitched his shoulders, uncomfortable with admitting he was wrong. “What I think is that I should have believed you when you said someone was trying to harm Ondine. I am truly sorry.”

He bowed slightly to her and strode off, calling for a coat and instructing Fourbier to find clothing for Mademoiselle Hélène and for his daughter.

“And who was on guard duty at the time the fire started?” he demanded of Fourbier and Darton, who were gathering the cooking supplies which had been tossed into the icy mud in the haste to save them from the fire.

Fourbier waved a soldier over. This must be the guard.

“I don’t know, Monsieur le Colonel.” The young man stood stiffly at attention, a blush on his cheeks, eager to please Jean-Louis. “I was told to come at daybreak and have only just arrived. Wasn’t it Danoit? We’re mostly friends of Jouvet, but we fought next to Danoit during the siege in Dole, and he said he was looking for extra duties to earn a few extra coins.”

“Where is this Danoit,
alors
?” Fourbier pulled up to his full, insubstantial height, and the younger man shrank back.

The boy glanced around helplessly, a cornered animal. “He wasn’t here when I arrived. Is he cleaning up from the fire?”

“Darton, leave that for now and find Jouvet,” ordered Jean-Louis as he pulled on a clean shirt, changing right there in the middle of the alley. “Hardi, will you do me the favor of questioning Jouvet and finding this Danoit for me, please?”

His friend bowed. “Of course, de Cantière.”

“Jouvet’s a good lad,” said the guard.

Jean-Louis fixed him with a hard stare, and the private stepped back and shrank down further into his patched cloak. Jouvet was a good lad, but Danoit’s only recommendation for the job of guarding Jean-Louis’ greatest treasures had been the desire for a few coins. Treasure, singular—his daughter. He shook his head, clearing the thought of Mademoiselle Hélène as a treasure, and turned to Hardi. “I’ve had Fourbier pay the guards at the end of their shift. Danoit hasn’t collected, has he, Fourbier?”

“Non, Monsieur.”

“Then we must expect him to come in search of it,” said Jean-Louis. “Perhaps he has not been bought off to turn a blind eye to an assassin. Perhaps he did not set the fire himself and then shoot at my daughter and my cousin.”

He paused and watched the young guard’s eyes widen. Fourbier and Hardi nodded, their expressions fierce.

“In the meantime, I’ll go speak to Condé.” He tugged at his coat, adjusted his saber, and threw his cloak over one shoulder.

The young soldier took up a post directly outside the tent where Mademoiselle Hélène and Ondine were dressing, his hands shaking as he held his musket, eyes darting around frantically. Good lad. Jean-Louis made a mental note to have Fourbier hire the boy for future duties.

He was back only half an hour later, still stinging at the Prince de Condé’s set-down and at his inability to say what he really thought to his superior officer without garnering a worse reprimand. He had been given two days to make the trip to Dijon and back. Any more than that and his career was in the balance.

That was the order of a man who had led a revolt against the king—his own cousin—when the king was just a boy. The prince then defected rather than face justice. Not only defected, but served as a general for the enemy. And Louis XIV had forgiven him and put him in charge of his armies. Ridiculous.

Jean-Louis’ division still needed him to sort out the injured and dead. His lieutenants needed him to guide them. His superiors were relying on him. Condé, though a brilliant military mind in his own right, relied on him to plan.

His daughter had nearly been burned and shot.

Jean-Louis knew more about loyalty and family than Condé ever had.

All was ready when he came back to his campsite. Hardi reported that Jouvet didn’t know any more about Danoit than the young guard had.

“Darton, I shall need a new tent and a new table,” snapped Jean-Louis. “And stools and all the rest. A cot. Fourbier will be with me, so you are to supervise the others.”

Darton scowled, but bowed deeply. The old cook had resented the younger Fourbier since he joined his staff a year before.

He turned to Hardi. “Would you allow my men to pile our things in your tent until he has one ready for me, please?”

With that, he said his goodbyes and climbed up into the carriage, where Fourbier, Mademoiselle Hélène, Ondine, and—to his surprise—the girl, Charlotte, waited for him. He stared for a moment at the girl, weighing the need to take another dependent with them against Mademoiselle Hélène’s right to have someone to help care for Ondine. He nodded and took his seat. The sun blazed orange and rose through the clear, frosty air, reminding him of his entry into Auxonne less than a week before. He had been sure it was a simple trip and he would deal with the problem in a few minutes.

Chapter Four

The worst of it was that Fourbier liked Mademoiselle de Bonnefoi. She was pitiful and incompetent, but he had met many young ladies who would have fainted dead away or shrieked for help rather than cutting through a tent wall. Or planning and executing an escape for herself and a child.

She was kind and intelligent. Naïve, but rational. Sweet.

His sister had never been sweet, though she was polite to their clients and gentle with her children. She even knew how to calm her husband’s temper. Mostly. She bore her bruises with stoicism and flung herself between the brute and the children. Fourbier had flung himself in front of a small child—and his sister—more than once himself.

Fourbier sighed, then flashed a grin at Mademoiselle de Bonnefoi, who glanced at him, lorgnette raised from the book she was reading.

Since he would never win the colonel’s affection—it had been a lost cause right from the start—he would forward this lady’s chances of marrying. She was already enamored of the colonel. Who wouldn’t be? A dark place inside him chuckled with glee that his colonel would have a weak wife. Fourbier would still be indispensable.

****

The ride to Dijon felt as long as the ride all the way from Paris, Hélène thought as they crested another hill. Though the day had dawned brightly, it soon clouded over, and a cold rain now pounded on the roof of the carriage and spattered around the curtains, damp and cold seeping into their bones in spite of blankets. Ondine couldn’t contain herself, as usual, but with five people in the carriage, she couldn’t bounce like she would have liked. As a result, she shrieked in frustration far too often.

Midmorning, Ondine transferred to her father’s lap, where she slept against his chest under his heavy cloak. Charlotte drowsed against her right side, but Hélène had come to rely on Ondine’s tiny body to keep her warm as they dozed in the carriage. Fourbier flourished a soft blanket and a smile, and Hélène pulled it over her and Charlotte, but still shivered.

She was considerably warmed, though, at the soft, wondering expression on the colonel’s face every time he peeked down at Ondine.

They woke Ondine up at a coaching inn when they changed horses and got something to eat. Hélène was tempted to let her sleep but knew the little girl would have to go
pipi
and didn’t want to find a tree for her in the icy rain.

Once they had all settled into the coach again, Colonel de Cantière asked, “Will you be safe with the Widow Pinard?”

Hélène replied immediately. “Of course.” She had a great deal of confidence in the older lady, her former governess.

The colonel shook his head. “Does she have male servants? Guards? Are her doors and windows sturdy? I will leave you Fourbier, I think. And maybe the groom.”

“I would be honored, Monsieur.” Fourbier’s smile looked strained to Hélène.

“Madame Pinard doesn’t take in male boarders, Monsieur, except children,” said Hélène, feeling more worried.

“They shall guard the entrances, sleep by the doors, go out with you, even in the back garden,” said the colonel.

Hélène nodded. He had it all figured out, which was more than she did. She had thrown herself and Ondine on his mercy because she didn’t know what to do, after all.

“Why did you not believe me before this morning?” She put her hand over her mouth, sorry she had questioned him.

The colonel shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “I…I was not sure you had correctly interpreted what happened. It did not seem a likely story. You would not have believed it, either,
n’est-ce pas
?”

Hélène turned her glass toward Fourbier, who pursed his lips at his colonel’s words. “I thought Fourbier believed me, at least.”

Fourbier shrugged. “I thought you were truthful, Mademoiselle. Very upset. Not hysterical…”

“Hysterical?” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I am never hysterical. I haven’t based decisions on hysteria since I was ten.”

She still cringed when she thought about the year her parents died and how she had tried to run away from her aunt and uncle’s house to go home. They had found her two streets away and told her someone else owned her house and the money had gone to pay her parents’ debts. Just thinking about that time made her feel a little hysterical, to tell the truth.

The colonel stared at Fourbier, his eyebrows raised.

“
Désolé
, Monsieur,” said Fourbier, bowing his head. “I did not mean to let her know you thought her…” He threw up his hands. “
Ah
,
merde
.”

Hélène swung her monocle toward the colonel. “You thought me hysterical?” Her voice wobbled.

He frowned as his eyes darted away from her. “You seemed levelheaded when I spoke with you. I assumed you had misinterpreted the fire and breaking windows and so on.”