Black Gold (8 page)

Chapter 7

French Agents

Friday, March 30

Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin stood outside at the main entrance to the York Inn, cast his eyes upward to the sky, and frowned. Dark clouds hung heavy with moisture over Bath. A steady drizzle muted somewhat the city's raucous voice. An inauspicious beginning, he thought, as he raised his umbrella and stepped out into the street. His adjutant, Georges Charpentier, was about to follow when two rough-looking men carrying a sedan chair jogged by, nearly knocking him down.

“Mind your manners!” shouted a hotel footman at the backs of the retreating pair. He turned to Georges apologetically. “Could've saved my breath. The chairbearers of Bath regard neither man nor beast.”

Georges sputtered some unprintable French in agreement, then hastened to catch up to his superior. They had arrived at the inn very late the night before in a hired carriage, driven at top speed, heedless of highwaymen and deep holes in the road. When they had awakened early this morning, they ached in every joint. But, they had dressed and breakfasted quickly. A full day's work lay before them.

At eight o'clock, Milsom Street was already crowded with traffic, though the shops had only just opened. The drizzle made the pavement slippery and walking treacherous. Carefully placing his feet, Colonel Saint-Martin threaded his way among carts, carriages, sedan chairs, and other morning traffic. Georges followed close behind, chilled, muttering to himself. The colonel peered through the crowd and saw the imposing bowed colonnaded facade of the Bath and Somerset Bank. “That's our landmark. Madame Gagnon's shop should be directly across the street.” Anticipation crept into his voice. This woman would know whether his prey, Captain Fitzroy, had in fact settled down in Combe Park.

In the millinery shop, a few dowdy ladies examined hats, feathers, bolts of fabric, ribbons, laces, buttons, hooks, and the like, anxiously preparing to display themselves to the gimlet eyes of their neighbors. Saint-Martin had learned earlier that a fancy ball would take place on Monday evening at the Upper Assembly Rooms. Many distinguished visitors and the cream of Bath's society would attend, he'd been told. He gazed critically at the plain women in front of him. Were they a representative sample?

A short, stout middle-aged woman held up a yard of linen for a gaunt, nearsighted lady who examined it with the aid of spectacles. “A cloth of the highest quality, Madame. It is French manufacture. From Lyons.”

Saint-Martin concluded from the short woman's accent what he had already deduced from her proprietary manner: she was his Madame Gagnon. At virtually the same moment, she met his glance and nodded. She would be with him in a minute. Her dark brown eyes darted back to her customer, then to the other ladies and the shopgirls. She seemed alert to everything going on in the store. A spirited woman, Saint-Martin observed, and, years ago, a pretty one.

After a few minutes, she freed herself from the nearsighted lady and approached him cautiously, a cool smile fixed on her face, her head tilted slightly. Something in his manner, he realized, betrayed him. He was not merely a stranger. Bath was full of strangers whom nobody noticed. He was French and a policeman. Her scrutiny was almost palpable. That pleased him. She would be a deep well of information.

“Sir?” She addressed him in English. Seeing he understood, she continued. “You have recently come to Bath? May I show you something? Perhaps fine ribbons for your lady?” She motioned him toward a counter at the rear of the room where there were no customers. Georges drifted away to one of the shopgirls.

“Yes, Madame,” Saint-Martin replied in English. “My footman and I arrived late yesterday and are staying at the York Inn. I wish to purchase a gift for a young noble lady in Paris.” He added softly, “Baron Breteuil's goddaughter.”

She smiled politely as she would for any fine gentleman. But her eyes took on a harsh, knowing glint. She had a personal interest in Sylvie de Chanteclerc's misfortune. “For that kind of gift, sir, we need to agree on a time when we can discuss her wishes privately. In an hour, shall we say? An extra shopgirl will arrive then who can take my place.”

“Of course, Madame. I'm pleased to deal with a person who promises to be so helpful.” The colonel bowed, collected Georges, and left the shop.

The Upper Assembly Rooms were only a few minutes' walk to the north. Saint-Martin had decided while waiting in the shop that Monday's fancy ball might offer something useful to his purpose. Fitzroy and his noble cousin would likely be there. Within the hour he had bought a ticket for himself. Georges offered to spend that evening mingling with the motley mob of chairbearers, pickpockets, and beggars who usually gathered around the building as the fine folk entered and departed. He was sure to pick up helpful gossip.

Georges then left to build a network of informants and to acquaint himself with the city's constabulary and watchmen. Some cooperation might be required of them in order to spirit Fitzroy out of Bath. Baron Breteuil had provided generously for such expenses.

The colonel returned to Madame Gagnon, who greeted him again as a rich prospective customer. “Let us discuss the young woman's desires in my parlor in the English manner over a cup of tea.”

The milliner led him to her living quarters above the shop. Her parlor was a small room overlooking Milsom Street, from which rose a constant low rumble of traffic. Saint-Martin soon ceased to notice it as they introduced themselves and began to converse in French. “Baron Breteuil has indicated I should expect you,” she said, seating him at a small table. She took a chair across from him. A servant came with tea and biscuits, then left. Madame Gagnon poured while he told her what he had already learned about Fitzroy.

She seemed to anticipate a question forming in Saint-Martin's mind. “Yes, I know the baron. And Sylvie. Years ago, I worked as a dressmaker for her parents.” That harsh glint came back to her eyes. “Let me tell you what I've learned about that Irish rogue.”

She explained that the captain and his cousin, Lady Margaret, had come to Bath six weeks ago in the company of a Major Tarleton and a Captain Corbett. “Odd chaperons,” she added. “Faces scarred in battle or brawls, they seem better suited to transport hardened criminals from Newgate to the hangman's scaffold. They are Fitzroy's constant companions in public. He appears to feel perfectly safe and takes no other precautions.”

“I've been warned he's always armed,” remarked Saint-Martin. “He's also ruthless and cunning. It will be difficult to apprehend him.”

“Difficult, to be sure,” the milliner agreed. “But he's overconfident. That's to our advantage.” She went on to described his skill at the gaming tables and his charm at the cotillions and balls. The news of his affair with Sylvie had followed him from London. Most people in Bath seemed willing to accept his version. “The English are inclined to think the worst of us French,” she observed tartly.

Saint-Martin smiled, bit into a biscuit. “I understand he lives with Lady Margaret and her husband, Sir Harry.”

“Yes, at Combe Park, a mile and a half southeast of the city.”

“Fate plays odd games with us,” exclaimed the colonel. “A friend of mine has recently entered Sir Harry's service as tutor to his deaf son. I plan to visit her.”

Madame Gagnon appeared to hesitate. “I would be anxious for any friend of mine in the Rogers household.” She explained that Sir Harry's chief passions, next to making a great deal of money in the slave trade, consisted of playing court tennis and training a black man to be a bare knuckle fighter. Lady Margaret, on the other hand, neglected to supervise her household, leaving the task to a steward. Her only concern was to preserve her beauty. “She makes it clear to everyone that she prefers the company of her cousin to that of her husband.”

Saint-Martin leaned forward with increasing interest. “And how does Sir Harry deal with that?”

“Like a cat watching a pair of birds on a branch overhead. Only his eyes betray him. He holds the urge to kill just below the surface. The cousins have not openly challenged him. He has not openly reproached them. He seems to be waiting for them to take a false step.”

“Why does he tolerate the captain's presence at Combe Park?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps to lull him into a false sense of security, then suddenly strike out at him. Perhaps to better observe the affair and gather incriminating evidence in case he wishes to secure a divorce.”

“A guileful man, this Harry Rogers.”

“And a hypocrite, as well. They say he has a mistress hidden somewhere in Bath.”

The colonel's concern shifted to the young deaf boy whom Anne was tutoring. “Charlie Rogers, how is he affected by the conflict between his parents?”

Madame Gagnon pursed her lips, then studied the contents of her cup. “There's a rumor—I can't vouch for it—that Sir Harry isn't the boy's father.” With a nod she acknowledged the consternation that seized Saint-Martin. She continued soberly. “Charlie bears a remarkable family resemblance to Fitzroy. That shouldn't surprise anyone, if indeed they are kin. It's Fitzroy's attitude that's most telling. I sense—and so do others—that he regards Charlie as his son. And I fear Sir Harry senses that as well. Since he first saw the captain several weeks ago, he has grown cold toward the boy.”

Saint-Martin thanked the milliner and said they should keep in touch. “It sounds like Combe Park is a tinder box about to ignite,” he said as he rose to leave the parlor. He added silently to himself, “And Anne is in the midst of it.” He hastened back to the inn.

***

“Finished.” Saint-Martin laid down his pen and picked up the draft of the letter he had just written. His adjutant across the table sat up expectantly. The colonel continued, “I must make the acquaintance of Sir Harry Rogers. Tell me what you think of this, Georges.” He began to read.

Sir Harry Rogers, Combe Park.

My dear Sir: I would like to call on Miss Anne Cartier, tutor to your son, Charles, this afternoon at a time convenient to her and to you. The messenger, Monsieur Georges Charpentier, will await her reply and yours. I have messages for her from her grandfather in Hampstead, her solicitor Mr. Barnstaple, her employer Mr. Braidwood, and her patron in Paris, my aunt Comtesse Marie de Beaumont, who supports Miss Cartier's work with deaf children at Abbé de l'Épée's institute in that city. I particularly desire to make your acquaintance, either this afternoon or on another occasion. I have heard of your prowess at court tennis. Perhaps you would be so kind as to include me in one of the games at your hall in Combe Park. I am considered to be rather good at the sport. I also understand you have trained a black man to be an outstanding bare knuckle fighter. As a colonel in the French Royal Army on holiday, I would like to know more about this manly English art and perhaps invest some money in it.

Yours respectfully,

Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin, York Inn.

Georges approved with a nod. “It's got the right bait for Rogers and I see why you are casting it. The man has ships lying in Bristol's harbor. He hates his wife's cousin, Fitzroy. Perhaps he could be persuaded to put the rogue on one of his ships and drop him off in France.”

“You've grasped the nub of my strategy.” The colonel struck the letter with the back of his hand, smiling wryly. “The devil will come in the details.”

Georges rubbed his bald head, reflecting for a moment. “It might work, sir. Let's see what kind of fish we have in Sir Harry.”

“Good. Make a clean copy of this draft for my signature and bring it to Combe Park. Meanwhile I'll write a note to Miss Cartier to take with you.”

While Georges copied, Saint-Martin leaned forward staring at a blank sheet of paper. Faint echoes of Mozart's sweet melodies drew his mind back several months. A string quartet was playing in his sitting room as Anne was about to leave Paris. Moved by the music, they wondered what direction their friendship should take. Marriage perhaps? No, it would cost Anne her freedom. He had thought they might later leap that hurdle. In the end, they agreed they should part. Separation would test their love.

The scratching of Georges' pen brought Saint-Martin back to the present. He breathed deeply, drew Anne's miniature portrait from his pocket, gazed at it, laid it next to his paper, and picked up a pen. His hand trembled, then found assurance and began writing.
My dearest Anne…

***

In the middle of the morning, on her way to Sir Harry's study, Anne saw a stocky, bald-headed man standing hat in hand in the entrance foyer. She gasped in disbelief and rushed up to him. “Georges!” she cried out. “What are you doing here?”

Before she could embrace him, he winked and brought a finger to his lips. “Secret police business,” he whispered. “The colonel and I, we're incognito, at least for the moment. I've brought messages to Sir Harry from Colonel Saint-Martin. One of them is for you. He's requesting an invitation to Combe Park.”

For a moment, she stared at Georges, stunned speechless. Paul hadn't even hinted he might come to England. She said softly, “It's wonderful to see you, Georges. I hope to meet you and your colonel very soon and find out what you're doing. Now I must run. Sir Harry has called me.”

As she entered, Sir Harry rose from his desk, the messages in his hand. Hers was unopened. He gave it to her and gestured to a chair. “I'll read aloud the message the colonel sent to me. It concerns you. You may prefer to read your letter privately.”

“Yes, Sir Harry, that would please me.”

He raised the sheet of paper and began to read. In a polite and formal way, Paul asked Sir Harry for permission to visit her and, on the same occasion, to make his acquaintance. Having met Georges, Anne was prepared for the invitation, so she paid more attention than she might have otherwise to
how
Sir Harry read the message. His eyes engaged the words, as if drawing hidden meaning from them. The prospect of the visit had clearly intrigued him.