My Surrender (6 page)

They emerged onto Catherine Street and into a crowd of other patrons of the arts, the gentlemen trying frantically—and with limited success—to wave down a hack while their wives and daughters milled disgruntledly beneath the brightly lit portico. London’s omnipresent fog had begun rolling inland from the Thames, blanketing those on the curb and obliterating everything more than a few yards away.

Across the street, a cacophony of voices and noise issued from the indistinct outlines of the private broughams and hacks, the phantom shapes of horses and other figures. From within the blanketed depths rose the sound of spectral vendors hawking roasted nuts; little ghostly street sweepers bleating the cost of their services, ladies chattering and gentlemen shouting while the jangle and squeak of harnesses, the clatter of shifting hooves, and the rumble of carriages on cobblestone underscored it all. A driver yelled for someone to mind their step, the snap of a whip preceded a horse whinnying in reproach, and a man swore viciously as he stumbled in the murk.

At the corner of the opera house the bilious globe of a streetlight hung above a little clutch of Fashionable Impures putting on display wares currently being offered. They simpered and smiled, dimpled and cast flirtatious glances at the young beaus and dandies, bucks, and swells that swaggered slowly amongst them with the air of diners selecting their next course.

Charlotte caught a glimpse of Ginny a little farther up the boulevard, her head bent in conversation with the comte. She nodded briefly and he disappeared between the two carriages jockeying for position in front of them, emerging on the far side to be swallowed by the fog.

“We will be here for hours,” Lady Welton stated petulantly. Behind them Charlotte’s little mill of admirers had dispersed, seeking their own means of travel to the next party, the next gaming hell, the next entertainment.

“We could walk a bit down the street where the traffic eases up,” Charlotte said.

Lady Welton looked at her as if she’d grown another head. “Why?”

“So we won’t have to wait so long?” Charlotte suggested.

“Nothing better to do. Can’t say I look forward to the Neebler fête. Do you? Course, you don’t. Tightfisted and uncongenial, the lot of them. They’ll pawn off a few bits of mutton and a smattering of prawns for refreshments and for our trouble we shall be obliged to listen to the old windsack’s daughter screech while the wife pounds on the pianoforte. No. Better to wait.” She lifted her hand, waving her kerchief at her husband, who was puffing and huffing his way down the line of carriages looking for an unclaimed hire.

“Welton, a chair, please!”

“But m’dear,” he called back, “where am I to find a chair?”

“Well, really, Welton,” Lady Welton replied with fond irritation, “if I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking you to find me one, would I?”

“Quite right,” Welton muttered and quit the search for a cab, going instead to look for a chair for his wife.

“Welton is a dear,” Lady Welton said comfortably, patting Charlotte’s arm.

“Mrs. Mulgrew.” From somewhere across the street a male voice rose above the din. “If you would?”

Charlotte glanced toward Ginny. The courtesan frowned, a look of impatience on her pretty face at being asked to cross the crowded avenue, before daintily lifting her skirts and stepping off the curb onto the slick cobblestones. She disappeared between the carriages.

“Ah!” At Lady Welton’s expression of pleasure, Charlotte turned back in time to see Lord Welton leading two stalwart-looking workmen lugging between them a marble bench pilfered from heaven knew where. “One can always count on Wel—”

“Look out!”

The warning rang out over the crowds. In the sudden pocket of silence Charlotte heard the mad scrabble of runaway horses’ hooves ringing against the cobblestones, the rumble of wheels over the road, and the thunder of a vehicle passing by and—a cry, a horrible thud!

Then the sound of the racing vehicle retreating as swiftly as it had appeared. The silence was broken by the sound of rushing feet and anxious voices raised in alarm.

“She’s hurt! She’s hurt! Someone get a quack! Hurry!”

“Oh!” cried Lady Welton softly, her hand covering her lips. “Some poor woman must have been struck. I hope I do not know her…”

A terrible premonition seized Charlotte.

“Charlotte, my dear! Where are you going? You cannot—”

Whatever else Lady Welton said was lost as Charlotte dashed into the street, searching for the woman who’d fallen beneath the runaway horses’ hooves. A little crowd had gathered a short way down the avenue. Charlotte pushed her way through them, praying that she would not find—

“No!”

Ginny Mulgrew lay on her side, her leg bent beneath her at an impossible angle. Already the stagnant pools of water collecting between the cobbles had soaked into her beautiful gown. A hoof print was ground deeply into the material a few inches from her hip. Her face was white, her eyes closed.

Charlotte dropped down beside her, insensible to the hard stone beneath her knees. Gingerly, she wiped a heavy strand of hair from Ginny’s brow. A thin line of blood seeped from a cut beneath it.

Charlotte looked up into the ring of concerned faces. “We have to get her out of the street! And find a doctor. Now!” she commanded.

An anxious-looking gentleman in a green waistcoat snapped his fingers at two liveried servants craning their necks to see. “Find some means of conveying the woman,” he demanded. “Quickly!” At once they went to do his bidding.

Comte St. Lyon appeared at Charlotte’s side, his expression startled. “What happened?”

“Some damn coxscomb lost control of his cattle,” the gentleman said. “Ran the poor woman down. Bloody green-headed fool!”

“My God,” St. Lyon whispered. “Will she be all right?”

“We won’t know until she’s been seen,” Charlotte replied tightly. “And she can’t be seen here, in the street.”

The two servants emerged from the crowd, carrying a broad bench between them. “Carefully now.”

Gingerly they lifted Ginny to the bench. Their efforts, careful though they were, brought her to instant, painful consciousness. A cry of anguish broke from her throat.

“It’s all right,” Charlotte said soothingly. “We’re taking you out of here.”

“To where?” the gentleman in the green waistcoat asked anxiously.

“My home,” St. Lyon answered.

“No,” Ginny whispered, her eyes, great pools of agony, fixed on Charlotte. “Please.”

“My house,” Charlotte said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I’ll stay with her. I can better look after her than you, comte.”

St. Lyon did not argue. He stood up. “I’ll get my barouche,” he said and hurried back across the street.

“Lottie.” The thin voice was barely audible, the syllables pressed out with great effort from between Ginny’s lips. “Promise.”

“Quiet, dear—”

“Lottie!” she gasped, her gaze wild. “You must promise me.”

“Yes, yes,” Charlotte cooed, trying to calm her. “Of course. Anything.”

Ginny shook her head, her face stricken. “You have to understand, Lottie. You must let
no one
dissuade you. You must go to St. Lyon’s castle in my place!”

Culholland Square, Mayfair
July 18, 1806

“Y
OU MUST SOMEHOW CONVINCE
both men to fall in with our plans,” Ginny whispered hoarsely to Charlotte. Her color was still ashen and pain had etched tiny lines at the corner of her lips. But though her eyes were dilated with the drugs the physician had left her, she seemed lucid.

“Yes,” Charlotte assured her, settling the light coverlet more comfortably around Ginny’s slender figure, careful not to jar the leg cocooned in cotton batting and strapped between two wooden staves.

“Drink this,” Charlotte urged, placing a cup of beef tea in Ginny’s hands. “You must keep up your strength.”

Ginny jerked her head impatiently. “Can Ross be trusted?”

“Yes.” Charlotte set down the cup. “I tell you again, his trustworthiness is without question. And his dedication is equal to either yours or mine.”

“I do not doubt his dedication. I only doubt where it lies,” Ginny muttered. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting off a stab of pain as well as the mind-numbing influence of the drugs she had taken just before Charlotte’s arrival. “You said earlier you’d had a message from your…other associate.”

“Yes,” Charlotte said, frowning at the memory of the short note that had arrived a few hours ago. “He wishes to speak with me this afternoon.”

“Oh?”

“We have only met twice before,” Charlotte explained, her expression shaded with puzzlement. “He is in a uniquely powerful position and it is imperative that his identity remains a secret. Until a few months ago I had never seen him properly. We always rendezvoused late at night and he kept to the shadows of whatever place we arranged to meet and even then had me leave the messages beneath a stone or in an urn as he watched from afar, then later he would retrieve them.”

“A most cautious man,” Ginny said. “Why change now?”

“I don’t know. I suspect he has heard of your accident and wishes to know how it affects our plan.”

“Then you’d best go,” Ginny said and her eyelids fluttered shut.

Charlotte wrapped the rough cloak more closely about her, glad that, despite its malodorous scent, she had borrowed it from her astonished scullery maid. Even the plainest gown in her wardrobe would have stood out like a beacon in this dingy sidestreet of Drury Lane. The driver of the hired hack, fearing not only for his cattle but himself, had refused to go any farther into the rookery, depositing her at the end of the alley with a grudging promise to wait a half hour before leaving.

She could not blame him. Though the day was bright and the air mild, the stench rising from the open gutters running on either side of the deeply rutted road nearly overpowered her. Tipping with drunken disregard for symmetry, the rookery buildings loomed over her, sprouting larger overhead like dark seeping mushrooms, the windows boarded over to avoid the taxes on them, rackety stairs leading to the mean little apartments above. Far below bands of silent, bellicose youths slouched in the doors of subterranean taverns and exhausted-looking men trudged past vacant-eyed women cradling earthenware jugs and listless, raggedy children.

Charlotte looked about for some signpost. There was none. No indication that she was in the London she knew at all. She spied a woman sitting on the top step leading down to yet another public house, a half-naked toddler perched on her knee sucking his thumb.

“I’m looking for Sparrow Lane. Number Twelve,” she said. “Can you tell me where it is?”

The woman’s gaze fell on the tan calfskin half boots Charlotte’s cloak could not hide. “Fer tuppence.”

“Here’s a farthing.”

The woman’s hand shot up, snagging the coin. “There.” She jerked her head back over her shoulder. “Standing right in front of it, ye be.”

“Thank you.” Charlotte climbed the steps to the indicated door, looking up at the tilting rooflines. Were the messenger pigeons Toussaint used to communicate with Father Tarkin in Scotland up there?

She rapped sharply on the door. She did not have to wait long. The door swung open and a hard-looking man stood before her. “Miss Nash. I am so grateful that you have come. Please.” He stepped aside.

She ducked her head under the low lintel emerging into a windowless room lit by a single lantern. Inside, it was stiflingly hot and dark, the single window having been boarded up. Still, she was greatly relieved to see that it was more tolerable than the outside of the building suggested. True, the floor rolled beneath her feet and the walls bore several large cracks but someone had recently scrubbed it well, for the unmistakable scent of lye stung her eyes and filled her nose.

“Won’t you be seated?” Toussaint said, a hint of French accent in his voice.

Charlotte shrugged the simple cloak from her shoulders and sat down on the edge of the chair, studying the soldier-monk who’d summoned her. When she’d met him some months ago her first impression was that he was older than he looked. His brown hair was only lightly touched with gray at the temples and his face, though weathered, possessed a firm jaw and strong throat.

Her second impression had been that he would make a most uncomfortable sort of monk. She could almost feel the hum of purpose driving him. He moved with staccato precision, as though only the greatest of efforts kept his movements in check. Even his hands, at his sides, closed and opened like the mouth of a beached fish. She was certain he was unaware of the spastic motion. But it wasn’t only this ill-contained energy. Though his mouth wore a smile, the keen eyes boring into her were merciless. His quick assessing gaze stopped abruptly at her modest neckline.

“Is that…could that be one of the yellow roses from St. Bride’s?” Disapproval invested his voice. “One of those that the boys brought your family?”

“Yes,” she answered. She’d forgotten she’d pinned it to her bodice this morning. “I suppose you think that dreadfully sentimental?”

“Sentiment can destroy a person. Or a cause. Be careful.” His pensive expression faded. “Thank you for coming. The news regarding Mrs. Mulgrew is most distressing. Most alarming.

“This tragedy may well hold far-reaching repercussions. Ones we may not be able to counter or offset. We cannot afford to lose that letter,” he said in a hollow voice. “Tell me the extent of her injuries. Tell me if Mrs. Mulgrew might recover sufficiently to go north at some later date.”

He sounded desperate.

“I am afraid I cannot do that. There is no chance she will recover sufficiently to go forth with the plan as proposed.”

He released a hiss of breath and his eyelids fell shut. He opened his eyes and seeing Charlotte’s expression, rose to his feet, looking down at her. “I cannot overstate the importance of this letter. It is not only the sender who stands in grave danger should his identity be revealed and it is not only his nation which shall feel Napoleon’s wrath upon discovering his betrayal. The papal city, too, will suffer. More priests, so recently allowed to return to their dioceses, will suffer.”

“Sir?”

He leaned over her, his fierce gaze compelling her to understand. “Napoleon and the Pope are at odds. Each month Napoleon’s greed and mania for power swells. He has begun to resent the pope’s refusal to join his embargo against Britain. If this letter is revealed to have been bound for the papal offices and opened…” He shook his head. “It will be the excuse Napoleon has been looking for to break all ties with the Church and declare the pope his enemy.

“You see now why I am so distraught. I never approved of Mrs. Mulgrew’s plan, but only a fool could not see it stood the best chance of succeeding in retrieving that letter. Now…” He gestured in the manner of someone throwing something away and turned, his shoulders so tightly bunched she could see them shivering. “We
must
retrieve that letter. No matter what the sacrifice. No matter who makes the sacrifice. We must. We
must
!”

He looked around at her and she realized he was holding his breath, his emotions so strong a little drop of foam had developed in the corner of his mouth. His eyes pleaded with her for understanding. His hands twitched.

“I understand,” Charlotte said, a little revolted, a great deal moved by his dedication and his moral quandary. “Completely. And I must admit that I am relieved that we are in accord with one another on this subject.”

The monk straightened, turning to face her completely. “What do you mean?”

“I
intend
to go in Mrs. Mulgrew’s place.”

His eyes grew round with amazement. His mouth fell open a fraction of an inch and snapped shut. “What? I should forbid it,” he whispered.

The monk was being disingenuous.

“Brother Toussaint,” she said mildly, “that is why you asked for this meeting, is it not? To ask me if an alternative might be found to take Mrs. Mulgrew’s place? And who would that alternative be if not me?”

His eyes widened with offense. “I…I wasn’t certain…That is, I hadn’t thought you would—”

She took pity on him. “You do not
want
me to do this. I understand. I’m not too keen on it myself. But you knew that I was the only viable substitute. It’s unworthy of you to pretend otherwise.

“Please,” she continued before he could renew his protest, “allow me to finish. You had made the difficult decision to suggest this but then, when I arrived, you were struck anew by how very young I am, how inexperienced in the ways of the world. So you thought better of your original, impossible decision. But your original impulse was not wrong.”

He did not attempt any further remonstration, instead saying, “But how can you hope to carry off such an impersonation?” His face lit with sudden inspiration. “I can—”

“You needn’t
do
anything, Brother Toussaint,” she reassured him. “I will impose on Dand Ross to aid me.”

“Dand? Here? Now?” She had the impression she had utterly flummoxed him. He blinked, as though trying to clear his vision. “My God…it
is
Providence then,” he murmured, his hand forming the sign of the cross above his heart. “It was meant to be.”

“I suspect Providence has little to do with the comings and goings of Dand Ross,” Charlotte said dryly. “He came to report the missing letter. A fact with which we were already acquainted. He must return to France in a few weeks. But by then, I shall no longer need his aid.”

“Is he coming here? To see me?” Toussaint asked.

“No.” Charlotte shook her head. “He doesn’t even know you are his contact.”

Toussaint smiled apologetically. “No. Of course not. I…It is just that…I helped mold him, you know.” This last was said with touching pride.

Charlotte regarded him with sharpening interest. “What was he like?” She could not resist asking. “As a boy?”

“Dand?” Toussaint mused a moment, lost in some reverie he found pleasant, for a gentle smile curved his lips. “Limb of Satan, the monks called him. Always doing what he oughtn’t, sneaking out of the dormitory to go adventuring, inciting the other lads to get up to some misadventure or other and then as glib as the devil in wiggling his way out of the proceedings when they were caught. The old herbalist Brother Fidelis used to say that God made the switch for boys like Dand Ross.”

Aye. She could well believe that. “And the other lads?” she prompted.

Toussaint smiled, and for the first time, Charlotte saw a hint of warmth in his chill gaze. “Ram was just as refined and tempered as a lad as he is a man. And Kit,” he frowned, “as strong in his convictions as he was in body.”

“There was a fourth,” Charlotte said, “the one who was killed in France.”

“Douglas Stewart.” Toussaint nodded, his face filled with inexpressible sorrow.

“Kit said once that Douglas was their core. The glue that bound them together. He must have been quite extraordinary.”

Toussaint frowned, as though searching his mind for an image to fit the word. “Extraordinary? I don’t know. He was a bright enough boy. As athletic as some, not as athletic as others. High-minded. Earnest. But earnestness hardly qualified one to be a fit leader.”

Charlotte had never heard either Ram or Kit express any sentiment about Douglas Stewart that wasn’t steeped in reverence. She was fascinated. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, Ram had address and poise. Kit had strength and determination.”

“And Dand?”

“Dand was the brightest. And he had charm. But a darker side, too, that even the best of them must find enticing. Douglas had…nothing.” Whatever momentary mood had held Toussaint abruptly disappeared. “Enough. It is over and done and hardly matters anymore. What
does
matter is that you say Dand is willing to assist you in your plan? In what manner?”

At this, heat climbed into Charlotte’s cheeks and she was glad of the relative darkness in the steamy little room. “Brother Toussaint,” she said, “your conscience is troubled enough as it is. Let us not test it any further, shall we? Be content that Dand’s assistance will bring me no harm and will go far to establishing my credibility as the sort of woman the comte will feel he can safely compromise.”

Toussaint’s brows pulled together in a scowl. “My child—”

“Credibility,
Brother Toussaint, not authenticity.”