Revolution in Time (Out of Time #10) (17 page)

It was just getting dark by the time their carriage dropped them off at the Black Swan. One look at it and the people lingering around the entrance, and Simon realized what the two men at the coffeehouse were talking about.
 

Harris’ List
was a popular, and, astonishingly, published directory of prostitutes, several of whom were watching Elizabeth and him as they walked toward the front door. One of them lifted her ample bosom and gave him a gap-toothed smile and a wink as an enticement.

“Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea,” Simon said softly.

Elizabeth wasn’t put off and smiled at the ladies. “Lovely night, isn’t it?

They frowned and said something, probably deeply unpleasant, to each other. He hesitated as they reached the door. He couldn’t exactly ask Elizabeth to wait in the cab, but the idea of taking her in there—

“Come on,” Elizabeth said and reached for the door handle.

With little choice, he followed her inside.

Where the coffeehouse had been quiet and sedate, this was loud and bawdy. Hard men and loose women drank away the stench of the day. Large mugs of ale and glasses of gin covered the tavern tables. Smoke from a poorly ventilated fireplace filtered around the room and was joined by more as a man in the corner lit his long-stemmed pipe from a small handheld brazier.

As Simon feared, both he and Elizabeth drew people’s attention. He was dressed far too well for such a place, although that probably would have been ignored if he’d been alone. Elizabeth stood out like a sore thumb, or a healthy one judging from the state of the ladies of the evening here. More than that, they were the only ladies. Once again, women were not welcome unless they had something less cerebral to offer.

The sooner they could get out of there, the better.
 

Simon looked around the room for Paine. The paintings they’d seen of him varied, but he was sure he could pick him out of a crowd. Unfortunately, he realized with a sinking feeling, not this crowd. Paine wasn’t here.

Suddenly, Elizabeth bumped into him.

“All right?” he asked.

She nodded but seemed a little anxious. Before he could ask why, she nodded toward a table of men by the fireplace. “Maybe they know something.”

The group wasn’t much different than the others, although a few of them had cleaner clothes than the rest. It was worth a try.
 

Simon led her through the crush of tables toward the group.

One man clanged his mug on the table. “Next subject. Is a drunkard the greater enemy to himself or to society?”

“Society,” another answered with a Cockney accent so thick it sounded like “so-sigh-eh-ee.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Simon said.
 

The men looked up at him in surprise, and a young one even jumped to his feet as he saw Elizabeth. He was quickly jabbed in the ribs by a friend and sat down sheepishly.

The man who seemed to be in charge pushed back his chair and stood. “Yes?”

“We’re looking for Thomas Paine. You don’t happen to know him, do you?”

The man laughed and looked at his friends. “We do,” he said and then squared his shoulders a little defiantly. “Who is he to you?”

Simon expected the question. “I might have a position for him. If I can find him.”

The man eyed him skeptically. “What sort of position?”

“That is between Mr. Paine and myself. Do you know where I can find him?”

The man sat back down. “I do not.” He picked up his pint and took a drink, closing the door on the conversation.

“We are sorry to have bothered you,” Simon said.

The man waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder.
 

The class divide worked both ways, Simon knew. He was as unwelcome here as the man would be in Pall Mall.

Simon turned and led Elizabeth out. They started toward their carriage.

“We’ll have to try another coffeehouse tomorrow,” he said.

“Guv!”

They turned back to see the young man who’d been at the table. He caught up with them and took off his hat, holding it to his chest. “Sir, about Mr. Paine.”

“Yes?”

“I heard him say something about going to Vauxhall tonight. The gardens. That he was meeting a Mr. Scott. Something about the excise office, I think.”

“Thank you.” Simon held out his hand. The young man stared at it for a moment then wiped his hand on his trouser leg before shaking Simon’s.

“I think they were having supper in a box. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Simon took out a few coins from his pocket.

The man shook his head. “I didn’t mean—”

Simon shook his head. “For your kindness.”

It took him a moment, but he took the money. It was probably close to what he’d see for a few months’ wages.
 

Simon opened the door to the carriage. “Thank you again.”

“Best take a boat. Footpads on the road, I hear.”

Simon thanked him again and joined Elizabeth in the carriage.

“What’s a footpad?” she asked.

“Highwayman without the horse. Thieves.”

She frowned. “What kind of garden is this?”

D
ECEMBER
4, 1777 - 8 Miles from Paris, France

Someone inside the coach groaned. Victor walked over to it as it lay on its side. He rapped on the roof and winced again, reminded of his sore shoulder.

“Everyone all right?”

The door, now on top, flipped open. Austin poked his head out and shook it to get the wool out of it. “For the most part.”

He looked down into the coach. “I think Spragg might have broken his arm.”

Victor nodded. It could have been worse.

Austin helped Travers climb out onto the side of the carriage. On unsteady legs, he managed to climb off without breaking his neck. He looked at Victor in shock.

Victor shrugged. “You are the one who wanted to come along.”

The three of them managed to get Spragg out of the carriage, although it was no small feat. Finally, Austin leaped down to the ground, a bundle of letters falling out of his pocket as he did.
 

Quickly, he snatched them up.

Victor looked around. “Do not worry, Mr. Austin, they were not here for your dispatches.”

Austin’s surprise gave way to worry. “How do you know who I am?”

“I know a great deal more than that. I know what you carry and its import.”

In those letters would be the news Benjamin Franklin had yearned to hear. He’d been in Paris for nearly a year already trying to convince the French to ally with the Americans. Their help was desperately needed. Without it, the war would be lost.

Austin tucked the parcel back into his jacket pocket. “How do you know?”

“Have you heard of the Committee for Secrets?”

Austin shook his head.
 

“Of course not,” Victor said. “It is a secret.”

Austin started to rebut, but what could one say to that?

“Suffice to say,” Victor continued, “we are here to make sure you and what you carry reach your destination.”

“We’re agents,” Travers said, helpfully.

Austin frowned. “For?”

Travers stood proudly, as tall as his small frame would let him. “America, of course.”

Austin’s eyes narrowed. “How can I trust you?”

Victor started to respond but noticed something over Austin’s shoulder. He took out his gun. Austin squared his shoulders, defiant.

Victor shook his head and shoved Austin aside. Coming up the road was the wounded Highwayman. He leaned in his saddle, but he could still be deadly.
 

Victor raised his long-barreled pistol, sighted the rider along the barrel and fired. It was beyond the normal range of the gun, but Victor did not miss. The force of the impact pushed the man to lean back in his saddle and then he slid lifelessly off.

“That is a good start, is it not?” Victor said, enjoying the impressed look on Austin’s face.

“It is.” He looked at Victor’s gun. “What sort of gun is that?”

Victor shoved it, hot barrel and all, into the waist of his pants. “Custom made.”

He felt Travers’ eyes on him. These were questions he did not want to answer.

“Make sure Spragg is all right and then we should search for the horses.”

Austin nodded and moved to attend to Spragg.

“That’s not what I issued, is it?” Travers asked with a nod toward the gun.

“I made a few modifications.”

“That’s not—how long have you been doing that? Modifying things?”

Victor began to shrug, but a pain shot down his arm. He started toward Austin and Spragg. “It is better you do not know.”

They found the horses not far down the road and, with the help of a passing carriage driver, managed to right the coach and re-hitch the horses. Mr. Spragg, thankfully, found he was more comfortable in the other coach, and they were happy to be rid of him.

It was a delicate patch and slow going, but they arrived safely in the outskirts of Paris before dark. Finally, they reached Passy, a suburb of Paris in the 16
^th
Arrondissement on the north side of the Seine.
 

Victor drove the coach along the arched drive at the front of Hôtel de Valentinois, an expansive mansion where Austin was to deliver his message. He pulled up in the courtyard, and they climbed out of the coach, ignoring the stablehands’ expressions at its sorry state. They crossed the gravel drive toward Franklin’s private chateau situated in the large garden behind the main house. But before they got to the door it opened and Franklin and several others piled out.

“What word of Philadelphia?” he asked.

Next to him, Travers exhaled something that sounded suspiciously like a ‘wow,’ but Victor was unimpressed by the first impression.

Somehow, he expected more. Franklin was heavy, ruddy-faced and panting for breath as he limped his way toward them. Hardly the god history had made him out to be.

Austin’s face fell. “Taken, sir.”

Franklin seemed shaken by the news but gathered himself and nodded his thanks. He started back slowly toward his chateau.

“But that is not all, sir,” Austin said. “I have greater news than that. General Burgoyne has been defeated at Saratoga.”

Franklin’s face lit at the news.

“He and his entire army are prisoners.”

Franklin barked out a joyful laugh. “How many?”

“Six thousand men, sir.”

“Six thousand!” Franklin repeated and clapped one of his fellows on the back. “Did you hear?”

The men who’d joined Franklin outside were nearly as excited by the news as he was. Several begged leave to go to Paris and spread the news.

“That’s Bancroft,” Travers whispered quietly. “Franklin’s secretary. And those two are Silas Deane and Arthur Lee.”

Deane and Lee were the other two members of the American delegation.

Franklin hobbled over to Austin and waved to his servant. “Champagne for this man who brings such glorious news!”
 

He held out his hand. “You are?”

“Austin, sir. Jonathan Austin, your servant, sir.”

Franklin grinned. “And your friends?”

“I would not have made it here without them.”

Franklin beamed. “Wonderful. Champagne for everyone! This is indeed a night to celebrate.”

Victor knew that all too well. The news of the American victory at the Battle of Saratoga was a turning point in the war. A cause that seemed lost was now very much in play. The French, who initially resisted officially forming an alliance with the Americans, would be persuaded to do so in just a few days.
 

“Come, come inside!” Franklin urged them.

“Wonderful news, Doctor!” Bancroft said. He put his hand on Franklin’s shoulder as they walked back inside.

Victor and Travers lingered toward the back of the group.

“Remarkable, isn’t he?” Travers said.

Victor hmm’d noncommittally.
 

“Come on, Renaud. Even you must be moved by this.”

Victor stopped at the foot of the steps leading to the front door. “I will be moved when we succeed. Do not forget that there is someone here who will stop at nothing to see this treaty never comes to pass.”

Travers nodded soberly. “And they’re not alone.” He nodded toward Bancroft, the secretary. “Franklin’s closest confidante is a British spy.”

~~~

December 4, 1777 - Passy, France

Travers admired himself in the floor-length mirror and then turned to look at his best side over his shoulder.

“Do you think these stockings make my calves look big?”

Victor rolled his eyes and squinted to read by the candlelight. “Do you not have your own room?”

Travers ignored him and flexed his leg muscle once more in the mirror before shrugging and turning away from it. “I do. And it’s lovely.”

“Then please go enjoy it.” Victor put down the paper he was reading and worked his sore shoulder.

Travers pursed his lips and frowned.

Victor was tired and his body ached. He had no patience for this. “What?”

Travers clasped his hands in front of him and fiddled with his fingers. “I realize that I was not much help earlier today.”

Victor grunted and moved to the sofa where he’d laid out their guns for cleaning and reloading before going to bed.

Travers moved with him and sat down, uninvited. Even Victor’s best glare did nothing to dissuade him.

“And I apologize for that, but I can help. If you’ll let me.”

Victor picked up the larger gun and began to punch out the retaining pins along the barrel.
 

“Not everything we do here will require one of those,” Travers continued. “Hopefully.”

Despite his fatigue and general annoyance, he knew Travers was right. And while he had read the dossier for the mission, Travers wrote it.

Victor continued to disassemble the gun in silence before lifting his heavy eyes toward Travers.
 

“Go on.”

Travers blossomed and sat up a little straighter. “It’s all quite fascinating really. Nearly everyone is a spy.”

“Including our nemesis.”