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‘Or be arrested yourself,’ he added.
‘No.’
They reached the door, which was flung open by Hortense. ‘Lissie, I have been so worried about you. You have been so long gone. I should not have let you go alone. Anything could have happened to you.’ She glared at Jay as if her anxiety were all his fault.
‘I have been perfectly safe with Sir John and Monsieur Drymore,’ Lisette said. ‘We have been talking of ways and means to free my father.’ She turned to Jay. ‘Hortense is my maid and she worries about me. I thank you for your escort, monsieur. I bid you bonsoir until tomorrow.’
She held out her hand to him; he took it and bowed over it. ‘Your servant, mademoiselle. I will be here at ten o’clock.’
He turned and left them. He did not look back, but heard the door shut behind him. The flame in the torch flickered and died, leaving the drive and the ghostly tree in darkness.
Striding along the country road back towards Honfleur, he mused about the task he had been set and the woman who asked it of him. She was not what he would call womanly; she was too tall and thin for a start, her features a little too sharp, but her blue-grey eyes revealed intelligence and a stubbornness which might cause problems. He smiled to himself, anticipating squalls. So be it, he was used to squalls and having his commands obeyed.
But could you issue commands to a woman? He knew from sad experience how difficult that could be. Marianne had objected to simple requests, to pleas to think of her children, to consider the consequences of her wilfulness, by simply laughing and going her own way, with tragic results. When she died, it was left to him to tell Edward and Anne, who had loved their mother and knew nothing of the secret and not-so-secret life she led. Naturally he could not say anything of that and they had been broken-hearted at her loss.
Comforting the children and pretending all had been well between him and their mother had been difficult and accomplished only with an effort of will that left him dour and uncompromising—he would not put them or himself through such an experience again. Lisette Giradet had brought the memories back with her questioning and he had found himself resenting it. He shook his ill humour from him; better to concentrate on the task in hand.
Instead of going back to his grandfather’s villa, he went to one of the town’s hostelries where he had arranged to meet Sam. It was a squalid place, low-ceilinged and dingy, but it had the advantage of being very close to the prison. Sam, who had spent the day exploring, was already there, sitting in a corner with two men in the blue uniform of the National Guard, who were apparently enjoying his hospitality. They had several empty bottles in front of them and were drinking cider from tumblers.
‘Ah, here is my friend, James Smith,’ Sam said in excruciating French, using the alias they had decided upon. ‘Jimmy, this is Monsieur Bullard and Monsieur Cartel.’
Jay shook their hands and sat down, pulling a tumbler towards him and pouring himself some cider. He took a mouthful, made a face of distaste and spat it out on the floor. ‘No better than vinegar,’ he said. ‘Sam, my friend, couldn’t you find anything better than this to give our friends?’
‘’Tis all this Godforsaken place had,’ Sam said in English, then added under his breath, ‘They are prison guards.’
‘What did you say?’ Bullard demanded. He was the bigger of the two men and he had a very red face and broken teeth. ‘Speak French, why don’t you.’
‘I am afraid my friend’s language skills are not up to it,’ Jay explained. ‘But I will translate. He is sorry that the Black Horse does not have anything better to offer you.’
‘It is good enough. Who are you to find fault with our cider? And how did two Englishmen come to be here?’
Jay laughed. ‘Trade, my friends, trade. I buy good Calvados to take home.’
‘Smugglers,’ Cartel said, laughing. ‘Even in these times it still goes on.’
‘Yes, more so in these times, when legitimate trade is difficult,’ Jay agreed. ‘How else are we to drink the good French brandy we are accustomed to? But I will not be taking any of this rotgut back home. I can get much better at the Château Giradet.’
‘Château Giradet! Why there?’
‘I am told it makes the best Calvados in the area and Comte Giradet will sell it to me cheap.’
‘What do you know of Comte Giradet?’
‘Nothing. He was from home when I called there. I spoke to his daughter, who told me he was locked up.’
‘Locked up!’ Both Frenchmen laughed uproariously. ‘Yes, he’s locked up and like to hang when Henri Canard has done with him.’
