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He laughed. ‘France is not at war with England, only with those who interfere in her internal affairs, people like your husband.’
‘If you know so much, why do you need me?’
‘Because there are others besides Drymore at work. Not only will they not stop at saving a few aristo heads, but even more importantly they will be taking thousands of gold coin and precious jewels out of the country, wealth it can ill afford to lose. There is a strong belief in the Department of Justice that these men mean to free Louis and the rest of the royal family. Evidence has been uncovered, letters found in a chest hidden behind panelling in the royal apartments in the Tuileries Palace, which point to counter-revolution and an attempt to regain the throne. If they are published there will be a hue and cry among the populace that will outdo any previous riots and massacres. Thousands will die. The French Government is naturally anxious to avoid that.’
‘What is that to do with you?’
‘Any involvement of British subjects in the conspiracy is bound to have diplomatic consequences. It might mean war. I, as a loyal subject of King George, wish to prevent that at all costs and if it means the sacrifice of a few English lives, then it will be worth it.’
He sounded so convincing she found herself wondering how much truth there was in what he was saying. If it were true, it made the rescue of Michel insignificant compared to the wider issues. Did Jay know this? Did Lord Portman? Was that why his lordship had come to Paris, nothing to do with Michel?
‘I do not see what this has to do with me or my husband,’ she said, trying hard to sound cool, though she was shaking and wished fervently her visitor would go away and allow her to think.
‘It has everything to do with him. Why do you think the British Government has sent an envoy to Paris so soon after the Ambassador left, if not to oversee a conspiracy to undermine the elected government of France, something the Ambassador could not condone?’ He stood up suddenly. ‘I will leave you to think about it, but do not take too long. I will meet you in the foyer of the Palais de Justice tomorrow at noon. Bring me the names Monsieur Robespierre wants and your brother could be free by tomorrow evening. If not, Henri Canard will have his way.’
He bowed, replaced his hat on his head and left her. She heard him speak to Madame Gilbert and then the front door slamming. Only then did her taut muscles relax and she sank forwards on the sofa with her head in her hands. She was being torn apart—Jay or Michel? Michel or Jay? If Mr Wentworth had been right about the conspiracy to stage a counter-revolution, then the sacrifice of two or three lives might be considered justifiable compared to the saving of thousands. But if the two or three were people she knew and respected and, in the case of Jay, had learned to love, what then? It was like a refrain going round and round in her head, driving her insane.
It was late when at last Jay and Sam came back. She heard Jay bid Sam goodnight and then he joined her. It was immediately obvious he was stiff with cold and suffering from sore feet. He hobbled to a chair and flung himself into it. ‘I have never walked so far in my life,’ he said. ‘Harry must have legs of steel. I do not think there is a corner of Paris we have not explored and some of it extremely noisome.’
She had been waiting to have the whole matter out with him, to demand answers, to be told the truth, not only about his mission to France and how it affected Michel, but what Lord Portman’s presence really meant, and most of all, the exact nature of his enmity with Gerald Wentworth. It was not fear of his temper that made her hold back, but an overwhelming feeling of tenderness towards him. He had been wounded freeing her father; she and Papa owed their lives to him, she ought not to forget that. And even now, he suffered on her behalf. How could she betray him? How could she tell him about the blackmail, for blackmail it was, and give him something else to worry about?
She bent to pull off his shoes. They were old ones in keeping with the lowly garb he wore and the soles had worn right through. No wonder he had sore feet.
‘Lisette, you should not be doing that,’ he murmured. ‘I will go up to my room by and by and make myself respectable.’
‘No, stay there.’
She went to the kitchen to fetch a bowl of warm water, a towel and, after a search of the kitchen cupboards, some salve and soft muslin to make a bandage. When she came back he had fallen asleep. Gently she knelt and removed his ragged stockings and put his feet into the water. He did not stir. She looked up into his face; his eyes were shut as if asleep. Carefully she bathed and dried his feet, then applied some of the ointment and bandaged them. She could not put his stockings back on, they were full of holes and covered in blood and mud. Still on the floor, she sat back and surveyed him.
