Page 26 of The Count’s Charade

“But we have searched all these marsh and do not find him,” objected Loriot.

“He’s had the best part of a week, man. Even as he’s wounded, it ain’t likely he’ll have hung about here.”

There were murmurs among the Frenchmen, and Grace thought she recognised the tone of disappointment. Their leader turned back to Mayberry. “You can direct us to this Dagenham?”

“Aye, but you ain’t going nowhere afore you done the necessary. Nor I ain’t giving you no information until you seen Wooferton. It’s him as deals with foreigners, and he’ll be wanting to check your papers afore he give you any help nor lets you go questioning of folk hereabouts. Now, just you come along o’ me, sir.”

The Frenchman hesitated, glancing frowningly at Grace — who had been holding her desperate breath the while — and beyond her to the unyielding windows of the house. A colloquy in his own language with his companions resulted, to Grace’s dismay, in one returning to the grass verge to sit down again. Mayberry threw a harassed glance at Grace, but she gave no sign. To pretend umbrage would only deepen Loriot’s suspicions. Contenting herself with a haughty glance of loathing cast at the fellow, she retreated to the porch and watched as Mayberry turned away in the direction of Rainham Marsh, Loriot and his second falling into step beside him. Her stomach was churning, for it was clear Loriot did not believe Henri had left. Or if he did, perhaps he was determined to ensure he did not return.

Henri was waiting for her by the time Grace arrived at the top of the stairs. She took her time, determined not to betray her movements to the sentry on the other side of the lane. With infinite care, she picked up her booted foot and set it down as gently as she could, transferring her weight before she took another step up. She was concentrating so hard that she reached the final couple of steps before she saw Henri standing above her, half dressed, his full-sleeved shirt freshly white from Jemima’s laundering, bar a stubborn brown stain at the left shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she scolded. “That wretch outside may see you!”

Henri was holding the banister rail with his good hand for support. “If I move in sight of the window only.”

Grace gave him a tremulous look. “You heard me. I was trying to be so quiet.”

“You were like a mouse,” he assured her, smiling.

Only then did Grace recall his condition. “Henri, you should be on your bed.”

“With the enemy on the gate? I do not think so.”

Hushing him, Grace motioned him into the chamber. “For heaven’s sake, go and sit down again! I cannot bear it if you fall and alert that horrid man outside.”

But it was rather Grace herself, forgetting her boot in concern over her patient, who was like to give them away. She clunked twice before she remembered, bringing Henri’s head around the door again. He was grinning at her.

“I wish you will not look so mischievous,” scolded Grace, stopping dead. “Anyone would suppose you were enjoying this.”

“I am enjoying you,” he said softly.

A surge of warmth threw Grace into disarray. She lowered her gaze, pretending to concentrate upon the careful steps that must make no sound. It was inordinately difficult to do without the help of the banister rail, and she was obliged to support herself against the wall. And then Henri’s free hand was at her elbow, grasping it strongly. Grace took the last couple of steps into the room and sank on to the bed.

She watched as Henri arranged himself at the bedhead, drawing up one shapely leg encased in a dark stocking and breeches, and leaning back against the pillows. He winced a little as he drew the left arm, supported by a sling Reuben had fashioned for him from remnants of the torn sheet, close in to his body.

“Is it still very painful?”

“Only if I move much.”

Grace regarded the handsome features, and caught the green eyes watching her gravely. Her heart lurched, and she hurried into speech, blurting out the immediate thought in her mind.

“I should not have stopped you last night. If you’d gone, that dratted man would be guarding the place in vain.”

“Augustin? He will grow tired of watching out for me.”

“Is that his name? The only one who talked called himself Loriot.” She saw Henri’s jaw tighten. Was he, then, the enemy?

“Jean-Marc.” There was bitterness in the tone.

“Who is he, Henri?”

“Once he was my friend, as they all were. Not so much Augustin. But the others, Jean-Marc Loriot, and Etienne Daudet.”

Grace watched his gaze darken, and her pulse skipped a beat. “Do you know which of them shot you?”

Henri was unaware that his lip curled. Which one? There could be only one. Neither Etienne nor Augustin would have acted without his sanction. Nor could a pistol in either hand have found so close a mark in the darkness.

“Jean-Marc. He is very good with a pistol. If it was in the day that he shot me, I am dead immédiatement.” He saw the colour drain from Grace’s cheeks, and reached out his good hand to her. She clutched at his fingers, and he drew her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. “Grâce à Grâce, I am alive!”