Page 57 of The Count’s Charade

Henri’s eyes met hers in a swift smile of reassurance, and then he was turning to the officials. “Messieurs, it does not need that you trouble any longer Mademoiselle Grâce. I am ready to go with you.”

The table across which authority confronted Henri was situated in a private parlour at the Black Horse inn. He had no illusions, for he knew that the excise officer’s men were stationed to recapture him, one outside the locked door, the other beneath the casement window, in the unlikely event he managed to effect an escape under the eyes of the determined officials who had arrested him. They were stationed in chairs against the wall, one either side of the magistrate who had been to see Grace the day before.

He had not the slightest intention of escaping, as he had informed Sir James Levisham when that gentleman had warned him of these bars to an unplanned exit. He concentrated his attention on the man who must prove, he supposed, both judge and jury. Those who had brought him here were clearly of less account.

He had made the journey to the Black Horse mounted behind the farmer Mayberry, the excise officer ranged alongside, both horses moving at a walk, and escorted by the five men who had surrounded the house. Henri had not known whether this elaborate display was for his detention or protection, though there had been no sign of his countrymen along the way.

Mayberry, a very English type, he had briefly encountered before. He was disposed to be friendly to Grace and therefore to be regarded with favour. Wooferton, on the other hand, looked to be a man hardened by circumstance to steer clear of sentiment. Henri had seen many wear that look in France, had used it himself upon occasion.

As for Sir James, who conducted the interrogation, he was a character easily read. A man wholly of the English breed, at ease — unlike his French counterparts — with his fellows, no matter their station. Even an avowed revolutionary of a regime that must disgust him. He would show no prejudice, likely did not feel it. Henri knew the type from his lengthy sojourn in this country as a young man — in another era, bon dieu! — when all that had been expected of him was to mingle in society and acquire the language. He had learned enough of Englishmen of the stamp of Sir James to know there would be justice, could Henri but feel his way into revealing matters in a fashion that might balance his accounts. Difficult, but not impossible.

The magistrate had greeted him pleasantly, asked after his wound and offered him refreshment, before proceeding to take down his personal details on the parchment before him. Henri had been wary. If Sir James thought he could be either softened or rattled into saying aught before he wished, the magistrate had much to learn of him. One did not survive the pitfalls of the Revolutionary Government without strengthening one’s nerve.

“Well, now, M’sieur Rousselle,” began Sir James, once the preliminaries were completed, “it falls to me to ascertain what brings you to England.”

Henri sipped at the wine with which he had been provided. “What is it that brings any Frenchman to England in these times, m’sieur?”

The other eyed him in a manner as bland as it was inscrutable. “In the normal course of events, sir, I dare say we should not question it. However, in light of your injury, and the evidence of those persons who are in pursuit of you, it is difficult to expect us to accept you as an émigré.”

“That is seen,” agreed Henri.

“Who shot you?” barked Sir James abruptly.

“You do not know?”

“I mislike your tone, m’sieur.”

“And I, m’sieur, do not like your question.”

Sir James sat back. “Why, sir? Seems to me perfectly reasonable.”

Henri smiled. “For you, perhaps.” He set down his glass and leaned forward in his chair. “It is for me not easy to answer you, Sir James, for that I do not know what has been told to you. You have had speech with my countrymen.”

“What of it?” The magistrate was frowning now.

A derisive laugh escaped Henri. “What is not of it, m’sieur? It is my word, or it is the word of my countrymen, voilà tout.”

Sir James was nodding. He glanced back to the officials either side. “He has a point. Who do we believe, when all is said and done?”

“Well, sir,” ventured Mayberry, “them Frenchies had got a paper on ’em.”

“True. Have you any papers, M’sieur Rousselle?”

Henri was silent. He had no intention of bringing his papers into this, not as yet. When and if he felt it expedient, it would be necessary to ask Sir James to send to Grace. He wished to avoid that as long as possible. Let him first note which way the wind was blowing. The last thing he wanted was to expose her to more distress and to false hopes. The expression in her eyes as they parted haunted him.

“He didn’t have any papers on him, Sir James,” said Wooferton, “for we searched him before we took him out at Miss Grace’s place.”

“Did you search the house too?”

“I went over his chamber,” Mayberry offered, “only I didn’t like to hunt elsewhere particular, seeing as Miss Grace were tedious ill-tempered already.”

To Henri’s relief, Sir James did not pursue it. “No matter. I will speak to Grace myself in due course. If anything is hidden at Wonts, I shall find it, never fear.”

Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Henri let him see his satisfaction. This man knew Grace very little, if he supposed she would give up the documents to him for the asking. Nor was there the slightest chance of any of his men finding that cunning little cache were they to search the house from top to bottom.

But Sir James’s next tactic was less than welcome. “I hadn’t intended to do this quite yet, M’sieur Rousselle, but your attitude leaves me with no alternative. Wooferton, go and fetch M’sieur Loriot, if you please.”

A confrontation with Jean-Marc? In public, too. Thinking furiously, Henri looked for a way to turn it to good account. He watched the excise officer unlock the door and leave the room, and turned to the magistrate. “You have a reason. Will you tell me what you desire from this?”