Stephanie Laurens - The Elusive Bride

Beside him, in her dark cloak worn over a blue carriage gown, Emily looked fetching and feminine. She murmured, “So as far as possible, you and I should do the talking.”

She’d spoken in fluent French. After his years of fighting on the Continent, he, too spoke idiomatic French. Reluctantly, he nodded. “But wherever possible, play the great lady and let Watson speak for you.” Watson was the only other of their party who spoke French well enough to pass. “Mullins has enough to get by with carriage drivers, stable boys, and the like, but unless there’s a real need, we-you, Watson, and I-should shield the others from having to speak. If we can pass for French provincials on our way home, we’re more likely to slip through the cult’s net.”

There would be a net, one spread over the entire city. Marseilles was the port he and any of the other three heading home by routes other than the Cape were most likely to come through. The one point in their favor was that Marseilles was large.

And bustling.

After exchanging last farewells with Dacosta and his crew, their party climbed up to the crowded wharf. They merged with the throng of other passengers disembarking or embarking on the dozens of vessels of all types and nations lining the many wharves.

Without overt hurry, with Emily on Gareth’s arm, they headed along their wharf, making for the nearest way out of the dock area. They all kept their eyes peeled.

It was Jimmy who, head still bandaged, first spotted the enemy. He came up to report to Gareth, “There’s one of them over by that blue warehouse up ahead, but he doesn’t look like he’s seen us.”

Gareth looked, saw the cultist, and nodded. “Good.” He glanced back at the others. “Turn right at the end of this section.”

They walked on a few paces before Emily remarked, “Does it seem to you that he’s not specifically searching for us?”

Gareth nodded. At least one of his prayers had been answered. “I’d hoped that news of our impending arrival and a description of our party wouldn’t reach here before we arrived. From our watcher’s attitude, he’s just scanning the passengers generally, hoping to spot me or one of my comrades.”

“So he doesn’t know that we’re expected, let alone that we’re here, or what our party looks like?”

“No. But that will change, probably by later today.”

Gareth held them to the same brisk but unhurried pace-that of a household departing the docks, intent on getting on with their business-as they turned right, wheeling away from the cultist lurking in the shadows of the blue warehouse’s open door. “We have to assume that by later this afternoon, they’ll be hunting us specifically. We have to find cover-a very good bolt-hole-before then.”

“So we shouldn’t go anywhere near the consulate.”

“No.” The opening of a narrow street lay ahead. He led them to it as if that had been their goal from the first. Turning up the cobbled street, feeling the shadows close around them, the danger of the open docks falling behind, he said, “A small hostelry in some poorer area away from the docks, not too close to, but with good access to, the main coaching inns and the markets-at least for now, that’s what we need.”

Watson located just such a place. A small family-run enterprise tucked away down a street off a tiny local square, the inn was built of old stone and brick, its front door giving off the cobbled street. The street housed a haphazard collection of shops-a bakery, an apothecary, two small taverns, a patisserie, among others-all set between residential buildings of various sorts.

The spot was far enough away from the docks and the central part of the town to be almost wholly French, but this was Marseilles, so Mooktu’s turban and Arnia’s colorful shawls attracted no special attention.

It was mid-morning when Emily followed Watson into the inn’s front room. While Watson went forward to meet the host and arrange for refreshments, Emily glanced around assessingly. Everything-literally every item her glance lit upon-was neat and clean, spic-and-span.

Indeed, much cleaner than any place she’d stayed in since leaving England. The innkeeper, or more likely his wife, was clearly houseproud. As she slid onto one of the bench seats along the wall, Emily realized how accustomed she’d grown to making do with much less in the way of accommodation.

Gareth came to join her. The others hung back, sidling toward other tables further back-instinctively reinstating the division between master and servants-but Gareth saw and beckoned them to join him and her about the large front table.

He settled beside her, between her and the door, eyes checking their position. He glanced up as Mullins approached. “You can take point.” With his head Gareth indicated the seat closest to the window to the street. “I doubt we need to set a watch just yet, but if anyone should look in, you’re least likely to be recognized.”

Mullins nodded and sat. The others settled around the table.

“We still need to think of things like that, don’t we?” Watson asked. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Far from it.” Gareth hesitated, then said, “Indeed, if anything we’re in greater danger now, and as a group will be until we reach England. Once there, colleagues will be waiting. I imagine some of you will be able to stay in a safe house while I ferry the scroll holder to its final destination.”

Her gaze on his face, Emily inwardly snorted. He’d better not be thinking of leaving her behind, tucked away in safety, while he faced danger alone.

The innkeeper bustled out from the kitchen with trays bearing coffee, a pot of hot chocolate, and sumptuous pastries. They all waited while he served. Her mouth watering, Emily beamed and, with Gareth, thanked him.

Once the innkeeper had retired behind the counter at the back of the room, Gareth glanced around the table at the now familiar faces, then went on, “We have the next few hours to consider our options and make our plans. The closer we get to England, the more desperate our pursuers will grow. We need to decide how we’re going to tackle the journey from here to the Channel-how best to clear the hurdles the cult is sure to place in our path.”

He paused. All the others were listening intently. “We have two options at this point, and we need to choose which one to take.” He glanced around. “I could make the decision-as I generally do-but in this case, we all need to decide together, because whatever comes of that decision will be something we all have to face. We’re all in this together.”

No one argued. He went on, “We could flee the town now-hire the first two carriages we find and head north at a run before the cultists here in France even know we’ve landed. That’s our first option and it has a certain attraction. However, if we do that, we won’t have time to find coachmen willing and able to help us, to fight on our side if need be, nor will we be able to acquire any of the supplies we will need for the journey-we’d need to rely on stoppping in smaller towns and being able to find what we need there.” He paused, then added, “All of us with pistols are low on powder and shot, and now we’re back in Europe, we have to assume any men the cultists hire will use firearms, so from here on, we’re much more likely to need our own.”

Stirring his coffee, Watson nodded. “In addition to that, from here, there’s really only one route-one halfway fast and direct route-we can take to the Channel ports. If we’re in danger, then we can’t afford to dally, yet once on that road, we’ll be easy to track, easy to find.”

Grimly, Gareth nodded. “Precisely. Either way, whether we flee now, or seize the cover of being in a town as crowded with people of all races as Marseilles to first make proper preparations, once we’re on the road north, the cult will quickly pick up our trail.”

They discussed it-how much they could foresee, what preparations they might make before leaving Marseilles that would help them evade subsequent capture and speed their journey north. Mooktu pointed out that, while they would be easier to track once on the road, in the French countryside the cultists themselves would be much more visible.

When the coffee and cakes were gone and the discussion wound down, Gareth called a vote. To his relief, the decision was unanimous. They would remain in Marseilles until they were ready to make a dash for the Channel coast.

25th November, 1822

Evening

A comfortable room in a tiny inn in Marseilles