“What in the devil? . . .”

Two people had been tied to the mast, by the simple expedient of looping a rope around them again and again and again. One woman and one small boy.

“The devil, indeed,” Lord Richard agreed. “But a very obliging one. There’s no need to search for what’s been placed in plain sight.”

Daubier appropriated Stiles’s spyglass, shaking it open with his good hand. “Where is that Delaroche?”

“Somewhere nearby, unless I miss my guess,” responded Lord Richard. “Lurking. He’ll be waiting for you to make your appearance.”

“There’s an hour to midnight yet,” said André shortly, appropriating the glass from Daubier.

Even at this range, there was no mistaking the fury in Jeannette’s face. Someone had stuffed a gag in her mouth. Jeannette’s eyes bulged out angrily over the wide strip of striped cloth. It was the largest gag André had ever seen, and during his time at the Prefecture, he had seen quite a few. Someone was taking no chances. Having been on the wrong side of a few of Jeannette’s tongue-lashings, André could well imagine why.

Pierre-André, on the other hand, was fettered but unmuzzled. He appeared to be carrying on a spirited conversation with a sailor who had hunkered down next to him. From the way the man was pointing at various bits of rope, he was either threatening Pierre-André with hanging from the yardarm or explaining the intricacies of rigging. From the man’s relaxed posture, it looked like the latter.

No torture, then. At least, not yet.

André didn’t want to think about what Delaroche had planned for midnight.

“He’s made it harder for us,” André said abruptly. “By placing them in plain sight, he makes it impossible for us to creep up unseen.”

“There are twelve of them and five of us,” said Lord Richard. “I’d say good odds, wouldn’t you?”

There were times when that aristocratic, sporting attitude could be a damned nuisance. André would have preferred a bit of bourgeois common sense.

“Thirteen, if we count Delaroche,” André reminded him. “And we don’t know how many more men Delaroche has belowdecks.”

“Sure, an’ it be an ill omen, Cap’n,” contributed Stiles, tugging at his earring. “For thirteen ha’ e’er been a number that brings men to their doom.”

“Your accent is slipping,” said Lord Richard calmly. “Slight change of plan. Pete, set the fire right in front of the opening to the hold. It will draw the men away from the mast and delay anyone trying to come up from below. Stiles, I need you to open the hold. As the men come running, you might want to, er, help them along. We’ll soon thin their numbers.”

“What about me?” asked Daubier.

Lord Richard refrained from looking at Daubier’s malformed hand. “I need you to free the boy and his nurse. They know you, so they won’t kick up a fuss. Get them into the dinghy. Jaouen and I will cover your retreat.”

For a moment, Daubier looked like he might argue, then he caught André’s eye and subsided. He nodded at Lord Richard’s sword. “Give Monsieur Delaroche a good scratch for me, will you? Make it a painful one.”

“My pleasure,” said Lord Richard. “I still owe him for a memorable evening in his extra-special interrogation chamber.” He checked his pocket watch, then looked to the pier. “Ah, there go the ropes. Good lads!”

As the Cauchemar began to gently drift, Pete fastened the dinghy to the side of the ship. Lord Richard picked his men well. He scaled the wall silently, the large bowl of greasy rags clamped beneath one arm. Stiles followed, parrot bobbing.

A rope ladder flopped down in Stiles’s wake. A nice touch. It would be easier for Jeannette and Pierre-André than jumping. For that matter, it made it easier for the rest of them to climb up. André’s had been a desk job. Gymnastic feats weren’t in his line.

“Wait for it,” Lord Richard murmured. “One, two . . .”

“Fire!” shouted someone. There was the sound of pounding feet on deck.

Lord Richard swung onto the rope ladder. He was up and over the side in an instant. André followed suit, somewhat more clumsily but no less speedily, hoisting himself over the edge to find the deck engulfed in black smoke. From the thuds and yelps, Stiles was doing his job when it came to helping the crew into the hold. Holding a fold of his too-large doublet over his mouth, André elbowed his way through to the mast.

“Hang on!” he ordered Jeannette.

She narrowed her eyes in a way that would have been a sarcastic comment if she were able to make one.

The ropes holding them had been tied with a particularly complex nautical knot. It would probably be easy enough to disassemble if one had the training on a ship. André didn’t. Drawing his knife from his belt, André began slashing at the rope. If he could get one strand free, he could release the whole.

Pierre-André began to wiggle, making the task even harder. Someone grabbed André’s shoulder, hard. Without thinking, acting on pure reflex, André rammed his elbow sideways, harder. He heard a choking noise as his assailant doubled over, coughing.

He could hear the whisk of steel as Lord Richard drew his sword from its sheath, driving the remainder of the crew back with the point of the sword. There was a splash as Pete helped a sailor off the edge of the boat, then the vague sound of groaning from the hold.

Two strands snapped, then a third.

“Here!” Daubier came up on André’s other side, dodging just in time to avoid being kicked. “Let me see that knot.”

“I’ve got it,” said André, and the last bit of hemp came loose.

With his good hand, Daubier grasped the rope, unlooping it as quickly as it would go.

“Mmmph!” said Jeannette.

André plucked at the knot at the back of her gag. He was going to regret this, he knew. As Daubier freed Pierre-André and Jeannette, André yanked the cloth free. Jeannette drew in a deep breath, choking on the smoky air.

“Took you long enough,” she gasped. “My tongue was going numb.”

“Papa!” With less of him to free, Pierre-André shrugged out of the remains of the rope and flung his arms around André’s waist.

André gave his son a quick hug. “There’s a rope ladder just there, leading to a boat. Do you think you can climb down it?”

Pierre-André nodded, coughing. His eyes were red and watering from the smoke.

There was one last loud splash and Lord Richard appeared beside them. “That’s the last of them. No sign of Delaroche.”

“None?” André’s hand tightened on Pierre-André’s shoulder.

Someone, most likely Pete, tossed a blanket over the fire, abruptly curtailing the smoke.

“Not a whiff of him. And those were sailors, not soldiers,” said Lord Richard grimly. “Something smells wrong.”

“It was too easy,” André agreed.

Delaroche wouldn’t have left his hostages virtually unguarded. Unless, that was, he had another goal.

André turned rapidly towards Jeannette. “Where did he go? The man who brought you here?”

“You mean after he tied us to that thing?” Jeannette was not in a good humor. “And a fine lot of good you were, leaving us here for hours on end, and the little one like to take a chill.”

“Delaroche?” André prompted her.

“Him.” Jeannette’s lips pursed as though she tasted something nasty. “He strapped us up here and then went off to visit his beloved. Courting, I ask you! On a night like this!”

Lord Richard’s “His what?” clashed with André’s “Beloved?”

“That’s what he said,” said Jeannette stridently. “That’s where he went. To visit his bien aimée.”

Chapter 33

All was quiet on the Bien-Aimée.

Too quiet. There was nothing but the gentle slap of waves against the keel of the boat as the Bien-Aimée rocked in her berth, the soft susurration of pages as Gabrielle thumbed through her book, the creak of fabric on wood as de Berry settled more comfortably into his chair. If she tried very hard, Laura could make out the sound of conversation on deck, but it was only a muted burr. The cabin of the Bien-Aimée might as well have been wrapped up in cotton wool, well buffered against the world.

There were only the three of them left on Lord Richard’s boat—Laura, Gabrielle, de Berry—and four of the crew, all posted on deck, keeping watch and doing whatever it was that crews were meant to do. Swabbing? Laura had no idea and even less interest.

Gabrielle turned another page of her book, paper whispering against paper. The sound made Laura twitchy, like the trail of phantom fingers down her arms. Her costume, gritty with dirt and dried sweat after multiple performances, itched and chafed at her. She wanted to shout, to stomp, to fling something just to hear it break.

If she made enough noise, she might be able to drown out the sound of André’s voice, saying over and over, “Miss Grey?” and “Mission?”

Laura paced towards the bookcase, pretending an interest in titles in which she had no interest at all. Even pacing provided little solace. Lord Richard’s cabin on the Bien-Aimée was sumptuously decorated with heavy, dark furniture and rich fabrics. The Axminster carpet on the floor—entirely impractical for a seagoing vessel—blunted the slap of Laura’s footfalls, muting her movements into nothing more than a prolonged murmur, like someone whispering hush.

Laura didn’t want to hush. She wanted to stamp her feet and hear the echo of it. She wanted to argue with someone, anyone. It was infuriating to be left alone with nothing but the tribunal of one’s own thoughts and a host of inchoate fears, some practical, some absurd.