The Orchid Affair

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.

Her brain was crawling with might-have-beens, as irritating as lice in one’s scalp—crawling, biting, itching, impossible to claw out. If only she had kept closer watch on Pierre-André; if only she had jumped off the stage and tackled Delaroche when first she spotted him; if only she had told André who and what she was rather than waiting to let him find it out at the worst possible time from the worst possible person.

It wasn’t my secret to tell, she defended herself to an invisible André. It wasn’t anything to do with you.

That was another thing. It wasn’t as though André had confided in her out of choice. It was circumstance on his side, not moral high ground. If Daubier hadn’t been discovered, they would have gone on just as they were, she playing the governess, André playing his double game, neither the wiser.

Of course, then, they hadn’t been sharing a bed.

Laura stared at her own reflection in the glass of the bookshelves and wondered, resentfully, why that was meant to change anything. Whores gave their bodies to multiple men multiple times a day—or so she had been told. Did that mean they were meant to give their trust where they gave their bodies? Did giving one’s body necessarily mean giving of oneself?

Everything for love, that had been her mother’s motto. Nothing held back, nothing denied. All body, all soul, all mind, all heart.

That wasn’t love; it was willful self-destruction.

That, her mother would have claimed, was love. To fling oneself on the pyre of passion, rising phoenix-like from the ashes—scoured, purified, reborn.

But what if one doesn’t rise again? Laura had argued, sixteen years old and stubborn. What if one simply burns?

Her mother had no answer for her. Neither did her shadow image in the bookshelf.

Laura turned away from the glass. It was terrifying, this notion of tearing chunks off one’s soul and handing them over to another for safekeeping. It had been easier not to tell André the truth, to keep her own counsel the way one might keep a packed portmanteau, always ready to pick up and move on at a moment’s notice, settling nowhere, trusting no one.

If one never got attached, one never got hurt.

Next to her, Gabrielle sat curled up in a wide-armed chair, reading. As Laura paced past, Gabrielle glanced up from her book.

“What time is it?”

Laura consulted the watch pinned to her breast. “Five past eleven.”

Gabrielle nodded and went back to her book—Laura peeked sideways at the lettering on the spine—Voltaire’s Candide. All for the best in the best of all possible worlds.

It was twenty minutes now since André had left with Lord Richard and Daubier. Only twenty minutes. It felt like months.

Laura’s skirt dragged against her legs as she paced. She kicked it out of the way. She was still dressed as Ruffiana, although bits of her costume had gone missing along the way. Her cap was somewhere backstage, her petticoats discarded. Without them, her skirts hung too long, despite her attempts to kirtle them up. The stomacher pressed uncomfortably against her ribs, heavy with embroidery, thick enough to repel a bullet.

Perhaps she ought to have offered the stomacher to André, presented it to him as armor. The doublet he wore as Il Capitano was a flimsy thing, the shoddiest of secondhand silks.

Laura wished Lord Richard had let her go with them. She might not have extensive combat training, but she could point a pistol and pull the trigger, or use the proper end of a pointy bit of steel if it came down to it. Yes, yes, she knew there were refinements to such things, but she doubted Delaroche’s men were going to be judging her on the niceties of her fencing, and when it came down to it, an extra pair of arms was an extra pair of arms.

Five against however many Delaroche might have mustered wasn’t exactly good odds, especially when it was such a five. For all his determination, André’s chosen weapon was the pen rather than the sword. He was a petit bourgeois, not a gentleman born. Fencing and marksmanship were a gentleman’s occupations, not the province of a provincial lawyer. Then there was Daubier, who couldn’t even wield his brush anymore, much less a sword. They were five, against goodness only knew how many, with only one real swordsman in the lot of them.

“You’ll wear a hole in the carpet,” de Berry said lazily, nearly tripping her as he kicked out his heels in front of her. “Do sit down, Miss Grey.” And then, with what Laura recognized as royal condescension, “Care for a hand of cards?”

“No,” said Laura shortly. “Thank you. Your Highness.”

Gabrielle looked up from her book. “What time is it?”

“Must you keep asking?” Laura snapped, and instantly regretted it. “I’m sorry. I’m just a bit . . . on edge. They’ll get Pierre-André back, you know. Lord Richard is an expert at this sort of thing.”

Lord Richard had been an expert at this sort of thing. He had been retired for more than a year now, running a training camp in Sussex. To teach and to do were two different things. No one knew that better than Laura. What if his skills had grown rusty with disuse? What if he had miscalculated?

“They’ll be back before we know it,” said Laura, too loudly.

Gabrielle closed her book over one finger, the instinctive gesture of the perpetual reader. Her brows came down over her nose, making her look very like her father. Her eyes were that same peculiar shade of bright blue.

“What happens if they don’t come back?” Gabrielle did her best to keep her voice nonchalant, but there was a bit of a wobble in it.

Laura looked at Gabrielle, really looked at her for the first time in days. From the paintings, she had been a pretty baby and would likely be an attractive woman someday, but she wasn’t a prepossessing child. Her face was too round and her brows were too thick and her hair had frizzed in the rain. Her shoulders were hunched, her expression guarded.

It wasn’t just her father Gabrielle had to worry about; it was her whole world, the only people left to her. Her father, her brother, Jeannette, even Daubier—all of them were in Delaroche’s power.

“If they don’t come back, you’ll have to come to England with me,” Laura said levelly. “I know I’m not your first choice, but we’ll muddle along somehow. You won’t be left to fend for yourself.”

Nine was too young for that. Sixteen had been too young for that.

Before either could say anything else, there was the sound of heavy footfalls on deck.

Gabrielle dropped her book and scrambled out of her chair. “They’re back!”

“It’s too soon—,” Laura began, but Gabrielle was already at the door, wrenching it open.

There was a man in the doorway, but it wasn’t the right one. He wore a rusty black coat and a hat too high to fit through the door frame.

He doffed it at the sight of Gabrielle. “Mademoiselle Jaouen. We meet again.”

Gabrielle instinctively tried to close the door, but she was too slow. Delaroche caught it on the point of what Laura very strongly suspected was a sword cane. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mademoiselle Jaouen,” he said, sounding as though he rather hoped she might try. “Terrible things happen to those who attempt to thwart the will of Gaston Delaroche.”

The deck of the Bien-Aimée was deserted as the overburdened dinghy drew up alongside. There was no sign of the men Lord Richard had left on board. The lanterns that had been burning on deck before had been either shuttered or extinguished.

There was, however, a boat attached to the stern that hadn’t been there before.

“This is not good,” murmured Lord Richard.

André didn’t need to voice the words. He felt them in his bones. He looked at Pierre-André curled up on Jeannette’s lap, and felt a surge of terror for Gabrielle.

At least she had Laura with her. Laura was resourceful. Laura would—

Laura wasn’t Laura.

André nodded to Lord Richard. “Look. Over there. In the cabin.”

The rest of the boat was dark, but the cabin was still brightly lit. Through the window, André could see a man in a dark coat elbowing his way into the room, closely followed by several others. It was hard from that angle to see how many there were. The general impression was that there were a lot. Delaroche was taking no chances.

“He has all his men in there,” said Lord Richard with professional disapproval. “That’s just poor tactics.”

“Or good sense,” countered André. “He can pick us off one by one as we try to get through the door. We have to find another way.”

Or not. The boat rocked as André leaned instinctively forward. Delaroche’s henchmen had their guns pointed on his daughter. Oh, to be able to fly. He was too far away to get to her in time, too far away to do anything.

As he watched, useless, Laura grabbed Gabrielle, using her own body as a shield between his daughter and Delaroche.

Lord Richard looked thoughtful. “Unless we go through the window . . .”

They’d wasted enough time. “Good enough,” said André, grabbing the rope on the side of the ship. “Jeannette and Pierre-André, you stay in the dinghy until we give the all-clear. Daubier and I will take the door; you, Stiles and Pete take the window. We’ll catch them in a pincer.”

“Jaouen?” André looked back down. His old adversary, the Purple Gentian, raised a hand to him in salute. “Good luck.”

Delaroche hadn’t come alone.

There were men behind him, four of them, all of the large and hulking variety. All were holding pistols. And they were trained on the little girl in the doorway.

“Where are they?” Gabrielle demanded, her voice high-pitched with anger and fear. “What did you do to them?”

Laura yanked Gabrielle aside, pushing the girl behind her. “Aren’t you on the wrong boat, Monsieur? I thought your taste tended more towards nightmares.”

The men Lord Richard had left on deck must have been dispatched by Delaroche’s guards. It wouldn’t have been much of a contest, four against two, with the two taken by surprise.

Delaroche permitted himself a satisfied chuckle. “No, Mademoiselle. This nightmare is all Jaouen’s. He allowed his concern for the boy to blind him to the too obvious ramifications of his actions. It is,” Delaroche said contemptuously, “the sort of mistake one would expect of a man who allows himself to be ruled by his emotions.”

“Or,” countered Laura, “the obligation of a father.”

She maintained her stance in front of Delaroche, blocking his path to Gabrielle and de Berry. Weapons . . . weapons.... What did they have by way of weapons? De Berry, still in his theatrical garb, was unarmed save for a paper sword. One of the disadvantages of being on a ship was the lack of a fireplace. There was no convenient poker with which to bash away. The furniture was either too heavy to throw, bolted to the floor, or both.

Could they swim for it? If she opened the window, could de Berry and Gabrielle jump through?

Delaroche shrugged aside the bonds of paternal affection. “A weakness by any other word is still a weakness. As much as I have enjoyed this conversation, Mademoiselle, I would be much obliged if you would remove yourself from my path.”

Laura stayed just where she was. “Do you have a purpose for your presence, or is this a social call?”

“Yes,” chimed in the Duc de Berry. No, no, no, thought Laura, but it was already too late; de Berry was levering himself out of his chair, striding over to look down his Bourbon nose at Gaston Delaroche. “Who in the devil might you be, and what are you doing here?”

Delaroche shoved Laura unceremoniously aside. She staggered a bit, catching at the wall as Delaroche strutted into the room, the guards crowding in after him.

Delaroche snapped his fingers. “Hold them,” he said in bored tones.

Someone grabbed Laura’s arms, pulling them behind her. Laura instinctively tensed to struggle but thought better of it, forcing her body to relax. The grip on her arms was a surprisingly perfunctory one, as if her assailant couldn’t be bothered to put much effort into it. She might need to use that later.

“Gabrielle!” she said sharply, and the little girl stopped twisting and pulling. Laura shook her head. “Not now.”

Ignoring them, Delaroche strolled up to de Berry, secure in the knowledge that, while two of his guards might be occupied, there were still two pistols behind him. “Your Royal Highness, I presume?”

De Berry looked Delaroche up and down, tall and proud, every inch a prince. Good heavens, thought Laura, why didn’t he just hang a sign around his neck saying Guillotine me now?

“Who might you be?” asked de Berry curtly.

“I,” said Delaroche, “am your destiny. I suggest you come quietly, Your Highness, or you will find yourself coming . . . very . . . quietly.” He gestured with his cane. “Do I make myself clear?”

Delaroche didn’t wait for de Berry to respond. He snapped his fingers at his two remaining henchmen. “Bind the Bourbon traitor,” he ordered. “And if he resists . . .” Delaroche’s lips curled. As Gabrielle had noted before, it was a singularly nasty smile. “Kill the girl.”

“Er, which one?” asked one of the thugs, looking from Gabrielle to Laura.

Delaroche clicked his tongue with annoyance. “Must I tell you everything? The small one, you cretin. No one would miss the other.”

“I say,” said de Berry, his nose going red with annoyance. “This is uncivilized.”

“Uncivilized?” Delaroche tilted his head, rolling the word on his tongue. “Or effective? Jean-Marc!”

One of the thugs snapped to.

Delaroche pointed a bony finger at Gabrielle. “Show these people that I mean business.”

Gabrielle began struggling in earnest, twisting and wriggling to free herself, as agile as desperation could make her. Her captor grappled to keep his hold on her, cursing in a thick Norman accent as Gabrielle turned into a frantic, biting, clawing thing.

It was now or never. Laura stamped down hard on her captor’s foot and wrenched out of his grasp.

They could try to fight their way out or . . .

“Stop!” Laura shouted.

Two guns swung in her direction. Her former captor was too busy hopping up and down on one foot, while Gabrielle’s had finally succeeded in wrestling her into a standstill, breathing heavily, a long rip in one sleeve. Blood oozed from a bite on his wrist.

Well done, Gabrielle, thought Laura.

“Stop?” Delaroche repeated in tones of disdain. “You dare to order my men to stop?”

Laura planted both hands on her hips as though she were still playing the shrewish Ruffiana.

“Yes,” she said. “I do. I order you to stop in the name of the Ministry of Police.”

“I am the Ministry of Police,” said Delaroche.

“No,” said Laura confidently. She had to sound confident. If she didn’t, they didn’t have a chance. She narrowed her eyes as far as they would go, giving Delaroche a look of scathing contempt. “You work for the Ministry of Police. And a fine mess you’re making of it, I might add. Fouché isn’t going to like this. At all.”

Delaroche’s henchmen looked confused. So did de Berry, who looked from Delaroche to Laura and back again as though trying to figure out which was most likely to turn into a bat and flap off through the window.

Delaroche clicked a button, causing the casing on the top of his cane to pop. A thin, shiny sliver of steel showed between the panels of polished wood.

“Who are you to lecture me on the likes and dislikes of the Minister of Police, Mademoiselle?”

Laura laughed a low, rough laugh. “Did you really think you were the only one Fouché had entrusted with this business?”

André bumped into Daubier’s back as the other man came to an abrupt halt.

Through the open door of the cabin, he could see Laura, but a Laura such as he hadn’t seen before. Gone was the self-controlled Mlle. Griscogne or even the practical day-to-day companion of the last few months. This was a shrew of the ranting, carping variety—eyes narrowed, hands on her hips, exuding contempt with every movement.

“I had this well in hand until you came along,” Laura spat out, advancing on Delaroche with a swaggering walk that was nothing like her own. “Well in hand. And then you come along with your cryptic pronouncements and your evil laughter, making a muck out of the whole operation. Months! Months of planning wasted.”

Daubier turned to André with an alarmed look, confusion written all over his face. “Laura?” he mouthed.

André gave a brisk shake of his head, motioning Daubier to silence.

“Fouché wouldn’t have—,” Delaroche began, but he didn’t sound entirely certain. They all knew that Fouché would.

Laura threw back her head, cutting him off with a very effective snort. “Given the stakes as they are? Your record isn’t exactly consistent, you know.”

André felt a surge of pride. The devil, but she was good. It didn’t matter whether she was Miss Grey or Mlle. Griscogne, she was his Laura and he was bloody grateful that she was on their side.

Delaroche took a step back. “Fouché would have told me.”

“Of course he would. Because Fouché always tells you everything,” Laura taunted. “You’ve made a proper mess of things tonight. I could have delivered them to you in one fell swoop: de Berry, Jaouen, the Purple Gentian. Now look what you’ve gone and done!”

“You lie,” said Delaroche, but he didn’t sound quite sure.

Laura, on the other hand, sounded quite sure. Heedless of the sword cane Delaroche held in one hand, she marched right up to him. She had, André noticed, cleverly shepherded him away from Gabrielle. Behind her, through the glass of the window, André could see Lord Richard, a shadowy figure in his dark coat.

If he came through now, he would land on Laura. André held up a hand, waiting to see where she would go.

Through the window, Lord Richard nodded.

“Do I lie?” Laura was backing Delaroche up towards the window. “Or can you just not bear the fact that Fouché might have replaced you?”

Delaroche held up his sword cane to ward her off, staring at her as one might at a horrid apparition of the otherworldly variety—too terrifying to credit, but too credible to deny.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Don’t you remember?” Laura smiled at him, a slow, dangerous smile. “I am the governess.”

André brought down his hand. Lord Richard burst through the window in a cascade of glass. Gabrielle screamed, from fear or excitement or both—a high-pitched sound that brought Delaroche whirling one way, then another, as though unsure which way to flee.

Lord Richard landed in the approved heroic pose, both knees bent and sword at the ready.

“Never anger the governess,” he said, and sent Delaroche’s sword cane flying with one well-placed smack of his own sword.

André and Daubier charged. Gabrielle sank her teeth into her captor’s arm just as André dealt him an unscientific but effective blow to the nose. He reeled back, clutching the appendage, blood oozing through his fingers as he landed heavily against the wall, then down into a sitting position and started mumbling.

Laura grabbed Delaroche’s sword cane, holding Jean-Marc at bay.

“Drop it!” she said in her best governess voice, and followed it up with a feint to the chest.

Jean-Marc dropped his gun.

Daubier scooped it up in his left hand and pointed it at Delaroche. “Call them off,” he growled, in a voice André had never heard him use before. “Call off your men.”

Delaroche was known for many things, but common sense wasn’t one of them. He backed away, glass crunching under his boots. “You can’t shoot that,” he sneered. “Not with one hand.”

“Can’t I?” said Daubier, and pulled the trigger.