Playing With Fire Page 5

  Hélène jerked away. “Mama!”

  Chapter 6

  Alex swore under his breath. He should have anticipated that a man like Sarchet would try to take advantage. Had Perrault goaded him? At the edge of his vision, he registered Miss Deane putting down the gown she was working on and sitting forward in her chair, alert.

  “Get your filthy hands off her,” the comtesse cried, slapping at Sarchet. He paid no attention.

  Brevare got to his feet, and Alex muttered another curse as he put out a hand to restrain him. “Good revolutionaries do not spring to the defence of aristos,” he said in a low voice, turning options over in his mind. “Let me try something first.”

  Brevare’s hands curled into fists, tension further evident in his clenched jaw, but he resumed his seat.

  “Perrault,” Alex called out. “Call him off.”

  “Why?” Perrault stood up and came over to Alex’s table, looking down at him with a sneer. “Why, citoyen? Does it matter what happens to the little bitch?”

  “We are taking them for questioning. They are not yet officially guilty of anything.” He glanced over at the women. Sarchet had taken his hand off Hélène. She leaned against the comtesse, her face ashen, tears running down her cheeks. Miss Deane watched from her place by the fire; she had a set look about her lips, but her expression was otherwise under control.

  “Too good for Sarchet, is she?” Perrault said. “Because she is an aristo?”

  “Any woman is too good for Sarchet,” Alex retorted, but the insult appeared to go right over Sarchet’s head. He wondered if he was about to make matters worse, but he would have to do something tomorrow, anyway. Perrault’s greed could be the key.

  “Actually, Perrault, I’ve been thinking about a change of plan. It will be to the advantage of all of us. Sit down. Brevare, get more ale. Sarchet, go with him.”

  Used to taking orders, Sarchet half rose from his chair before he realised what he was doing, then looked at Perrault. On receiving a nod Sarchet followed Brevare out of the room.

  “They stay in here.” Perrault pointed at the women.

  Alex shrugged. Getting the women safely locked up in a bedroom would have been the best way out, but he hadn’t expected it to be easy.

  “Your plan?” Perrault asked.

  “You remember what she said yesterday?” Alex asked, jerking a thumb in Miss Deane’s direction. “The woman is too stupid to be any danger to France—”

  The comtesse’s gasp carried across the room.

  “See?” Alex said. “She cannot hide what she is feeling—how could she be a spy?”

  “What about the daughter?” Perrault asked.

  “Swooning.” Alex tilted his head towards Hélène. “Look at her! Good spy material there, you think? And the other is only a servant. She knows nothing.”

  “So why are—?”

  They were interrupted by Brevare and Sarchet returning with the drinks. Alex gestured for them to sit.

  “Why are we wasting our time taking them to Paris, citoyen?” Perrault asked. “We could have kept them until our magistrate came back. In fact, why were you following them at all?”

  Brevare glanced at Alex.

  “I was misinformed,” Alex said. “I will deal with my informants later—they have wasted far too much of my time. For now, I have an idea to compensate all of us for the trouble these women have caused.” He pointed at the comtesse; the woman was scowling, one hand clenched on the table, but not looking as if she were about to say anything.

  “She’s rich,” Alex said. “Her husband will pay to get her back. We should go to the coast instead of Paris, and send word to England for a ransom.”

  An avaricious gleam appeared in Perrault’s eyes, followed by doubt. “Would anyone really pay for her?”

  “He will pay for them all,” Alex said. “If he doesn’t, we will make it known in England that the ci-devant Comte de Calvac deliberately sacrificed his family to the revolutionaries.”

  Beside him, Brevare nodded. “He will do his duty by them. The aristos’ sense of honour will not let him refuse.”

  Perrault folded his arms, shaking his head.

  “I’ve met many of their type.” Alex injected a suitable note of disdain in his voice. “They think their honour is more important than anything else.”

  “How will we share out the ransom?” Perrault asked, poorly hidden greed returning to his face.

  “Half for me and my friend, half for you and Sarchet.” He turned to Brevare. “Does that suit you?”

  Brevare’s gaze was back on the terrified Hélène, and he did not answer. Exasperated at the man’s lack of attention, Alex kicked him under the table.

  “Er, yes, that suits me.”

  “Good.” Alex leaned close to Perrault, keeping his voice low. “I’m sure you can divide your share appropriately,” he said. “You are taking much of the responsibility, after all.”

  Perrault looked thoughtful for a few moments. “Very well,” he said at last. “We head for the coast tomorrow. How long will it take us to get to Calais?”

  “Somewhere like Caen would be better. It is closer, and less likely to be watched by the authorities.”

  A fleeting doubt crossed Perrault’s face.

  “We are doing nothing wrong, citoyen,” Alex reassured him. “But anyone who stops us would want a cut for themselves.”

  Perrault’s face cleared, and Alex relaxed a little.

  “We won’t get a ransom for damaged goods, though,” he added, addressing Sarchet as well as Perrault. “So you must keep your hands off the women.”

  Phoebe sat watching the four men, her throat tight with anxiety as Leon talked with Perrault. She’d heard the discussion about ransoms, but what were they saying now? Perrault’s changing expressions indicated that Leon might be succeeding in what he was trying to do, but she had no idea what that was. Sarchet, meanwhile, alternated between staring at Hélène and at Phoebe, a frown gathering on his face.

  “Not her, though,” Sarchet said loudly, pointing at Phoebe, his eyes fixed below her neck. “No aristo will pay good money for a servant.”

  He stood and headed around the table towards her, his mouth twisting into a leer. She had no doubt what he was planning, and her gaze darted to the table as she leapt to her feet, swinging her chair into his path. She grabbed her scissors and took a step back.

  Sarchet strode forward, snatching the chair and throwing it behind him. He reached for her arm and she swung the scissors, feeling the tips catch in his flesh. Sarchet jumped back, one hand clutching the other, his mouth open in shock.

  “Merde! The bitch stabbed me!”

  He was already striding forward as he swore, his arm swinging. The blow to the side of her head knocked Phoebe sideways, one hip striking the edge of the table, her foot catching and sending her to the floor with her head ringing.

  He loomed over her, and she scrabbled backwards across the floor. She sucked in a sharp breath as his hand closed on her cap, then rolled free, using an empty chair to pull herself to her feet.

  “Salope!” Sarchet was advancing on her again when he suddenly froze, a metallic click loud in the sudden silence. He spun away from her, and Phoebe saw Leon behind him with a pistol pointing at Sarchet’s face.

  “Leave her alone.”

  Sarchet reluctantly moved a few steps away. Phoebe put a hand to her head—her face was smarting from Sarchet’s blow, and her hair had come loose from its pins and was trailing down her back.

  In a tableau of frozen shock, the comtesse and Hélène stared at Sarchet, open-mouthed and ashen-faced. Brevare and Perrault hadn’t moved from their own table.

  Phoebe moved back as far as she could, leaning on a table as her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. Her breath still came fast—the immediate danger was past, but what would happen now?

  Thankful that Miss Deane, at least, had not been paralysed by fear, Alex swiftly ran through his options. Admitting that Miss Deane was no servant
wasn’t one of them. His whole story would unravel, and they would draw even more unwanted attention than they were getting at present.

  “Ransom?” The comtesse’s voice, although quiet, carried clearly.

  “Papa will pay for Phoebe, won’t he, Mama?” Hélène said, her voice wavering.

  The comtesse looked at Miss Deane. “She called me stupid.”

  Good grief, he hadn’t thought the woman could be so vile.

  “But Mama, Phoebe is—”

  “A beloved servant?” Alex interjected. “He’ll pay.”

  The two women gaped at him.

  “Brevare, get these women to their room and lock them in.” He glanced at the comtesse. “Move!”

  Miss Deane started to move towards the door, the other two rousing themselves to follow.

  “Not her,” Sarchet repeated, grabbing Miss Deane’s arm hard enough to make her wince.

  Damn. At least getting two of them out of the way was a start.

  “Brevare!”

  Brevare finally stirred into motion, and escorted the other women out.

  “The comte will pay,” Alex stated again. “It would be against his honour.”

  “You cannot guarantee that, citoyen,” Perrault said. His eyes darted towards Miss Deane and then back to Alex. “Nice hair,” he added, running his tongue over his lower lip. “Explain to me why a good revolutionary like Sarchet here should not have the pleasure of this English servant?”

  “Why should he? What has he done other than drive a coach for a day?”

  “Want her for yourself, do you?” Perrault suggested slyly.

  That had possibilities. “Why not? I could enjoy taming that one.” Alex allowed a smile to cross his face.

  Sarchet, still gripping Miss Deane’s arm, started to play with her tumbling red locks, the way he had with Hélène’s hair earlier. “It was my idea,” he said. “You can take your turn.” He pulled her towards the door, her efforts to twist out of his grip futile.

  Alex put his pistol on the table. “No-one is going to take turns,” he stated, controlling his rising anger. He grabbed the collar of Sarchet’s coat and pulled.

  Sarchet let go of Miss Deane and Alex staggered backwards, his grip still firm on Sarchet’s coat. He came up against the table; his pistol fell to the floor and the powder exploded, sending the ball into the ceiling.

  The door crashed open, revealing the innkeeper armed with a shotgun, backed up by two very large men. Brevare stood in the passageway beyond, biting his lip and making no move to enter the room. There would be no help from that quarter.

  “Outside,” the innkeeper said, in a voice that brooked no argument. “I don’t care if you want to kill each other, but you will not damage my property.” He glared at them. “Or have you finished fighting?”

  “These two have unfinished business,” Perrault said, taking Miss Deane’s arm himself and pushing Sarchet towards the door.

  Not the conclusion he’d hoped for, but it might serve. He picked up his coat and shoved the pistol back into a pocket. “Don’t let Perrault go off with her,” he hissed at Brevare as the innkeeper ushered them towards a rear entrance.

  Phoebe struggled as Perrault pulled her along the corridor. Although shorter and lighter than Sarchet, his grip was just as tight.

  The cobbled yard behind the inn was lit only by light spilling from a couple of windows. Crates and barrels lined the rear wall of the inn; darker shadows looming against the sky must be stables and other outbuildings enclosing the space.

  Perrault pulled her aside as a sudden rush of people erupted from the door and spread out into the yard. Most held tankards of ale, a few carried lanterns. Voices rose in the crowd: arguments that the large peasant had the size and reach, the better dressed one would be faster; shouted odds and wagers.

  Perrault let go of her arm and Phoebe shrank back against the wall as he disappeared into the press of spectators. Leon was one of the last men out, stopping near the door to drape his outer garments over a nearby barrel.

  Alex caught a glimpse of Miss Deane as he laid his waistcoat on a barrel. Where the hell was Brevare? Hands grasped his shirt sleeves, pulling him forward through a gap in the crowd, and he put her from his mind.

  Concentrate on Sarchet.

  The hands thrust him forward, and he stepped smartly to one side as the men beside him retreated.

  Sarchet’s fist whistled past his ear.

  So much for a fair fight. He dodged sideways again and planted a fist in the bigger man’s midriff.

  Sarchet swung at him. Alex moved back, swaying out of reach. The crowd pressed in as he circled warily, watching for an opportunity. Speed and agility were his advantages, but only if he were given the space to use them.

  Phoebe couldn’t see what was happening, but shouts of encouragement or dismay from the crowd told her that the fight had started. She eyed the barrel where Leon had left his coat. He must have had his pistol in a pocket of his greatcoat, and pistols were often carried in pairs.

  No-one was watching her. She felt through the pile of clothing until she came across a heavy, solid lump, running her hand over the cloth until she found the pocket flap. The same acrid smell that had filled the parlour a few minutes ago told her this was the pistol that had been fired.

  A cheer spurred her on. It was a fight, not a boxing match, and wouldn’t last long. She found another pocket and tugged on the pistol inside. It was caught on something. Cloth tore as she pulled harder.

  All attention was still on the fight. She risked holding the garment up to catch more light, and untangled the pistol from the folds of cloth. Something pale fell to the ground as she pulled the gun free—a little packet. Phoebe picked it up and put it, along with the pistol, in one of the pockets beneath her skirts.

  Moving away from the barrel, her skirts caught on something and she almost fell over a collection of rakes and other tools leaning against the wall. She regained her balance, and turned to see what was happening in the middle of the yard.

  Alex cursed as he felt the cool of rain on his skin. The cobbles were already slippery; rain would make them worse. He dipped and twisted to avoid a wild swing from Sarchet. Jabbing an elbow sideways, he connected with the man’s face. Sarchet stepped closer, blood running from his nose.

  Ducking, Alex struck upwards, his fist slamming into Sarchet’s chin. The bigger man staggered backwards, arms flailing, and sprawled on the ground, panting for breath.

  Cheers and catcalls from the spectators goaded Sarchet into movement. Alex heard glass breaking as the man regained his feet.

  Sarchet held a broken bottle.

  That changed the stakes.

  Alex retreated, the spectators giving way behind him. Sarchet charged with swinging bottle; Alex threw up an arm to block. A sharp bite of pain was followed by warmth and he dropped to one knee. A jagged edge of the bottle had caught his arm, but he had no time to see how badly he was cut.

  A long pole moved through the edge of his vision. Alex reached out and grabbed it, swinging it round in front of him, jabbing the end at Sarchet as he rose to his feet. He only noticed it was a pitchfork when Sarchet screamed in agony, one of the tines sticking into his shoulder.

  “Give up!” Alex yelled.

  The pitchfork was long enough to keep the jagged glass from his face, but Sarchet still thrust the bottle towards him. Alex twisted the pitchfork, and Sarchet collapsed, his voice hoarse as he yelled for someone, anyone, to get the thing out of him.

  Chapter 7

  Phoebe shrank against the wall as the spectators headed back to the taproom. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought the agonised cry had been Sarchet, not Leon. She swallowed hard. That was the outcome she’d wanted, although given his comment about taming her, Leon might be only the lesser of two evils.

  “There you are, citoyenne.”

  Perrault. He held a lamp in one hand, its light showing his gaze moving from her mouth to her bosom.

  The least of three evils?<
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  “Upstairs, citoyenne, ready for the victor.” He reached out, fingers digging into her arm as his hand closed around it. She tried to pull away, but he only tightened his grip as he pulled her into the inn and up the stairs.

  The hidden pistol bumped uncomfortably against her legs, but she had no idea how she could use it. He pushed her into a room, set the lamp on a table beside the bed, then turned and shut the door.

  “Sit down,” he said, indicating the straight-backed chair near the fireplace.

  Phoebe didn’t move. She had more chance of trying to dodge him if she stayed on her feet.

  Perrault’s lips thinned, but he did not press the point. “So, tell me again where you have come from.”

  As far as she could, she repeated the story about the journey from the fictitious château, elaborating on the inns they’d supposedly stayed at, inventing incidents on the road—anything to keep him off her until Leon arrived.

  Perrault paced in front of her—two paces one way, and two the other. When her recital finally ended, he nodded.

  “Very well. Perhaps you are what you say. A pretty bit like you…” He took a step closer, putting a hand out to touch her hair. Phoebe stepped back, her heart racing and a sick feeling settling in her stomach as she jerked her head sideways. She had no scissors this time.

  “Don’t be coy, citoyenne.” He moved forward. “Leon didn’t look to be in a fit state to enjoy his prize.”

  Her back was almost against the wall. She recalled Joe’s instructions, and curled her fingers into a fist, thumb on the outside.

  “I wouldn’t want you to be lonely.” Perrault’s gaze dropped to her bosom.

  Her fist shot out, shock running up her arm as the blow landed in the middle of his face. She hadn’t hit him hard, but Perrault was taken by surprise; his hand flew up to his nose as he stepped backwards.

  Between the legs, Joe had told her. She lifted her skirts and kicked. She wasn’t sure she’d aimed well enough, but Perrault doubled over and staggered away.