We were still talking about the Comte when the door burst open and Edward, her three year old son, raced across the room, beaming with excitement. ‘Illa – Illa – I saw you through the window.’ “Illa,” was his first attempt at pronouncing my name, and somehow it had stuck. I got to my feet and when he reached me I scooped him up and gave him a big hug. He was my Godson and I adored him. The fact that he always seemed pleased to see me sent a warm glow through me.

  Following him belatedly into the room was his nursemaid, who bobbed a curtsy to me and said to Julia, ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I only turned my back for a second and he was gone.’

  Julia, understanding exactly what had happened, told the girl not to worry, and that she’d ring when she wanted Edward taken back to the nursery. As she left, I sat Edward on my lap, and asked him what he had done while I was in London.

  He gave a delicious giggle. ‘I bin naughty, Illa,’ he confided in a whisper. ‘I put a frog in cook’s pocket.’

  ‘Did you?’ I said, trying not to smile. ‘What did she do when she found it?’

  ‘She screamed,’ he announced, his eyes gleaming with gleeful satisfaction.

  I bit my lip firmly, and Julia said, ‘Yes, and cook told Papa. And what did Papa do?’

  Edward hung his head and muttered, ‘He smacked me, but it didn’t hurt for long.’ And with a total lack of guile, he asked me, ‘Do you like frogs, Illa?’

  ‘I love them,’ I said, and chuckled at the disappointment on his face. But he soon thought of something else he liked to do, and urged me to play Pat-a-Cake, which he adored, hitting my hands in a highly enthusiastic manner at every appropriate moment. Looking across at Julia, who was expecting her second child in November, I murmured, ‘Something tells me you are hoping for a quiet, well-behaved daughter this time.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she admitted, with a rueful smile. ‘One boisterous child is more than enough.’ She loved Edward to distraction, but there was no question that he was quite a handful.

  I returned home in good time for nuncheon where, unsurprisingly, the Comte was the main topic of conversation. My uncle was so concerned by what he’d heard in the village that he decided to call on the Comte that afternoon to see if he could assist the gentleman in any way. Later, after he’d left, my aunt and I went into the drawing room, where she took up her embroidery, and I settled down to read. We were still there when he returned, and he assured us at once that Richard had done everything possible for the invalid’s comfort.

  ‘What kind of a man is he?’ my aunt asked.

  ‘He’s most charming, has excellent manners, thinks just as he ought, and is very grateful to everyone who helped him. He left France about two years ago, after sans-culottes burned his chateau to the ground. His wife and only child, a son of twenty-five, died in the fire, and....’

  ‘Oh, the poor man,’ my aunt whispered. We had heard many similar tales since the revolution began in ’89, but they still had the power to shock.

  ‘How did he escape?’ I asked.

  ‘On the night of the fire he was staying at a friend’s house.’

  ‘That was lucky,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed. And he’d also had the good sense to hide a large sum of money and most of their jewellery under the floor of the gazebo in the garden. He dug that up in the middle of the night, went straight to his yacht and sailed off to Spain.’

  As we well knew, most émigrés had not been so fortunate. The majority, forced to flee for their lives, had brought very little with them. I asked, ‘Which part of France does he come from?’

  ‘Saint Martin. The same as his name.’

  That was a place name I had seen on the map in several different parts of the country during the summer of ’88, when father and I travelled around France. ‘Do you know which one?’ I inquired, explaining there were quite a few.

  ‘I did mean to ask him, but he talked at such length explaining how he got out of the country, that it went out of my mind.’

  I thought back to that happy, carefree summer, when father and I had seen the best, and the worst, of France. The magnificence of the scenery was marred in my memory by the hovels some of the poor lived in, and the terrible poverty they endured. I could not have lived with myself if any child on my estate had suffered the kind of terrible hunger I saw in some places. It was a situation my uncle and I had discussed many times, so I did not refer to it again, but merely said, ‘When we were there, no-one spoke a word of English, and father was reduced to miming what he wanted, as they didn’t understand the little French he did know. It makes me smile whenever I think of it. I do remember it was very hot, so England will seem cold to the Comte.’

  My uncle grinned. ‘He said he thought our weather was most invigorating.’

  I laughed. ‘That’s one way of putting it. But I suppose weather won’t seem of much importance after what he’s been through in France, and in yesterday’s storm.’ A man who’d escaped a violent death twice in two years did indeed have much to be thankful for.

  About an hour later, Mr. Reevers called and politely invited me to join him on a ride over the Downs, now that the weather had improved. I accepted equally politely, and hurried off to change into a riding dress, stopping briefly in the hall to tell Luffe to send a message to Mudd, to saddle Orlando and be ready to accompany me in fifteen minutes.

  Working with Mr. Reevers, as Mr. Pitt wanted, gave me certain difficulties as an unmarried woman. For, the proprieties demanded that I must always be accompanied when I went riding with Mr. Reevers. If the weather was inclement, we could not talk about the investigation indoors at Westfleet, as we were never left alone. Although we could do so when walking in the garden. In the past my uncle had escorted me to Norton House, Mr. Reevers' home, retreating to the library while we talked. This did give us some freedom.

  Nevertheless, in many ways, riding was best, as we could speak freely in front of Mudd. Up on the Downs there was usually a shepherd attending to the sheep but, otherwise, we rarely saw another soul, which again allowed us to stop and talk. Today, after enjoying a long fast gallop, we made our way to Hokewell Bay, where Mr. Reevers suggested a stroll along the cliff top. Dismounting, we left the horses in Mudd’s care, and set off in the direction of Dittistone Bay. The wind had almost completely dropped now and it was most pleasant in the sunshine.

  Mr. Reevers kept a distance between us again, which would have pleased my aunt, if she’d seen us. Once we’d admired the view with the sun sparkling on the sea, and watched the waves crashing onto the sandy beach below, we talked about who could possibly have killed Mr. Fenton. As I reminded him, ‘Jago was at Westfleet at the time of the murder.’

  ‘He didn’t go out at all?’

  ‘No. I woke early that morning and I happened to be standing at my bedchamber window when I saw Louis ride off towards Cowes. He’d arranged to have breakfast with Mr. Arnold, and was to spend the day with him, so that he could observe the difficulties the émigrés gave the Customs service. Half an hour later Mr. Fenton set off for Yarmouth. In fact I went down to the stables just in time to see him go. Jago was already there, giving him his last minute orders. Then Jago and I had breakfast together, and after that we spent most of the morning dealing with routine matters concerning the turncoat operation.’

  ‘Mmmm. I see. So Louis left half an hour before Fenton?’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Neither of us spoke for a moment or two, not wanting to believe that Louis could be the murderer. Eventually Mr. Reevers said, ’Well, it doesn’t do to jump to conclusions.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think you would.’

  ‘I cannot believe he’s the turncoat. I mean, not only have my aunt and uncle known him virtually all his life, but Mr. Pitt knows Louis and his family too. He was at Cambridge with one of Louis' older brothers.’

  He stopped walking and looked at me. ‘That I didn’t know.’

  He stood for a moment staring out to sea, obviously thinking. Watching him, I noticed a black curl had found its way around his left ear, as it often did and, foolishly, my heart melted. If he turned round now I feared he would see how much I truly cared for him. Thankfully, he barely glanced at me when he spoke again. ‘I’ll send my messenger to Wickham first thing tomorrow. We need to see everything he knows about Louis and Jago. Their records, their background notes, what they worked on in France, and any problems they’ve had during their secret service career.’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ I agreed.

  ‘I’m glad you approve.’ And he smiled at me in a way that set my pulses racing. ‘If the weather stays fine we should have all the necessary information within a few days. Meanwhile, I’ll keep Louis under observation.’

  I nodded, for it had to be done. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  For a second his eyes gleamed, but when he spoke, his voice was perfectly rational. ‘You have an aptitude for spotting anything that seems odd or out of place. If I watch Louis when he’s out and you do so at Westfleet, we should soon see if he’s involved.’

  That seemed eminently sensible and later that day I strolled round my garden thinking about Louis, praying he wasn’t the murderer. Louis was cheerful and kind-hearted, and I liked him. But I had liked Toby East too. He had appeared to be every bit as loyal to Britain as Louis seemed to be now. And we had to learn from our mistakes.

  The other thought that came into my mind was, if Louis really was the traitor, what would happen to Gisele? The poor girl had lost all her family and her childhood home. She would have their house in London, but how would she survive without an income? It was too awful to think about. As a widow of a traitor, a second marriage was highly unlikely. Yet we couldn’t allow her situation to affect how we acted. The traitor had betrayed all our secret agents in Paris to the French government, and was probably involved in the plot to abduct Mr. Pitt.

  It was true that Louis had the opportunity to murder Mr. Fenton, but that didn’t mean he had done so. What we did know was, it couldn’t possibly be Jago. Then another thought struck me. Louis and Jago had worked together in France. What if they were working together here? After all, no-one else had known Mr. Fenton was on the Island.

  Yet I couldn’t rid myself of the strangest feeling that there was something I had missed. It was a feeling that kept me awake half the night, all to no avail. For, if I had missed something, I did not have any idea what it was.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  M r. Reevers sent his groom with a note informing me that his messenger had set off for the Alien Office in London first thing that morning. I did not see Mr. Reevers for the next three days, as he was busy keeping Louis under surveillance. It was useless to pretend I did not miss him, and that made me restless. I spent my time riding, visiting Julia and Richard, as well as everyone at Ledstone. Jago and Louis were out dealing with émigrés every day, and when they were at Westfleet neither of them gave me any cause to doubt their allegiance to King and Country.

  I eventually saw Mr. Reevers at a dinner party given by Julia and Richard, where we managed to snatch a quiet moment together in the garden, when he told me Louis' behaviour away from Westfleet had been faultless. ‘Who else can it be?’ I murmured.

  ‘Jago?’ he queried without conviction.

  ‘He conducts himself in far too correct a manner to be a traitor.’

  Mr. Reevers grimaced. ‘True. And he was the one who insisted on conducting the turncoat operation from a safe and secure base.’

  Other guests came within earshot then and soon we all went in to dinner. Everyone from Westfleet and Ledstone Place came to the party, and it was a most convivial evening, with good conversation and a great deal of laughter.

  Julia had seated Lizzie and Jago next to each other, and there was no mistaking the love in their eyes when they looked at each other. It made Jago seem so much more human.

  Giles, Lucie and Marguerite talked of their three month trip to Yorkshire and London, my uncle and I spoke of our visit to the capital, and Mr. Reevers related how he’d chanced to bump into us by accident in Hyde Park. Inevitably the war with France crept into the discussion and Jago commented, ‘I find it appalling that Robespierre blames Mr. Pitt for every catastrophe in France. He even said Pitt had turned good revolutionaries into traitors, and that had forced his government to guillotine them.’

  Lucie asked, ‘Will the people really believe that?’

  ‘The uneducated will,’ Jago replied.

  ‘That kind of thing is meant to fire them up to fight even harder,’ Giles observed.

  Mr. Reevers nodded in agreement. ‘The odd thing is that Robespierre even knows how to make the people laugh. Like the Modern French Feast that was mentioned in the newspapers recently. They printed the Bill of Fare he had concocted. It started with Kings’ heads halved, garnished with Royal relatives. Followed by grilled Spaniards and a soup of Dutchmen, but it was the ending that was particularly outrageous. The British Cabinet were put in a large raised pie, with Mr. Pitt's head on top. That would have had them chortling all over France.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I saw that,’ exclaimed Gisele with a shudder. ‘What they said about Mr. Pitt was sickening.’

  Louis put his hand over hers. ‘Don’t let it upset you, my love.’ I had read it too, of course. And to me that made Robespierre plans for Mr. Pitt all too clear.

  But Louis sensibly changed the subject and began telling us about the Cinque Ports’ Fencibles. ‘Mr. Pitt believes these volunteer companies of horse and foot will be a vital part of our defences should the French invade.’

  ‘He’s right to encourage them,‘ Mr. Reevers declared. He was seated exactly opposite me, giving me far too many opportunities for him to set my heart racing. ‘We’ll need every man we can get if the French do invade.’

  Marguerite asked in a fearful voice, ‘Do you think they will?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s a chance,’ Giles pronounced at once, trying to allay his mother’s worries. ‘Transporting soldiers across the channel in large numbers is not easy. Anything could happen to them. Like a sudden squall or .....’

  ‘You mean --- like the one that nearly killed the Comte,’ Gisele put in quickly, looking a little relieved herself.

  ‘Exactly,’ Louis remarked, as he selected an apple from the dish of fruit. ‘Even if the weather wasn’t too bad many soldiers would still be seasick on the long crossing over the Channel, and end up too weak to fight.’

  ‘Too weak, too wet and too cold,’ Jago pointed out. ‘Waves are bound to splash over the sides of their landing craft.’

  The gentlemen, feeling they had assuaged the worries of the ladies, talked about the men who’d joined the Volunteers, and I said to Louis, ‘Didn’t you help to raise these companies?’

  ‘Mr. Pitt asked me to assist,’ he explained quietly. ‘The local men were so determined to do everything they could to defend our country, it was a privilege to help them. Next month Mr. Pitt is to review the Volunteers, and he has kindly asked us to stay at Walmer so that we can accompany him.’

  ‘Quite right too,’ my aunt remarked, sipping her wine. ‘After all the work you’ve put in.’

  Marguerite joined in with her view of the situation. ‘I do like to see soldiers marching. They make me feel so much safer.’

  To which Gisele responded with a heartfelt, ‘How I wish this awful war was over.’

  Lizzie smiled at her. ‘Yes, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could live out our lives in peace.’

  At the very moment Lucie began to add to those wishes, the butler entered the room and informed Richard that Mr. Pink, the butler from Mr. Hamerton's house, wished to speak to him urgently.

  Richard, looking slightly exasperated, declared, ‘Oh, very well. Send him in, Wade.’

  ‘In here, sir?’ Wade inquired, a little surprised, but a swift affirmation sent him on his way.

  ‘It won’t be anything much,’ Richard assured us. ‘Pink is a fusspot. Good at his job, mind, but a bit of an old woman.’

  Conversation started up again, but was quickly silenced when Pink entered the room. For he had a large bruise forming above his right eye, a sight that made Richard demand, ‘Good God, Pink, what on earth have you been up to?’

  The stately, middle-aged butler summoned up every particle of his dignity. ‘Sir, I have not been up to anything. I regret to say that the Comte threw a bottle of claret at me.’

  ‘A bottle ----?’ Richard repeated in disbelief.

  ‘Yes, sir. A full one.’

  Richard stared at him in stunned silence, before spluttering, ‘But ---- but --- why?’

  ‘Well sir, I had, inadvertently, placed the salt cellar on the left of his dinner tray, when he had specified I was to put it on the right.’ We all stared at him in stunned silence. How could a gentleman react in such an outrageous manner over any mistake, let alone something that trivial. Pink went on, ‘Sir, none of the servants wish to be disobliging, but if the Comte stays, we will all be looking for another place. We were very happy working for Mr. Hamerton. He was a good, kind, Christian gentleman. But the Comte throws things at everyone. He shouts and complains about everything we do for him, and is always threatening to have us dismissed. He swears a great deal, even at the young maids, and he had cook in tears, insisting her roast dinner wasn’t fit enough for pigs, and.......’

  ‘But that’s nonsense,’ Julia broke in, indignantly. ‘Richard and I dined at Mr. Hamerton's house several times, and the food was excellent.’

  ‘That was our experience too,’ said my uncle. Shaking his head in bewilderment he went on, ‘When I called to see the Comte he was most charming and extremely polite.’

  Richard nodded in agreement. ‘He behaved like a perfect gentleman to me too.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Pink said. ‘He’s always like that with visitors, to people of his own class. But he treats us like slaves. We’re not allowed to disturb him in the mornings until he rings for breakfast, which he might demand at six, or at ten. It’s the same with other meals. Last night he wanted dinner at ten. Well, cook goes to bed at ten, as she has to be up at six. And he rings for the slightest thing.’

 

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