‘What, Madame Valade?’ demanded Gerald. ‘His granddaughter?’
‘Yes, his son’s daughter.’
‘What son?’ asked Roding.
‘Precisely,’ agreed Gerald. ‘I thought it was his great-nephew, young Brewis Charvill, who is his heir.’
‘Oh yes, yes. But this was long ago. Nicholas is dead. At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still.’
‘Why not?’ Gerald asked straightly.
‘Because,’ said Lady Bicknacre in the confidential manner of all matrons when passing on a tidbit of scandal, ‘Nicholas married against his father’s wishes and ran away. General Lord Charvill disinherited him for his pains. I cannot think he will welcome a French émigré for his granddaughter.’
Chapter Three
Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it.
Just as he had told Gerald would be the case, there was nothing of interest to hear, especially as he had met the girl in London only last night. But that did not stop Trodger, who had ridden up from Kent for the purpose, from detailing every little inspection and sortie that his men had made in their allotted task of watching Remenham House.
He might have supposed the fellow would be eager to be rid of the tale, for that he might have longer to enjoy the amenities of the Triumphal Chariot where the meeting had been appointed. The inn was a military haunt. All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon.
Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. The day was warm even under an overcast sky and Hilary, uncomfortable, shifted his weight. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out.
That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington?
The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign.
Doesn’t know where he is, thought the captain. Looking for something, or someone, probably. Visiting? Dressed for it, certainly. An unwelcome idea came to him. Would Gerald wish his friend to follow the man?
He had hardly registered the decision that he had best do so, albeit with some reluctance, when his trained senses alerted him to an extraordinary circumstance. The Frenchman was already being followed.
A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. But his eyes were on the Frenchman, and as Valade moved up the other road a little way, the lad shifted alertly, and swiftly closed the distance to the intersection. There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches.
‘Sir?’
Hilary threw a brief glance at Trodger, and quickly returned his intent gaze to the Frenchman, who had halted once more, and stood as if thinking deeply.
‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly.
‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again.
‘Well, shan’t I come to the major’s house up Stratton Street, sir?’
‘I’ll give the major your report, Trodger.’
‘But me orders, sir? Are we to—’
‘Gad, but that’s her,’ interrupted Roding suddenly.
The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. But some little distance behind him, someone had come out from the shadow of the building and, seeing the Frenchman reappear, darted back again as quickly. His attention drawn, the captain was easily able to make out the pretty features under the feathered hat, and the same dark riding habit the fugitive had worn on that first occasion at Remenham House.
Don’t say the wretch was also following Valade. Perhaps Gerald was not as clothheaded as he had thought.
‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified.
‘Be quiet, man,’ snapped Hilary, watching the Frenchman go by with the lad after him. Then the girl was heading past the inn and Roding marched down to confront her.
‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow.
A pair of startled blue eyes looked up into his. ‘Comment? What do you wish?’
‘What the devil do you think you’re up to now, I’d like to know?’
Her eyes flashed. ‘It is in no way your affair, monsieur, and you will unhand me at once.’
‘No, I won’t.’ The captain grasped her more firmly. ‘I’m taking you to Gerald, my girl.’
The girl glanced up the road and turned back, annoyance in her face. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding. ‘I do not know your Gérard. And I do not know you. Please to release me.’
‘I’m not going to release you, so it’s no use complaining. You’ll be telling me Gerald did not catch you snooping at the Bicknacres, I suppose. And as for not knowing me, you abominable little liar, you’re perfectly aware that we met at Remenham House.’
‘Remenham House,’ exclaimed Trodger, who had been watching this interchange open-mouthed. ‘Is she the Frenchie we’ve been watching for then, sir?’
The lady’s furious features turned on this new target. ‘I am not French in the least, bête.’
‘Woof!’ uttered the sergeant, jumping back. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’
