Chapter 6
Six
Raphael sat back in his chair, his lips pressing into a thin line.
According to the report, after Fontaine’s arrival, an agent of the Crown had remained in the area to keep a close watch on the self-appointed custodian for a full six months but had observed nothing to arouse suspicion.
There had been no investigation into the man’s background.
He thought back to his father’s comments about Philippe de Montclair. The two men had remained good friends despite the distance between them, and Rafe well remembered how distressed his father’s had been when the news of the Marquis’s murder reached him.
Though Rafe had never admitted it, reading his father’s words had always been simply too painful, and it had been far easier to leave the diaries to gather dust in the box they’d arrived in. Out of sight and out of mind…
Sighing, he climbed ruefully to his feet.
Maudlin sentimentality wasn’t high on the list of traits a ruthless intelligence agent would readily admit to, and it was one Raphael had determinedly quashed during his long career.
But then, neither was stupidity – and stubbornly ignoring a possibly valuable source of intelligence was exactly that.
Grimacing, Rafe shook his head. His father’s diaries had been left untouched for too long. Some bloody spy he was.
A half an hour later the diaries were piled on his desk in order of date while he helped himself to a brandy.
Reading his father’s meanderings was as painful as Raphael had imagined, but what he hadn’t bargained for was how comforting it was. It felt as though his father was in the room, and for the first time in years, the hardened spy felt actual tears gather at the back of his eyes.
To his relief there wasn’t anything to either threaten or serve national security within their pages and Rafe allowed relief to swamp him.
He had no idea what he’d have done if something of vital importance had remained concealed due to foolish sentimentality.
Losing his job would have been the least of it.
However, just as he was about to close the penultimate journal, a folded piece of paper slipped out from between the pages and dropped onto the floor.
Frowning, he bent down and picked it up.
Unfolding the paper, he quickly realised it was a letter.
Seconds later, his heart slammed in his chest as he read the informal signature.
Philippe.
Straining, Henrietta did her best to hear the conversation, but despite her focus, she was only able to make out the odd word.
She wanted to scream in frustration. Then, just as she was about to give up, she heard the name of her father’s ship.
The words Faith and Fortune were followed by, ‘Oui, he is onboard.’
Who was onboard?
Henri was so focused on the table next to them that she didn’t initially register the arrival of their tea, and she jumped when her grandfather tapped her on the shoulder.
‘A penny for your thoughts,’ he quizzed her, his eyebrows raised in enquiry.
As he spoke the two men were climbing to their feet and Henrietta wanted to cry.
Helplessly she watched them go, the tea remaining in the teapot in front of her.
‘Is something the matter, girl, you look as queer as Dick’s hatband?’ her grandfather commented gruffly as she finally lifted the teapot.
With trembling hands, Henrietta poured out the tea.
As she handed the cups over, a large plate of biscuits arrived, much to Dougal’s delight.
Helping himself to a wafer, the Scot patted her kindly on the arm.
‘Dinnae fash yerself, lass,’ he murmured spraying bits of wafer everywhere, ‘Ah ken a biscuit’ll put ye tae rights.
’ He held out the plate, completely oblivious to the pieces of wafer now decorating her bodice.
‘I think those two men were talking about my father’s ship,’ she whispered after making sure the objects of her attention were gone.
Her grandfather frowned. ‘What were they saying?’
‘I couldn’t hear exactly, but I know they mentioned Faith and Fortune.’
Dougal shrugged. ‘It be a bonny ship, lass,’ he commented, helping himself to another wafer.
‘You don’t understand,’ Henri answered fearfully, ‘I think one of them was French.’ She paused as her two companions stared at her. ‘He said, Oui, he’s onboard.’
‘Thunder an’ turf,’ the Reverend breathed, we’ve got a Froggie spy sailing with us.’
‘We dinnae ken that fer sure,’ Dougal protested, seeing his trip to France disappearing faster than he could say Sassenach.
‘They also mentioned Montclair,’ Henrietta interrupted. ‘That’s what caught my interest. I think we should tell my father.’
‘Noo, just haud on, mebbe we need tae check the facts first,’ Dougal countered hurriedly. ‘Ah mean, gaun half-cocked an’ accusin’ random sailors o’ bein’ Froggies will nae gie us the bampot. Ah’m thinkin’ we need tae come up wi’ a plan.’
Henrietta looked askance at the Scot. ‘I have a plan – to tell my father.’
Reverend Shackleford pursed his lips, wondering if Percy and Finn’s imminent arrival could actually be divine intervention after all. He gave a self-conscious cough before declaring loudly, ‘It’s a shame Percy and Finn aren’t here...’
‘Grandfather, surely you…’
‘…Aye, Finn’s the lad we need,’ Dougal enthused. ‘We’ll nae find better tae dae a spot o’ lurkin’ wi-oot giein the game away.’
‘Surely you can’t be…’ Henrietta sputtered.
‘… It’s true, Finn’s a dab hand at making himself invisible,’ the Reverend agreed fervently. Suddenly his presentment of doom seemed much less… doomlike. He gave an enthusiastic nod for good measure, only to suddenly freeze suddenly as a small, familiar voice spoke up at his elbow.
‘What we investigatin’ Revren?’ the small, familiar voice suddenly cut in. The three of them turned round to find themselves staring into the grinning face of Finn Noon. ‘Hae ye got any tablet?’
Heart thudding, Raphael spread the missive out on the flat surface.
It was badly creased, making some of the words difficult to read.
Glancing over to the window, he realised that the light was almost gone – a whole afternoon had passed while he’d been engrossed in his father’s words.
Hurriedly rising from his chair, Rafe lit the candle already waiting on the desk and moved it closer to the cramped writing.
A minute or so later, he sat down heavily.
Philippe de Montclair had a bastard half-brother. His name was Claude Fontaine.
The letter spoke of the Marquis’s initial joy at the discovery, his efforts to ensure that his half sibling received the best possible education, despite his illegitimacy.
All was apparently well until Philippe’s son Tristan was born.
Soon after, Claude disappeared and despite extensive enquiries commissioned by the Marquis, he’d seemingly vanished into thin air.
The letter requested that on the event of his death, Etienne was to make doubly sure that Claude Fontaine was given one thousand francs – the sum already written into the Marquis’s will.
As a bastard son, Claude could never inherit, even if there had been no legitimate heir, but Philippe wanted to ensure his brother was financially secure at the very least. The letter was signed and dated 5th March 1803.
Below the signature was the official Montclair seal.
Raphael sat back in his chair, the pieces finally beginning to coalesce into a picture that made his blood run cold.
The man posing as a distant cousin was in reality Philippe de Montclair's half-brother.
It explained everything – his resemblance to the family, the refusal to claim the title, and most damning of all, the motive.
He might never be able to inherit, but he could certainly steal what he believed should have been his by right.
And clearly Fontaine had known about young Tristan's existence all those years ago...
But what it didn’t tell him was whether the attack on Montclair was purely for personal gain, or part of a larger conspiracy as he’d previously suspected.
And was the presence of Tristan in the same cell as d’Ansouis and Babin coincidence, or was he placed there deliberately?
Rafe's hand curled into a fist on the desk. Had Fontaine suspected all along that Tristan Montclair was alive and well? If so, they could well be sailing directly into a trap…
Flossy of course was over the moon at the unexpected arrival of her second love and threw herself into the boy’s arms with reckless abandon.
After laughing and kissing her soundly on the nose, Finn tucked her under his arm, and without waiting to be invited, used his other hand to noisily drag over another chair, completely oblivious to the disapproving stares directed at him from other patrons.
Once the seat was situated to his satisfaction - as close to the plate of biscuits as possible – he placed Flossy onto his lap and solemnly asked the little dog whether she’d prefer a wafer or a piece of shortbread.
Finally recovering from his surprise, the Reverend immediately looked round for Percy.
‘Where the deuce is your father?’ he asked when there seemed to be no sign of his curate.
‘You didn’t come from Blackmore all on your own, did you?’ Henrietta was horrified.
‘Ah wouldnae be surprised,’ chortled Dougal. ‘The lad’s nae a feardie Sassenach.’
‘Da’s bin lookin’ fer ye, Revren,’ Finn announced, helping himself to two biscuits in each hand. ‘An’ ah reckon he be fair fizzin wi ye.’ His voice dropped as he declared the last sentence and he looked furtively round the room as though expecting his father to pop out from behind a curtain.
‘Tare an’ hounds, he’s not been chasing you since Blackmore, has he?
’ The Reverend Shackleford muttered, wondering if he was going to be in even more hot water when the angry curate finally caught up with him – though in all honesty, he couldn’t imagine what had Percy so up in the boughs – after all, he hadn’t been told anything yet.
‘I think we need to tell your father where you are,’ Henrietta stated firmly, ‘He’s probably worried sick.
’ She rose determinedly to her feet and pulled on her gloves.
‘I expect you will wish to know why Finn believes his father is upset, Grandfather,’ she continued briskly, eying her grandparent narrowly.
Augustus Shackleford stared back with an air of baffled innocence. In truth, he’d never wanted anything less, but at the end of the day, if this truly was the Almighty’s plan, then the clergyman simply had to trust that He would inspire a suitable Canterbury tale to support it.
However, before they had chance to actually vacate the table, Percy Noon finally appeared at the door.
‘Finn, how many times have I told you not to run off in a strange place,’ he huffed loudly, drawing yet more unwanted stares from the surrounding tables – though it had to be said the looks were now a trifle more interested.
‘Sorry, Da,’ the boy answered cheerfully. ‘But look, ah foond the Revren fer ye.’
‘Percy! What a surprise,’ Reverend Shackleford boomed, causing everyone within a hundred yards to jump.
The curate glared at his superior before turning his attention to Dougal. Suspecting he might well be looking for signs of demonic possession, Reverend Shackleford felt sweat begin to gather under his dog collar.
‘An, Da,’ Finn continued excitedly, before Percy had a chance to whip out his bottle of holy water, ‘the Revren wants me tae dae a spot o’ nosin around… On a ship.’