Chapter 7 #2
The agent returned to Percy, who coughed and murmured, ‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Augustin. I believe we missed one another at Blackmore. I have to admit it’s been a very tiring day, and a brandy would be very welcome, thank you.’
To Henri’s surprise, Raphael then turned to her. ‘Even after so many years in your country, I still do not fully understand the etiquette that governs your society, so I will beg your forgiveness and ask anyway. May I pour you a small brandy, Miss Carew?’
Given the resulting flush of colour on her face, he might as well have asked if he could kiss her, and Henrietta was not unaware of the interested stares of the rest of the room, making matters much, much worse.
‘I thank you, but no,’ she managed after giving a small, embarrassed cough.
The last thing she needed at this moment in time was to be half-sprung.
‘It’s actually fortuitous you turned up,’ the Reverend declared, completely abandoning his at death’s door stance once he had a brandy in his hand.
Raphael raised his eyebrows. ‘How so?’ he asked politely. ‘Do you have something you wish to share, Reverend Shackleford?’
Henrietta glared at her grandfather while at the same time experiencing a sudden violent desire to box his ears.
She knew exactly what he was about to say, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.
Meanwhile, Percy looked bewildered, Dougal was practically hopping from one foot to another in anticipation, and Finn piped up helpfully, ‘The Revren says ah be gaun tae investigate.’
‘Investigate what, exactly?’ the Frenchman quizzed, his tone deceptively mild.
Realising she had no choice, Henri favoured her bird-witted grandfather with one last hard stare and suggested they all sit down. Then, hesitantly at first, she told Raphael what she’d overheard at the Poulton’s Hotel.
For a few seconds after she’d finished speaking, the Frenchman didn’t say anything, and the room was silent aside from the noise generated by Finn as he bounced up and down in his chair.
‘Was it your impression that these men knew about Tristan?’ Raphael asked at length.
‘I… I assumed they did,’ Henrietta stuttered, surprised at the question.
‘Assumption is the mother of many disasters,’ the Frenchman retorted drily. ‘Did you simply assume because you heard them mention the name Montclair?’
Henri opened her mouth to say yes, but then paused, thinking back to the scene.
A second later, she closed her eyes in an effort to transport herself back to the tearoom and allowed her mind to replay the sequence of events.
The name that attracted her attention was Montclair.
The men spoke about her father’s ship and finally, she heard them say that someone was onboard.
Was there anything else - anything at all?
Frowning, she looked over at Raphael. ‘I think I heard them mention a fountain. Does that mean anything to you?’
The agent’s response was immediate. ‘You’re sure you heard that word – fountain?’
Henrietta nodded, alarmed. ‘But it actually sounded more like funtain.’
‘Merde,’ Rafe swore softly and shook his head. ‘I had hoped he would not yet know.
‘This Funtain is a man?’ queried the Reverend.
‘Exactement,’ Raphael retorted, reverting to French in his agitation. ‘Claude Fontaine, to be precise. He is Tristan’s uncle and the current steward of the Montclair estate.’
That the Duke of Blackmore’s arrival coincided with that of the as yet unaware Marquis de Montclair was no accident.
On receiving Roan’s request, Tristan had actually returned to Blackmore to seek Nicholas’s counsel before travelling on to Torquay together.
Though neither had any idea why they’d been called urgently to Redstone House, both believed it had something to do with Raphael Augustin’s suspicions concerning the Revisionist plot.
Neither had even considered that Tristan might prove to be heir to a title, and even the Duke’s legendary aplomb slipped a little when Raphael broke the news.
Tristan, on the other hand, laughed out loud – until the agent showed him a small drawing of the murdered Marquis that had been printed in a newspaper at the time of the attack.
Though the article itself was heavily censored in line with Napoleon Bonaparte’s taste for propaganda at the time – even going as far as declaring the untimely murder a victory for the regime – there was no mistaking the resemblance.
Looking at Philippe de Montclair was like looking at Tristan.
Naturally, convincing Tristan of his real identity had only been the beginning of the debate.
Raphael’s decision to leave them to speak further without his presence was a calculated risk, but at the end of the day, he needed these people to trust him.
He’d done himself no favours by his initial approach, but in fairness he hadn’t suspected that he might find himself in a position where he dared trust no one in his network.
Not to mention the fear that there might actually be someone high up in the British Government involved in a conspiracy he’d never even bloody well heard of.
Rafe directed his mind towards the information Henrietta had just given him.
He hadn’t yet revealed to anyone the information he’d discovered in his father’s diaries, and the knowledge that Claude Fontaine could already be one step ahead of them made him want to cast up his account.
Where had the batard learned about their plans to sail to France?
In truth, it could only be through knowing his nephew was still alive…
Raphael gritted his teeth. His fear that they were sailing into a trap increased a hundredfold.
Especially as he now knew that one of Faith and Fortune’s crew was a traitor.