Chapter 15
Fifteen
They reached Perros-Guirec just after dawn.
Taffy was the first to leave the ship - rowed to the quayside after which he was to make his way to St. Malo and hopefully meet up with Fontaine and his men.
The note that came with his less fortunate shipmate’s ear told him that someone would be waiting for him at the Grand’ Porte in St. Malo.
The plan was for the sailor to break both the good and bad news. The good news being that Tristan de Montclair had found a watery grave, and the bad – that the Faith and Fortune was not headed to Rotheneuf, as they’d been led to believe, but directly to Perros-Guirec and on to Lannion.
The fact that Tristan had supposedly been removed from the playing field had not simply ended the matter.
Taffy had been instructed to tell Fontaine that they were intending to announce the would-be Marquis’s fate to as many people as possible.
The doubt cast upon Claude Fontaine would be damaging at the very least, and the adverse publicity certainly not to the liking of his shadowy master.
Rafe was counting on the fact that Fontaine would hasten back to Montclair, hoping to quash the damaging rumours before they had the chance to take hold.
Where they’d be waiting.
Raphael had no idea whether Taffy would be able to convince Fontaine of his nephew’s death, but at the very least it would sow confusion and buy them more time.
And as for the sailor discovering the name of Mr Top Hat Man…
In truth, Rafe didn’t hold out much hope.
Claude Fontaine was undoubtedly the link, and he was unlikely to share what he knew unless forced.
And despite his hard-nosed approach to the sailor’s questioning, Raphael was not actually in the habit of torturing people.
Unless it was absolutely necessary, of course.
In all honesty, they’d gained more intelligence than Rafe had actually expected. It might take time, but he was convinced they’d eventually find the mastermind behind the Revisionists and bring the bastard down.
Unfortunately, the elation he was accustomed to feeling at the thought of putting an end to such treachery was missing.
All he could see was Henrietta’s disillusioned face.
It was decided that the crew would remain on board under the command of Spalding.
Under no circumstances were they to go ashore in the event they were needed in Lannion.
While only a few of the men had served during the war with Napoleon, the majority were proficient in the use of both musket and sword.
The country might no longer be at war, the seas were swarming with opportunist pirates.
In the meantime, their party would initially head to an inn in the village close to the Montclair estate. If Tristan was to be recognised, it would be by people who’d spent their lives in service to the old Marquis.
By Raphael’s estimation, they had three days at most before Fontaine and his men arrived.
Ideally, the rumour of Tristan’s identity and homecoming would have already spread beyond the local community by that time.
More than that though, it was imperative Tristan be already installed in the Chateau by the time the supposed caretaker returned and declared him a pretender.
At the end of the day, possession was nine-tenths of the law, and it would be much more difficult for Fontaine to refute his nephew’s claim when said nephew was already ensconced within the Montclair estate.
It was early afternoon by the time they’d had themselves and all their luggage brought ashore, then another hour before they were able to summon sufficient carriages to take all of them to Lannion.
Indeed, they attracted quite a bit of attention as they travelled in stately procession along the rutted road, but as Raphael had commented – every little helped.
Hopefully, by the time they reached the inn outside the village of Montclair, their presence would have attracted plenty of attention.
Rafe himself had gone ahead to do an initial reconnaissance and set the scene for the party’s arrival. While waiting, he seated himself in the bar, making sure to take a table that was in full view of the patrons coming and going.
At first, after ordering himself a glass of red wine, he was roundly ignored, then gradually the sideways glances became stares until finally, he was addressed directly by a jovial middle-aged man who’s red, thread veined features indicated a life spent mostly outdoors.
As he’d expected, the questions were initially quite formal and stilted, but Rafe couldn’t help noticing that nearly everyone present was unashamedly listening.
Naturally, the first two questions were his name and where he’d come from. He responded genially with his real name but added that he was an avocat with a practice in St. Malo.
‘What’s a fancy avocat doing in Lannion?’ his inquisitor asked.
Rafe waited slightly before answering, and when he did, he took care to ensure his voice contained the right amount of gravity.
and. ‘I’m here with my client and his wife’s family,’ Rafe explained carefully.
‘He was sadly raised an orphan but has reason to believe his birth parents came from this area.’
Naturally such an admission broke the ice entirely and Rafe listened carefully as speculations and suggestions came thick and fast.
Finally, he deliberately set the cat among the pigeons by asking about Chateau Montclair…
All he needed to do now was wait for Tristan’s arrival. He suppressed an inward chuckle. Nobody in the bar had left, though likely many of them had things they needed to do. By his estimation, the rest of the party should be arriving within the hour. And then things would really get interesting…
As they waited for the carriages to arrive, Faith couldn’t help but notice Henrietta’s distant expression, so unlike her usual happy, no-nonsense self.
On witnessing her daughter’s acerbic comments to Raphael Augustin the day before, she’d felt a sudden prickling of anxiety. Was there something between the Frenchman and Henrietta that she wasn’t privy to?
The fact that Henri had left the table shortly afterwards suggested so.
Unfortunately, in the hours since, Faith had found no opportunity to speak with her daughter alone – indeed, they’d hardly been in the same room together.
Henrietta had for the most part been in the company of her grandfather, which was strange in itself, and gradually Faith realised that Henri was deliberately keeping her distance to avoid the discussion she knew her mother was waiting for.
Initially, Faith felt a stirring of frustration, followed by bewilderment.
She and Henrietta had always been close, sharing most things in the way of friends rather than mother and daughter.
With no title to worry about, manners and etiquette had not played such a large part in Henri’s upbringing, and she’d always been encouraged to speak her mind and share her views.
But naturally such freedom did not include what Faith very much feared amounted to a reckless romantic entanglement with a French spy…
‘Now don’t get me wrong, young lady, as a general rule, I enjoy your company, but I can’t help asking myself why exactly you’re sitting in a carriage with three old toasts and one whippersnapper when you could be exchanging the latest gossip with the ladies in the next carriage.
’ The Reverend raised his eyebrows as he regarded his granddaughter with the same expression he usually reserved for Flossy when the little dog indulged in the incomprehensible habit of rolling in fox poo.
‘Mebbe they be boring,’ Finn suggested.
‘Never say a lady’s boring,’ Reverend Shackleford recommended with a wince that suggested being on the end of a curtain lecture was quite possibly any man’s worst nightmare.
‘My Elspeth didnae hae a dour bone in her body,’ Dougal announced suddenly, much to everyone’s astonishment.
‘A terrible hairy chin, mind, but full o’ sunshine.
’ He nodded to himself, oblivious of his bemused audience before sighing and adding, ‘Ah loved her, true, but ah cannae deny she haed a face like a skelped arse.’
‘Did she hae a beard?’ Finn quizzed him delightedly. ‘Ah once saw a lady wi’ a beard doon tae here.’ He pointed at his knees, drawing Percy’s frowning attention to the fact that they were the colour of Blackmore’s cesspit.
‘I don’t think it’ polite to discuss the lady’s physical attributes,’ Henrietta interrupted hastily. ‘After all, the lady is not here to defend herself.’
Dougal grinned. ‘Och, she niver had any trouble defending herself, lass. Ah once saw her knock a grown man on his arse fer gaein her a wink.’
‘What did he do?’ Percy asked, interested despite himself.
The Scot creased his brow in thought. ‘Ah cannae remember, tae be honest. Ah reckon when he came roond a couple o’ days later, he begged her tae forgie him. An’ ah cannae say ah blame him seein’ as his eye was as black as the Earl o’ hell’s waistcoat.’
There was a short silence punctuated by Flossy’s snoring, then, with a sceptical hmph, the Reverend turned back to his granddaughter.
‘Right then, Henrietta Carew, I’ll say my piece and that’ll be the end of it - though I do think this is a conversation you should be having with your mother.
’ Henri stared at him in alarm as he went on, ‘I think we all know that your attack of the mulligrubs is due to the Frog, but if you think sulking will solve your problem, think again, girl. All it’ll do is set up his bristles and if you’re determined to set your cap at the fella – though in truth I’ve never heard anything so totty headed in my entire life – the only thing you can do is talk to him. ’
Henrietta bit her lip. Her grandfather was right. She was behaving like a spoilt child. There was far too much at stake for Raphael to spend time pandering to a foolish girl. With a sniff, she confessed what had happened – not the kissing bit, naturally, but the fact that he’d lied to her.
‘So, you think he should have risked the whole deuced mission to tell you what was going on…’
‘No… I… that’s not what I…’ Henrietta began before stopping and throwing her hands in the air. ‘Shouldn’t any relationship worth having be based on mutual trust?’ She blurted. ‘That’s what I heard Papa say when I left the dining room.’
‘Yes, well, I reckon your father was staring up his own nether regions when he made that statement. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, lass, it’s that nothing is ever black and white.
You ask Percy. He’s spent most of his life making deuced bad decisions that have turned out to be good ones in the end. ’
‘Well, I’m not quite sure that’s entirely true,’ grumped the curate. ‘One could argue that most of my bad decisions have actually been made by you, Sir…’
At the sound of carriages arriving in the inn’s front courtyard, Rafe felt the first flickering of anxiety. What if Tristan wasn’t recognised? There were some people in the bar that were old enough to remember the fate of the Marquis and Marquese, but most had only heard the story secondhand.
The one thing that gave the agent hope was the careful way in which those in the bar spoke about Montclair’s caretaker. In his experience, such reluctance to say anything remotely damning meant one thing – fear.
And if they feared him, they would welcome the new Marquis – if not with open arms, then at least without opposition. All he needed was for enough people to see the uncanny resemblance to his father, then hopefully the floodgates would open.
‘Is Monsieur Fontaine up at the Chateau now?’ Rafe asked casually.
‘He left last evening,’ commented the innkeeper. ‘Took quite a few of his men too - I heard them galloping past just before midnight.’
Raphael felt a surge of triumph. The bastard had taken the bait.
Seconds later he heard the unmistakable sound of carriages outside. Remaining in his seat, he took a sip of his wine and watched.
First in were Roan and Gabriel, both looking, he suspected, as anxious as he did. ‘We’re looking for rooms,’ he announced to the innkeeper in passable French.
‘You’re English?’ Rafe felt a tightening as the sea captain nodded, adding, ‘Most of us anyway. Is that a problem, Monsieur?’
The innkeeper shook his head. ‘Not to me. How many rooms are you looking for?’
‘How many do you have?’ Gabriel asked drily as Faith, Hope and Roseanna came through the door.
The innkeeper scratched his head. ‘Five in total and nobody in them at the moment.’
‘Then we’ll take all five,’ Roan responded as Henrietta came through the door behind the Reverend and Percy, closely followed by Dougal and Finn. The innkeeper frowned.
‘How many of you are there?’ he growled, raising his eyebrows.
‘Just one more,’ Roan answered, shrugging off his greatcoat with a cordial smile.
Seconds later, Tristan walked in. With his pale face and set jaw, he looked for all the world as though he was ready for a fight.
For a moment the buzz of conversation continued, then slowly, one by one, it died, as the patrons looked towards the man standing in the doorway.
A man who was the spitting image of the old Marquis de Montclair.
For a moment there was silence, then all of a sudden, a chair crashed to the floor as an elderly man sitting alone in the corner rose stiffly to his feet. ‘My Lord Marquis?’ he whispered, his voice wavering. ‘Lord Philippe, is that you?’
Tristan turned towards the bent figure, now peering at him through rheumy eyes as though he was some kind of apparition. After a second, he pulled off his gloves, smiled and inclined his head.
‘My name is Tristan,’ he clarified. ‘Philippe de Montclair was my father.’