Chapter Four
The wooden sign outside the quayside tavern swung wildly as near gale force winds flung sheets of rain against his back. Will staggered and slapped a hand over his hat as his tricorn lifted with the wind as he tipped his head back to read the name.
Le Cygne Blanc. With luck, his contact would be here.
Buffeted by the worst November storm he could remember, Will all but fell through the heavy wooden door of Le Cygne Blanc and pushed it closed with the full weight of his body.
Grateful to be out of the howling storm, he leaned against the door and ran a hand over his face, wiping off the worst of the rain.
A river of water ran down his greatcoat, adding to the puddle behind the tavern door.
The storm had roared down from the north when his ship was but halfway across the Channel, baying through the shrouds as though all the hounds of Hell had been set loose.
To return would have been as dangerous as to continue, and the captain had decided to press on through waves taller than any man.
Grateful to have reached dry land, Will took off his sodden hat and slapped it against his leg, spattering raindrops as he looked through a doorway into the taproom.
Dark and gloomy and ripe with the scent of unwashed bodies, the inn was familiar only in its similarity to the English tavern in which he’d waited for the tide to turn on his way to France.
Forcing his way through the crush of rough men to the far end of the bar, Will ordered ale and leaned against the wall. Exhaustion weighed him down in every bone of his body. “And a plate of whatever your cook has hot and ready.”
Would his empty stomach keep anything down?
The innkeeper swiped a dirty cloth over a spill on the counter in front of Will and set a tankard down. “Not from these parts, are you?” A pair of shaggy eyebrows lowered over narrowed eyes.
Will picked up the tankard and sipped, testing his stomach’s ability to retain anything.
Satisfied, he glared at the innkeeper. “Do I sound like I’m from these parts?
” He twisted the final two words, mimicking the innkeeper’s accent with all the disdain of old Monsieur Dupont.
His French tutor had provided a role model of pure Parisian disdain for country churls who mangled his beautiful langue francaise, while taking pride in Will’s aptitude at French.
“Non.” The innkeeper hawked, spat behind the bar, and signaled one of the serving wenches. “Fetch a platter for this citoyen.”
The girl glanced at Will. Her eyes widened, and a smile of pure sexual invitation beamed at him. “Avec plaisir, monsieur.”
He began to smile, wishing to soften the blow of rejecting her and denying her the money she would have earned from a tupping.
Then he remembered he was posing as a gentleman from Paris.
Instead, he curled his lip into a sneer worthy of his old tutor.
Turning his back on the girl, who was perhaps fifteen, certainly no more, he met the innkeeper’s knowing grin.
“So, friend, what are you doing in Calais?”
“Drinking this piss-poor excuse for ale.” He pinned the innkeeper with an intent glare, dug into his purse, and pulled out a coin. Keeping his finger on the coin, he pushed it halfway across the counter. “If you have a bottle of decent red, bring it out now.”
Seeing the color of the coin, the innkeeper’s head rose like a hound scenting a fox, and he bellowed over his shoulder. “Estelle! Fetch a bottle from my private store.”
“Is it good?” Will cared little what he drank, not when his gut was tender from the trip across the Channel and the foul taste of vomit that lingered in his mouth, but a good red might while away the time as he waited for his contact.
The innkeeper rested a meaty arm on the counter and leaned in to reply, his tone conspiratorial, his grin revealing twin rows of black teeth. “It comes from the d’Aubray estate.”
Will’s eyebrows rose, and he drew back, trying not to gag. The man’s breath was rank, even among the stench of so many bodies packed into the taproom. “Then fetch away, friend. Wines from the d’Aubray estate are well known in the capital.”
“If the English had any understanding of good wine, they would give up this war for a wagonload of d’Aubray’s bottles and go home.”
“If what you have on hand is as good as you claim, you should drive the wagon into the British headquarters yourself. Do France and the emperor both a good deed. What’s your name, comrade?”
“Jean-Paul, owner of this establishment.” The publican slung the stained cloth back over his shoulder and drew a tankard for another patron nearby. He set it on the counter with a thud, sloshing ale over the dark wood before filling more tankards and setting them on a tray.
Will swigged another mouthful of the ale. For all he’d labelled it piss-poor, it wasn’t undrinkable, and it cleared the sour taste of Channel-retching from his mouth.
The serving wench stepped in beside the innkeeper and held out a bottle of red wine. “Is this the one you wanted, Monsieur Jean-Paul? The one with a rearing stallion on the front?”
“Yes, and a clean glass for our guest.”
The girl set a glass on the counter in front of Will and then briskly collected the tray of freshly poured tankards and carried them to a noisy group at a table behind him.
Jean-Paul wiped dust off the bottle before pulling the cork and pouring a full serving of ruby red wine. Reverently, he set it in front of Will.
The bouquet reached Will, even above the other smells. He lifted the glass and held it under his nose, sniffing deeply. How one of Etienne d’Aubray’s better reds had made its way into this quayside tavern was anyone’s guess, but he was prepared to stake a lot that it hadn’t been come by legally.
He tasted the wine. Rich and full-bodied with hints of cherry. Classic d’Aubray vintage.
Jean-Paul watched and nodded as he lowered the glass. “What did I tell you? You won’t find finer wines at the emperor’s own table.”
That went without saying. The little emperor accepted only the best. Had shipments been waylaid? Was that why Etienne traveled with those he sent to Napoleon, overseeing their safe arrival himself?
Will pushed his coin across the counter. “If you have another bottle hidden away, I may be interested in purchasing more.”
Jean-Paul slipped the coin into his pocket. “I’ll see what I can find.” His gaze slid to Will’s left as someone pushed into the space between him and his neighbor, a rough character with two fingers missing from the hand wrapped around his empty tankard.
“Oi, watch who you’re pushing, matey,” growled the three-fingered man.
The new customer glowered back and, banging an empty tankard down, tapped the counter beside it. “A man could die of thirst waiting to be served here.”
The newcomer looked much the same as the other men in the taproom—sailors and laborers, with a trio of soldiers huddled around the far corner table—but he lacked the same level of malodor.
Will leaned against the wall and assessed the man beneath the cover of sipping his wine.
Quiet strength and an assured air cloaked him, although by his clothes and rude manners, the man was, to all appearances, a navvy.
But there was shrewdness in his glance as he leaned his back against the bar and scanned the taproom. Was he searching for someone?
Could he be Will’s contact?
Jean-Paul plonked the refilled tankard of ale on the counter.
The newcomer turned around and picked it up, sculled half the contents in one gulp, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He nodded at the glass of wine in Will’s hand. “The ale here is pale, but the wine is fine, don’t you think so, friend?”
Although mangled by the rough accent, the password was accurate.
And it demanded a response.
“Nature is kind in her bounty to us—friend.”
A dark brown gaze settled on Will for a heartbeat.
A single nod of the head, and his contact signaled Jean-Paul over.
“The gentleman here”—he jerked a thumb in Will’s direction—“wants a quiet place to savor his wine and discuss how I can help him.” He turned back, signaling Will with an unspoken order.
“And a room for the night, monsieur. You won’t want to ruin your hat by going back out into that flood. ”
“Of course, monsieur. If that is what you wish.” Jean-Paul flung the dirty rag over his shoulder and gave the serving maid directions to bring up a tray of food before rounding the bar. “This way. Follow me, and I’ll have food brought to you in the best bedchamber.”
Will tucked his hat under his arm, collected the bottle of wine and glass in the other hand, and followed the tavern owner up the stairs. Behind him, his contact trod close at his heels.
Jean-Paul flung open the door to a room that overlooked the street. The best bedchamber wouldn’t rate highly if Will were traveling at home, but at least the bed would not rock as had his berth on the ship.
Will set the bottle, glass, and hat on the table and tossed a coin to the owner. “Make that food for two when it comes, and bring up another bottle. I need to plan my trip with my guide.”
Jean-Paul caught the coin and slipped it into his pocket. “Bien s?r, monsieur.” A mercenary gleam lit the publican’s eyes, and Will knew he’d hit the right note with him as the publican pulled the door closed behind him.
Will’s contact trod softly to the door and stood, ear pressed to the wood with one hand resting on the latch. Gently, he opened the door and peered through the narrow opening, then, opening it wider, stuck his head through and looked up and down the hallway. “All clear.”
He turned to Will. “Gervais. No need for more name than that. Do you have it?”