Chapter 2 #2
Her face was composed, but even in the dim room her knuckles were blanched where her hands lay clasped in her lap. “A captain in the Second Dragoons.”
The Greys. He hadn’t been at Waterloo, but some credited the Royal Scots Greys with turning the tide of battle for Wellington by throwing Bonaparte’s lead brigade into massive disorder. They took heavy casualties.
He sat back. The widow had yet to touch the food. He nodded towards the plate. “Drink something more if you will not eat. You will do yourself no favors if you pass out again.”
She relaxed her hands but did not otherwise move. “I confess it is rather hard to eat under the circumstances.”
“I have no plan to harm you. Eat something, and then we will continue our conversation.”
“Your interrogation, you mean?” An upward twist of her lips.
“You have many questions in this conversation we are having but dodge my own. Whatever answers you hope to uncover, my truths are not what you seek.” She picked up a chunk of bread.
“And my identity can be of no true consequence to you.” She made careful work of chewing one corner of the crust.
“All the same, I would have your name.”
Her shoulders tensed when he leaned forward, relaxing marginally when he came up with a piece of bread for himself. Stale, as expected, but he’d not intended to dine here tonight, let alone with an unplanned guest.
“I suppose my name cannot matter much. Isobel. My name is Isobel.”
The omission of a surname was undoubtedly intentional. And likely all you’ll give me right now.
“How did you come to be at Pont Neuf yesterday?” he asked after both of them had eaten in silence for several minutes.
“I presume you wish to know for what purpose I was there, and not my mode of transport.” Her face was turned towards the bread in her hand and partly in shadow, but he caught her mouth curving at the corner.
“Perhaps I was admiring the great bridge?” The breath of a laugh.
“No doubt I was there for much the same reason you were. I caught sight of Compton, and I followed him.”
“Why are you tracking his movements?”
“I believe he knows the whereabouts of someone dear to me. Or did, at one time. Now . . .” She compressed her lips, going silent.
“A friend? A lover?”
“My younger sister.”
“And that is your only interest in him?”
His words touched a nerve. “It may seem little enough to you,” she said, words brittle and precise, “but she is everything to me.”
He tamped down a flicker of guilt. “Is she an associate of his?”
“No!” The denial was immediate, followed by a sigh. “That is to say, I do not believe she went willingly into his company. But I cannot be certain.”
He finished off his wine. She took another sip of hers.
“I assume you will not tell me what your interests are in Compton’s activities?” she asked. “How am I to know you are not his associate? Did not your companion in Dover call him an acquaintance?”
Grady had said it ironically. “Compton is a criminal scoundrel,” he stated flatly. “You may be assured I’m not in league with any of his schemes. What do you know of Guillaume Dubois?”
“Nothing. I do not know that name.” Nothing on her countenance suggested it was prevarication. He’d been studying her long enough now to have a sense for how she wore emotions.
She rested her head against the settle’s back, closing her eyes.
“You are worn to the bone,” he observed. “In the morning we will discuss further your pursuit of Compton and his whereabouts.”
“But not what you know of him, I take it.” The corner of her mouth lifted slightly as her eyes opened. “What do you plan to do with me in the meantime?”
“There is a bed through there; you may use it if you wish.”
She looked warily at him. Deciding if she could trust him.
Certainly he’d made little effort up till now to set her at ease. “You’ve nothing at present to fear from me.”
“Ah yes. Whyever would I fear you?” Sardonic. “I don’t know your true name or anything of your purpose. Now I’m to trust that you mean me no harm even as you went out of your way earlier to imply it might be otherwise.” There was no heat in the words. In the main she sounded utterly weary.
“I will remain out here during the night.”
“I do not suppose you will return my boot knife?”
“No. And make no attempt to leave.”
“I’m not a fool,” she said with some asperity. “Merely extremely uneasy and justifiably so.”
She rose to her feet with an admirable degree of dignity. She was steadier than earlier. She pulled her coat about her and curled on her side atop the blankets, facing the outer room. It was not long before sleep claimed her.
Once he was certain she slept and was not merely feigning it, he unlocked the drawer containing her possessions to examine them at leisure. The boot knife was small and appeared relatively new; the dirk was older but well cared for. He did not recognize the maker’s mark on either.
The contents of the valise were neatly and compactly organized; it would have done any man on campaign proud.
On top, wrapped in oilcloth and tucked inside a gown—the one from Dover, if memory served—was a Manton pocket pistol, unloaded, with a box of cartridges and cleaning kit.
A bit of a surprise, that. She’d travelled light if the valise was all she had with her.
A rough jacket and skirt of French make, similar to her current attire.
Some undergarments and stockings. A few toiletries.
Several handkerchiefs. A small mending kit.
A silver hairbrush of finer quality than matched the clothes.
He tilted the filigreed handle towards the lamp, examining it.
He replaced everything in the valise and secured it again.
Nothing disproved what she’d thus far told him about herself, but by the same token, nothing corroborated it.
No travelling papers from England, which she’d have needed at Calais.
No French internal passport; she’d have needed one for the passage to ?le-de-France.
Those documents were either hidden yet on her person or she had belongings elsewhere.
Or she isn’t truly on her own as she claims. The leather purse contained only coin enough for a few days’ lodging and food. Certainly there was not enough for an extended stay in Paris, let alone a return trip to England.
Of a certainty, he needed more answers from her, although he believed she had answered his questions honestly thus far, omissions notwithstanding.
His gut told him she’d been truthful with him, although he would remain vigilant.
While logic prevailed, he’d also learned since coming into his current work that instincts counted for something, just as they had during his time soldiering.
The question of what to do with her remained.
If, as he was inclined to believe, she was not a confederate of Dubois or someone else’s operative but was tracking Compton’s whereabouts for her own ends as she claimed, she might have insight into Compton’s activities.
If she cooperates, it could prove profitable.
He couldn’t in good conscience allow her to independently pursue her own agenda, innocent or otherwise.
If he had noticed her, others would as well.
Harm coming to her sat ill with him no matter who she proved to be.
Ensuring her safety—or preventing her flight—presented various difficulties, none insurmountable.
Amélie was one solution, perhaps; he’d consider that after further conversation in the morning.
He looked towards the widow’s recumbent form. She posed little flight risk tonight, exhausted as she was. He could just discern the pale oval of her face, her lips slightly parted in sleep, dark hair sliding across one cheekbone and loose along her side.
Who are you, Isobel?
He adjusted the wick on the lamp, dimming the flame.
After a day spent in cold rain, his body made slight protest at the prospect of spending the remainder of the night upright in the chair.
The old wounds sometimes pained him when the weather turned.
Not getting any younger, am I? Still, the chair was nothing next to sleeping rough on campaign.
He permitted himself the stillness of half sleep.