Chapter 6
Six
“Idon’t like this, Marcus,” James said.
The two men were standing so close together that Marcus could feel the heat of the man’s frustrated fury.
Aware of Dinsmore’s reputation as a swordsman, he shot a glance at the man’s hip to make certain he hadn’t armed himself since the fight with the national guardsmen.
He could hear Andre and David getting to their feet behind him.
Lifting his eyes to meet Dinsmore’s, he caught sight of Elizabeth and Joley standing a short distance away.
“You’ve made your disapproval plain,” Marcus said. “It’s getting tedious…”
Dinsmore’s jaw tightened, the dueling scar on his cheek rippling like the Devil’s whiplash. He’d granted Marcus leave to go, but only because he had no other choice. When Lord Grenville had explained their mission, he’d made it clear that the team was expendable, but the comte was not.
“You’re wasting more time arguing when we ought to be on the road. We’ve already lost precious time dealing with that patrol. There might be others ahead. And the cutter is waiting…”
“You realize that once it sails, you’ll be stranded in France.”
“There will be other ships.”
“Are you so certain?”
“When he gets over his rage, Grenville will most assuredly send one,” Marcus said, offering up a silent prayer that his years of service and invaluable forgery skills would outweigh what his master would undoubtedly consider ‘going damnably rogue.’
“But there’s no telling when,” Dinsmore reminded him. “In good weather, it’s a 24-hour crossing. In bad and with French patrols, there’s no telling how long you may have to wait.”
Marcus did a quick calculation in his head. “Three weeks. Give me three weeks. Tell Grenville I’ll be waiting at the rendezvous on the coast in three weeks.”
“So, you have a plan?” Dinsmore asked, in a tone that made it clear he very much doubted that Marcus did.
“Ride to Paris, find the comte’s daughter, bring her back to England.”
“Rather shy on details, don’t you think?” James glanced over his shoulder at the comte, then lowered his voice. “And what will you do if the lady’s been arrested?”
“I’ve factored that in.” Marcus ticked the days off on his fingers. “Three days hard ride to Paris, three days back to the coast, with plenty of time in between to find her and to get her out of whatever trouble she may have gotten into.”
“Trouble?” James shook his head with disbelief. “Is that what you call a French prison? Have you any idea how many prisons there are in Paris?”
“Fifty,” Marcus shot back, recalling the precise number from an intelligence report he’d delivered to Lord Grenville six months earlier. “But they’re not all used for political prisoners, so I should be able to narrow it down fairly quickly.”
“And then what? You’re going to just walk in and…what? Ask for the keys? For her release?”
“Doubtful,” Andre interjected, stepping closer to join the conversation. “The scribbler hasn’t exactly got a way with words, or charm, or tact,” he added, ignoring Marcus’s scowl.
“He’s probably imagining he can fight his way in. Man’s a brute. Which is why he’ll need me. I can get the keys.”
“Needs us,” David amended, looming over the three men. “You’ll need equipment, tools, logistical planning. Without me, you’ll be filching the keys, while forgetting the horses you’ll need to complete your escape.”
Andre shoved an errant curl off his forehead and scowled up at the big man. “Are you suggesting I’m disorganized?”
“Is ‘scattered’ considered an organizational style?”
“Enough,” Marcus interrupted them. “I’ll figure out details when I’ve gotten there and surveyed the situation...”
David gripped his arm, each finger like an iron vise, “when we get there. We.”
“Damn it all to hell, have you forgotten who is in charge, here?” Dinsmore demanded. “I will decide who stays and who goes. After we’ve gotten the comte to safety.”