‘wildflower.’ That will identify your contact.”
Finn grimaced. “That’ll work just great unless someone happens to mention wildflowers in the course of a conversation Do me a favor. Forget the cloak-and-dagger stuff, Fitzroy. If someone should happen to come up to Percy Blakeney and address him as Delaney, I’ll assume that it’s my contact, all right?”
“I suppose that would work,” Fitzroy said.
“It’s nice to see you’re flexible,” said Finn, sarcastically. “What about chronoplate access?”
“Can’t let you have one,” said Fitzroy. “Sorry. It would be too risky. However, I’ll try to work as close to you as possible within the limitations of our situation. If you get in a jam or have to get in touch with me for any reason, you’ve got your panic button. I assume you’ve had your implants checked?”
“Of course,” said Finn, impatiently. No soldier worth his salt would clock out on a mission without making certain that his signal implant, located subcutaneously behind his ear, was in proper working order.
“Good,” said Fitzroy. “Now there’s one more thing. When he was killed, Blakeney had just embarked upon his smuggling career. He’d had a bellyful of the beheadings and he had arranged with two of his friends, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, to smuggle the Duc de Chalis and his children out of France. You’re checked out on Ffoulkes and Dewhurst?”
Finn nodded. Since both men were known to be close friends of Blakeney’s, all available information concerning them had been included in the mission programming.
“Dewhurst is with the boat,” Fitzroy said. “Ffoulkes was the one who drove that wagon. One of the duke’s sons was on the box with Ffoulkes, the younger boy and the old man were crammed into a hollow section underneath the box. They wouldn’t be able to stay in such a cramped space for very long, so Ffoulkes probably let them out as soon as they were out of sight of the gate.”
“What about his wife?” said Finn.
“She died last year. You didn’t know that? God, they did put this together in a hurry. You’ll have to watch yourself. Now we’ve arranged for another wagon to act as a decoy, since Ffoulkes won’t be able to make very good time in that rig. That way, if there’s pursuit, we’ll have our wagon between the soldiers and Ffoulkes. They’ll catch up to a wagonful of empty wine casks, driven by an old man and a boy, and they can rip it apart to their hearts’ content and they won’t find anything. That should buy Ffoulkes all the time he needs. However, when he planned their escape, Blakeney didn’t know that he’d married a woman who had sent an entire family of aristocrats to the guillotine. So obviously, he can’t very well expect to take them aboard his yacht along with Lady Blakeney, right? I’m assuming that he made some sort of last-minute contingency plan with Ffoulkes to hide them out somewhere until he and Lady Blakeney had reached England. Then he probably intended to send the yacht back for them. Unfortunately, there’s no way of knowing exactly what sort of plans he made or where he intended to hide them. It’s all guesswork. You’ll have to improvise.”
“I’ll work it out somehow,” said Finn. “Is that it? We’re cutting it a little close, I think.”
“That’s it,” Fitzroy said. He handed Finn a little case, small enough to fit inside his pocket and disguised as a snuffbox. “You’ll find a signet ring in there. It matches Blakeney’s. Slide the bottom of the signet forward and a needle will pop up. Practice with it a few times before you put it on, so you don’t stick yourself. You’ve got several cartridges in there, all color-coded, and there’s a key inside the lid. It’s loaded for Lady Blakeney now. Stick her when you’re ready for her to come around; it should take about three seconds. After that, load it with anything you wish, just don’t give anyone a lethal dose unless it’s absolutely unavoidable. Those are the red ones, by the way. If you use one of these, it had better be as a last resort, is that clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“Right. Get moving.” Fitzroy handed him the reins. “Good luck, Delaney.”
Finn swung up into the saddle and rode off at a gallop. No sooner had he arrived at the site where Fitzroy had left the coach with the lead horse tethered to a tree, than he heard the rapidly approaching sound of hoofbeats. Moving quickly, he dismounted, dropping the reins and allowing the horse to nibble at the grass. He then loosed the lead horse and climbed into the coach just as a party of six soldiers of the Republic rode into view. Finn took a deep breath. They had cut it very close, indeed.
He opened the box, removed the ring, quickly checked the needle, then slipped it onto the ring finger of his right hand. He bent over Lady Blakeney and pricked her with the needle just as the officer leading the soldiers opened the door of the coach.
“You! Come out of there!”
Finn looked over his shoulder and saw the lieutenant pointing a pistol at him.
“My wife, “ he said, anxiously. “She’s-”
“Never mind your wife, step out of the coach!”
Lady Blakeney moaned and started stirring.
“Thank God,” said Finn. “For a moment, I was afraid that-”
“Step out of the coach, I said!”
Marguerite opened her eyes and gave a start. “Percy! Lord, Percy, I’ve been shot!”
“No, my dear,” said Finn, stepping out of the coach slowly. “You only fainted.”
The soldier grabbed his arm and pulled him aside roughly, then looked inside the coach.
“If you’re looking for that ruffian,” said Finn, “I saw him leap from the coach and run off into the woods.”
The soldier spun to face him. “Where? How far back?”
“Damn me, I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Finn, producing a handkerchief and waving it in front of his nose. He hoped his imitation of Blakeney’s voice would pass. He had not had much time to practice and he wished he had Lucas Priest’s gift for mimicry. “I was hell bent for leather to try to catch this runaway coach and rescue my poor wife,” said Finn, with a touch of indignation. “I was far too anxious about her welfare to concern myself with your renegade aristocrat. He jumped off back there, somewhere.” He waved his handkerchief in the direction of the road back to Paris.
“You three,” said the officer, indicating several of his men, “ride back and comb the woods; he couldn’t have gone far.”
The men wheeled their horses and galloped off in the direction from which they came.
“Have you seen a wagon,” said the officer, “loaded with wine casks?”
“Lord, what do I know of wagons?” Finn said, rolling his eyes. “I was almost killed back there! And my wife was almost shot! There’s a hole inside the coach where the ball passed through scant inches from her head! It was a dreadful experience, quite unnerving. I fear that I won’t sleep for weeks! My insides are all in knots. This is all too much for my frail constitution. All I desire to do is get back to merry England and leave you to your Revolution. I don’t care if I never set foot on French soil again!”
“France will survive quite well without your kind, I think,” the officer said with a sneer.
“Yes, but I fear that I may not survive France,” said Finn. He leaned against the coach for support and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. “Gad, what a horrible experience! That terrible man! I hope you’ll catch him and clap him in the Bastille.”
“We shall do a great deal more than that,” the soldier said. He put away his pistol, satisfied that Blakeney was no threat. “You are bound for Calais?”
“Yes, if we can arrive there safely without being killed along the way,” said Finn. “Lord only knows what dangers await us on the road! I would be most grateful if you and your men would see us to our destination safely. I would feel far more secure in the company of soldiers of the Republic.”
“Soldiers of the Republic have far more important things to do than to nursemaid weak-kneed Englishmen,” the lieutenant said, harshly. “I would advise you to be on your way and not to stop until you’ve reached Calais. I wish you a speedy crossing of the Channel and good riddance.”
The officer mounted and rode off with his two remaining men, heading away from the city on the trail of the wine wagon. Finn took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“And good riddance to you,” said Finn. “Are you all right, my dear? You gave me quite a fright.”
Lady Blakeney gave him an arch look. “It would appear that it does not take very much to frighten you, Percy.”
“Not much, you say? Why, having my own wife almost shot to death and myself almost being trampled by a horse and then accosted by those rough-mannered brigands who have the temerity to call themselves soldiers-why, I would say that it was much, indeed!”
As he spoke, Finn took her measure. Marguerite Blakeney was twenty-five years old, tall, and very well-
