of a stray dog to disturb the bucolic quiet.
'We'll put up the bonnet and let the ladies sleep in the cabriolet' Sir Pulteney suggested. 'Blanket rolls beneath for us… hard ground, dews, and wee crawling things. Odd's Blood, what I would give for a straw pallet tonight! Haven't slept rough in ages. It's a feather mattress for me, I tell you!'
They dug a pit and risked a small fire, hopefully deep enough in those old-growth woods that it would not be seen. In companionable fashion, they spread blankets to sit on and delved into their basket once more for a cold supper. The new bottle of wine that they passed back and forth even proved to be a fairly good cabernet.
'An early rising at dawn,' Sir Pulteney mused after jointing a chicken for them all, and choosing a thigh for himself, eating with his fingers most commonly. 'By the time the shops open, pauvre M'sieur Guyot, the old addle-pate, will be selling the coach and team. Money matters not at this stage… just enough to tide us over 'til we are at one of the coves. Quel dommage' he said with a grin and a little sigh. Followed by one of his irritating titters, of course.
'An utter fool,' Lady Imogene said with a fond grin, snickering. 'Still, a fool has his uses, and his good points. Un bouffon, a clown, will outwit all of Rйal's, all of Fouchй's, minions, no matter how clever they are, or think they are. That fellow, what is his name, m'dear, in charge of the pursuit?'
'Fourchette,' Sir Pulteney said with a guffaw. 'He is named Matthieu Fourchette. My old sources informed me he's been watching the Lewries long before the levee, and he's reputed to be-'
'Come again?' Lewrie blurted through a bite of chicken breast. 'We're bein' chased by a man named 'Fork'? And there's been people watchin' us all that long? Think ye might've warned us earlier?'
'By now, Fourchette could be as hot on our trail as he is on yours, Captain Lewrie,' Sir Pulteney rejoined. 'Though not as famous as the instigator of our league, my sobriquet was not unknown to the French authorities in those horrid days. Who knows? Perhaps a paper record of the times ten years ago was kept, the connexion made from old dossiers and suspicions of my presence in France before the war closed off access for English visitors, and the disappearance of the intended victims of the
Revolution, say? Perhaps I did have a careless moment, leaving a note behind, as a cheeky taunt or by omission, dropping one in haste… one intercepted or taken from a collaborator… '
'Mean t'say you signed yer bloody name?' Lewrie gawped; this was getting even more lunatick. And he still hadn't gotten an answer to his question about the watchers!
'My insignia, rather,' Sir Pulteney told them.
'That wee flower at the bottom of the note Lady Imogene gave me before we left Paris, do you mean, Sir Pulteney?' Caroline asked. 'A part of a family seal, or…?'
'Not so incriminating as a signet ring in wax, no, Mistress Lewrie,' Sir Pulteney told her with a smile, and a bray. He sat up straighter, as if in pride. 'Back then, we all had our secret names and signs. I… was known as… the Yellow Tansy.'
If he was expecting awe, rushes of indrawn breath, or knowing nods, he didn't get them; the Lewries looked at him like an escapee from Bedlam, then at each other, shrugging at the same time.
'Well, it was a long time ago, mon cher,' Lady Imogene said as she patted his thigh to comfort his deflated feelings. 'And it was a secret from everyone, wasn't it? No mention of the league in the newspapers, no thrilling tales written after the fact. We laboured in the dark, and our successes were their own reward, n'est-ce pas?'
'Mean to say, you never heard…?' Sir Pulteney said, crushed.
'Not an inkling,' Lewrie rather enjoyed telling him.
Who the Hell runs about callin' himself the Yellow Tansy? he thought; 'the Shadow,' or somethin spy-ish, aye, but… mine arse on a band-box, who'd even admit t'such? They don't even call race horses at Ascot or the Derby such silly names!
The search round Beauvais had proved fruitless, as Fourchette expected, and the quickly erected road blocks on all roads leading to Rouen had not turned up the fugitives, either. For a time he had hoped that this mysterious 'Fleury' family might appear in Le Havre or some other seaport, and the coastal police or guardsmen might identify them, but a rider had come from Rouen's hфtel de ville; according to a census, there were several real Fleurys living there, but all were accounted for, and none matched the descriptions they had gathered from Mйru. Again, as Fourchette dourly expected.
'How I wish that all France was linked by the First Consul's semaphore towers, the way it was when it was Gaul, and the Romans held us.' Fourchette gloomed at how long messengers took to go back and forth.
'How Napoleon protects our coast with those new semaphore towers of his,' Guillaume Choundas grumpily pointed out, stifling a belch of liquid fire that threatened to sear his throat. His digestion had been going bad during his last stint in the West Indies, and what the Amйricains served during his captivity had completed its ruin. On his own in his Paris hovel, and with his miserly excuse for a pension, he ate only the blandest, cheapest food. This hunt after Lewrie, though, and the lavish funds spent on it by Fourchette's employer, resulted in many hastily eaten meals in foul inns along the way, usually ordered by the policeman for all, with no individual choice, and guaranteed to be piquant and spicy, and insults to his stomach and bowels. Even with final revenge waiting at the end of their road, there were times that Choundas wished he'd stayed home with his tasteless broth. Some nights when the hunters could take lodgings, Choundas would spend half the hours that he should have slept in the outback toilettes, either squirting liquid and searing his hemorrhoids, or groaning in painful, bloated inability.
Charitй wasn't enjoying the hunt much, either, for she had come away from Paris imagining that Lewrie would be taken no more than two hours outside the city, and that she would be home in her chic appartement by dusk. She had packed nothing more than a brace of pistols and their accoutrements. No valise, no tooth powder or brush, no spare clothes. Her one small carry bag held a comb, a brush, a mirror, and a scented face powder and puff! And no more than two thousand francs to purchase a meal in celebration! After three days, she was sure she was as 'high' as the rankest cavalry soldat. Her one serviceable gown and her single pair of men's breeches were stained with ammonia horse sweat and the stench of wet saddle leather, and after the hard use to which their horses had been put, both originals and remounts, the reek of open and rotting saddle sores.
The cavalryman's cloak Major Clary had loaned her against the chill of night rides, and one afternoon of sullen rain blown inland from the Channel, had seen an entire year's hard field use on campaign, and it, too, gave off a mйlange of odd odours, not a one of them that could be called pleasant, either.
All in all, Charitй reckoned, she had managed to stay cleaner, sweeter-scented, better groomed, and a world more stylish aboard one of their pirate schooners in the Gulf of Mexico, and Denis could have this 'glorious' soldier's life!
'What you said, Mam'selle Charitй,' Fourchette said suddenly, leaning intimately towards her at the breakfast table they shared at their lodgings in Beauvais, a seductive note to his voice and flirtatious glints in his oddly pale eyes. 'How Lewrie only knows the roads from Calais to Paris?'
'Oui, m'sieur?' Charitй answered, put off once more by his continual lusty looks, shifting a few centimиtres further away, wishing she had a shawl with which to shield herself from his leering gaze.
'Calais, Boulogne, Dunkerque… perhaps even Abbeville and Dieppe,' Fourchette went on as if amused by the reaction he elicited. 'Much closer to England, n'est-ce pas? On a good day, one can see the cliffs of Dover from Cap Gris Nez, n'est-ce pas? I thank you for the suggestion. It is so astute of you, mam'selle. You are a treasure indeed.'
He was so obvious that even Guillaume Choundas snorted in derision.
'You, Capitaine Choundas, remind me that Lewrie is a sailor,' Fourchette said, turning to face that ogre. 'He certainly cannot try to book passage aboard a packet, for we watch all departures by now, yet… is he a good sailor? One able to handle a small boat? And tell me,
