She contemplated him with interest. ‘I really cannot conceive of what an English sea captain might consider a French duchess must know in so importunate a manner. However, I shall indulge you, sir, for a brief space.’ An imperious wave of the hand and the drawing room was vacated by all save the duke, who stood up uncertainly, then sat again. ‘Now, Sir Thomas, pray what is your business?’
‘Madame, I’m captain of a frigate lately cruising off Stralsund.’ He spoke in low, urgent tones and with as much conviction as he could muster. ‘And lately in possession of intelligence of an unpleasant nature concerning your king.’
‘Go on, sir,’ she said steadily.
‘There is at this very moment, a party of assassins sent by Bonaparte to seize King Louis and take him to Paris. I’m here to provide a means of conveying him to a place of safety.’
The duke spluttered, ‘Even the Corsican would not stoop to-’
‘Be quiet, cher c?ur. Captain, we’ve rumours enough in this place. Why should I believe this?’
‘The information came from one who is in a position to know the truth of the matter and can gain nothing by its falsity.’
‘Sir, this is hardly grounds for requesting the King of France to flee with you. I’m mindful that a distinguished gentleman such as yourself would not be here unless convinced, but to satisfy me you must disclose your source and why you do believe the same.’
‘Madame, it is … Marshal Bernadotte of France.’
There was a frozen silence.
‘From his lips?’
‘Just so. He deplores the tyrant’s dishonouring of the name of France for reasons of personal insecurity, and-’
‘He is known to me. You will tell me his appearance, his style and bearing that I may be assured it is he.’
‘Ah, he is tall and slender, with dark curled hair. He dresses richly but plainly and, er, women might well account him handsome. He commands men as if born to it and-’
‘Thank you. Even if he serves Bonaparte he is a man of honour.’ She bit her lip, concentrating, then came to a decision. ‘Very well. I will accept that you have trustworthy information. Because of the need for haste I shall go to the King immediately. Do hold yourself ready to see him, if you will, Captain.’
She left in a swirl of brocade.
Kydd tried to make conversation with the agitated duke and was glad when Marie-Therese swept back in.
Wringing her hands, she told Kydd, ‘He refuses to leave, saying they wouldn’t dare to move against him in his own palace, this is only another foolish rumour, and there is no proof they exist.’
‘Madame, I must press you. In a very short while they will be here. If there are traitors and such who will aid them there’s every-’
‘Sir, I know more than you do that this may well be so, but you must understand. My uncle is stubborn and, as a king, set in his ways. I cannot so easily move him.’
‘You must, Madame! Time presses and this band-’
‘You ask too much! He’s the King of France and not to be commanded.’
Kydd saw there was no more to do. He’d done all he could and had been spurned. Already guilty of being off-station he was not in a position to wait indefinitely. ‘Then, with much sorrow, I fear I must take my leave, Your Royal Highness. There are duties my ship must perform that require her presence in distant waters. I shall depart in the morning.’
‘Is there nothing I can do to persuade you to remain a little longer? The King may-’
‘It is a time of war, Madame. My ship’s movements are out of my hands. I’m desolated to refuse you but I must.’
Chapter 90
Kydd knew the charade could play out over weeks or months if Bonaparte’s agents didn’t end it first. He’d kept his word to Bernadotte but his attempt to save the King of France had been disdained, so he could depart with a clear conscience. When Dillon heard what had happened, he agreed there was nothing else to do but prepare to leave.
The morning was grey and dull, suiting Kydd’s mood. The coachman chatted to Dillon in German, letting it be known that a return to Libau instead of the crowded squalor of Riga had much to commend it.
As the quaint-coloured houses gave way to fields they lurched to a stop and the coachman shouted down.
‘He says someone follows,’ Dillon said darkly.
The sound of a galloping horse closing with the carriage grew louder and Kydd leaned out of the window to see a single rider, who was up with them in a crash of hoofs. A sealed note was thrust at him, the horse gyrating in impatience as Kydd tore it open.
It was from Marie-Therese: ‘Return, I beg you. Everything has changed. We have desperate need of you.’
Did this mean …?
‘Take us to the palace!’ Kydd ordered.
Outwardly all was calm as a blank-faced major-domo escorted him to the quarters of the Duc d’Angouleme.
She was waiting for him. After a warning look to remain silent until they were alone, she said flatly, ‘You were right. They are here, now. A spy has reported seeing Lecoq – one of Fouche’s assassins – in a nearby village. There’s a coach-and-six with him.’
The fastest mode of transport, impossible to catch in pursuit.
‘The King?’
‘He’s prostrated in dread – his memories. He desires nothing more than to be taken from here by any means.’
The whites of her eyes were showing – this woman of any would know what it was to live in terror.
‘My frigate lies at Libau. On board he’ll be perfectly safe, I do assure you.’
Marie-Therese paced nervously about the room. ‘To get him out of the palace will be hard. If he’s seen to be fleeing it will cause chaos, panic. And it will tell Lecoq all he needs to know. We must think.’
Her husband entered, distraught and unsure.
Glancing at him, she came to a decision. ‘Yes. We will move immediately. Captain, if by some means we bring the King to you in hiding as it were, would you take him with you to your ship?’
Kydd bowed. ‘Yes, Madame.’
She considered for a moment, then went to an ornate desk and wrote something on a slip of paper. ‘Give this to your coachman and tell him to wait in the courtyard of this house.’
‘Your Royal Highness, I-’
‘Leave now, and you will not be suspected. We will meet again in happier times, you may be sure.’
Chapter 91
Kydd, Dillon and Tysoe waited in the spacious courtyard of a country manor as inquisitive servants were driven inside by an agitated owner. Their coachman remained on his seat, keeping the restless horses still.
Suddenly, in a burst of noise, a white-plumed carriage crashed on to the cobblestones and swept into the yard. Footmen and guards dropped to the ground, the cipher-emblazoned door was opened and a nervous Duc d’Angouleme was handed down.
‘Th – the King,’ he gulped, turning aside to hold a deep bow.
From the dark inside of the curtained carriage there was movement and Kydd dropped to an elegant courtly bow, hearing a strangled gasp from the coachman, who hastily got to the ground.
King Louis XVIII of France emerged – wig askew, eyes wild. He was heavily overweight and puffed like a whale as he pushed past Kydd into the other coach, hastily followed by the duke. ‘Let us go, Captain!’ he called urgently.
The coachman thrust himself in front of Kydd, jabbering angrily.
‘He swears he won’t be a part of this, Sir Thomas,’ Dillon interpreted.
A chinking purse was thrown from the vehicle and landed at the man’s feet. He picked it up, weighed it appreciatively and, without a word, returned to his seat.
‘Dillon, you and Tysoe ride on top.’
Kydd entered the carriage. The King took up most of one side, the duke was opposite. With muttered apologies, Kydd sat beside him and gave an awkward nod to the King.
The coach swayed and they were off, leaving behind the royal carriage with its attendants.
It was absurd, bizarre. In the coach with him a king was pulling a lap rug over his head and doing his best to slide down low while a duke in plain garb had on a too-large floppy gardener’s hat.