Free The Moonless Night by Joan Smith Page A

was Napoleon there was no way of telling it. Still, the very idea of his being so close to them sent a shiver down her spine. During the whole of her remembered life, the name Bonaparte had been an evil charm, a bogey to strike fear into a child’s heart. He had been a favorite threat of an old nanny. “I'll turn you over to Boney,” the woman used to say at the first sign of recalcitrance. And now he was here, a prisoner. How she’d love to see him.
    “Hard to believe he’s really out there, isn't it?” a voice asked at her shoulder. She recognized it to be Lord Sanford's voice, and was annoyed. “I wish we could get a better look at him,” he added.
    “I can't think why anyone would want to see him,” she replied, lifting her chin and immediately turning away, to lend credence to her lie.
    “No doubt that is why you were using the telescope, to avoid seeing him.”
    She racked her brain for a setdown, and found none. “Shall we go?’ she asked instead, directing her words to Mr. Benson.
    They returned to Bolt Hall to inform Sir Henry of their destination, but he had gone off to round up more signers for the petition, and it was Biddy they had to deal with. “You won’t be back in time for lunch. We eat at twelve-thirty,” she said.
    “So early? We’ve just had breakfast,” Sanford exclaimed, being an urban bird.
    “My aunt had her breakfast at eight o’clock,” David told him.
    “Go ahead without us. We’ll eat later in town,” Sanford decided for them all.
    “Marie, you’ll not go with them. You won’t want to eat at the inn at such a time as this,” Biddy said at once. Marie was dismayed. She loved to eat at the inn any time, most especially at such an exciting time as this.
    “Three gentlemen must be sufficient protection for Miss Boltwood, even at this time,” Sanford said with an authoritative air. “Come along, Miss Boltwood. I shall hold myself responsible for her,” he said to Biddy, and the matter was closed.
    Marie had never been closer to feeling in charity with him, and if only he had then fallen back with David for the trip, she would have forgiven him all. But he kept by her side the whole way, pestering her with a dozen pointless questions, and keeping her away from Benson.
    “Are there many Frenchmen about the quay?” he asked.
    He had been there himself—he knew, but an answer was required. “Yes, swarms of them. I never saw most of them before. They are trouble-makers, rough looking types, every one of them.”
    “Are there any amongst them who strike you as gentlemen?”
    “No, I just said they are all rough, common people.”
    “Gentlemen in disguise is what I meant. A rescue would take money and brain power.”
    “There are no gentlemen. There is one lady,” she added, her mind flitting to Madame Monet “But of course a woman would not be actively involved in it.”
    “What is her name?”
    “Madame Monet.”
    “Pretty?”
     “That depends on your taste. Some people seem to find her so. She is of a certain age—blond, full-figured. Rather attractive, in a vulgar way.”
    Sanford nodded with a little smile, apparently liking this type very well, Miss Boltwood thought. “Madame Monet, eh?” he asked. There was an odd tone to his voice, but as Marie was more interested in the other half of the party, she took little note of it.
    As they approached the city, David began outlining the obvious to Mr. Benson. Bolt Hall lay to the east of Plymouth, and as they approached the city, it was seen sloping down the hill to the Plym. Boats of all sizes and degrees lay in the harbor, some arriving, others leaving, and still others with activities going forth aboard—men seeing to sails, ropes and supplies. Already the quay was stiff with people coming to see the Bellerophon riding anchor within view, flying the white ensign of the Royal Navy, and signal flags of various colors. Sanford studied the signal flags with interest, but said nothing.
    “This is the estuary