Page 7 of Roseanna (The Shackleford Legacies #3)

Seven

Panting in sheer dread at the thought of being left behind, the boy finally managed to catch up with the small group. He kept his distance, making sure to be just close enough to follow their lead, but far enough away to remain unnoticed. The boy feared that if he got left behind, he’d be lost forever. Doomed to wander the dark passageways until he starved.

After what seemed like hours, they finally broke free of the dark stone. Even though it was dark, the boy’s eyes ran like he’d stared too long at the sun. He lost all sense of direction, simply following the group of men, sobbing under his breath with every step. It had been so long since he’d had any kind of exercise, and his body was weak and dehydrated. His bare feet hurt so badly, he felt like howling. Despite that, he laboured on. Only pausing when the group finally stepped off the edge of a cliff.

Fighting the urge to scream, the boy stepped to the verge and looked down. In the moon's light, he could just make out a path snaking down the steep face. The group of men were rapidly being swallowed up into the night. Swallowing, he stepped onto the narrow trail, slipping and sliding his way towards the bobbing lanterns.

He’d almost reached the point of not caring whether he lived or died. Indeed, he even thought briefly of throwing himself off the cliff and getting it over with. But when he heard the unmistakable sound of a body falling, accompanied by a shrill scream of terror, which ended in a horrible, dull thud, he pressed his back against the rock and moaned, fighting the urge to simply sit down.

He could still hear the voices in front of him, but they were getting fainter. If he remained still any longer, they would leave without him. Where exactly they were leaving to, the boy did not know and cared less. Anywhere that wasn’t here. After wiping his arm across the line of snot running from his nose, he pressed his hand against the warm rock and began to slip and slide his way down the footpath. After another ten minutes or so, he caught sight of a faint light down in the water. Carefully peering over the edge, he screwed his eyes almost shut in an effort to see where the illumination was coming from. After a few seconds, his heart slammed against his ribs as he realised it was coming from a ship anchored in the deep water of the enclosed bay.

Weeping openly now, the boy recklessly skidded down the steep path, and finally reached a small, previously invisible jetty at the foot of the cliff, just as the Monsieur and Babin were climbing into a small skiff. The four men who’d conducted the rescue stood to one side. Evidently, they would not be accompanying them.

For a few seconds, the boy stood mute, until desperation loosened his tongue. ‘Monsieur,’ he croaked, using his voice for the first time in so long. One of the rescuers growled and stepped forward, clearly intending to throw the intruder into the water.

‘Leave him be.’ D’Ansouis’ voice was harsh, and louder than the boy had ever heard it. Seconds later, an arm snaked out, the hand unceremoniously yanking him from the solid jetty into the pitching boat. The boy fell down into the hull and promptly curled up into a small ball, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Seconds later, he felt the boat move.

Roan watched the skiff push off from the jetty. He was aware that one man had fallen to his death on the way down, but guessed the survivors would simply divide the poor sod’s share of the coin between them.

He turned his attention to the rigging, slating against the mast. The wind was getting up, and it was imperative they cleared the bay as soon as possible to avoid being dashed against its rocky sides. Without waiting for the small boat to reach them, Roan began shouting orders. They needed to be away as soon as their guest was aboard.

Nearly ten minutes later, the foresails had been hoisted and the ship slowly began to turn. Roan was vaguely aware of the skiff being brought aboard, but all his attention was on the Albatross as she laboriously made her way out of the narrow gap between the bluffs at the mouth of the cove.

As they cleared the headland, Roan was able to relax slightly, gradually becoming aware of a commotion on the upper deck. Frowning, he gave his First Lieutenant charge and made his way towards the newcomers.

Newcomers, plural? As far as he was aware, it should simply have been one additional passenger. As he approached, Roan counted three. One, who despite his shabby appearance was clearly the Comte; a great, hulking brute who looked as though he might well be the nobleman’s bodyguard; and lastly, a miserable, almost skeletal boy who he estimated had yet to reach ten summers, sobbing like the world had come to an end.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Roan snapped, his patience nearing its end. ‘Who are these?’ He pointed at the brute and the child.

‘They shared my cell,’ d’Ansouis replied coolly. ‘What would you have had me do – leave them? You know as well as I do, they would have been tortured until they’d begged to be allowed to die.’

Roan gritted his teeth. Everything the nobleman said was true. He looked over at the snivelling boy. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked in passable French. The lad stared at him in abject terror.

‘I am certain he has no one,’ the Comte intervened. ‘Perhaps your charity might extend to a cabin boy?’ He gave a shrug before adding, ‘It’s either that I think, or perhaps you would be better to throw him overboard now.’

‘How is it you will not take him?’ Roan barked, unaccountably riled at d’Ansouis’s blithe comments.

‘I have nothing,’ the Comte answered, spreading his hands to better illustrate their emptiness. ‘I go to plead my case with your countrymen simply to avoid ending up on the streets.’

Roan resisted the temptation to give a derogatory snort. The French Count would not end up in the gutter if the money that had been paid for his rescue was anything to go by.

‘And your bodyguard?’ the Captain asked, leaving the problem of the boy for a moment.

‘He will stay with me.’ D’Ansouis’s voice brooked no argument. The boy he could throw overboard. Evidently, the hulking brute might yet prove useful.

Roan looked over at the shivering lad, and his heart contracted with a sudden pity. He turned to his second lieutenant. ‘Give the boy some fresh clothes and a meal.’ Watching the officer lay his hand on the skinny runt’s shoulder, Roan had a sudden premonition that the foundling wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.

‘What’s your name, boy?’ he called as the lad was led away. The boy stopped and turned, scrubbing at his wet eyes with a dirty sleeve. He stared for a second, before twisting out of the second Lieutenant’s grip and facing Roan. Then he bit his lip and lifted his right hand, fingers touching the side of his head. ‘Tristan Bernart at your service, Sir.’

Nicholas was not looking forward to the day. Indeed, his head currently felt as though it had been stuffed with wool. It wasn’t often that circumstances kept him awake for most of the night, but the situation he’d found himself in was almost laughable. Almost.

He, Malcolm, Roan and Jamie had sat late into the night discussing how best to deal with the looming debacle. At length, after nearly depleting a bottle of brandy, the four men had concluded that there was no time to alter the plan and the unfortunate presence of two warring politicians on opposite sides of the proposed Reform bill would simply have to be managed. As would Dougal Galbraith.

The important thing was to get Tristan Bernart accepted into the underground faction, calling themselves the Revisionists . Ironically, the little-known group were advocates of reform, just as the current Prime Minister, Lord Grey. However, their methods to achieve it did not appear to include peaceful debate.

The radical group had been brought to the Duke’s attention a year earlier, shortly after his return from Jennifer and Brandon’s wedding.

On reaching Blackmore, he’d found a letter from his brother-in-law, Roan Carew, waiting for him. The missive had said very little, apart from the fact that he was looking forward to coming to Blackmore for their planned hunting and fishing weekend and expressing the hope that Jamie would be able to make it too.

Since no such invitation had been issued, either to Roan or Jamie, Nicholas swiftly surmised that the ex-sea captain had something important he wished to divulge in person and wanted Jamie to hear it too.

Ten days later, the three men spent two days fishing on the banks of Blackmore’s large lake.

What Roan had to say was disquieting, to say the least.

Some years earlier, whilst he was still captain of the Albatross, Roan was ordered to anchor in secret in a little-known bay a few miles from Mont St. Michel. They’d been tasked to pick up a French nobleman by the name of Comte Pierre d’Ansouis.

The Comte had spent the last three years incarcerated in Napoleon’s notorious Bastille of the Seas until freed by closet royalists.

Roan had been given no further information about the nobleman, aside from the fact that he apparently had influential English friends.

The whole rescue had gone almost according to plan, but instead of one escaped prisoner, there had been three. Roan had initially been inclined to toss the two interlopers overboard except that one of them was a mere boy. The other was a large hulk of a man who appeared to have set himself up as the Comte’s man servant. D’Ansouis informed him they’d been housed in the same cell.

Five days later, the Albatross docked in Plymouth, and the Comte was whisked away. His unlikely manservant went too. The boy, however, had nowhere to go, and Roan resigned himself to the sudden unexpected acquisition of a cabin boy. The lad claimed to be ten years old and said his name was Tristan Bernart.

Despite Roan’s reluctance to assume responsibility for the boy, the lad proved himself to be both bright and hardworking, and as Roan began to think about resigning his commission and settling down, he sent Tristan away to school, sensing the lad would be just as much an asset on dry land.

Indeed, over the following two decades, the former cabin boy proved himself beyond even Roan’s expectations, and by the time Tristan was nearing thirty, the two had become partners in several extremely successful business ventures.

It was in the pursuit of one such venture that Tristan Bernart finally saw Pierre d’Ansouis again.

Or rather, the man who claimed to be Pierre d’Ansouis. Despite the intervening years, Tristan had no trouble recognising the man strolling down Regent Street in the company of two laughing young ladies, as Etienne Babin.

Reluctant to simply walk away from such an intriguing mystery, Tristan decided to look into the possible whereabouts of the genuine Pierre d’Ansouis. Based on his memories of Babin, he had no problem imagining the nobleman’s demise by the former prisoner’s hand, but despite extensive enquiries, he could find absolutely nothing. It was as if Babin had never existed.

Certain now that the real Comte d’Ansouis was pushing up daisies in some remote location, Tristan turned his attention to why Babin would risk the noose to take over the identity of a dispossessed French émigré. After extensive enquiries, the only thing he managed to unearth was a snippet of conversation overheard by a former disgruntled maid – and it had cost him a pretty penny.

Apparently, late one evening, she’d heard the Comte mention the word Revisionists to an unknown visitor. It meant nothing to Tristan, but nevertheless, he finally decided to take his findings to Roan.

The former sea captain had been involved in enough havey cavey business since leaving the Royal Navy to recognise there was something more amiss than a mistaken identity and promptly contacted the Duke of Blackmore.

While Nicholas had never heard the name mentioned before, Jamie had come across it on two earlier occasions. As far as the magistrate could ascertain, the Revisionists were a group of reformists with a particular grudge against those who were resisting change.

The three men agreed they should endeavour to find out as much as possible about the little-known group over the next few months in the hope of unearthing something tangible. Consequently, Jamie, in his official role, tasked the Bow Street Runners with observing any known crusaders of reform. Though much depleted since the advent of the new police force, the Runners nonetheless unearthed a rumour that these Revisionists thought to bypass the current arguments about reform raging between the Commons and the Lords by taking matters into their own hands.

But despite extensive investigation, the Runners could find no confirmed members of the supposedly radical group and no evidence at all of a connection between them and the bogus French Count.

There was, however, a palpable air of anxiety pervading the streets of London. A sense that something was coming. While the arguments for and against reform waged in the Houses of Commons and Lords, Nicholas, Jamie, Roan and Tristan began to believe something terrible was being planned.

It was time to take matters into their own hands.