necessary,’ said Benoît dryly. He was still leaning back in his chair, dark and imperturbable, infuriatingly unresponsive to Angelica’s beseeching blue eyes. ‘All your brother—what’s his name…?’
‘Harry. He’s a midshipman.’
‘All Harry has to do is sit tight and behave himself, and he’ll be exchanged in due course,’ said Benoît. He took a sip of brandy, and watched Angelica over the rim of his glass. ‘There’s no need for all this melodrama over a perfectly straightforward situation.’
‘But it’s not straightforward!’ said Angelica passionately. ‘Maybe you haven’t realised, but the French have stopped making automatic exchanges of their prisoners. When the war broke out again in 1803 they even detained civilians—women and children. Many of them are still being kept prisoner at Verdun. Papa says such infamy is in breach of every civilised code of war!’
‘I’m sure many people think so,’ said Benoît softly, still intently studying Angelica, an enigmatic expression in his eyes. ‘But I also understand there is a school at Verdun, with several young midshipmen among its pupils. Why is Harry not one of them?’
‘He wouldn’t give his parole,’ said Angelica flatly. ‘He has already tried—and failed—to escape once. That’s why they’ve sent him to Bitche. It’s a punishment depot, isn’t it? You seem to know all about it.’
‘Only what I hear,’ said Benoît mildly.
His expression revealed nothing of his thoughts, but he was frowning slightly and Angelica at least had the satisfaction of knowing that he was giving the problem his full attention.
‘The fortress was built by Vauban, I believe,’ he said after a moment’s reflection. ‘It’s situated on the summit of a great outcrop of rock. Not an easy place to escape from.’
‘Harry’s done it once already,’ said Angelica proudly. ‘Look!’ She passed him the older of the two letters. ‘We received this only yesterday from one of the détenus at Verdun.’
‘Thank you.’ Benoît put down his brandy glass, unfolded the crumpled paper and began to read.
‘This paragraph here!’ said Angelica impatiently, dropping onto her knees beside his chair, so that she could see the letter too.
Harry and his friends were at liberty for nearly three months. After many difficulties they reached the coast in safety, but they could not find a vessel to take them across the Channel. The French are strict in their surveillance of all boats at night; Harry was recaptured near Étaples and marched back to Verdun in shackles…
‘You see, the main problem was finding a boat to get to England—that is why Papa thought of you!’ Angelica exclaimed eagerly, her golden curls bouncing in her excitement. ‘According to Sir William, the war hasn’t made any difference to the smugglers.’
‘But I’m not a smuggler any more,’ Benoît reminded her, a gleam of appreciation in his eyes as he looked into her ardent face. ‘Hush! Let me finish the letter,’ he admonished her, as she opened her mouth to make a hasty retort.
She bit her lip in vexation and sat back on her heels in a rustle of impatient silk. She wasn’t used to being spoken to like that, but she didn’t want to alienate him if he might be able to help.
He smiled faintly, as if aware of her impatience, and carried on reading.
She watched him anxiously. If it was true he was no longer a smuggler, perhaps he couldn’t help her. But he must still have relatives in France, and she retained the deep conviction that if he wanted to do something he could find a way.
The Earl’s correspondent continued:
I saw Harry when he arrived here at Verdun, but I was only able to snatch a few words with him. Following his failed escape attempt he is regarded by the French as a mauvais sujet, criminal and the worst possible escape risk. He has been sent back to the fortress in Bitche, a punishment depot, but I am sure he will try to escape again as soon as the opportunity arises.
It is ironic, is it not, that if the French had offered him parole his own sense of honour would have held him more surely than any shackles? But the French don’t really understand where midshipmen fit into the naval hierarchy. They often don’t offer them the same privileges they allow commissioned officers. Of course, it might be different if they realised he was your son, but so far they don’t seem to have discovered the connection. I remain your humble servant, James Corbett.
‘You see!’ Angelica declared, unable to remain silent any longer. ‘It is a matter of life and death. Harry will surely try again, and next time he may be killed. I know that some of the prisoners have been killed trying to escape. All he needs is a little help. One small boat in the right place.’
She knelt up, gripping the arm of Benoît’s chair in both hands.
‘You don’t even need to go to France,’ she said earnestly, her lucid blue eyes fixed on Benoît’s face as she concentrated all her powers of persuasion onto him. ‘James Corbett sent his mistress over to England to carry out some business for him and she smuggled the letter out in her clothes—the French seem to be very lax in some respects—and she will be returning soon to Verdun.
‘All we need is the name of someone Harry can safely approach to give him passage over the Channel. Fanny can take the information back to James Corbett.’
‘And how will Corbett get a message through to Harry?’ Benoît asked sceptically, raising one black eyebrow. ‘And what happens if the name of the “safe person” falls into the wrong hands? What kind of tragedy would I be responsible for then, if I did as you suggest?’
Angelica bit back an angry retort. She knew Benoît’s objections were valid; in her frustration and anxiety she wasn’t thinking clearly. But his lack of a positive response to the problem aggravated her almost beyond bearing.
‘There must be a way!’ She struck the arm of his chair in her exasperation. If you won’t go to France yourself—’
‘Did I say I wouldn’t?’ Benoît covered her hand with his, and Angelica gasped as she suddenly realised how informally she had been behaving with him.
He was still sitting in the armchair, and she was kneeling on the floor beside him in a position which was neither dignified nor ladylike. In her wildest imagining she had never expected their interview would end up like this.
His hand was tanned, with strong but elegant fingers. She was instantly conscious of the warmth and potential power in his grip, and felt an answering spark at his touch which no other man had aroused within her.
She had been drilled in habits of strict decorum, but she also lived in a fashionable, glittering world in which flattery and flirtation were commonplace. She had received thousands of compliments during her few Seasons, and many eligible and not so eligible gentlemen had kissed her hand—but none of them had produced such an immediate response in her.
She hesitated, unable to look away from his face. His gaze was strangely compelling, though she still couldn’t decipher the expression in his guarded brown eyes. She was torn between a desire to snatch her hand away and a fugitive wish to prolong the moment. Then she remembered it was her duty to Harry—and her father—to do everything she could to persuade Benoît to help.
She smiled a trifle uncertainly at him, her anxiety and hope apparent in her candid blue eyes.
‘You mean you will go to France?’ she said, almost pleadingly.
‘Perhaps.’
‘Perhaps!’ she exclaimed, drawing her hand away, consternation in her expression. ‘But…’
‘Let me have your father’s letter,’ said Benoît briskly.
‘Why? I’ve told you everything it contains,’ she said rebelliously.
‘Nevertheless, I’d like to see it,’ he replied equably. ‘This one belongs to