by Mary Balogh
Captain Blake held the French officer’s eyes as he unbuckled his sword belt, lifted the heavy sword and scabbard from his side, and held them out. He half-expected that the man would direct one of the gawking private soldiers to take it, but he accepted it himself.
“Thank you, monsieur,” he said. “Captain Antoine Dupuis at your service. And whom do I have the honor of escorting?” He indicated the bridge with one outstretched hand, and Captain Blake moved toward it.
“Captain Robert Blake of the Ninety-fifth Rifles,” he said. He did not believe there could be a feeling of greater humiliation. He had felt, removing his sword, as if he were stripping himself to the view of the French soldiers. He felt naked now without the weight of his sword at his side.
11
JOANA made her usual stop at the Convent of Bussaco, high in the hills west of Mortagoa. She and Matilda were always welcome to spend a night there. Indeed the nuns kept a small trunk of hers so that her change of person could be made with the minimum fuss.
And so the Marquesa das Minas arrived with some pomp from Viseu early one evening, smiling graciously at her coachman as she was handed from the white-and-gold carriage, and more dazzlingly at the mother superior, who greeted her inside the door. She ate a quiet supper with the nuns and joined them for evening prayer, retiring late to the small bare room she shared with her companion.
The following morning a morose Matilda sat down to breakfast without the marquesa and retired to the small room afterward to put away the white clothes with care and to prepare others of more gorgeous hue. The marquesa herself was nowhere in sight. But the small trunk was empty and one of the footmen who had accompanied the carriage was missing.
Far along the stony track to Mortagoa, the footman trudged behind a young peasant girl dressed in a faded blue cotton dress, sandals on her feet, dark hair hanging in a wavy cloud about her face and down over her shoulders. Her only ornaments appeared to be a wicked-looking knife thrust into her belt and an old musket slung over her shoulder.
It was only José’s silent presence behind her that prevented Matilda and Duarte from declaring open war on her, Joana thought as she strode along, so exhilarated by the sense of freedom the morning had brought that she had to exercise the utmost self-control not to jump for joy and shout out her greetings to the hills. José would think she had taken leave of her senses if she did either of those things.
She did not really need José. She had her musket, though muskets were notoriously poor at hitting any definite target. She thought enviously of Captain Blake’s rifle. And she had her knife to defend herself against anyone who got past the musket. Anyone who got past both would doubtless get past José too. But then, men—and many women too—had a tiresome tendency to believe that a woman was perfectly safe provided she had some male hovering over her. And José was a large enough male almost to satisfy Matilda and Duarte.
“We are there,” she said, turning to her silent servant as they approached Mortagoa. “You may go visit your friends, José.”
She approached her brother’s house with quickened footsteps. She had not yet seen the baby. The last time she had been in the hills, Carlota had been huge with child and fretting over the fact that Duarte had laid down the law and forbidden her to go out anymore with the other members of the band. She was not his wife, Carlota had argued. He could not give her orders. She would go if she pleased. She would die if she had to stay at home with the women and children.
But he could give her orders, Duarte had said, looking very handsome and very formidable, standing feet apart, glowering down at his pregnant woman. He was the leader of the band of which she was a member, and if he said she was to stay, then stay she would or face disciplinary measures from the whole band.
Besides, he had added, his voice and expression softening, and Joana had felt an unexpected and unaccustomed flash of envy for the other woman, she was to be the mother of his child and she would do whatever he bade her to do for her own and their child’s safety.
Joana knocked lightly on the open door of her brother’s house and peered inside, wondering if Duarte had won that particular war or if Carlota had proved too much for him. And she wondered if Duarte was back from the border yet. The thought made her stomach lurch uncomfortably.
She had tried very hard not to think of Robert since he had left Viseu, or at least to think of him only in a purely impersonal way, as part of the job they were to accomplish jointly. She tried hard to think of him as Captain Blake, not as Robert. She tried hard to forget that she had wanted him to make love to her at the Viseu ball and had felt flat with disappointment all night long after he had left because he had shown more restraint—or less desire—than she.
She tried hard to quell the unwilling pictures of matters gone wrong, of his bloody and mangled remains lying somewhere outside Salamanca.
“Carlota?” she said, seeing movement at the other side of the room onto which the door opened, even though the sunlight outside had momentarily blinded her. “Carlota? And the baby? Oh, he is gorgeous! All that black hair. Just like Duarte.” She laughed. “And you, of course.”
Perhaps it was as well that Duarte did not return from his journey to the border until two hours later. Much time had to be given to laughing and hugging and admiring the baby, who slept the whole time as he was passed from one woman to the other.
“And you two will be marrying?” Joana asked.
Carlota pulled a face. “Ah, that man,” she said. “Now that my body has performed like a woman’s and produced a child, I am to be treated like a woman. Nothing but a home and children and safety and boredom, Joana. If I could go back to last summer I would do things a little differently perhaps. Deny him a few times. Leave him panting a few times. But there.” She laughed. “I would have had to deny myself too, and done some of my own panting. And I would be without Miguel. I cannot imagine life without Miguel. Yes, Duarte is talking about priests and weddings and baptisms and all that. A typical man.”
When her brother did arrive home, Joana discovered that for the first few minutes she might as well have been invisible. Carlota rushed into his arms and he hugged her wordlessly while she showered him with questions and scoldings and news of the baby.
“And Joana is here,” she said. “Another woman for you to bully. There were no French soldiers near the border?”
“Joana?” he said, finally releasing Carlota to cross the room. He bent to kiss her cheek and smooth a hand over the hair of the baby as he lay asleep in her lap. “You are making friends with Miguel? Ah, it is good to be home again. You should be in Viseu or Lisbon. It is not safe to be here now. The summer campaign is about to begin.”
“Is he safe?” she asked quickly. “He came to no harm?” She bit her lip. Where had those words come from? She had not planned them at all. “Captain Blake,” she said. “We are working together. At least, he does not know it, but we are.”
He sat down at the table slowly and looked steadily at her. “Why do I have a terrible premonition of danger, Joana?” he asked. “What do you mean, ‘working together’? You are going to Salamanca, I suppose? Is that where he is going? Are you planning to do more there than try to spot a face that has eluded you for three years in addition to soaking up whatever small pieces of information come your way? Is it an active job this time?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice somewhat breathless. “I cannot give you details, Duarte. I am under orders from the Viscount Wellington, as is Captain Blake. But—”
“Under orders?” Duarte’s eyebrows drew together and he banged the table with one fist so that the baby jumped and opened his eyes to frown up at Joana. “Is the man using innocent women now to do his work? Is that how the English do things, Joana?”
“We are half-English,” she reminded him. “And you must know that Arthur is as unwilling as you for me to involve myself in this war. But when he knew that I would go anyway, tha
t I am not easily manipulated by men, then he consented to make use of my talents.” She pulled a face. “They seem to be mainly talents for flirting. I am a dreadful flirt, Duarte. The officers at Lisbon and Viseu flock about me. I could be married ten times over each week.”
“There will come one eventually,” he said, “who will not be manipulated by you, Joana. Then we will see an end to your flirting and to this nonsense of putting yourself in danger too.”
“It is not nonsense,” she said. “I shall see that face one day, Duarte, I know it. And the long wait will be worth it. Finally Miguel and his wife and children and Maria will be able to rest in peace.”
He sighed. “But if you do see him by some miracle, Joana,” he said, “you must not go after him yourself. You must send for me. Promise?”
“I shall see,” she said vaguely. “Did he arrive safely, Duarte?”
“He being Blake this time?” he asked. “I conducted him to Becquer at the border, as arranged. I did not know that his destination was Salamanca. Right among the French.” He frowned. “Is everyone mad?”
“I need you, Duarte,” she said. “But it will be very dangerous for you.”
He snorted and Carlota got quietly to her feet and took the fussing baby from Joana’s arms.
“The time will come,” Joana said, “at least I hope it will, when Captain Blake will need to be rescued from Salamanca. By that time I do not believe it will be easy for him to escape unassisted.”
Duarte scratched the back of his neck and looked up at Carlota.
“He will have given his parole, you see,” Joana said. “Then he will have considerable freedom but will be honor-bound not to escape. I will have to see to it that he is released from his word.”
“How?” Carlota said. “Men set such store by honor, Joana.”
“By seeing to it that be is badly treated,” Joana said, “perhaps even imprisoned. Then the French will have broken their part of the bargain, you see. But then, also he may not have the freedom—or the strength—to do it alone. And I think I should be taken hostage at the same time, Duarte. The French will be a little more cautious in their pursuit of you if you have me hostage. I shall make sure that scores of them are expiring with love for me. Besides, I will need to leave, for soon after that they will discover either that I have betrayed them or that I am unbelievably stupid. My pride hopes that it is the former.”
“You would not care to go into explanations, I suppose?” her brother asked.
“No,” she said. “No, I would rather not.”
“He was going to Salamanca, then, knowing that he would be captured?” he said.
“Yes.” She drew a deep breath. “If they have not killed him first and asked questions after, that is. I will not know until I arrive there myself. Do you think they would shoot rather than take a captive, Duarte?”
“Joana,” he asked, looking at her closely, “does this man mean something to you?”
“Only as a colleague,” she said. She frowned. “Although he does not know I am that to him. He is going to hate me dreadfully when he believes that I am allied with the French. But I could not warn him or apologize in advance. It is all part of Arthur’s plan, you see.”
“He is a very handsome man,” Carlota said. “That blond hair and those blue eyes. And the broad shoulders.”
“Hey, hey,” Duarte said.
Carlota threw him a saucy look. “Of course,” she said, “war has spoiled what must at one time have been a lovely face.”
“And has made of it a wonderfully attractive one instead,” Joana said absently, gnawing on the side of one finger.
Duarte and Carlota exchanged a look over her head.
“Will you do it?” Joana asked, her eyes focusing again and her head coming up. “If I send Matilda home—I think a sister of hers will have to die suddenly or something like that—will you come? I cannot predict exactly when it will be, so we cannot plan on a definite date. But I will send Matilda. Will you do it?”
“To Salamanca and actually into Salamanca?” he said. “It sounds like suicide to me, Joana. Also marvelously challenging. I shall have to seek out Becquer again. He would probably like it less than the French if I encroached on his territory without leave.”
“But you will do it?” she asked.
“He will do it,” Carlota said angrily, “and I will be left at home to sweep the floors and play with the baby, like the good wife he wants to make me into. He will do it, Joana. Oh, what I would not give for the chance to come too.”
“Thank you.” Joana breathed a sign of relief. “I have to leave tomorrow, early. It was hardly worth changing persons and walking out here, was it? But how could I resist even one day of glorious freedom? I am beginning almost to hate the Marquesa das Minas.”
“So am I,” her brother said fervently. “She gives me too many sleepless nights. But then, Joana Ribeiro gives me plenty too.”
“This will probably be the end of the marquesa,” she said. “She will soon lose her usefulness. I shall have to find someone else to be for the rest of my life.” She sighed. “But I so want to see that face first.”
“Be careful,” her brother said with a frown. “This sounds too dangerous, Joana. I suppose I cannot persuade you to change your mind?”
She smiled at him.
“I did not think so,” he said. “Be careful.”
“Have fun, Joana,” Carlota said. “Have fun while you can.”
“Oh,” Joana said, and her smile brightened, “I intend to. Yes, I do intend to.”
* * *
“Have a seat, if you please, Captain Blake,” Colonel Marcel Leroux said after introducing himself and the other occupants of the room—except for the two silent sergeants who stood guard at either side of the door.
General Charles Valéry, a tall, thin, aristocratic-looking gentleman, would look more at home in a ballroom than on a battlefield, Captain Blake thought. He stood in front of a window at the far side of the room, allowing the colonel to conduct the interrogation. Captain Henri Dionne was small but solidly built. He looked as if he might be handy with his sword. Captain Antoine Dupuis he had met the night before. Colonel Leroux was a tall and handsome man with dark hair and eyes and mustache. A ladies’ man, Captain Blake thought. He sat.
“I trust your night’s rest was comfortable?” the colonel said. “It was of course necessary to put you under guard.”
“Quite comfortable, thank you,” Captain Blake said.
“Do you speak French, monsieur?” the colonel asked. “If you do not, I have an interpreter on hand so that General Valéry may understand what you say.”
“I speak French,” Captain Blake said, switching to that language. “But I am afraid I have very little to say.”
“But you will pardon us if we question you anyway,” the colonel said. “Why would an officer of the famed rifle regiment—the Ninety-fifth, is it?—be within a stone’s throw of Salamanca last night?”
Captain Blake shrugged and fingered the bruise on his right temple. His right eye was somewhat bloodshot. “I lost my way,” he said. “I could have sworn I was approaching Lisbon.”
“Ah, Captain,” the colonel said as the general turned to look out of the window. His clasped hands beat a tattoo against his back. “Such words are unworthy of you. Your companions, who all escaped, I regret to say, were Spanish partisans?”
“Were they?” Captain Blake said. “That was why I did not understand a word of what they were gabbling, then.”
The colonel got to his feet. “Why did you come here, Captain?” he asked. “You are one of the British scouting officers? A spy, in plainer language?”
“Good Lord,” Captain Blake said. “Am I? Because I took a wrong turn somewhere in the mountains? Have you noticed how they all look alike? No, perhaps not. Perhaps you do not know Portugal.”
“It would seem foolish,” the colonel said, “for the British to send a scouting officer so close to Salamanca when they must know that the bulk of our forces and our headquarters are here. And very rash for partisans to come so close.”
“I could not agree more,” Captain Blake said. “I would not have come knocking on the door had I known whose door I was knocking on, believe me. And I daresay those partisans would have stayed in their, ah, own country if they had known that the might of France was here.”
“Unless there were someone inside here with whom you wished to communicate,” Captain Dionne said, speaking for the first time.
“Well,” Captain Blake said, “I did hear that there are some quite superior brothels in Salamanca. But I do not look too pretty for the whores at present, do I?” He indicated his eye.
“We are wasting our time, Colonel,” the general said without turning away from the window. “You have not been in the Peninsula since the arrival of the British soldiers. They are not as easily cowed as some of our European neighbors. It is a pity he came in uniform. We would have information instead of impudence if he had not.”
The colonel shrugged apologetically at Captain Blake. “You are an officer and a gentleman and must be treated as such,” he said. “We wish to accord you every honor and courtesy, Captain. But we must of course ask questions. You have papers on you?”
“No,” the captain said. “I left behind all the love letters I have received from England. It would be embarrassing to have them read by anyone else.”
“You have no papers at all?” the colonel asked crisply.
Captain Blake thought for a moment. “None whatsoever,” he said. “I am so sorry. Did you need something to read?”
“We will, of course, offer you parole,” Colonel Leroux said. “We would prefer to entertain you as a respected officer of a respected enemy, Captain, than to imprison you like a dog. But first I am afraid we must search you. It is an indignity you may be spared if you will hand over whatever papers you have on your person.”