Page 77 of Miss Desirable
He parted with a small bag of coins, though it broke his heart to do so. The trades knew precisely when the quarterly payments came out, and they had already started lurking at both the front and back doors to Armbruster’s lodgings.
“Spend that on official cooperation if you must, but only if you must. I need you back here as soon as possible. Three weeks should be enough. A month at the latest.”
Ablesdorf regarded Armbruster as if he’d demanded circumnavigation of the globe by Wednesday next.
“You expect me to make this arduous journey with a small child. I will need to hire some sort of nursemaid, my lord, if not a nursemaidanda governess. I must take the child’s tender years into account when arranging our travels, lest your precious offspring fall ill from the rigors of the road. Unless you expect me to purloin the child’s clothing, storybooks, and toys, such items will have to be purchased. To effect this undertaking in three weeks is impossible.”
Armbruster took back the bag of coins. “You need two weeks under sail between Bordeaux and London—a week in each direction—and another week to travel overland and back to Cahors. Time is most assuredly of the essence. If you cannot manage such a simple task, I will find somebody else to do it.”
The solicitors had recommended Ablesdorf highly, praising him particularly for his thoroughness and discretion relating to all matters Continental. Nobody had mentioned that he was arrogant and peevish.
“My lord, you do not know if there even is a child,” Ablesdorf said, his words freighted with long-suffering patience. “You do not know if the child enjoys good health or has a delicate constitution. The Bay of Biscay is notoriously difficult sailing—a week between London and Bordeaux is an absurdly optimistic assumption—and English stationery will not carry much weight with French authorities. I wish you luck with your attempts to find the child.”
Ablesdorf rose, and Armbruster nearly shoved him back into his seat by main force.
The Frenchman put some coins on the table. “I can doubtless determine whether a young lady with violet eyes gave birth to this small person, but kidnapping the child is by no means assured, no matter which inquiry agent you send and no matter how quickly that agent travels. You ought to have hired a woman for this job, but I understand that you expect the very weather to accommodate your whims, and I come highly recommended. One would think, however, that a loving father would have a care for the child’s wellbeing rather than insist that he or she be hauled across the countryside like so many crates of cheap brandy.”
Armbruster got to his feet and wished he stood more than a mere inch taller than Ablesdorf.
“I would have doted on that child had I known there was a child, damn you.” That much was true. Instinct told Armbruster that Catherine had given birth to his baby. To keep him in ignorance of the child’s existence spoke very ill of her.
A man had a right to know such things and to take a hand in them if he so desired. Perhaps Catherine had been holding the facts in abeyance, to be sprung upon Armbruster like an ambush at the time of her choosing.
Well, two could play at the ambush game.
As these thoughts coursed through Armbruster’s head—not for the first time—Ablesdorf regarded him with something like pity. The presuming toad needed to be taught a lesson.
But no. Eye on the main chance, as the saying went. Everything in its time. He who controlled the child controlled Catherine, and he who controlled Catherine controlled her fortune. Besides, she should thank him for rescuing their only begotten son—or daughter, but a son would be better—from the care of strangers in the French hinterlands.
Armbruster shoved the coins at Ablesdorf. “Bring me the child, or I will see to it that you never again work for any reputable solicitor in London.”
An idle threat, but Ablesdorf took the money. “I will need a month at least, and if my expenses exceed what you’ve allotted, you will pay the difference immediately upon my return whether I am successful or not.”
So the issue was money, not some high-minded regard for the brat. “Of course.”
“You will speak with me again, my lord, tomorrow afternoon. I have questions regarding the child’s mother.”
“I’m to meet the fellows at Tatts tomorrow. A colt rising four is to go on the block. Bay with four white stockings, said to come from the Conyers Arabian line. Worth a fortune if he can throw speed.”
Ablesdorf consulted his watch.
Time is most assuredly of the essence.“I suppose sacrifices must be made,” Armbruster said. “Tomorrow, then. Besides, they’ll save the colt for last, and I honestly don’t know all that much about Miss Fairchild. She inherited pots of money, and she lied to me in a most despicable manner.”
“All would agree you have been sorely victimized, my lord.” Ablesdorf pocketed the money, bowed slightly, and took his leave.
Armbruster resumed his seat and congratulated himself on a successful negotiation. A month from now, he would be in anticipation of a very advantageous match. If not, Catherine Fairchild would learn how it felt to be kept in ignorance of the smallest detail regarding her child.
* * *
“How did you—?” Catherine forgot the question as Fournier drew her into his arms.
“I leave on the midnight tide,” he said, between kisses. “To all appearances, I took a packet to Calais yesterday morning. Tonight, I sail directly for Bordeaux.”
To be in his arms again, to hear his voice. “Who is off to Calais?”
“Jacques. We are of a height and bear a resemblance. Put him in my clothing, put him on Bertold’s back, and let him exaggerate his accent and natter on about winemaking. Nobody looks twice. He is a cousin at some remove and was integral to my wartime subterfuges and ruses. I needed to see you before departing.”
Catherine clung for one more moment before stepping back. “I want to do much more than see you.”
