“Then keep her from drowning, Gage. The beach is steep, and I’ll get you within yards of the shingle.”
“Captain, you can’t be serious,” she protested.
“Maybe we should take time to patch the launch,” I said.
“With rockets lifting up?” Johnstone’s sloop slid in under the cliffs, came about, and anchored into the wind, its stern paid off into surf. His crew pushed us to the back rail, muttering about the reforming benefits of a chill dunking for a cardsharp and female curse.
“Smith isn’t paying you to drown me!” the comtesse warned.
“One man has died, mademoiselle,” a mate said. “Another wounded by splinters. Someone has obviously betrayed you, and we’ve paid the price. The least you can do is plunge.” He pushed us, with Catherine shrieking, into the sea.
I grabbed her as we fell, the cold water knocking my breath away and my heavy belt of gold pieces dragging us to the bottom. Fortunately, the water was so shallow that Johnstone must have scraped his rudder. I felt a mix of stone and sand, shoved off with one arm clutching my struggling companion, and surfaced with a whoosh. Bloody hell, the water was bracing! A wave pushed us toward shore and then broke over us, making us sputter. But my legs got a better grip, I held against the suck, and we staggered ashore, half frozen and spitting Channel salt. I gripped Comtesse Marceau like a wrestler, trying to concentrate on our predicament instead of her form. We men inventory the female shape the way a lepidopterist does butterflies. She shivered and pulled away.
Phantom had used her anchor to kedge off the beach. The sloop caught the wind with its jib and began to work into the dark. Above us, chalky cliffs rose into gloom.
“I could have died!”
“You will die, sooner or later, as will we all,” I snapped. Women usually find me irresistible, or at least don’t keep such wary distance. By thunder, I’ve had Napoleon’s sister, a British aristocrat, and an Indian maiden, so Catherine needn’t pretend I’m a leper. “In the meantime we try to defeat Bonaparte.”
“Don’t lecture me about the Corsican.”
“If you’re going to be a spy, you really should learn to swim,” I retorted.
She lifted her head. “No. I am on French soil now, and don’t intend to leave it again. I will triumph, or be buried.” She crossed her arms, but then they flew apart. “My reticule!”
“What about it?”
“Lost in the water. You must find it!”
The surf was roaring, the Channel black, and the tide wicked. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“But my money was in there!”
The lost coins made me hesitate. It was a dark night, but I made a futile grope before a particularly big wave broke, foam swirling against our knees, before admitting it was useless. “An offering to Neptune, I’m afraid.”
“This is your fault for letting us make that foolish leap!”
“On the contrary, your fault for not hanging on to your vital possessions. Next time, clutch before you jump, Comtesse.” She shivered miserably, sniffling, so I took pity. “I’ve money enough for both of us.”
“I do not like being dependent.”
The woman had never worked a day in her life. “Then swim for your savings.”
She glanced at the pounding water before replying. “But I will allow you to help me this time.”
“We’re friends, then?”
“Allies.”
“We’d best get beyond the reach of the tide.” I turned toward the cliffs, which appeared impassable, and saw that green lantern again. “There. Either our salvation or our doom.”
We stumbled up the slippery cobble to a cluster of men in bicorn hats and flapping greatcoats, their lantern hooded once we got near. In the rain the hats formed twin gutters that diverted rainwater from their crown to their shoulders in little rivulets. We were all silhouettes in the dark.
“Good King Louis,” their leader said. It was the password.
“By the grace of God may he reign,” the comtesse replied, finishing the code.
“They wouldn’t ferry you ashore?” the man continued.
“Our launch was holed. We’ve had storm, gunfire, and a soaking.”
“I apologize your return to France wasn’t easier. Bonne nuit, I am Captain Emile Butron of the Vendée rebel army.”
“I thought that force was destroyed by General Bernadotte.”
He spat tobacco, which soldiers chew nervously before a fight. “Not entirely. We still have a network of safe houses, once we top this bluff. But we must move quickly; there are spies everywhere. The policeman Réal pays a hundred francs for each report of a royalist, and gets three basketfuls of condemnations every