to take me back to England? For trial?” the baron asked.
“We will if you tell us what we need to know. Otherwise, we may just have to report that we didn’t get here in time to save you. Believe me, no one will be upset,” Harbury replied.
Winfield finished coughing and rubbed his face and eyes with a towel that Beau had handed him. “Bellingham, I should have known you would be here.”
“Save it,” Beau replied. “Tell us what the letter said.”
“What letter?” Winfield blinked at him innocently.
“The letter Albina wrote at Lord Copperpot’s town house,” Beau replied through clenched teeth. He was in no mood for the man’s games.
Baron Winfield’s face paled. “How did you know about—?”
“Let’s take him back out to the bonfire, lads,” Beau said, grabbing Winfield by the upper arm.
“No! No!” Winfield nearly crumpled to the ground. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. I’ll tell you everything.”
“Good, get started,” Beau replied nearly growling.
Albina sobbed silently in the corner while Winfield began his story. “They promised me money. A hefty purse. Fifty thousand pounds!” Winfield said, his eyes flaring as he spoke.
Beau shook his head. “Your first mistake was believing that. They probably don’t even have fifty thousand pounds, the lying bastards.”
“They gave me the money the first time,” Winfield replied, tugging at the lapels of his coat as if he took offense to essentially being told how stupid he was.
“The first time?” Beau frowned. “You mean when you had Albina write the Bidassoa letter?”
“Yes.” Winfield hung his head and nodded morosely.
“Ye promised me no one would ever find out!” Albina wailed at her lover. “Ye promised me we’d be safe and happy and rich!”
“I’m sorry, darling, but it’s too late,” Winfield replied, tears streaming down his face once again.
“Take her out of here,” Beau commanded.
David pulled Albina to her feet more gently than she deserved and he quickly exited the tent with her.
“Go on,” Beau demanded of Winfield.
Winfield wiped the sooty tears from his eyes before continuing. “The second letter was a fake. They wanted it to look like the first so they could use it to throw off the British about a raid at Calais next month.”
Harbury narrowed his eyes on the baron. “What do you mean?”
Winfield launched into another coughing fit. When he finally was able to speak again, his voice was low. “They were going to ensure a messenger with the letter was captured. It would make the British think that the raid would take place at Sangatte, and not Calais.”
“Meanwhile they’d be gathering at Calais?” Beau finished.
“Yes.” Winfield hung his head again. “They knew there were many British operatives hidden in Calais.”
“Where is this letter?” Lord Harbury demanded.
“It’s in General Christophe’s coat pocket. I gave it to him before they tied us up to cook us.”
“Your second mistake was coming here,” Beau pointed out, shaking his head again. “They never intended to pay you a farthing.”
Baron Winfield’s only reply was a sad, sniffing noise.
Lord Harbury gave direction to one of the aides who stood near his side. “Find General Christophe out there and bring him to me.”
The man hurried off and Beau, Lord Harbury, and Marianne were left with Winfield.
“You’ve no idea how badly I want to punch you in the bloody mouth right now, Winfield,” Beau said through tightly clenched teeth. “I may just allow Mr. John Smith here, and his brother the solider who took Albina away, to do it. They deserve it more than I do. It was their brother you killed at Bidassoa.”
“I didn’t kill anyone!” Baron Winfield insisted, shaking his head, his voice rising with fear.
Marianne stalked over to him and stood in front of him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her cap pulled down to her brow. “Yes, you did, you bastard. The soldier who carried the letter to the British was shot and eventually died from his wounds. It was my brother, Private Frederick Ellsworth. And he was a patriot and a better man than you’ll ever be.”
Baron Winfield swallowed visibly. “I suppose death in inevitable in war.”
Marianne’s eyes flared with rage, and in a flash, she stepped forward, put a hand on Baron Winfield’s shoulder and jerked up her knee directly between his legs.
A loud oompf escaped his throat just before the baron crumpled to the dirt floor, wheezing in pain and clutching at his crotch.
“Frederick taught me that,” Marianne announced, grinning at Beau.
The three men winced, watching Winfield writhe.
“Well done, Smith,” Lord Harbury said with a smile.
A few minutes later,