confinement, presided over the tea-tray, watched with fond pride by her husband. Lady Georgiana and Lord George Lennox were there, too, and Colonel Sir Alexander Gordon, and one or two others.
After making his bows, asking after the baby, and accepting a cup of tea in fragile Limoges porcelain, Felix drew Fitzroy aside into a window embrasure.
“Boney was still in Paris yesterday morning,” he said.
“How the devil do you know that already? Did your courier find a leak in the dam?”
“Not exactly. As Gordon suggested, my courier sprouted wings and flew over the wall. My employers only use those particular couriers in emergencies as they are less reliable, though faster, than the usual. And they don’t want it generally known that they use them at all.” He grinned at Fitzroy’s puzzlement. “Pigeon post, Paris to Dieppe, Dieppe to London.”
Fitzroy laughed. “May I tell Gordon?” He called the colonel over.
Gordon arrived with a plateful of cucumber sandwiches and queen cakes. “I’m filling up so you needn’t fear starving at dinner,” he said. “What’s new?”
“Roworth’s courier took your advice and flew across the border.”
“Huh?”
“Pigeon post,” said Felix.
He and Fitzroy grinned as, after a startled moment, Gordon guffawed.
“What is the joke?” cried Lady Georgiana. “Do tell us, pray.”
“It is never wise to ask what gentlemen are laughing about,” Lady Fitzroy chided gently.
With a barely perceptible shake of the head at the colonel, Fitzroy said, “Sorry, Georgy, Emily’s right. I can tell you, though, that the Monster is still in Paris.” He turned back to Felix. “I’ll make sure the Duke hears tonight. He still thinks it likely we’ll be waiting for the Russian and Austrian armies to arrive and then marching into France. Now come and have some sandwiches before Gordon snabbles the lot.”
When Felix returned to Madame Vilvoorde’s to change for dinner, Frank was in the parlour reading a newspaper while Fanny put Anita to bed. Trusting the captain’s discretion as he trusted Fanny’s, he waited until she came down, then told them the courier’s news, and how it had reached England.
“I have never understood how pigeons can be counted on to deliver messages,” Fanny admitted. “They always seem such silly birds.”
“Perhaps that’s why they can do it,” Felix proposed. “They only have a single idea in their heads, which is the location of home. Nothing can distract them.”
“Nothing but a hawk or a sportsman with a shotgun,” grunted Frank. “To be sure they are fast, and Old Hookey may be glad to know Boney was in Paris yesterday, but I’d like to know where he is now.”
“Don’t be such a crab-apple,” said Fanny.
“I just wish we had some of the 12-pounders the Duke keeps trying to get us. Or these new 24-pounder carronades, though I daresay they would go to the Field Artillery, being too heavy for us. They are supposed to be good with Colonel Shrapnell’s case shot.”
“Do you find Shrapnell’s shells effective?” Felix asked.
“The French don’t like ‘em,” he said, grinning, restored to good humour.
“And Whinyates’ rockets?”
Frank pulled a face. “We are not so enamoured of Whinyates’ rockets. Mind you, they’d frighten the horses to death if they went anywhere near ‘em.”
Felix laughed. Fanny was glad they were on such friendly terms, though she wished they would talk about something other than weapons.
* * * *
Though by no means a regular church-goer, Felix attended morning service at the English church the next day. He was already feeling virtuous, having been most abstemious at the Hôtel d’Angleterre the previous night. Lieutenant Barnstaple’s drunken example had reinforced the lesson of an embarrassing episode in the south of France, when overindulgence had led to his embracing Miriam--unexpectedly, if not precisely against her will. He still was not sure just how to interpret her
After making his bows, asking after the baby, and accepting a cup of tea in fragile Limoges porcelain, Felix drew Fitzroy aside into a window embrasure.
“Boney was still in Paris yesterday morning,” he said.
“How the devil do you know that already? Did your courier find a leak in the dam?”
“Not exactly. As Gordon suggested, my courier sprouted wings and flew over the wall. My employers only use those particular couriers in emergencies as they are less reliable, though faster, than the usual. And they don’t want it generally known that they use them at all.” He grinned at Fitzroy’s puzzlement. “Pigeon post, Paris to Dieppe, Dieppe to London.”
Fitzroy laughed. “May I tell Gordon?” He called the colonel over.
Gordon arrived with a plateful of cucumber sandwiches and queen cakes. “I’m filling up so you needn’t fear starving at dinner,” he said. “What’s new?”
“Roworth’s courier took your advice and flew across the border.”
“Huh?”
“Pigeon post,” said Felix.
He and Fitzroy grinned as, after a startled moment, Gordon guffawed.
“What is the joke?” cried Lady Georgiana. “Do tell us, pray.”
“It is never wise to ask what gentlemen are laughing about,” Lady Fitzroy chided gently.
With a barely perceptible shake of the head at the colonel, Fitzroy said, “Sorry, Georgy, Emily’s right. I can tell you, though, that the Monster is still in Paris.” He turned back to Felix. “I’ll make sure the Duke hears tonight. He still thinks it likely we’ll be waiting for the Russian and Austrian armies to arrive and then marching into France. Now come and have some sandwiches before Gordon snabbles the lot.”
When Felix returned to Madame Vilvoorde’s to change for dinner, Frank was in the parlour reading a newspaper while Fanny put Anita to bed. Trusting the captain’s discretion as he trusted Fanny’s, he waited until she came down, then told them the courier’s news, and how it had reached England.
“I have never understood how pigeons can be counted on to deliver messages,” Fanny admitted. “They always seem such silly birds.”
“Perhaps that’s why they can do it,” Felix proposed. “They only have a single idea in their heads, which is the location of home. Nothing can distract them.”
“Nothing but a hawk or a sportsman with a shotgun,” grunted Frank. “To be sure they are fast, and Old Hookey may be glad to know Boney was in Paris yesterday, but I’d like to know where he is now.”
“Don’t be such a crab-apple,” said Fanny.
“I just wish we had some of the 12-pounders the Duke keeps trying to get us. Or these new 24-pounder carronades, though I daresay they would go to the Field Artillery, being too heavy for us. They are supposed to be good with Colonel Shrapnell’s case shot.”
“Do you find Shrapnell’s shells effective?” Felix asked.
“The French don’t like ‘em,” he said, grinning, restored to good humour.
“And Whinyates’ rockets?”
Frank pulled a face. “We are not so enamoured of Whinyates’ rockets. Mind you, they’d frighten the horses to death if they went anywhere near ‘em.”
Felix laughed. Fanny was glad they were on such friendly terms, though she wished they would talk about something other than weapons.
* * * *
Though by no means a regular church-goer, Felix attended morning service at the English church the next day. He was already feeling virtuous, having been most abstemious at the Hôtel d’Angleterre the previous night. Lieutenant Barnstaple’s drunken example had reinforced the lesson of an embarrassing episode in the south of France, when overindulgence had led to his embracing Miriam--unexpectedly, if not precisely against her will. He still was not sure just how to interpret her
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