Minuet by Joan Smith Page A

impatient himself with the delays. While Sally went upstairs to get her pelisse, Degan mentioned the subject of the rescue.
    “It will be any day now,” Harlock answered. “Possibly tomorrow. The holdup is that the stoves to go in the shipment were sent along without doors or lids or some demmed thing. Then someone took the idea that stoves could be melted down to make cannons, and with one delay and another, it is taking forever.”
    “Christ, man, ten days have gone by already!” Degan exclaimed angrily. “Marie had money only till the end of July. All hell could be breaking loose in Paris for all we know. Belhomme’s place could be raided and the prisoners turned over to a regular prison. It will take I don’t know how long for a ship to get across the Channel and the men to work their way to Paris and storm the asylum.” Harlock looked surprised at the unwonted vehemence from his cousin.
    “The boil is festering in Paris, but it has not broken yet,” Mérigot spoke, with authority and firmness. “As to the trip, we must count on five days at the minimum. One day to the coast of England, the better part of a day arranging for crossing and waiting for nightfall to land safely, three days from Calais to Paris—one hundred and fifty miles as the crow flies, closer to two hundred by roads, every mile of them in wretched condition, allowed to deteriorate since the Revolution. That assumes you have mounts waiting at Calais, that you have no trouble with the gardes. Throw in a tussle or two and some bad weather and you are looking at more like a week. The time draws very short, milord.” He stared at Harlock accusingly, while it occurred to Harlock that this man had been making plans of his own from the beginning. He had it down to a T.
    “Fox is aware of all that,” Harlock answered. “He says three days’ grace are always allowed in any dealing of this sort. Belhomme won’t turn Marie and Edward out when he knows help is coming.”
    “He doesn’t know it, sir!” Mérigot said sharply. “Nor do we know it. You leave too much up to Fox. Has he arranged for the all-important cartes civiles? His men won’t get a mile without them. Has he procured suitable outfits, horses for the other side? Has he obtained assignats to use for money? Sovereigns will draw unwanted attention to your people. Has he, in fact, done one thing but tell you a ship might be leaving at some vague future date, if it is not held back because of containing iron?”
    “He is looking after it all. He assures me the day after tomorrow, unless something goes wrong.”
    “It is not good enough!” Mérigot said angrily. It was unusual for him to speak with such authority, and particularly to Lord Harlock, whom he treated always with great respect. Degan wished to be on his cousin’s side, but reason was with the Frenchman.
    “Fox has not been in touch with any of the émigrés,” Mérigot went on. “I know them all, know them personally, and none has been approached by him for the job. He stalls, milord. He has perhaps written a letter that sits on a desk somewhere, gathering dust. Something must be done at once.”
    “He’s right, John,” Degan said. “Let Henry arrange a party. He is better equipped to do it than Fox.”
    “Mérigot cannot go. I’ve already given Fox a thousand pounds to handle it.”
    “A thousand pounds thrown out the window,” Mérigot scoffed. “I could have made good use of it. It’s gone to pay bills, or buy the duchess a necklace. Give me half that sum and I’ll have them safe within a week or ten days.”
    “I’ll speak to Fox in the morning, and if he has not got the operation set, I’ll let you speak to him, Mérigot,” Harlock said.
    “I’ll call on him tonight,” Henri said at once. “You and Degan can take Sally to the play.”
    “No, no,” Harlock began objecting, but at that moment Sally entered the room, ready to leave.
    “Who did you say would take Sally to the play?” she