‘It was all quite respectable. He knew my father, you see, for they had had occasion to work together in Portugal and they became good friends.’
‘A trusty mentor then.’
‘Yes, he was.’ It was quite true, as far as it went. Yet she knew she could never tell him exactly how much she owed Captain Harcourt. ‘He said that knowledge of gaming was an essential aspect of any young woman’s education.’
‘Did he indeed?’
‘Oh, yes, and he was right. His instruction has proved useful on several occasions.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as the time in Lisbon, when Father and I were invited to supper and cards with the officers. One of them was a lieutenant whose honesty was highly suspect.’
‘Ah, he was cheating.’
‘Yes, marking cards. It took me a while to work out how he was doing it.’
‘And then?’
‘I played him at his own game. He lost fifty guineas that evening.’ Her eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘He wasn’t best pleased.’
Falconbridge’s lips twitched. ‘I imagine he was not.’
‘It served him right though.’
‘Absolutely.’
Sabrina tilted her head a little and surveyed him keenly. ‘Are you shocked?’
‘By the revelation of a card sharp in the army? Hardly.’
‘I mean by my telling you these things.’
‘No, only a little surprised.’
‘You think it not quite respectable?’
He smiled. ‘On the contrary, I am fast coming to have the greatest respect for your skills.’
What she might have said in reply was never known, for suddenly the vehicle slowed and then men’s voices were raised in challenge. The words were French. Falconbridge lowered the window and looked out.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘A French patrol.’
She drew in a sharp breath. ‘How many?’
‘Ten—that I can see. There may be more.’
‘Regulars?’
‘We’re about to find out.’
The carriage stopped and Sabrina heard approaching hooves and the jingle of harness. Moments later burnished cuirasses, blue jackets and high cavalry boots appeared in her line of vision. Their officer drew rein opposite the carriage window.
Falconbridge muttered an expletive under his breath. ‘I think I know this man. Not his name, his face.’
Sabrina paled. ‘Will he know you?’
‘Let’s hope not.’ He glanced at his companion and murmured, ‘Say as little as possible, Sabrina.’
Almost imperceptibly, she nodded. Then the French officer spoke.
‘You will kindly step out of the carriage and identify yourself, Monsieur.’
With every appearance of ease Falconbridge opened the door and stepped down onto the roadway. The officer dismounted. Sabrina’s hands clenched in her lap. She heard Falconbridge address the man in excellent French. On hearing his own language the officer’s expression lightened visibly. For a moment or two his gaze met and held that of Falconbridge in a look that was distinctly quizzical. Then it was gone. He examined the papers that were passed to him and, apparently satisfied, handed them back.
‘These are in order. You will forgive the intrusion, Monsieur le Comte.’ He bowed. Then his glance went to the other passenger in the coach and lingered appreciatively. He bowed again. ‘Madame.’
For the space of several heartbeats she felt the weight of that lupine stare. It stripped her and seemed to enjoy what it discovered for its owner bared his teeth in a smile. Annoyed and repelled together she lifted her chin and forced herself to meet his gaze. The rugged and moustachioed face suggested a man in his early forties, an impression reinforced by the grizzled brown hair that hung below the rim of his helmet.
‘Colonel Claude Machart at your service,’ he said then.
She inclined her head in token acknowledgement of the greeting while her mind dwelled regretfully on the pistols locked in her trunk.
‘May I enquire whither you are bound, madame?’ he continued.
‘Aranjuez,’ she replied.
‘Aranjuez? That is some way off. May I ask your business there?’
Before she could reply Falconbridge cut in. ‘A social gathering.’ His tone conveyed ennui. ‘One would rather not travel in these uncertain times, but on this occasion it cannot be avoided. Noblesse oblige, you understand.’
‘Of course.’ Machart smiled, an expression that did not reach his eyes. ‘And you will be staying where?’
‘At the house of Don Pedro de la Torre.’
‘Then you must be attending the ball.’
Falconbridge evinced faint surprise. ‘You are well informed, Colonel.’
‘It is my business to be well informed, monsieur.’
‘I’m sure it is.’
Machart threw him another penetrating look. ‘Well, let me not detain you further. Madame, monsieur, I bid you good day and a pleasant journey.’
Falconbridge climbed back into the coach and regained his seat. As he did so the Colonel remounted and, having favoured the travellers with a nod, barked an order to his men and the patrol thundered away. Sabrina made herself relax.
‘He didn’t recognise you.’
‘No, or we would be under arrest now.’
‘Do you recall where you saw him before?’
‘Yes, on the battlefield at Arroyo de Molinos last October. He was leading a detachment of cavalry.’ He paused. ‘My men engaged with them at close quarters. But it was many months ago and the scene chaotic. It is unlikely he would remember every face he saw that day.’
She knew the battle had resulted in a heavy defeat for the French. That would certainly have been held against them if Machart had remembered Falconbridge.
‘He struck me as being an unpleasant character,’ she said.
Her comment drew a faint smile. ‘What makes you think so?’
‘I’ve met enough military men to recognise the type. Let’s hope we’ve
