Page 125 of A Castaway in Cornwall
François pointed an accusing finger. “Because you grew up with everything I wanted and deserved, simply because of the family you were born into. Wealth, education, influence ...”
He leaned forward. “Do you know, I even reported your father as aRoyalistesympathizer, but because you were servingNapoleon, he was spared. So I set out to destroy you another way.” He sat back rather heavily against the chair.
Alexander’s nostrils flared. “Are you talking about Alan?”
“Alan.” François stressed the second syllable in the French pronunciation.“So earnest. So idealistic. So easy to persuade.”
“You recruited him to spite me.”
François raised an unconcerned shoulder. “I simply convinced him that helping the British foil Napoleon would help theRoyalistes.”
Alex gritted his teeth. “Alan was arrested. But you escaped—what is the English saying—scot-free.”
François smirked again. “I am too cunning to be caught.”
“Cunning?” another voice interrupted. “Is that what you call it?”
François lurched to his feet, and Alexander whirled about in surprise.
An impressive-looking older man in British naval uniform strode into the garden, hat under one arm, grey hair tied back and neatly trimmed at the brow.
Laura noticed two soldiers just beyond the garden gate, but LaRoche seemed to have eyes only for the man she assumed to be d’Auvergne.
He stood as though at attention. “Vice Admiral, sir!”
The older man bowed toward the ladies. “Pray forgive the intrusion. Shall I tell you how Monsieur LaRoche escaped, when my other agents were arrested?”
The women nodded. Alex, Laura noticed, kept his eye on François’s gun as he tucked it away.
“LaRoche was one of my couriers. He and several others traveled from here to France for me many times, gathering information, which I then sent to London. On that fateful last journey, however, the men found all the usual safe havens closedto them. They spent a number of weeks traveling around Brittany and living rough, but after several failed attempts to sneak back to Jersey, LaRoche turned himself in to the French. He then led the secret police to his companions. He gave up every detail he knew about our correspondence, including landing places, hiding places, and codes. In return, they let him go while the others were imprisoned.”
“That is not true, sir,” François said, his smirk fading. “I told you when I made my way back to Jersey, it was Prigent who informed. I managed to hide in a ditch and later escape.”
“I believed you at the time. But since then I’ve had reason to revise my opinion. I talked to one of the others, who told me the truth.”
“Then he lied.”
“No, LaRoche. You lied. Worse, you were not only spying for us, but you were also sharing British intelligence with the French. Playing both sides. I call that treasonous.”
LaRoche raised his hands and began an impassioned appeal in rapid-fire French, which Laura could not follow. D’Auvergne answered in kind, his neck and jowls reddening with barely controlled anger.
“I hold you responsible for the lives of my men,” the admiral bellowed.
Alexander spoke up. “Are the others ... dead?”
The admiral looked at him. “I don’t know. Since my sources of information have been cut off, I can’t say for sure. If they haven’t yet been executed, I fear it is only a matter of time.”
Alex said something in French under his breath, and the admiral nodded his grim agreement.
“I am going to find out,” Alexander declared.
The older man’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“Alexander Carnell. Alan Carnell’s brother.”
“Arrest him, sir,” François exclaimed. “He is an officer in Napoleon’s navy and an escaped prisoner of war.”
“I am not here as an officer,” Alexander calmly replied. “I am here as a brother. If Alan is alive, I want to free him.”
