Between Two Captains

Chapter Two - part one

The street sweeper’s directions had been perfect.

Violette pulled her hood a bit further over her face as she wandered through the awakening marketplace at Covent Garden.

The early morning fog was beginning to burn off a bit, revealing more of the part of London where Maman had spent her years as an actress. She’d already passed by the Theatre Royal where Sandrine Maynard had been a much-loved performer. Everything else had come to be because of Maman’s years there. She had fallen in love with Martin Poole, who’d brought flowers to her dressing room after an evening’s performance. Violette had been a product of this union but had not met her father until she was nearly ten years old and living in France with her mother.

So many times she’d asked Maman how she could love a man who never spent any time with her. Maman had always given the same answer. Because, my little dove, I always saw the good things in him that his society forced him to hide away.

Violette bit into her apple, pushing back the painful memories. Now that she had managed to slip away from her father and her fiancé to the place where her mother had risen to fame, there was still the problem of money and shelter.

Neither of which she had.

She made her way past the rows of carts in the marketplace and back onto Russell Street. Not knowing where else to go, she found her booted feet moving in the direction of the theater. She thought of going inside and telling them who her mother had been. Surely they would give the daughter of the great Sandrine Maynard some work.

But then she thought again. Bad idea. Identifying herself would be tantamount to telling her father where she was. Besides, she was not the actress her mother was. One bad performance and she would be out again on her ass.

Sighing, she took another bite of her apple, letting her gaze rove over the cobbled streets now filling with horses, wagons and people bustling down the sidewalks.

Her mother had described this section of London to her in such great detail that before she realized what she was doing, she was turning right on Brydges Street toward the quieter neighborhood behind the Theatre Royale. To a place where she could find the…kind of work that would earn her enough for passage back to France.

Maman had spoken of another French woman she’d once met who ran a brothel for gentlemen not far from the theater itself. Violette saw the place as her only chance.

A few discreet inquiries brought her to Madame DuChamps’ door.

With her heart pumping madly, Violette set her satchel down and lifted the knocker, letting it fall heavily against the black painted door.

Several moments later, an older woman dressed in a maid’s uniform opened it. Her dark eyes widened when she saw Violette. “Can I ’elp you, miss?”

Violette cleared her throat. “Oui, merci. I need to speak to Madame DuChamps, please.”

The woman nodded her head and stepped aside. “Come in, lovey. The madam ’asn’t arisen yet. They’re creatures ‘o the night ’round ’ere.”

Violette retrieved her satchel and followed the woman into the front entry. Her eye immediately caught the plush red velvet furnishings, damask wallpaper and potted plants. The smell of stale tobacco hung in the air. A giant man in a rumpled suit sat on one of the divans, head back against the wall, snoring loudly.

“That’s ’Erbert,” the woman said. “Just ignore ’im. ’E’s ’ere to bounce the bad ones out, if you get my meaning.”

Violette nodded and tightened her grip on the satchel.

The woman gestured to her. “The madam will be up in a bit. In the meantime, come back to the kitchen. I ’spect you’d fancy a cuppa and a sit-down.”

“Oui, merci.” Violette slipped into French whenever she was terribly nervous. A cup of tea and hopefully a croissant to go with it, sounded very good to her empty belly and aching soul.

* * * * *

Ethan knew something was terribly wrong the moment Poole’s butler opened the front door. Poole had invited Ethan for breakfast the following morning but now, he had the feeling he was going to have a lot more than a pot of tea and some toast to deal with.

“Good morning, Rodham. How are you?”

The older man sighed and stepped aside to let Ethan into the front hall. “There’s been some terrible excitement I’m afraid, sir.” He closed the door behind them.

From another room somewhere deeper in the house, Ethan heard Poole shouting and a young woman crying.

“How could you have let this happen?” Poole yelled.

“She was safe and sound in ’er bed, sir! I swear it! I ’elped ’er into ’er nightgown! She was goin’ to sleep when I left ’er. Oh, please, I’m so sorry!”

Rodham sighed again as he passed Ethan. “I’ll inform the master you’re here, sir.”

Ethan watched the gray-haired man disappear down the hall and into Poole’s study.

In the next moment, Poole’s shouting stopped and he appeared in the doorway, his red hair mussed, his face like a bloated tomato. “Carrick! Thank God you’re here. Violette’s gone missing and I’m afraid she’s been kidnapped.” He rushed down the hall and stood in front of Ethan. “I need you to find her. You’re an army man. If anyone can do it, you will.”

Kidnapped! Ethan stared down at him, the word still sifting into his consciousness.

Poole’s hands shot out and grasped Ethan’s upper arms. “Please say you’ll do it, man. Graves isn’t here yet. When he finds out about this, there’ll be bloody hell to pay!”

Ethan frowned. Poole was obviously much more worried about his own skin than his daughter’s well-being. God only knew where the girl could be and what was happening to her. “Of course I’ll look for her, Poole.”

Poole exhaled and released Ethan. “Thank God. Graves will have my hide if you don’t get Violette back.”

Bloody bastard! Ethan kept his thoughts silent and asked to see Violette’s room. The bed had been neatly made. The nightgown of which the maid had spoken was nowhere to be seen. The garderobe was in order and there were no signs of struggle or an intruder’s entry anywhere in the room. An inquiry with all the servants of the house revealed that none of them had seen anyone strange come into the house, nor seen the young woman leave.

Ethan left the house and began making inquiries of anyone he could find working in the neighboring gardens—delivery people, servants on errands. Nearly an hour passed before fortune shone on him in the form of a street sweeper who’d given a young woman directions to the Theatre Royale in the wee hours before dawn. The lad had not gotten a good look at her face but confirmed the slight French accent in her speech.

Ethan gave the sweeper a crown and went on his way, sure of two important things. One, Violette Poole had not been kidnapped. She’d slipped out of the house of her own accord. Such a feat would have required careful planning on her part. So, her enthusiasm about her upcoming marriage had been a sham to avoid suspicion. He could not help but feel admiration for the young woman’s courage and ingenuity. She had fooled even a seasoned army officer into believing she could possibly be happy about marrying Richard Graves.

However, such a carefully planned and executed escape also conveyed to him her desperation. He now sensed how alone and frightened she must feel. That explained why Violette, a stranger to London, had asked the street sweeper for directions to the Theatre Royale. Anything she would know of this city would have come from her mother, who had spent a good deal of her youth in the theatre district of Covent Garden.

However, he acknowledged with a chill up his spine, the area was also full of brothels, the only place where a young girl, most likely penniless, knowing how cheap her father was, and now, homeless, would have a chance for shelter and to earn money. God help her, he thought, hailing a cab that would take him to Covent Garden as quickly as possible.

He climbed into the cab and gave the driver the address. Sitting back against the seat, he watched Mayfair pass by the windows and listened to the horses’ hooves clopping on the cobblestones.

Ethan sighed and looked down at his hands. Violette’s pale delicate face came to his mind. Now that he thought about her expression while in the receiving line, her smile had seemed a bit forced and her voice tight. He’d been so enamored of her that his soldiering instincts had completely failed him. He should have known simply from the intelligence in her blue-green eyes that she wouldn’t have been a willing party to such a marriage.

Then there was the way she’d looked at him, first, when he’d reached her place in the receiving line, then second, when she spotted him from the dance floor and their gazes had briefly locked. For one fleeting moment, she’d looked at him as if she wanted to curl up in his arms.

In the moment, he’d chalked her expression up to possible pre-wedding jitters. He couldn’t imagine anyone, man or woman, getting married and not having some misgivings. After all, marriage implied closing oneself off to intimacy with any other partner. Now, on his way to Covent Garden in pursuit of Violette, he realized he’d misread her expression. Such a well-planned, carefully executed flight was more than jitters or misgivings. It was sheer desperation.

Ethan sighed and looked back out the window. The carriage entered the vicinity of Covent Garden, marked by the bustling marketplace and the smells of horseflesh, dung, garbage and cheap perfume. He paid the driver and stepped down onto the cobblestones, already scanning the throngs of people for Violette. He prayed she was here and if so, that he’d find her. If his speculation about her state of mind was correct, she’d be feeling terribly alone and frightened.

The cab pulled away and he made his way across the carriage and wagon-loaded street toward the marketplace, his heart hammering in his chest.

As each second passed, he felt her desperation as if it were his own. Richard Graves was a frightening person, a man who wouldn’t hesitate to put another human being’s life at risk above his own. Violette must have known that to have gone to these lengths to escape him.

Ethan stopped on the edge of the marketplace, a decision rooting itself firmly in his heart. If by some unearthly miracle he found Violette Poole in this human stink-hole, there was no way in hell he would return her to her father or to Richard Graves.