Lies and Promises

By Jackie Walton

Even as the British prepare their invasion, Martine Jolliet drives her maid’s attacker out into the streets of Quebec. She gets unexpected help from a handsome, scarred trapper. Her father, a local official, offers Dominic Charteris lodging in gratitude, but Martine soon offers her heart and hand. The attacker, part of a cabal headed by senior government officials, instigates a cascade of arrests, vicious attacks, corruption, and murder that start Martine and Dominic on the trail of high-level graft. Only the arrival of the British across the river with their ships and cannon could be more unnerving. After Dominic’s second arrest, Martine engineers his escape, only to find him turning up again in a most unexpected place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jackie Walton
• Release date: Dec 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301254774

Jackie Walton

After growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area and marrying my high school sweetheart, we became what Alvin Toffler called "corporate gypsies." We've lived in a number of states and countries, including Italy, and have visited a lot of places, some of which show up in my stories. I'm a retired high school science teacher with degrees in English and psychology. (Those two and $4 will get you a good cup of coffee!) I've always loved history, though, as you might guess from the last chapter of my books. That's what happens when you mix a teacher with a self-professed history geek. We are once again back in the Bay Area with our long, tall Pole of a dog.

Book preview

Lies and Promises

By Jackie Walton

Published by Jackie Walton at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Jackie Walton

Cover by Mariah, Shelly, and Willie Dorssers. Many thanks.

Discover other titles by Jackie Walton at Smashwords.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

To Beverly: I'm so lucky that sisters can grow up to be friends

Table of Contents

Title Page

Map of Québec, 1759

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Part Two

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

For the History Geeks

Part One

Chapter 1

Summer, 1759

Québec City, New France (Canada)

It’s our blessing and curse, Martine thought, as she approached the ramparts at the corner of Du Fort and Côte de Montagne Streets. The cobblestones rattled her teeth as the wheels of her caléche each bounced over their own successive rocks again and again and again.

Turning the corner onto the Côte, she set the brake. For a moment, she looked straight out onto the St. Lawrence River; then the caléche followed the horse onto the stomach-clenching slope. A switch-back helped, but the trip could be terrifying, especially if the brake failed. However, the caléche was still better than walking up or down the nearby Breakneck Steps that ended right next to her house.

The roughly 170 foot cliff that divided Québec’s Upper and Lower Towns proved the city’s best defense against the pesky English. From the river, Québec was a natural fortress.

It did, however, make daily life interesting was Papa’s word. Martine thought others more appropriate, if less polite.

Finally the Côte leveled out to the quarter-mile wide flood plain of the St. Lawrence where Samuel Champlain first founded Québec. Her house was nearby, but first she had to go to the twice weekly market at the Place Royal. She needed to work on the accounts for the estate, and her supply of ink was low. Old Léon sold the best ink at his stall in a corner of the Place.

Papa didn’t make her keep the accounts. He wanted her to know how to do it, so she couldn’t be cheated. She enjoyed doing them; she could see patterns and look for areas that needed change. The work was rewarding and gave her something to do. She liked earning her spending money. Papa couldn’t object if she spent her own money on a new pair of red shoes.

Dear Papa, honest as the saints, but a businessman down to the soles of his winter boots. Invest, reinvest, buy and sell. It induced the good citizens of Québec to applaud his membership in the Sovereign Council. But a new pair of red shoes would be enough to send that gossipy witch Catherine Bigot into a fit. What a delightful thought!

As she passed Notre Dame des Victoires Church, Martine spied the object of her antipathy flirting ruthlessly with Captain Vergor. Oh, damnation, she thought, although she would never say such a thing aloud, my two favorite people. Catherine is welcomed to him. Maybe then he’d stop calling at the Jolliet house. His oozing charm and Catherine's barbed tongue made them worthy of each other. Partly hidden behind them, Catherine’s friend Hélène Huet looked bored and a little forlorn, an unusual look for Hélène.

Martine twitched her dark brown skirt over her sensible shoes. Although her mustard-colored bodice looked pleasing with the skirt, they were not her best clothes. After all, she’d been working at the Ursuline convent. Catherine, however, wore what looked like a new gown with miles of Chantilly lace. The lace’s flowers and ribbons frothed at the wrists and hem and neck and anywhere else the dressmaker could put them. As expected, Catherine looked over Martine’s clothes with derision.

In spite of her thoughts, Martine nodded politely to the group but didn’t stop in response to Vergor’s raised hand. Civility had its limits. Someone’s perfume engulfed her, even from this distance: one more reason to keep going. A well-placed flick of the whip had Fortuné twitching an ear and trotting a bit faster.

Old Léon greeted her, as usual, with a courtly kiss just above her fingers. He was such a sweet old man and such a wolf of a bargainer. Her package secured at a not-too-unreasonable price, she headed home.

Her house, an elegant three-story structure of grey stone, sat under the tree-disguised fall of the cliff near the foot of the Breakneck Steps. Lots of windows allowed one to look onto the bustle of Petit Champlain Street. Three dormer windows broke up the blue slate of the roof. Of all the family properties, this house built by her great-grandfather in 1683 was her favorite.

Blaise, the stableman, patted the horse and made his regular promise to take good care of him.

Hungry, Martine decided to sneak in through the kitchen. She could wheedle something to eat out of Cook. Hopefully, Florian wouldn’t see her and scold her for spoiling her dinner. The majordomo helped raise her after her mother died, loved her like a daughter and even cracked her bottom once (well deserved, she admitted only to herself). He was also a stickler for protocol. Since Martine’s father was Sir Jolliet, the titled lord of a large estate halfway between Québec and Montréal, as well as the island of Anticosti, that protocol loomed large in his eyes.

Martine opened the door, quietly, and tip-toed inside. The kitchen was empty. Strange, she thought, but lucky. She headed to the breadbox. Cook usually kept rolls there. A little butter from the crock, and she would be…

No! Muffled, terrified, the voice came from behind the closed pantry door.

Martine put down the bread and cocked her head. She caught soft scuffling and then something rolled and bumped. A gravelly, male voice whispered something she couldn’t quite catch.

Rage flared in Martine. She took a step forward, then back-tracked to the great, arching hearth. Grabbing a poker, she flew to the pantry and yanked the door open.

A man bent over a girl, pushing her into the shelves. His jacket covered a corpulent body, and his naked, pudgy arse stuck out above the breeches pooled around his knees. Geneviève’s skirt and petticoat frothed around him.

Hold still you little whore!

Martine shifted a bit, brought the poker over her shoulder, and thwacked the bare buttocks.

Yeow!

He straightened, and Martine backhanded the poker across the back of his knees. He dropped to the floor with a yelp. Mr. Cadet--fat, starchy, Commissary-General Cadet—was a guest in the house.

Get out you miserable excuse for a man! Get out! Cadet started to climb to his feet. No, crawl like the worm that you are! Go!

Martine stepped aside as Mr. Cadet scrambled out of the pantry on all fours.

Are you all right, Geneviève?

The little maid, just blooming from girl to woman, caught her breath and quickly pulled her clothes to rights. Yes, mistress.

"Good. Go get Blaise. He’s putting Fortuné and the caléche away. Then get Mr. Cadet’s things for him." Geneviève scurried out with only a disgust-filled glance at her attacker. When Cadet passed the stairs in the hall, assisted by a tap on the backside, she hurried back in from the stable.

Open the door, Martine ordered her. Cadet started to rise, his hands clawing at his breeches. She punctuated, Don’t bother, with a jab.

I can’t go out in public like this! he protested.

Just be glad it’s not winter. Get out! She followed him out into Petit Champlain Street. Do not come back. She raised her voice and heads turned. Lecherous old men who try to rape innocent, young girls under the roof of their hosts don’t deserve hospitality. I don’t care who they are. People started to gather as Cadet managed to yank his clothes over his none-too-private parts.

Go back to Montréal. Québec has no use for scum like you! Murmurs from the growing crowd agreed with her.

Staggering to his feet like an old boar, Cadet turned around, hatred painted on his face. You little bitch! Martine shouldered her poker again. I’ll take you apart and send the pieces to the local whorehouse. He lumbered toward her at surprising speed. She took a step backwards and lifted the poker off her shoulder.

I don’t think, a deep voice came from behind her, as did the hand that easily wrestled the poker from her hand, that would be prudent, sir. The lady looks well able to defend herself, and you might get hurt. The voice dripped scorn and condescension.

Martine whirled away from the human wall at her back. Tall, tanned, well-worn leather coat and breeches, blue eyes, and shaggy dark brown hair; he was obviously a coureur des boise, one of the fur trappers.

Be gone! Cadet commanded. This is none of your affair.

Looking down from his superior height, the man said, When a lovely lady wielding a fireplace poker backs into me, I feel it necessary to make it my affair. He hefted the poker. Now, in your own best interests, I would seriously recommend that you leave.

Geneviève and Blaise lugged a trunk and numerous loose items out of the house. They tossed them at Cadet’s feet. The trunk tumbled and popped open. Clothes and personal items scattered. Urchins darted from the crowd and scooped many of them up, then ran back to the safety of the onlookers.

Go! Get out, someone from the crowd yelled. A nearly-ripe tomato followed. It landed squarely on Mr. Cadet’s back.

Cadet gathered up the remainder of his items and stomped up the steep steps next to the house, pushing people aside, and snarling at those who dared smirk. His trunk thumped on every step.

Martine turned to get a good look at her rescuer. He was indeed tall, six feet at least. The blue-grey eyes had a distinct twinkle in them at the moment. His dark-chocolate hair held a liberal sprinkling of grey. That surprised her; his smooth skin didn’t look over 30. What shocked her was the silvery scar running from his cheekbone through several days’ growth of beard to his jaw.

Thank you…

What the devil is going on around here? Martine? Why is Mr. Cadet hiking up the Breakneck Steps and swearing like a heathen British sailor? Martine’s father stood at the edge of the crowd, his gaze wagging from his daughter to his departing guest and back.

The man reversed the poker and bowing, handed it to Martine like a sword. She took it but her hands shook with reaction to the incident.

I am Sir Tristan Jolliet. This is my daughter, Martine. Who are you? he demanded of the stranger.

Dominique Charteris, sir, at your service, and that of your daughter.

Papa, she took a deep, steadying breath, I think the rest of the explanations should be made in the house. Mr. Charteris, if you would join us? Martine glanced at the cobblestoned street. Anything left there had long-since disappeared.

Geneviève met them with a wobbly curtsy as they entered. Good day, sir. Forgive me. I didn’t hear you.

Sir Jolliet looked around. Where’s Florian?

Geneviève glanced at Martine. Mr. Cadet sent him…

Sir Jolliet held up his hand. Come with us to the parlor.

Panic blew over Geneviève’s face, but Martine patted her shoulder and drew her to a chair at one of the tables in front of the fireplace. The mantle, beautifully carved, stopped short of being elegant. The French fleur de lys climbed the side pillars and marched proudly above the fire box. Pictures of family members graced the walls. They included the famous Louis Jolliet, Martine’s great-grandfather, who received his seigneury from the King after discovering and exploring the Mississippi River. The chairs, upholstered in brown and cream, picked up the brown pin stripes in the silk wall covering.

Now, Sir Jolliet demanded, start from the beginning. He looked around the group before his gaze settled on Geneviève.

The little maid fidgeted and looked at her hands. Mr. Cadet sent Florian and Cook on errands. Then he found me in the kitchen and dragged me into the pantry, he said for some sport, and he hurt my hand when he grabbed me, and I didn’t think it was very much fun, so I tried to run, but he pulled me in there and… Her words tumbled out. I told him ‘no,’ but he didn’t listen, so I tried to hit him, but he held my hands and pulled my skirt up, but then Miss Martine came in and clouted him on the arse with the poker, so he stopped then, and she made him crawl out the front door with his britches down. She took a breath. Blaise and I gathered his things, like she told me to, and we tossed them on the street in front of him. He got angry and then Mr.…., she glanced at Mr. Charteris, came and kept him from hurting Miss Martine.

When Sir Jolliet looked pointedly at his daughter, she said, That’s correct. Mr. Cadet promised to introduce me to a place where I could embark on the same profession he wanted for Geneviève. Naturally, I declined.

Her father settled back in the chair and folded his hands over his stomach. I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude, Mr. Charteris. May I be so bold as to inquire into your circumstances?

"But of course. I am a coureur dse boise, as you may have guessed. I brought my catch in rather late this year because I spent some weeks with Algonquin Indian friends. I dropped my things off at the inn and was taking a stroll when I came upon what I thought was a damsel in distress. He grinned at Martine. I was mistaken about the distress, but I stepped in, anyway."

Humm. Your gallantry has made you an enemy and not one to be underestimated. Mr. Cadet is the Commissary General and, as such, an intimate of Mr. Bigot, our esteemed Intendant. As overseer of all things fiduciary, including the trade in furs, Mr. Bigot could easily be persuaded to make your life difficult.

I take your point.

For the moment, if you are agreeable, I would be honored if you would stay with us. I seem to have heard that we have an empty guest bedroom. In addition, I may be able to protect you from certain governmental, shall we say, inconveniences. My position on the Sovereign Council has certain perquisites.

Martine saw Mr. Charteris straighten slightly before he said, I would be honored.

Chapter 2

With his furs safely warehoused in the Jolliet’s stable, Dominique settled into their newly-vacated guest room. Looking around, he decided that the furnishings were elegant enough for a colony. Cream-colored walls set off the mantle with its diamond-shaped inserts of various colored rocks. The four-poster bed’s hangings, a blue and brown stripe, matched the chair cover. None too neatly, he deposited his possessions in the chest of drawers. He wasn’t a valet, after all.

What a stroke of luck, he mused. To have entrée into the Sovereign Council! This would make getting introductions to the people he needed to meet easy. The Council had access to economic and military information, as well as legal matters.

An added bonus was the lovely Martine. He wouldn’t mind a dalliance with her. That titian hair would probably fall well down her back or fan out over a pillow. When he pulled the poker from her hands, he caught the faint, sweet smell of lavender. He could gaze into those amber eyes for quite a long time. Or at least until he left.

After all, he deserved some reward for serving his King. In any case, it was nice to have a mirror for shaving and a decent bed again.

…Beautiful mink in the trap. Just as I get there, a wolf comes up from the other side of the tree. Now a wolf in a trap is a good thing. A wolf out of a trap is not. Dominique bobbed his head in acknowledgement of the snicker from the head of the dining table. Indeed. He looked at me and snarled. I looked at him and swore. I guess it amounted to about the same thing. However, since the mink was in my trap, I felt I had the greater claim to it.

He scooped up the last of his peas as Geneviève came in to retrieve the plates. Excellent dinner. He smiled at the maid. And potatoes. What a treat! Dominique knew that potatoes were a rare delicacy in this part of the world. At home, people considered them common fare.

The mink? Martine asked. He noticed she’d changed for dinner. He knew enough about women’s fripperies to recognize her robe à la Française in moss green over a lighter green petticoat had a gold embroidered what-do-you-call-it, he thought. Oh, a stomacher: stupid word. He appreciated the deep décolleté that displayed her charms to perfection. The tight waist hinted at…

He mentally shook himself.

Well, let me say that wolf teeth don’t match up too well against an axe. I came away with two pelts instead of one. The story sounded good, and he even had the pelts to prove it. The métis trappers he’d met, sons of French fathers and Indian mothers, were happy to exchange their furs for solid coin.

Dominique looked around the dining room. While it was not even provincial magnificence, the dining room had a dignified, yet comfortable, feeling. Dominique felt a moment of surprise that the room struck him that way. In fact, if he stopped to think about it, the entire house generated that ambience.

Comfortable. It was an interesting feeling, comfortable. Different, but interesting.

Bravo. Sir Jolliet lifted his wine glass. He glanced down at the strawberry tart Geneviève placed in front of him. You are not from Canada, I take it.

"My accent? No, I was born in Moyeuvre, about 45 miles north of Nancy near the German border. My father is a landowner, and I’m a third son. I didn’t feel my talents lay in farming the small plot of land I would inherit, so my father sent me to law school. That didn’t please me either. I convinced him to let me go to the naval college at Brest and wound up with a commission as a Frigate Captain on the Chat Noir at the Battle of Minorca, under the Marquis de la Galissonnière. We were instrumental in disabling the Portland during the battle."

Again, bravo. But wasn’t that in, um, ’56? You were very young, I suspect, for such a rank.

Dominique lifted his eyebrows. Um, 24. I was married then. Odette died shortly after the battle in childbirth. I lost them both. After that, I decided to leave the navy and France—too many memories—and try my fortune here. So far, I have been very fortunate.

I understand, Sir Jolliet nodded. When Martine’s mother died, I thought my world had collapsed. Everything of value was gone, except Martine. I hope you have found some measure of peace here in our beautiful country.

Dominique inclined his head and lifted his glass.

How did you find the Marquis to work under? You know, I presume, that he was Governor- General here for a number of years.

Dominique froze. He didn’t. Actually, I didn’t know. The Marquis did not spend a lot of time chatting with his junior officers. What a coincidence. He took a sip. He was most competent and clear in his orders. That’s about the best any subordinate can ask for.

Indeed.

How long do you plan to stay in Québec? Martine asked.

Dominique took a bite of tart before answering. The sweet berries wrapped in flaky pastry danced in his mouth. "I’m not sure. In any event, the life of a coureur des boise is interesting, but I find I’m not such a man of the wilderness as I thought. I’d like to settle in the city."

He smiled at Martine then turned to her father. I’m in a bit of a quandary, though. Perhaps you could advise me, Sir Jolliet. I have a substantial amount of money from various sources. Ideally, I would like to establish some sort of shipping business based here in Québec. The problem is that such endeavors frequently take a goodly length of time to bear fruit. I’m not sure I have the capital and the time to get it established and yet maintain myself. Now, given that, would it be easier to simply purchase a business here, say a tavern? I’m not sure I could see myself as a shopkeeper. A barkeeper…maybe.

What about an estate? the older man inquired as they made their way to the parlor. Tenants do most of the actual work while you manage and invest the profits. It shouldn’t take too long, if properly handled, to provide the income to support a comfortable life style. Land is always a good investment, and we have plenty of it.

What about investing in foundries or breweries? Martine asked. Those are also good investments here.

Indeed they are, her father acknowledged. They both require access to water for processing and transportation, which generally means they are located up one of the St. Lawrence’s tributaries. Opening a humidor, he removed a pipe. He offered one to Dominique, and the two men filled their bowls.

It would be interesting to purchase a brewery and a tavern: produce in one and sell in the other, Dominique proposed.

A most profitable idea.

How much do you estimate that would cost, just out of curiosity?

Sir Jolliet drew on his pipe, waited a few seconds, and exhaled as he thought. Fragrant smoke filled the air. I suspect that the pair could be obtained for, oh, about 50,000 livres

Dominique rubbed his unaccustomedly smooth chin. That, he caught himself, much, hum. I might look into the tavern, perhaps with an inn, a nice one. When that’s going, I’ll look into a brewery.

If I may be so bold as to ask, what level of investment are you seeking to make?

Dominique hesitated a moment, as if doing mental calculations, and said, In total, about 60,000 livres.

Sir Jolliet, in the middle of a draw, coughed and covered his mouth. My, my.

I gather you’re not actually looking to run these establishments yourself, Martine asked.

No, I’ll hire managers. I know nothing about the actual operations. I’ll need to learn, but the goal is investments. I do want to establish myself in town, though.

Martine’s father nodded with approval. I think I can help you in your search.

Tomorrow, I’ll dispose of my pelts, but I’d also like to see the city. Perhaps Miss Jolliet would consent to act as my guide?

The next night, Martine climbed into her bed, leaving the curtains open to catch the cool summer breezes. She gave a little wiggle of happiness as she pulled up the coverlet.

Mr. Charteris, the coureur des boise, metamorphosed into a most presentable gentleman. His fine wool jacket in a sober brown lacked all ostentation, but still managed to convey its quality. He’d obviously impressed Papa with his conversation and his ambitions, if not his assets: not your average coureur des boise if he could purchase a tavern and a brewery.

He wasn’t a mouth-watering example of masculinity like Mr. Gaetan, which was just as well. Mr. Gaetan would make a wonderful subject for a painting. He wouldn't have to open his mouth. No, Mr. Charteris had a harder, more chiseled, face that the beard had camouflaged at first. It could almost be called dangerous, but maybe the scar did that. He had a delightful twinkle in his eyes.

And she had him all to herself tomorrow.

Later that night, downriver from Québec, near the Île d’Orléans, a hellish red light danced in the water. All the Jolliet’s neighbors on Petit Champlain Street poured out of their houses or climbed to their roofs to see the sight. With the moon only a sliver, the fire acted like a torch, providing a focus for everyone’s attention. Martine, wrapped in her summer dressing gown, watched from the dormer window in Geneviève’s room.

What’s going on? she asked Sir Jolliet.

General Montcalm sent a fire ship to attack the British warships anchored near the island. We’ll have to wait until morning to see if they were successful.

Martine shivered. The Île was only a few miles downriver from Québec. General James Wolfe, with his ships and his troops, sat at their doorstep.

As she turned from the slowly diminishing conflagration, she saw Mr. Charteris standing in the doorway, watching the spectacle over their heads. For a moment he didn’t see her, and she studied him. He had a strange, almost fierce, expression on his face. Then he saw her.

I’m sure all will be well, he said before he returned to his room.

After breakfast, Martine met Mr. Charteris in the front hall. She wasn’t surprised that he wore the same coat as he had on last night. One didn’t travel the hinterlands with a great deal of luggage. Are you ready?

Indeed. May I say you look most fetching this morning?

Thank you. You’re very kind. She felt good in the olive green skirt and rust-colored stomacher. They caught the colors of the brocade jacket that skimmed over the stomacher and fell past her hips.

As they headed out to the stable, a knock sounded at the front door. Florian, back at his post, hurried to open it. Captain Vergor swept into the house with what Martine thought of as a mixture of breeding, arrogance, and sheer nerve. He spied Martine as soon as he entered. Sweeping off his tri-cornered hat, he performed a deep, florid bow and scrape. His bright blue justaucorps sported gold buttons with an embroidered silk waistcoat underneath. Mechlin lace frothed around his hands and neck.

My dearest Miss Jolliet! The Blessed Mother has certainly smiled on me this day. To see your beauty is enough to make any man think he’d died and gone to heaven since such perfection is not seen on this earth.

Good morning, Captain. If you would excuse us, we were just leaving. She started to turn toward the rear of the house.

Ah, my beloved, I came all the way here in hopes of basking in your beauty. I pray you, don’t deny me. I require your radiance, he flung his arm toward the ceiling, as a flower needs the sun.

On paper, Vergor made a good catch for any girl. He was a connection of the fabulously wealthy DuPont family; he had military rank and social status here in Québec; and he was an intimate of the Intendant, François Bigot. In the past, Martine thought him passably good looking, but today she saw a slight man, only just above medium height, with overdressed hair and an irritatingly high-pitched voice. He’d poured his compliments over her before. This time, she felt the strangest need to bathe after them.

Unfortunately, she knew he thought she should be honored to be caught by him. She also had the feeling that this need to bathe would cease with the vows.

I regret that I am engaged to show Mr. Charteris around since he is new here. Please excuse us.

But I can be of assistance to you, dear lady. I know all the best places and can instruct Mr.…

Dominique Charteris, at your service. He bowed to the exact degree required, but offered no friendly smile.

For the first time, Vergor actually looked at Mr. Charteris. The Captain brushed his coat skirts away from his sword and sketched a bow, almost insulting in its brevity. Captain Louis DuPont DuChandon de Vergor, at your service.

Mr. Charteris looked over the Captain. I’m afraid I do not require instruction, sir. I only seek to dispose of my furs and find a property to purchase.

Furs, eh? Well, I can only hope you didn’t bring any fleas along with them. Vergor brushed his collar lace with the back of his hand.

I’m sure Miss Jolliet would excuse you if that is a concern to you.

I consider it my sacred duty to defend Miss Jolliet against undesirables, small and large.

Vergor’s deliberate rudeness offended her. She saw Mr. Charteris’s eyes narrow. He said nothing, so she did likewise. He looked capable of fighting his own battles. The problem was that she felt like they were two large, male dogs preparing to clash over a bitch in heat. She didn’t like the comparison.

Gentlemen, she gave the word hard emphasis, as she wanted no mistaking her intentions.

Vergor bowed. In addition, I have word of last night’s naval mission.

She hesitated. They’d had no substantial news.

Very well, come along. We need to get going. Martine wanted to hear what happened. Her father hadn’t returned with official news. Florian, Geneviève, and Cook each told a different version of the outcome. The gossip on the streets was as concrete as smoke.

Blaise exchanged the two-passenger caléche she’d intended on taking for the more cumbersome carriage. She put the two canines facing backwards. They headed toward Sailor’s Leap Point and on to the warehouse district.

Well? Martine demanded. Mr. Charteris just watched.

Vergor pulled at his lace cuffs before he spoke. Martine’s fleeting thought was that he should have been an actor. The man loved an audience. Well? She leaned forward.

Montcalm sent a sailor to do a soldier’s job. Distain dripped from his voice. The dolts couldn’t even manage to sail the fire boat into the anchored warships. The whole thing was a complete waste of time.

Martine sank back in her seat with a huffing breath. Oh! I had hoped…

A pity, Mr. Charteris spoke up as he casually examined his leg. It could have ended Wolfe’s hopes for this season.

Vergor turned to him with eyes narrowed. Are you privy to Wolfe’s plans?

Mr. Charteris flicked speck of dust from his breeches. No more than anyone with eyes and ears, Captain. Louisburg fell last year, and Québec is next up river. Saving winter, is there any reason for the English to stop?

Québec is the greatest natural fortress in New France, in the Americas. Vergor sat up straighter and puffed out his chest. All we have to do is wait for winter. Wolfe will leave.

Troy was said to be a natural fortress, too, Mr. Charteris drawled. And the Greeks left. The problem was they came back.

Do you seek to school me in military matters, woodsman?

I believe you both lay claim to the title of ‘gentleman,’ am I right? Martine looked pointedly from one to the other. Sometimes there were strategic advantages to being a woman, Martine thought. She would use that to change the subject. Will your duties allow you to attend the Péan’s party, Captain?

I am looking forward to the Péan’s soiree. Our mayor, Vergor, obviously pleased that he again had the high ground, directed his comment over his shoulder to Charteris, hosts the most amusing parties for the elite of Québec. Mr. Gaetan, as well as Madam and General Montcalm and the Comte de Morville, plan to attend. Mr. Bigot, the Intendant, will, of course, be there. He and I have been friends for many years. We are both part of the highest ranks of society, and as such, share a personal and… He hesitated, Professional relationship, even though I am attached to Governor Vaudreuil’s militia buttressing the security of Québec.

Captain, Martine tried to stem the deluge of words, to