. . . The lad set his cape aside and removed his hat to reveal he wasn't a he at all, but rather a she. The poorly fixed blond hair tumbled down her back, and she fixed a steady gaze on Compton. Compton put the gun back into the compartment without making a sound. "Please excuse my appearance and the deception, Milord Compton, but there was no other way I could reach you without the charade. My father, Thomas d'Anlass, sent me to you. He told me that you would give me further instructions."
"Mademoiselle Laurel," his lordship half asked. Clearly the woman was Thomas' daughter, and equally as obvious was her expectation that she would be able to simply step into a role very similar to the marquis'. Never had his long-time friend done or permitted anything so asinine before. "Parbleu, why did your father get you involved in this international tangle? He should not have subjected you to such danger."
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"Milord, with all due respect, I have always been in danger, whether I stayed at home or accompanied my father on his missions as a spy for King Louis XIII. I do not think that the danger to me now is significantly greater than it has been in the past." From inside her doublet she withdrew a portfolio of papers and presented them to the man. "These are the documents my father and I obtained upon our last visit to Brussels more than a year ago. I put them in your safekeeping until such time that they can be safely delivered to his majesté."
"So now you'll have me turning a marriageable, single lady into a spy. You are what . . . scarcely nine and ten?" He didn't wait for an answer. He knew Laurel had just reached that age a fortnight earlier, though she'd obviously played at being a young lad on the verge of manhood for years. "I'm sorry, mademoiselle. I cannot permit it. I'll have to send someone else." It'd be hard to find someone else, particularly someone who worked well with Thomas, but it had to be done. How dare his old friend and the best spy in his network put him in this untenable position!
"I'm not so young, milord. I am already nearly an old maid, or have you forgotten that I am no longer a girl and no longer a very desirable catch on the marriage market?" Save for the impressive dowry that came with her, but she chose to overlook that fact. "I may only be a woman, but especially in this I am more capable than most any man you will find. No, you'll send no one else, Compton," she stated and stood, leaning her hands against his desk. "No one else knows where my father is or how to reach him. I do. Unless you send me, you'll never get in touch with Thomas d'Anlass again. Nor will you ever get your hands on the last of the information he has gone to acquire."
A vein throbbed in Compton's temple as he stared at the defiant woman before him. He didn't doubt she would follow through on her ultimatum. In that respect she was very like her father. "Very well. Be seated," Compton said as he laid a map of Europe upon the table and began imparting instructions to her. Laurel's willfulness would be taken care of later. Thomas' too.
"Then I go to Calais?" she concluded with a question.
"Oui," said Compton. "We've gotten wind of Prussian, Austrian, and Spanish agents passing very damaging information to an agent here in France who will be taking the information to England. Needless to say, this information jeopardizes the kingdom and sabotages our war effort; if it were to reach England, the effects would be devastating. Their plans must be brought from Calais and returned to his majesté. We cannot afford to have traitors at the very heart of France."
"Have you no further information about who the traitor, and spy, is?"
"I'm afraid we haven't much more. Your father's the one who has been tracking him for eight and a half years." Compton expelled a breath. "The most I can tell you is that he's a man with a great deal of power, influence, and access. Obviously, we can't afford to waste any time when tracking this man." He handed the marquis' daughter a packet with some further instructions. "Get going." Before he changed his mind regardless of the potential consequences. Did Thomas ever have a lot to answer for! Especially if Laurel was anywhere near as good as Thomas at losing men sent to tail him. For some reason he suspected she was.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Laurel secreted the instructions in her doublet underneath the jerkin and the cloth that tightly bound her breasts. Her soft leather boots, very similar to those musketeers wore, echoed off the cobblestones and blended in with the sounds of the busy port city. She darted around the corner and searched for her horse.
Stopping short, she pressed herself to the wall, flat. How had they found her so soon? Well, the horse was lost. Poor Rebelle, but there was nothing she could do for the faithful animal now. Those men obviously knew Rebelle was from the Marquis de Langeac's estate. She took a fortifying breath and dashed back in the direction from which she had come.
At least she still had a hefty sum of money and one of her father's basket hilts. Hopefully she wasn't too out of practice with the sword, for she had a sinking feeling that she would have to be using it all too soon.
And her other numerous skills too.
Laurel quickly checked her hair and was satisfied to note that the tight braid had stayed pinned underneath her hat. As long as no one looked too closely, no one would ever suspect she was not the lad she pretended to be. The woman stopped short as she caught sight of a merchant talking to several armed swordsmen; hired blades. The merchant looked up and pointed at her, indicating that was the boy who had come in on the horse in question. At first she thought herself paranoid, but then she saw the four fighters weaving their way through the crowd and towards her.
Diantre! The devil!
Her ladyship wasted not so much as an iota more of time. Abruptly, she backpedaled and sprinted away from the men, turning and twisting through the streets in an effort to lose her pursuers. Unfortunately, she didn't know her way around Marseille very well, and these men most obviously did.
"Saperlipopette," she exclaimed, and added "drat" for good measure, as she found herself faced with a dead end and saw her pursuers closing in on her inexorably. This couldn't be happening. She wouldn't let this happen. . . .
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