As before, Anthony insisted upon sailing past the city and finding a sheltered cove before he set down the anchor. Why, Charlie couldn’t fathom. They resided on a French ship. It wouldn’t be any more noticeable in port than the dozen others that looked identical.

However, Anthony refused to be swayed, so when Charlie set foot on solid land again, it was once more on a sheltered beach. She brooded as she followed Anthony during the half-hour walk before Marseille came into view.

The city was magnificent. An enormous citadel surrounded by a stone wall perched on the edge of a horseshoe-like city surrounding the harbor. Although it was much smaller than London, Marseille was a sight to behold, nonetheless. As they approached, Anthony became more and more tense. His shoulders turned rigid ahead of her and Mama.

Charlie shortened the distance between them and touched his elbow. “What’s bothering you? Do you expect trouble?”

He glanced from her to Mama and back. “Yes,” he answered, his voice curt. “I might not be in uniform, but nothing can hide my military bearing. I’m no spy.”

Mama stepped up to his other side. “No, but I am. I’ll handle the questions inside town. All I ask is that you keep your eyes and ears open.”

Anthony nodded. “Stay close,” he commanded as he resumed walking.

Trotting to keep pace with his easy lope, Charlie said, “If the authorities will know you for a military man, shouldn’t we be trying to keep our distance, in case the worst should happen?”

Anthony scowled. “And what if they notice you for an English lady?”

Charlie laughed. “I’m nobody. I wouldn’t even garner a full dance card if my sister hadn’t married your brother.”

He glanced at her quickly then away and muttered something under his breath that sounded similar to “I very much doubt that.”

“I beg your pardon?” Charlie asked. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

He offered her a terse command. “Stay close, and don’t speak unless spoken to.”

Charlie bristled but clamped her lips shut. If he didn’t want her to speak, she wouldn’t—at least, not to him.

Mama took the lead as they entered the city, and she began her search in the dockside taverns. At this hour, the fishermen were all at sea, finding their next catch. Most of those employed at other tasks were hard at work, keeping them away from the taverns. Save for a few travelers and the occasional local with a free afternoon, the eateries they visited were, for the most part, empty.

As afternoon bled into evening, that changed. More and more locals arrived, as well as those who’d slept the morning away. Businessmen conducting meals and interviews claimed the shadowed tables that afforded the most privacy. As hard as Charlie searched, she couldn’t see Papa anywhere, but she wondered if she would recognize him. It had been years since they’d last spoken.

Mama left them at a table in the last tavern, which smelled strongly of fish, as she went to fetch drinks and make friends with the salty-looking men sitting along the bar counter. Charlie peered around for a mark of her own, hoping for a young man she could charm into giving details about the people he’d seen in the tavern recently. Choosing such a man was made even more difficult when Anthony loomed over her shoulder, glowering at anyone who dared to look them in the eye.

A rakish young man entered the tavern, scanning the interior with an appraising eye. He would do. With a smile and a flirtatious touch to the arm, Charlie would be able to coax him into sharing his every secret, if she could separate herself from Anthony long enough to keep him from glaring at the newcomer.

As she sidled around the table, trying to put some distance between them, a serving girl sashayed up to Anthony and asked him if he needed anything. From the purr of her voice, she wasn’t asking him about food or drink. Charlie’s stomach shrank and she abandoned her mark in order to glance sidelong at Anthony, wondering if he would take the invitation.

Charlie had no right to be jealous. He was a talented kisser, but he’d shown no interest in repeating their kiss, and she didn’t want him to. He—and every other man—would only come between her and the adventure she so longed to experience. She was not going to give up that chance in order to play the demure wife and mother. Maybe someday, but not now.

Anthony could kiss whomever he wanted. Even better if doing so provided them with the information they sought. She turned away, her stomach churning, and pretended not to notice the flirtation unfolding mere feet away.

He answered the serving girl in stilted French. “Thank you, but my friend is getting all we need.”

The woman frowned. The flirtatious way she leaned closer to him changed. She straightened and held her arm around her middle. “You have an intriguing accent.”

No, he didn’t. He had a British accent. Blast! Charlie swung her hips and tried to smile as she rounded the table. She laid her hand on Anthony’s arm. Her heart thundered, but she battled the urge to spew the first words to come to her lips. She rehearsed them first, making sure she knew the proper vocabulary for what she wanted to say before she uttered the words out loud. The roaring in her ears didn’t help her think, nor her mounting panic.

Imitate Mama. Smoothly, she said, “He hasn’t been in France long. My sweet man is Bavarian.” She thought that Bavaria was still on France’s side in the coalition, but Charlie couldn’t remember. Before she’d learned that Mama was a spy, she hadn’t paid much attention to the war at all.

She wondered if she should have phrased that differently. Maybe she should have sought to distract the serving girl with an entirely different topic. The woman narrowed her eyes at Anthony and didn’t seem convinced.

Fortunately, Mama arrived with three glasses of wine. She set them down on the table and smiled at the serving girl. “Thank you, but we have already been served.”

As the young woman marched away, Mama’s smile faded. She turned to Charlie and Anthony. “What happened? You weren’t supposed to speak.”

Charlie’s stomach dropped, because that was precisely what she had meant to do, regardless. If Anthony hadn’t bungled the answer to the serving girl, Charlie might have made a fool of herself with that rakish fop.

No. Her French was better than Anthony’s. So long as she rehearsed what she meant to say in her head and carefully chose her words, she would have been fine. Granted, the man she combed for information might have thought her a bit slow of wit. All the better—Mama had taught her that once someone made a preliminary judgment of a person, they were more likely to overlook suspicious behavior and excuse it as part of their initial judgment.

Anthony grimaced as he answered Mama in a low murmur. “She asked me a question. Was I supposed to ignore her?”

Would the serving girl have approached to flirt with him if Charlie hadn’t drifted away? She swallowed the question and asked, “Did you find anything?”

“Yes. I have an address. I wanted us to sit and have a drink so that we didn’t arouse suspicion, but that might no longer be possible. Come.”

Charlie fought to keep from grinning. With an address, they would find Papa, at long last.

* * *

Gray called himself seven kinds of stupid as he followed Mrs. Vale up a narrow staircase to the rooms above the tavern—or inn, as it turned out. She counted the doors under her breath in French as she found the right one. The muscles in his shoulders knotted as he took up position behind her. Charlie stood to his right, dancing from foot to foot.

Mrs. Vale knocked.

A weak male voice called from within. “Who is there?”

“The innkeeper sent me,” Mrs. Vale answered in the same language, French. “Will you please open the door, sir?”

A pause lengthened into a tension-filled silence. Gray glanced toward the stairs, from which they had ascended, wondering whether the serving maid had called for the French authorities, or if she had accepted Charlie’s ludicrous tale that he was Bavarian. If the serving maid had ever spoken to a Bavarian, she would know that his accent wasn’t remotely similar. He had crossed paths with one or two during his career in the Royal Navy.

The click of a lock returned his attention to the door and the man behind it. Gray tensed. This could be Mr. Vale, but he could have nearly exposed them in pursuit of a red herring, too. Slowly, the door opened a crack to reveal a sliver of a man. He had a receding hairline, brown hair, and bags around his eyes. It was those eyes, blue like Charlie’s, that convinced Gray that they had found the right man.

The moment Mr. Vale beheld his wife, his eyes widened, and he opened the door. “Louisa?”

Next to Gray, Charlie bunched as if she meant to throw herself at the man, presumably her father. Gray laid a restraining hand on her arm and said sharply in English, “We don’t have time for a happy reunion. I have a dinghy waiting in a cove outside Marseille and a ship to take us back to England. We must leave.”

Both Mrs. Vale and her daughter seemed reluctant, but they complied with Gray’s urgent tone. Mr. Vale took only a moment to kiss his wife and then grab a satchel containing his belongings before he exited into the hall. He cast his wife a sidelong look before he joined Gray in the corridor.

To Gray’s surprise, Mr. Vale didn’t question his presence. Either he recognized Gray’s black hair, build, and features for a Graylocke, or he trusted that his wife and daughter would choose a trustworthy ally. “Where are we off to?” the older man asked in smooth French.

Either there was over a fifteen-year age gap between him and his wife, or Mr. Vale was so fatigued and under so much stress that he showed signs of age beyond his years. The slump of his shoulders despite his trim build, the bags around his eyes, and the lines around his mouth and nose all combined to make him look to be in his midsixties.

Gray didn’t comment on the signs of fatigue in the man’s bearing. Instead, he answered the question succinctly as he led toward the stairs. However, he’d barely informed the man of the cove where the French barque resided when, midway down the steps into the common room below, he caught sight of a French uniform. Hell and damnation. The serving maid hadn’t believed Charlie’s tale, after all.

Mr. Vale put a restraining hand on Gray’s sleeve. “I know a back exit. Follow me.”

Gray didn’t argue. He hoped that Charlie’s father was trustworthy, because at the moment he was putting his and the Vales’ lives in the other man’s hands. Charlie looked as pale as snow as he passed her.

“What happened?” she whispered to Gray in English.

He spoke only two words, but they were enough to render her silent. “French soldiers.” When she pressed her lips together, her eyes wide and frightened, he considering trying those two words in the future, when they next had an argument. It might earn him a moment’s respite to collect his thoughts.

He didn’t have time to think now. Sliding his hand into his pocket, where his pistol resided, Anthony followed Mr. Vale along the corridor to a back staircase that exited into the open air. He and the Vales moved swiftly and silently. His heart beat so loudly, it was a wonder the French authorities didn’t hear it and come barreling around the building.

On the street, he followed Mr. Vale’s lead and offered his arm to Charlie. If they acted like two couples strolling along the street, they would be less likely to be noticed as fugitives. Charlie’s arm trembled as she slid it onto his. He laid his hand atop hers and squeezed, attempting a reassuring smile. It felt weak.

As they reached the corner of the building he heard a shout in French. He couldn’t decipher the rapid words, but when he glanced over his shoulder, he found the serving maid pointing an officer in his direction.

“Follow me,” Mr. Vale shouted. He clasped his wife’s hand and bolted down the street.

“What—” The word gushed from Charlie’s mouth as Gray did the same with her.

“No questions. Run!”

When Charlie staggered over the hem of her dress, he nearly tossed her over his shoulder and carried her. A moment later, she wrestled her skirt into submission and draped the tail over her forearm. He released her hand and dropped his palm to the small of her back, steering her after her parents.

Although neither he nor the Vale women knew the layout of Marseille, Mr. Vale must have taken some time upon arrival to become familiar with the terrain.

He led them through alley after alley. They jumped the fences and crossed private, fenced-in yards, taking turn after turn to throw off their pursuers. In fact, Gray was certain that at some point they were heading into the heart of Marseille, not away from it. When they reached the edge of the city, relief swept through him. It weakened his knees, but he pushed on. They weren’t out of danger yet.

He took the lead. With Charlie at his heels, he followed the same path they’d taken into the city. Although he continually glanced over his shoulder, he saw no signs of pursuit from the French authorities.

He still didn’t consider them safe. The moment they reached the cove, he ushered them into the dinghy. “Hurry. I want to be on the ship and weigh anchor before the French navy comes down upon us.”

For once, Charlie didn’t argue. She jumped into the boat and threw her arms around her father as he did the same. Gray shoved the boat into the water, hopped into it with the Vale family, and rowed for all he was worth.

They didn’t have a moment to lose.