"Oh, er, not at all, Rosie," Kydd said, hauling himself upright. "Just thinkin' awhile."
She looked at him steadily. "You're not all you seem, m' friend," she said quietly. "I've seen a few characters in my time an' you're so different—you've got iron in your soul, a man's man. And something's happened. I don't know what it is, but it's thrown you down where y' don't belong."
When Kydd said nothing she came to the sofa and sat beside him. "I may be only a common actress but I know when a man's without a friend t' talk with, an' that's not natural." She straightened her dress demurely and continued, "It would be my honour if you'd take me as y' friend, Tom." Her hand strayed to his knee.
Kydd flinched but, not wanting to offend her, stayed rigid. She withdrew the hand and said quietly, "So, there's a woman at the bottom of it—am I right?"
"No. That is, she . . . No, it's too tough a yarn t' tell."
"Tom! We've a whole Sunday ahead. Your secret will stay wi' me, never fear."
Kydd knew from his sister that, for a lady, there was nothing so intriguing as a man of mystery; Rosie would worm it out of him sooner or later and, besides, he had to talk to someone. "Well, it's a long tale. Y' see . . ." He told her of the Navy, of his rise to success and command of his own ship; of his entry to high society and likely marriage into their ranks and subsequent fall when his heart was taken by another. And finally the terrible revenge a father was taking on him.
"Dear Lord, an' what a tale! I had no idea. My dear, how can you keep your wits about you while you're reduced to—to this?"
Kydd gave the glimmer of a smile. "So th' last question is, just when do I give it away an' return t' England?"
"Never!" she said firmly. "Never! Tom, you're perfectly right— you cannot return without you've regained your honour. It's just as it was in Clarissa Victrix, where the hero is unjustly accused of theft an' thrown into Newgate, an' it's only when his lady seduces the black-hearted earl into handin' over the false evidence that he's made free."
Kydd grimaced, while she went on proudly, "We opened the season wi' that in Weymouth last year to my leading lady."
"'Twould be a fine thing indeed, should I meet wi' such," Kydd said tartly. "I have m' doubts it'll be soon—savin' your kindness, I've no wish t' top it th' beggar f'r much longer."
"An' neither should you!" Rosie soothed. "Tom, do promise me y' won't leave us for now. I've a friend—a . . . a personal friend as was, who I mean t' speak with. An' then we shall see what happens."
Renzi had slept badly: it was either a hare-brained plot by wild-eyed lunatics or the only chance to rid the world of its greatest nightmare. Or perhaps both—and d'Auvergne had made clear that in the event it went ahead Renzi's wholehearted participation was expected, and on the inner circle.
He had now seen the secret correspondence with London: indisputable understandings and instructions from the very highest and concerned with real military and political commitments.
D'Auvergne had not lied about his connections and the scheme was under eye by the foreign secretary of Great Britain and the cabinet itself. But just what was being asked of him?
Interrupting his thoughts, Jenkins, the flag-lieutenant, popped into his office. "Thought you'd be too busy to look in at the post office—letter for you, been there for a while."
It was from Kydd. He had found a menial job, shared lodgings, and expressed sincere gratitude for the few coins enclosed. Renzi started a reply but it wouldn't come. The contrast between his friend's decent, plain-sailing world and this insane arena of chicanery, stealth and the desperate endeavour to topple Bonaparte was too great.
Around noon, the cutter from England with dispatches entered Gorey Bay with a package so important that the commodore himself was brought to sign for it.
Shortly afterwards, a grim-faced d'Auvergne laid a letter in front of Renzi. It was from Lord Hobart, Secretary of State for War, short and to the point. The plot to kidnap Napoleon Bonaparte was to proceed with all possible dispatch and in the greatest possible secrecy.
"There is attached an order authorising exceptional expenditures against Secret Service funds at the Treasury and an expression of full support from their lordships. Renzi, do you cease all duties to attend on me personally. This is the gravest affair this age."
D'Auvergne was in no mood to waste a second. "We shall meet in an hour, my friend. Your current business should be concluded within that time."
Renzi worked quickly: no report or appraisal could stand against the stakes that had now been raised. When he entered d'Auvergne's office he was met with a look of dedicated ferocity. "Mr Renzi. The world knows me as the commodore, Jersey Squadron, and I maintain that position and retinue in my flagship and a small office in St Helier. Some might know that my sympathies with the royalists occupy me on occasions here in Mont Orgueil. Few indeed know of my other activities. As of this moment I count myself officially on leave of absence from my naval duties. It will remain thus until this business is complete."