India Black in the City of Light Read Free Page B

travel-stained and bearded, with eyes like watchful raptors. They were well-mounted, their finely-muscled steeds still stepping high as they were reined to a halt, though they were sweating freely and covered with dust. The men were well-armed. Each wore a brace of pistols at his belt, and I saw the hilt of a dagger peeping from one’s boot. One bloke even sported aMauser carbine, tucked into a rifle scabbard on his saddle. My driver muttered under his breath as one of the troop cast an appraising eye over our coach. He turned to his fellows and made a comment I didn’t hear. His companions turned their gazes in our direction. I shrank back from the window and thanked heaven I had already climbed inside before the men appeared. They did not look like the kind of gentlemen who lifted their hats politely to a lady. They looked more like a gang of pirates who would have been happy to fling me over a saddle and ride off into the sunset.
    My shabby conveyance and absence of luggage elicited little interest. The four men turned away with expressions of disinterest and dismounted, summoning the stableboy with impatient shouts. They strode into the tavern, weapons clanking and spurs jingling. My driver wasted no time in clambering aboard and whipping our team into action. I kept a wary eye out the window as we drove off, but the four brigands remained inside, no doubt terrorizing the landlord, but I could hardly afford to worry about that. That gentleman would have to fend for himself. I made sure my Webley revolver was near at hand and settled back for the rest of the drive.
    French pressed on and we followed. The handsome black brougham stopped once more at a stable off the main road for another change of horses and my driver repeated his previous action of hauling our coach off the thoroughfare and out of sight behind a barn while we waited. I watched the action from the shelter of the ancient building, but to my surprise French and his passenger remained in the coach. An elegant cuff appeared from the open window of the brougham and the driver strolled over to collect a few coins. He disappeared into the inn and returned a few moments later with a coarse linen sack in one hand and bottle of wine in the other. He handed these provisions inside, mounted the driver’s seat and slapped the reins against the flanks of his fresh horses. The brougham rolled away, a faint shadow of dust trailing after it. French clearly intended to drive straight through to Paris, which meant I must as well. I had been told the road from Calais to Paris was safe enough if one traveled by day, but it was now growing dark. I cast an anxious glance behind us, but the four horsemen I’d seen at the first inn were nowhere in sight. I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling their appearance had prompted, however. There were no choirboys among that lot.
    When French’s driver had vacated the premises, we followed him into the stable and made a fast change ourselves. I availed myself of the rather primitive facilities, purchased a bottle that the landlord assured me was the finest claret, and reclined on my seat as we pulled back onto the road. It was going to be a long night and I began to have a few doubts as to whether this was truly the best way to see Paris. Perhaps I’d been a bit impulsive. I can be, you know, especially when I feel that French or the prime minister have discounted my usefulness. Or perhaps it was just the effect of traveling a monotonous road in a stuffy coach with a cold supper. Well, there was nothing to do now but bear with the consequences of my actions, so I resolved to have a kip.
    I was awakened from a rather pleasant dream involving French and a fencing mask by the precipitous halting of the coach, which catapulted me from the seat to the floor. I looked out, expecting to see the lights of an inn or public house, but there was no sign of civilization. It was full dark now, with a gibbous moon gleaming faintly over the landscape.