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The Aikenhead Honours Three gentlemen spies: bound by duty, undone by women!

Introducing three of England’s

most eligible bachelors:

Dominic, Leo and Jack

code-named Ace, King, Knave

Together they are

The Aikenhead Honours A government-sponsored spying ring, they risk their lives, and hearts, to keep Regency England safe!

Follow these three brothers on a dazzling

journey through Europe and beyond as they

serve their country and meet their brides, in

often very surprising circumstances!

Meet the ‘Ace’, Dominic Aikenhead,

Duke of Calder, in

HIS CAVALRY LADY

Meet the ‘King’ and renowned rake,

Lord Leo Aikenhead, in

HIS RELUCTANT MISTRESS

Meet the ‘Knave’ and incorrigible playboy,

Lord Jack Aikenhead, in

HIS FORBIDDEN LIAISON

Joanna Maitland was born and educated in Scotland, though she has spent most of her adult life in England or abroad. She has been a systems analyst, an accountant, a civil servant, and director of a charity. Now that her two children have left home, she and her husband have moved from Hampshire to the Welsh Marches, where she is revelling in the more rugged country and the wealth of medieval locations. When she is not writing, or climbing through ruined castles, she devotes her time to trying to tame her house and garden, both of which are determined to resist any suggestion of order. Readers are invited to visit Joanna’s website at www.joannamaitland.com

Recent novels by the same author:

A POOR RELATION

A PENNILESS PROSPECT

MARRYING THE MAJOR

RAKE’S REWARD

MY LADY ANGEL

AN UNCOMMON ABIGAIL

(in A Regency Invitation anthology) BRIDE OF THE SOLWAY

HIS CAVALRY LADY

Joanna Maitland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

HIS CAVALRY LADY

This book is dedicated to my editor, Jo Carr.

Prologue

St Petersburg, 1812

The third door led into yet another magnificent room. Empty, just as the previous ones had been. There was nothing for it but to go on.

Adopting a brave posture—there could be no enemy here, could there?—the young cavalry trooper strode across to the door on the far side. There he hesitated, for just a second or two. Then, with a tiny shake of the head, as if telling himself to face his demons, he put his hand to the latch and opened it.

‘Ah, Trooper Borisov. At last.’ The speaker was a portly gentleman dressed in court uniform. He was smiling, but he did not bow or offer any other salute. ‘I am Prince Volkonsky, Court Minister to his Imperial Majesty.’

The trooper came sharply to attention. ‘Sir. I…’ He faltered. His unease had been increasing with every one of those empty antechambers.

The Minister’s smile broadened. ‘His Majesty is waiting to meet you, young man. He has heard much of your exploits. And of your exemplary courage. Would that we had ten thousand more like you. We would have rid the world of the French scourge long ago.’

Borisov could feel his face reddening. He cursed silently. Why did he always have to react so? Only girls blushed. Not battle-hardened cavalrymen.

The Minister was waiting for an answer.

‘Thank you, sir. You are most generous. But there are many brave men in the ranks of his Majesty’s army and—’

‘Indeed there are. But few as young as you, Borisov, or with such a record.’

Borisov said nothing more. Any response would sound like bragging.

‘Now, if you will take a seat, my boy, I will tell his Majesty that you have arrived. He is occupied at present, but I am sure you will be admitted soon.’ Without giving Borisov any time to respond, the Minister tapped gently on the further door and entered the room beyond, closing the door softly behind him.

Tsar Alexander himself is behind that door. The thought shivered through Borisov’s mind. The Tsar himself, the Little Father. And I am to meet him. This very day. The Tsar himself.

Borisov began to pace. He needed to be moving. As just before a battle, he could not be still. For this meeting was as momentous as any battle he had fought.

It was only as the connecting door reopened that Borisov began to wonder what he should say to the Tsar. What if he asked—?

‘Trooper Borisov, his Majesty will receive you now.’

Borisov swallowed hard, forced his body into his best military posture and strode through that terrifying door.

It was a huge room, hung with paintings and mirrors, but almost empty of furniture. In the far corner, under the tall windows, stood an ornate gilded desk with a single chair behind it. A distant part of Borisov’s mind registered that visitors to this room were not permitted to sit.

The figure behind the desk rose and came round into the centre of the room. Borisov remained rooted to the spot by the door. He knew, without looking, that it had been closed behind him. He was alone. With the Emperor himself.

‘Borisov. Come forward. Let me look at you in the light.’

Borisov bowed and obeyed.

The Tsar was the taller of the two. Unlike Borisov, he had a fine set of side-whiskers. He stood erect and imposing in his military uniform, looking his visitor over with bright, intelligent eyes. Assessing eyes.

He will spot where my jacket was mended for that sabre cut, Borisov thought suddenly, wishing he had been able to afford a new one.

‘We have heard much about your courageous exploits during the wars. How many times did you take part in those cavalry charges? Five?’

Borisov’s throat was too dry to speak. He nodded, blushing yet again.

‘Your commanders report that you are totally fearless, throwing yourself into every skirmish. Even when it is not your squadron that is charged with the attack.’ The Tsar smiled down at him, encouragingly.

Borisov swallowed. ‘That was a…a mistake, your Majesty,’ he croaked.

The Emperor raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

‘I… It was my first battle, your Majesty. No one had told me that charges were by squadron. When I returned from the first one, I just… I assumed that I was to continue as before.’

‘I see. But you stopped eventually?’

‘Yes, your Majesty. The sergeant-major told me to remain with my own squadron and to charge only with them.’

The Emperor’s eyes were dancing with good humour. ‘But you continued to throw yourself into every battle? And you saved the life of an officer at Borodino.’

Borisov took a deep breath. ‘He was wounded, your Majesty. I merely chased off the enemy. They ran as soon as they saw an unwounded trooper bearing down on them with a lance.’

‘And you gave him your horse.’

‘I…yes, I did.’ Borisov did not add that, by the time the horse was eventually recovered, all the kit it carried had been stolen. And that, as a result, Borisov himself had almost frozen to death for want of a greatcoat.

‘Saving an officer’s life is a meritorious act, Borisov. That is why you have been summoned here to receive the Cross of St George. And…’ the Tsar turned back to his desk and picked up a paper ‘…and for another reason.’

Borisov swayed a little on his feet. Please, no!

‘I have here a plea from a distraught father, Count Ivan Kuralkin, who begs for help to locate his beloved child. This child ran away from home to join the cavalry and has been missing now for more than two years, serving under an assumed name. The father begs that the child, the comfort of his old age, will be found and returned to him. Do you think I should grant his request, Borisov?’ He dropped the paper back on the desk.

The young man gulped, realising that his expression must betray his panic.

‘You have no view on this, Borisov?’ The Tsar’s keen eyes were on him.

‘I would not presume, your Majesty.’

The Tsar nodded to himself, as if acknowledging a good answer, then turned and walked to the long windows overlooking the vast garden of the palace. For several minutes, he stood, apparently contemplating the plants. Then, abruptly, he spun on his heel and said, in a voice so soft that it barely carried to where the trooper stood, ‘I have been told that you are a woman, Borisov. Tell me the truth. Is it so?’

Borisov stood as if transfixed. His mouth worked but no sound came out.

The Tsar strode across the room until the two were barely a pace apart. He did not look angry or forbidding. He looked merely intrigued. And he was waiting for an answer.

It was not possible to lie to the Tsar. Besides, it was clear that he already knew. The young man managed just a thread of a voice. ‘It is true, your Majesty.’ He waited for the blow to fall.

The Tsar smiled broadly and clapped the trooper on the shoulder. ‘I should never have believed that a woman could do all that you have done. Such courage and such dedication. You are a shining example to the army. Alexandra Ivanovna Kuralkina, I salute you.’ He fastened the cross to her uniform, kissed her formally on both cheeks and took a step back, pausing to assess the effect. Then he turned back to his desk and picked up the paper again. ‘And since you did not answer the question when I put it to you, I shall answer it for you now. You shall be returned to your family by the Tsar himself with all honour. Your exploits shall be fêted.’

No! Oh, no! The Emperor was going to send her back to her father and stepmother. She had fled one marriage to a man she had never seen. No doubt her stepmother would soon sell her to another. She would never be free again. Such a punishment was too much to bear. She threw herself at the Emperor’s feet. ‘Your Majesty, I beg you, from the bottom of my heart, please do not send me back to my father. I would rather have died for you on the battlefield than return there. Let me continue to serve you, to fight for you. The cavalry is all I desire in the world. I cannot serve you if you send me back to my father’s house.’

The Tsar looked down at the man-woman at his feet. He frowned slightly and turned away, leaving her crumpled on her knees on the intricately patterned wooden floor. It was no position for a cavalryman to be in, but she did not dare to move. She held her breath, watching him pace. Was there a chance he might change his mind?

‘How old are you?’ he asked suddenly, waving her to her feet.

That was the last question she had expected. ‘Twenty-two, your Majesty.’

‘Indeed? You look no more than sixteen.’ He paused, clearly digesting that information. ‘Tell me, my child,’ he said at last, ‘what would you wish to do, if anything in the world were possible for you?’

‘I would wish to continue to serve you in a cavalry regiment, your Majesty.’

‘Any particular one?’

She hesitated. Did he mean…? ‘A Hussar regiment, your Majesty, if I had a choice.’ A vision flickered across her brain of herself in Hussar uniform, sabre drawn, taking part in a mighty charge. Oh, yes, a Hussar regiment.

‘As an officer?’ A small smile licked the corner of his mouth.

Her heart began to pound at the Tsar’s extraordinary suggestion. Only men with written proofs of their nobility could become officers. Under her assumed name, Borisov, and with no hope of demonstrating her noble status, her only choice had been to enlist as an ordinary trooper. Her military life so far had been wonderful, exhilarating. But to be an officer! She could do it. Of course she could. Like her father, she had been born to do it. ‘A commission in a Hussar regiment, your Majesty, would be like a…it would be the fulfilment of a dream I have always thought impossible.’ She looked shyly up at him, wondering whether any of this could be true. Was he really about to grant her fiercest desire?

He nodded, twice. ‘I shall commission you into the Mariupol Hussars.’

She gasped aloud. She could not help it. The Mariupol Hussars was a crack regiment. Noblemen fought tooth and nail for commissions in it.

‘But not, I think, as Borisov. Nor under your own name, Kuralkina, obviously. You shall take my name. You shall be Alexandrov. Alexei Ivanovich Alexandrov of the Mariupol Hussars.’

‘Oh, thank you, your Majesty,’ she breathed. She wanted to burst with happiness. The Little Father himself had granted her dearest wish. It was a miracle.

‘It is a fitting reward for saving the life of an officer on the battlefield. And since you will not be able to ask your father for the funds you will need, I myself shall supply you. Apply directly to me, through Prince Volkonsky. No one else is to know of this. You will continue to serve as a man.’

‘Your Majesty, I do not know how to thank you. I—’

‘There is one way to thank me, Alexandrov, and one way only. You have been given a new and honourable name. Let your conduct match it, on the battlefield and beyond. Let no stain of dishonour tarnish it so long as you bear it.’ He stared down into her eyes, searching for commitment.

In that soul-searing moment, Alexei Ivanovich Alexandrov swore a silent oath of honour and service to Tsar Alexander. Until death.

Chapter One

Boulogne, June 1814

It was the smell that woke him.

For fully three seconds, Dominic lay quite still in the Lion d’Or’s best bed, trying to make sense of the strange messages tumbling into his brain. Dark. Silence. Smoke? Fire!

He flung himself out of bed. Light! He needed light! And where the devil were his breeches?

A terrified neighing ripped through the pre-dawn silence. Then a whoosh, as if a giant were sucking in a monstrous breath. Followed by red, hellish light.

The smoke had turned to flames. The Lion d’Or’s stables must be on fire!

Dominic threw wide the half-open window, stuck his head out and yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Au feu! Au feu!’ It was surely loud enough to wake even drunken grooms.

He dragged on his breeches and crammed his feet into boots. A voice rang out below. At last! Then more voices. A woman’s despairing wail. And the ominous crackle of the fire taking hold in dry straw and ancient timbers.

Dominic took the stairs three at a time. In the yard, the silence was turning into utter chaos. Yelling, cursing men milling around in the eerie light. No one fetching water. No one saving the horses.

He grabbed the nearest groom by the shoulder. ‘Get to the pump,’ he ordered in crisp French. ‘Start filling buckets. And you—’ he seized another by his flapping shirt ‘—rouse all the men from the house. Get them into a line to pass the buckets. You two. Don’t stand there gawping. Start getting the horses out.’

In the space of half a minute, Dominic had turned the commotion into the beginnings of order. The terrified horses were being led to safety. Water was being brought. But the flames had a head start. And they were winning.

The front part of the stables and one side of the doorway were ablaze. One panicked horse was refusing to be led through. It was fighting against the halter, rearing, eyes rolling, hooves flailing. With a cry of pain, the groom dropped to the ground. The horse fled back into the stables.

Dominic lunged forward, hefted the unconscious groom over his shoulder and raced across the yard to the inn. By the door, a maidservant stood motionless, wide-eyed with fear. ‘You, girl.’ He laid the boy ungently at her feet. ‘Make yourself useful. Look to his hurts.’ He did not wait to see whether she obeyed. He had to help save the horses. Only one other man left to do that. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

The smoke was now so thick that it was difficult to see. And to breathe. Dominic looked around for something to use as a mask over his face. If only he had thrown on a shirt. But he had nothing. He would have to continue as he was. Taking a deep breath of the cooler air in the yard, he plunged into the hell of the burning stables.

Still at least half a dozen terrified horses to save. Possibly more. He could barely make out the back of the stable. It was full of smoke, though not yet ablaze. But he could hear the sounds of hooves thundering against stall boards. At least some of the horses must still be tethered. He raced to the back of the building, keeping as low as he could, to avoid the choking smoke. Let the groom deal with the horses nearer the door.

Like a ghostly apparition, a slim shape in grubby white emerged from the swirling smoke, leading a horse. No more than a boy, from the little Dominic could see, and dressed only in a bedgown and boots. But a boy who knew horses, for he had covered the animal’s eyes to quiet it. ‘Well done, lad,’ Dominic gasped as they passed. No reply. The boy had his mind on his task. Just as Dominic must.

It was taking too many precious minutes to rescue the horses. All the time, the fire was engulfing more of the building. Yet the boy in the bedgown was fearless, always going back into the most dangerous area of the stable. He had a way with the terrified beasts, too. More than once, Dominic fancied he heard the lad’s voice, murmuring strong and low, urging the animal towards the flaming doorway. He had even started to cover the horses’ nostrils against the acrid smoke. Part of Dominic’s brain registered that he would find the lad after this was all over, and reward him for his bravery. He would have been proud to have such a boy in his own service.

Out in the yard again, Dominic caught a dripping cloth tossed to him by one of the inn servants. Gratefully, he covered his head, hoping that the boy had done the same. With this, there ought to be a chance of rescuing the remaining animals. Only a few more to bring out now. He ran back into the thickening smoke.

He found himself struggling with the tether of one of the last horses. The straining beast had pulled it tight in the iron ring. Its thrashing hooves were threatening to crack Dominic’s head open. If only he had a knife. Damnation! The rope refused to come free. At this rate, they would both burn!

A strong, lean hand appeared out of the smoke, holding a knife. Bless the boy! A single slash cut the rope. Then the hand disappeared again. No time to say a word of thanks. The horse, suddenly freed, reared up to its full height with a loud and terrified whinny. Dominic ducked under the deadly hooves and grabbed the trailing rope, forcing the animal down. He had to get this horse out. The fire was really taking hold now. Soon the stable roof would be aflame. There would be no more rescues then.

At last, Dominic managed to coax the horse through the stable doorway. Someone had taken an axe to the blazing wood so that the gap was wider and the flames were less fierce. The broken, smouldering timbers lay on the ground. Dominic thrust the rope into a waiting hand and raced back inside, ignoring the prick of sparks on the bare skin of his back and chest. He had tiny burns all over his body now. No doubt he would look as though he had a dose of smallpox when this was over. But he had to be sure that there were no more horses hidden by the smoke.

It seemed the lad in the bedgown had had the same thought. His eerie figure was just visible through the swirling darkness, searching among the stalls. Dominic ran towards the boy. ‘Is that all of them?’ he yelled, trying to make himself heard above the noise of the fire.

Before the boy could say a word, there was an ominous crack above their heads. Dominic caught a glimpse of a huge, flaming beam dropping towards them. Towards the boy! Dominic bridged the space between them with a single stride, grabbed the boy and thrust him aside. The beam hit the stable floor just inches from where they stood, showering them both with sparks. In seconds, the boy’s bedgown had caught alight.

Dominic made to tear it off him.

‘Non!’ It was a scream of anguish.

The boy must be an idiot. Surely he knew that it was better to be naked than to burn?

‘Non!’ the boy cried again, ripping the tail of his bedgown out of Dominic’s hands.

There was no time to argue. And only one solution. Dominic pushed the boy to the ground and covered him with his own body, rolling them both in the dirt to stop the sparks from taking hold.

And then he understood.

This was no boy. The lithe body straining against his own belonged to a fearless, and extraordinary, girl!

His mind told him it was impossible. But his body knew better. It was threatening to go up in flames to match the blaze around them. Dear God, why this woman? Why now? Had he no self-control at all?

A loud groan brought him back to stark reality. His weight must be crushing her delicate form. And there was no time now to wonder what was happening between them. He had to get her out of this hellhole. The rest of the roof would fall at any second.

He leapt to his feet, dragging the girl up by the arm. ‘Venez,’ he rasped from his parched throat. He started for the door. But the girl was trying to free herself from his grasp. What on earth was she about? This was no time for modesty. Yet still she fought him.

With a curse of exasperation, he grabbed her slight form around the waist and slung her over his shoulder. Her small fists started to pummel his bare back, but he ignored that. He simply held her even more tightly against his body. No time to try to reassure her. In any case, the scorching smoke was burning his throat so much that he was almost sure he could not speak. He must get her out! Ducking low, he staggered towards the stable door and out into the yard. It was full of smoke still, but no flames. The men seemed to be bringing the fire under control at last.

With a groan of relief, Dominic set the girl on her feet, supporting her shoulders until he was sure she was strong enough to stand. He needed to commend her for her amazing courage. And to apologize for manhandling her. ‘Mademoiselle, vous—’ It was barely a croak, but he was not allowed to finish. Her eyes had widened at his words. It could not be fear, surely? Not with this amazing girl. With a strangled cry, she wrenched herself away from him and fled in the direction of the inn door. He was left with a fleeting image, barely discernable through the hanging smoke, of huge eyes in a pale face, cropped hair, and a wet, filthy bedgown clinging to her slim form.

He started to follow. She must not be allowed to vanish, like a ghost. He must find out who she was. She—

‘Monsieur! Attention!’ One of the men grabbed his arm and pointed. With an enormous crash, the roof of the stables inwards. Sparks were flying everywhere. The fire was out of control again. If the men did not act immediately, the inn itself would catch fire.

Dominic grabbed a bucket and began to douse the inn wall, calling to the other men to help him. Provided they all stayed at their task, the inn should be safe. God willing.

By the time the fire was finally under control, all the men were exhausted. But they were triumphant. The yard was a sea of grinning teeth in blackened faces. Dominic knew he must look just as filthy as the rest of them.

For the first time in what seemed like hours, he relaxed his shoulders. His back was aching. And all those minute burns on his skin were beginning to hurt like hell.

The inn servants were working as an efficient team now. They no longer needed Dominic to direct them. So, with a sigh of relief, he made for the inn door and the staircase to his bedchamber. His room was deserted. His valet, Cooper, must still be down below, helping to fight the remnants of the fire, and unrecognisable under the dirt and sweat. No matter. Dominic had no need of him.

The reflection in the pier glass pulled him up short. It wasn’t only his face that was filthy. His whole body was grimed with smoke. He grinned at himself. No wonder the girl had fled from him. He looked like a black demon. Even his own mother would not recognise him like this. He would have to bathe, but that would be impossible until the fire was out and the inn kitchen was working normally once more. Hot water would be the last thing on their minds at present. He would have to wait.

Sighing with exhaustion, Dominic sank on to the bed and pulled off one ruined boot. Even Cooper would be unable to save this pair. He grinned again, imagining the valet’s consternation when he saw the state of them, and of his master. With luck, Cooper would have a pot of skin salve somewhere in his baggage. But, for the moment, Dominic did not care. What he wanted was to close his eyes, just for a few minutes.

He dropped the second ruined boot and lay back on the bed, allowing his head to sink into the feather pillows. Bliss. A few moments rest. Only a few.

He was just beginning to drift into sleep when her blurry image came back to him. That girl. What courage she had. Who was she? He must speak to her again and thank her. But only later, once he was clean again, and presentable. And once he was fully in control of his body’s responses, too. He needed to show her that he was a gentleman, not a ravening demon. He found he could not quite remember her face, or the colour of her hair. It had all been too indistinct in the smoke. And later her head had been covered by a wet cloth, just as his own had been. But her hair had definitely been cropped, like a boy’s. Very strange. Perhaps she had recently recovered from a fever or some such? Yes, that must be it. Still, it should be easy enough to discover her. There would not be many girls with cropped hair at the foremost inn of Boulogne. He would find her, and thank her. He’d give her a purse of guineas, too, if she would take them. She had certainly earned them.

So much courage. He must find her again. He must.

‘Hold still, your Grace, if you please.’

Dominic cursed. Cooper was being particularly thorough with his confounded salve.

‘Exactly so, your Grace. But if I don’t catch all of these burns, they’ll turn bad and then where will we be? Begging your Grace’s pardon, o’ course.’ There was nothing in the least subservient about Cooper’s tone, in spite of his words. He had been with Dominic for too many years and was particularly officious when he knew he was in the right. As now.

Dominic sighed and held himself still until his man had finished. Cooper eased a fine lawn shirt over Dominic’s injured torso. It felt blessedly cool against his tormented skin.

‘There. Works wonders, your Grace. You’ll soon be right as ninepence. You’ll see.’

‘No doubt, Cooper,’ Dominic croaked. His throat was still raw from the smoke. He reached for the tumbler of water and drained it. For a moment, it helped.

‘I’ll fetch up some honey in a moment,’ Cooper said. He had been out in the yard, helping to pass the water buckets, but he had not inhaled nearly as much smoke as his master. He still sounded more or less normal. ‘Once your Grace is fit to meet company again.’

Dominic groaned and reached for his cravat. He had wasted too much time already. He had not intended to fall asleep but, exhausted as he was, there had been no fighting it. He must find that girl. She would be injured too, her throat burned and her tender body scarred by flying sparks. He would offer her Cooper’s salve. He would—

‘Right, your Grace. You’ll do now, I think.’ Cooper nodded knowingly at his master’s reflection in the glass.

Dominic assessed the image for a second. His mother would certainly recognise him now. It was as well that Cooper had cut out the scorch marks in his hair, though. The Dowager would certainly have had something caustic to say about those, if she had seen them.

He strode to the door and clattered down the stairs to find the landlord. He must find that girl.

‘Monseigneur.’ The landlord had instantly appeared, bowing so low that his nose seemed to be about to touch his knees. His thanks were effusive. And apparently interminable.

‘Yes, yes,’ Dominic said, with a dismissive wave. ‘Anyone else would have done the same. Say no more about it.’

The landlord bowed again, even lower. It seemed he was about to start all over again, but this time Dominic cut him short. ‘Landlord, there is a girl in the inn, with cropped hair. I wish to speak to her. Be so good as to bring her to me.’

‘A girl, monseigneur?’ He was looking thoroughly puzzled. He began to shake his head. Then, ‘Oh, the girl with cropped hair. You mean that one.’

Dominic resisted the temptation to swear at the man. The landlord had just had a major fire at his inn, after all. No wonder his mind was at sixes and sevens. ‘Yes, that one. I wish to see her. Where is she? And who is she?’

‘You must mean the corn merchant’s daughter, monseigneur. We have no other girl with cropped hair here. Poor thing, her father said they’d had fever in the family. Such a shame to cut off a girl’s hair like that.’

‘Yes, yes, but where is she? I require to see her.’

The landlord swallowed and stared at the floor. ‘Désolé, monseigneur. She has gone, I fear. Her family left several hours ago. While monseigneur was resting.’

Dominic swallowed a curse at his own weakness. He should have followed her at once. All his instincts had told him to do so. He frowned down at the landlord, but the man had not raised his eyes. ‘But she has a name?’ Dominic rasped.

The landlord hesitated for a moment. ‘I…I do not have the girl’s name, no. She was with the family Durand, of Paris. I assumed she was the daughter. Monsieur Durand gave me no precise address. It was not necessary, you understand. He—’

‘So you have no way of contacting them?’

‘I regret, monseigneur, that—’

‘Oh, very well.’ Dominic knew he was sounding bad-tempered. And he had no just cause. It was not the landlord’s fault, but it was so frustrating that the girl had gone. Why did she have to have such a common surname? And no exact address? It was as if the whole of Boulogne was conspiring against him. With a shake of his head and a curt word of thanks, he left the landlord and strode out to assess the state of the yard.