‘To whom does he belong?’
‘I don’t belong to anyone,’ Pedro declared proudly. His French was rudimentary, but he understood the gist of what we were saying.
‘Freeman or a runaway?’ asked Renard shrewdly. I could see him swiftly calculating the bounty for returning Pedro to his master.
‘Both,’ said Pedro with a smile at me.
‘It’s a long story,’ I explained hurriedly. ‘But he really is free.’
Used to taking life’s disappointments in his stride, Renard gave a shrug and, instead of bundling Pedro off to a bounty hunter, offered us a glass of tea.
‘So what brings you here?’ I asked, making sure I was paying J-F my full attention, as he expected.
‘I came to say milord is safe and well,’ said J-F, still glaring at Pedro.
‘I am very grateful.’
‘And what of Milord Fran?ois’ family? Grandfather said you’d gone to visit them in the Conciergerie.’
Pedro’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What’s going on, Cat?’ he asked in English.
I quickly explained the events of the last two days.
‘But Johnny’s on the case,’ I concluded. ‘With his help, I’m sure the Avons will soon be released.’
‘I’d like to see Johnny again,’ said Pedro. ‘You will. He’ll be here tomorrow.’
‘No more English,’ said J-F petulantly, flicking crumbs off his lap in the direction of Pedro. ‘I do not like to be in the dark as to what you are saying. For all I know you could be plotting to call in the law officers.’
‘You know I wouldn’t do that,’ I answered indignantly, annoyed by the little king’s treatment of us. He could not bear to be sidelined for a moment.
‘No? I know no such thing!’ he exclaimed, waving his hands in the air. ‘They could be outside now, clubs in hand, waiting to haul me off to the executioner.’
‘Don’t be such a muttonhead.’
‘Don’t you call me names!’
‘I’ll call you names when you deserve them.’
Pedro looked taken aback to find me going hammer and tongs with a complete stranger. Renard chuckled. J-F rounded on his grandfather.
‘Shut up, old man! She’s a little vixen. I should’ve let them string her up today and good riddance! We can’t trust her – one moment she’s defenceless, about to meet her maker, the next she’s riding in carriages with American gentlemen and hugging strange African boys!’
So that was it: he was jealous of my friends.
‘You really are the most ridiculous boy I’ve ever met,’ I snapped. ‘I thought you had to be sharp-witted to be king of thieves, but it seems not.’
J-F sulked over his glass of tea, pretending not to listen.
‘You think I’d call in the law officers? Why, for heaven’s sake? You’re protecting one of my best friends from them.’
He frowned and took a sip.
‘The American gentleman is an old friend. We saved his life last year: he owes us one.’
J-F nodded. Debts he could understand.
‘As for Pedro here – he’s not a stranger. He’s like a . . . like a brother to me.’
Pedro looked up and smiled, having understood the description. He felt under the table and gave my hand a squeeze.
‘In fact,’ I continued, holding on to his hand, ‘we’re the only family each has so of course I’m going to hug him when I see him. Nothing you say can change that.’
‘Don’t like him, don’t trust him,’ J-F grumbled.
His attitude called for desperate measures. We could not afford to make him Pedro’s enemy. Time to call on our weapon of last resort.
‘Pedro, play for them.’
My friend opened his violin case and took out his bow.
‘What’s he doing?’ J-F asked.
‘What do you think? Stirring the stewpot?’
Renard guffawed and settled down to listen.
J-F stuck his fingers in his ears. ‘Hate music.’
‘Suit yourself.’ I put my feet up on the fender and prepared to be entertained.
Pedro cast an appraising look at Renard and began to play a French folk tune he must have recently added to his repertoire. After only a few bars, Renard began to hum and mumble the words under his breath, foot tapping in time. I relaxed: we’d gained one supporter at least.
‘What do you think, monsieur?’ I asked Renard, giving J-F the cold shoulder.
‘Me? I think that – we need to do the dance!’ The old man leapt to his feet and pulled me up. ‘Here, Mademoiselle Firecracker, this is how we do it in Paris!’ He seized my hand and began to show me the steps of a lively jig involving much clapping and jumping. Pedro picked up the beat in honour of the dance. Renard shouted with laughter as I clapped on a jump and jumped on a clap. Even J-F’s face cracked into a reluctant smile.
‘Get it right, mademoiselle, get it right!’ Renard urged, ‘or they’ll never let you on stage at the Opera.’
I laughed with him. ‘Slow down, slow down: you’re doing it too fast!’
It was no good: he was remorseless. His feet shuffled and stamped as if he were twenty, not sixty.
‘Allow me, mademoiselle.’ J-F appeared at my side and took my hand. Pedro glanced at us and slowed to match the little king’s pace. ‘It goes like this.’ He took me through the steps, twisting and turning me skilfully. ‘Got it now?’
I nodded. Pedro began to pick up the tempo again. The music filled the kitchen. I was tired after a long day, but the tune seemed to carry me along with it, providing me with the strength to match my tutor. J-F was a very good dancer. Deprived of his partner, Renard picked up the mop and began to twirl it around. I only hoped I was a little more elegant than it was.
Pedro concluded the dance with a flourish and I curtseyed to J-F’s bow. The mop inclined its head as Renard blew it a kiss.
‘Eh bien, what is this?’ asked a man’s voice in the doorway. ‘A party?’ Our noise had disguised the fact that we had an audience. Madame Beaufort was standing with a handsome gentleman dressed in white breeches and a dark coat.