Eye of the Storm by Lee Rowan Page B

decimal point, in his head, just for fun—but with no time to work it out on a slate, Archer was willing to use a rough guess.
    He decided to take that chance. His other two choices were to head around Bonfleur and put into harbor, in his merchant guise, or to head out around Bonfleur on an ever-widening arc that would leave them heading toward Weymouth, on the other side of the Channel. He didn’t like either option; they would both require too much time to beat back to rendezvous with Will.
    North it was, then. Head out into the channel, circle around, and be ready to run straight in at night and hope to see Will’s signal, hoping, too, that the mast they had seen had belonged to some English trading vessel, and Will would come aboard with Dr. Colbert and scold him for being too quick to take evasive action.
    And it might not be the worst idea to tarry for a few hours at one of the rendezvous points on their confidential chart, in hopes that a messenger vessel from Sir Percy’s network might happen along. It was not that Archer wished Dr. Colbert any ill—he wished him nothing but good fortune—but if there had been another change in plans or some disaster, he might need to lay plans for a rescue rather than a rendezvous.
     
     
    Will Marshall eyed the shelf of mathematical tomes in Etienne Beauchene’s study with ill-concealed envy. “I would not trade places with you, sir, but I might hope to return here, when our countries finally come to terms with one another.”
    “I wish you may,” Beauchene said. “I have here also the Journal and the Correspondence of the École Poly-technique. It is not reading that everyone would enjoy, but I believe it would suit your taste.”
    “It would, indeed.” Marshall could only think of how ill-timed this meeting was. If he had somehow been able to stay here for those months after the treaty had been signed, instead of moping in Portsmouth, what might he have learned in that time?
    He could almost hear Davy’s comment on that: “Seduced away by a book of French geometry. I might have expected something of the sort.” But of course he wasn’t seduced by it, just a bit wistful for the chance he’d missed. If he had not been in Portsmouth, he would not have been reunited with his lover, and Davy was worth any amount of theory, mathematical or otherwise. For that matter, if he had not been such a dolt, he would have returned to Jamaica and spent those months with his lover, and that would have been best of all.
    Still…Davy was not here, and the books were. And so was Etienne Beauchene, who had mentioned that he seldom had visitors, and was so innocently delighted to have someone to talk to. It would be beyond rude to dive into the library and ignore such a generous host.
    “If it would not be trespassing upon matters pertaining to the military,” he said, “may I ask what line of this great work your own studies have followed?”
    “My friend, what element of the mathematics cannot be applied to war? What part of any science is not dragged into battle? But for my part, I have taken my teacher’s study of the curves of curvature, and continued the investigation. Since M. le Compte was appointed to the Senate, he has not much time for his studies.”
    “You have much to study right outside your door, then,” Marshall said. “The slope of these hills down to the sea—”
    Beauchene laughed. “Yes! Poor Jean-Claude, every time I call he rushes for the line and level. He climbs where I dare not.”
    Something he had said a moment before set off a flare in Marshall’s mind. Gaspard Monge. Appointed to the Senate? Monge of the Sénat Conservateur , the Compte de Péluse? “You referred to your teacher,” he said. “Did you actually study with M. Monge?”
    “Yes, at the Ecole Polytechnique. That was only for a little while, when my father was alive. When he died I returned home. The town is quiet now, with many of the people at the cider-house out in the