Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2)

Viridian

Viridian is a work of fiction.

Many of the characters and events in this book are
invented.

Some other characters are real, and also dead, leaving
little room for complaints.

Viridian copyright 2015

Cover art copyright J Caleb Design 2015

Story & copy editing by Carol Achterkirchen and Two
Birds Ink

ISBN
978-0-9968957-0-5

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S.
Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any
part of this book without permission is unlawful. Written permission can be
obtained by emailing the author. [email protected]

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First Printing: December 2015

To
anyone who ever drank something suspect out of love for someone else.

Similarly,
to my husband; I switch our cups.

PROLOGUE

January 2
^nd
, 1815 –
Chateau de Amalfia, Paris Outskirts

Olivia mounted a wide marble
staircase, canting left and right through a waterfall of guests in order to
reach the first-floor ballroom. A red satin devil pinched her backside, the
fourth such injury she’d suffered in half an hour, and chuckled behind a wave
of his small wooden pitchfork.

Stopping and forcing those behind
her to wait, she looked him over, squinting through his sheen blazing under
bright candlelight. She sighed, shaking her head at his wide, expectant eyes.
“Your spear is tiny,” she drawled and started up again, abandoning her attacker
to a round of guffaws.

Fitting that the Duc de Amalfia had
chosen to host a masquerade. His house was the gaudiest interpretation of a
Corsican villa which she could imagine. It had been a typical Parisian mansion
once, with plaster work like fine cake frosting, lacy railings and floral
paper. Since taking up residence, Amalfia, however, could clearly not have
enough red. Paint, paper, and silk drapes all in shades of scarlet and crimson
were bound by an obscene yardage of gold braid and fringe. Heavy columns
trapped it all in, their pediments too large and menacing for the elegant
doorways they framed. It reminded her of a whorehouse, and a cheap one.

Music caught her ear over the
crush, its strains drifting from the ballroom's double doors. A waltz, of
course, as were all the dances tonight. In England the dance was still taboo,
offering too much closeness, with only one or two permitted in a whole evening.
Those rules were disregarded here; the waltz's immoral potential was too
tempting to pass up.

Amalfia's guests weren't relying
only on dancing to touch one another. A tigress in a painted mask and amber
velvet ears pushed past Olivia in the doorway, giggling as a purple-frocked
cardinal murmured into his wild pet's neck. Similar scenes played out all
through the house, hands and lips and bodies daring together and darting away.

Olivia pressed her back against a
column's cool white marble, watching through narrowed eyes as dancers weaved
between each other. Unlike her fellow guests, she was not here to be
entertained or to raise her social stock. She was here for
opportunity
.
That meant straining out laughter and shrieking and the enthusiastic breathing
from behind heavy drapes. Her purpose was to see the masquerade
within
the masquerade.

She leaned further, arching her
back and straining her breasts against a low, red velvet neckline, watching to
see who took notice. Her Roman goddess costume had the authenticity of a wooden
shilling, but accuracy wasn't why she had chosen it. Standing apart from the
countless bell-skirted Marie Antoinettes and the parti-colored harlequins, it
earned her plenty of attention. It was practical too, slit from ankle to thigh,
affording plenty of movement should the need arise. No swaddling petticoats or
skirts to trip on when it was time to run. Her own blond curls suited the
motif, caught up and out of her face beneath a ruby diadem she'd pinched months
earlier from a Corsican princess. Olivia adjusted her sequined mask, tugging up
its ribbon, and watched.

Sighing heavily for effect she
tried to strike a balance: looking bored enough to want company, not eager
enough to seek it out, and a touch sour at being there. Her targets were
usually men who enjoyed the thrill of the chase, and tonight was no exception.

The Duc de Amalfia's country house
was one of the last splendid residences not defiled by revolution or neglect.
He was a turncoat by nature, harvesting all of Paris's best fruit while handing
France piece by piece to her enemies. He was the sort of man who had betrayed
nobles like her father.

She couldn't see his mansion the
way other revelers did. They were teased by heady-scented roses from the
hothouse, overflowing vases in every room. They pored over gilt-framed
paintings of the old masters, gasps echoing down the gallery’s length. Dances
were framed in by little towers of pastel confections and an infantry of green
glass bottles, the best champagne. Guests found comfort on the plush velvet of
lion-footed sofas or admired themselves in wall-length mirrors.

When
she
considered the
house, her first impression was that it had a decent number of ground floor
windows, important for coming and going unnoticed. The third and fourth steps
of the servants' stairs creaked on two floors; not good for nighttime
exploration. Only two of the guest rooms had trellises sturdy enough for
climbing. Madeline Ellers, head of the kitchens, took heavy drink once the
evening meal was served. The end of the world couldn't wake her from her hiding
spot inside the buttery, leaving free rein of the downstairs after midnight.

Olivia shifted to get a better look
at the room's far side. Her perspective on architecture and personal habits
came with the territory. Espionage was not the darkly clandestine imagining of
novelists. Spying was a lifetime of boredom, watching and waiting punctuated by
mad dashes to outrun the enemy's hangman. Everything was an entrance route, an
escape route, or a hiding place.

She would need all of those
opportunities tonight. Joseph Fouche, Napoleon's ruthless police minister was a
guest of Amalfia, and her target once again. Fouche was not a stupid man,
certainly not careless. Speed and deception would be her most reliable tools.

A movement caught her eye, drifting
smoothly inside a dark alcove behind the quartet, a sliver of shadow separating
from itself with easy grace. It was tall and lean, fluid except for a predatory
pause when he stopped, as she had, to watch the crowd.

What held her attention was that,
unlike the other guests playing behind eye-ribbons or coal paint,
his
costume was truly concealing. A black velveteen tricorn ended where his inky
silk mask took up the cause, all the way to his cheeks. From there, a high
cravat finished the job credibly, exposing no more than the firm line of his
mouth and a hint of strong jaw, leaving her curious for more.

He finished with a black satin
coat, breeches and cape, reminding her of the devil in an opera she'd attended
in London. When he melted away behind a column and did not materialize on the
other side, she mused at the comparison.

He wasn't her target, but instinct
and experience told her that he
was
up to something. There was no harm
in discovering what that something was while she waited on Fouche. The stranger
could be pocketing silver or slipping off to a tryst with another man's lady,
and both were leverage, information. In her world information, was currency.
Knowing a person's secrets could make even the unwilling an ally.

Licking her lips, Olivia
straightened and gently rolled her shoulders, preparing to give chase.

*          *          *

Beautiful.

Tucking up into the shadows of an
old iron gate, invisible between the wall and a hedgerow, Ty watched the
mansion from his haunt deep in the garden. It was the oldest trick in the book.
She'd caught his eye the moment she'd sauntered into the ballroom and that was
what had stuck in his craw. She was too beautiful, too easily captivating. Not
the slightest bit interested in activities which held the attention of others;
that was a strong warning. Whoever had sent her must have entered the espionage
business somewhere around breakfast if they thought him susceptible to such
thin influence.

Not that her charms were lost on
him. A woman his equal in height was not the least bit intimidating – quite the
opposite. Tall women were an exotic diversion, rare among a crowd of petite
figures. The idea of loosing her blond curls had his fingers itching inside his
gloves. Lips so full and wry were historically his undoing.

Personally.
Professionally
she was no different than a pistol or a knife; just another weapon to be used
against him.

Who had sent her? He ticked off a
list of possibilities. The Austrians, he'd put good money on it. Their politics
more tangled with Napoleon than any other nation, they were always hedging,
reluctant, and ready to change sides. They were always grasping for leverage.

He crouched deeper in the shadows,
biding time. He was beyond the reach of light from mansion’s high windows,
outside borders for all but the most clandestine meetings.

She was following him
.

A shiver of his sixth-sense raced
up his spine. He'd caught her watching him, eyes lingering a half-second too
long when he crossed towards the terrace. Her costume was fitting; perhaps she
was Diana, goddess of the hunt. He chuckled.

He searched for movement, squinting
deep into the shadows between statues and bare topiaries. It was a gamble, drawing
her so far from the house and from his own assignment. She would have to choose
between tailing him or positioning herself for their mutual target. No doubt
they were here for the same purpose; he grinned, breath clouding into crisp
night air. She was an enemy agent, he was certain, and she would be along soon.

He wasn't worried about missing his
rendezvous with Fouche. Weeks of reconnaissance had revealed a gate, the one to
his right. Last used long ago, before the grounds were improved, it conveniently
led back to a lane by which his mark would reach the house. It had remained
severely overgrown until two days ago, when a groundskeeper who bore him a
striking resemblance had trimmed away the verge. All told, he could throw her
off and double back in minutes, with plenty of time to strike.

Banging the snug crown of his
tricorn, he frowned when it jarred against the back of his head. How had he
managed to knock it on the wall? Ty glanced over his shoulder, surprised that
his years of practice had failed him and he’d misjudged the distance. Awareness
was everything in his line work. Opening a squeaky door, snapping an errant
twig under a careless boot, or slightly over-extending his body could give away
the best hiding places.

Bump bump.

His hat jostled again. He turned,
staying crouched in shadow and pivoting slowly, then froze. Intuition, polished
to a shine over a decade, whispered its warning.

Impossible as it seemed, he was not
alone.

He rotated only the upper half of
his body, though he had no idea why. Hesitation now would not make him
less
seen.

Over his left shoulder, he
discovered a shoe. A shoe and then a foot were connected to a long, shapely leg
that was bare from ankle to knee where a crimson skirt was bunched high, all
forming a swinging pendulum extending from the wall above. One white sandal
swung to and fro, child-like.

She was kicking him in the head.

He dared to meet her eyes. Winged
blonde brows wiggled above her mask.

A scrape, the soft grip of velvet
against grit atop the wall, communicated better than words that she was
pouncing. Turning his back, Ty reached a hand over each shoulder, grabbing his
Diana
behind her knees at the same moment she launched down. Shooting fully
to his feet, he lifted, dumping her clear over the wall.

“
Ooff!”

He grinned, darting around the
hedge and striking back for the house, satisfied she would not be climbing back
up any time soon.

It was not so high. She would be
fine.

Probably.

*          *          *

At least he hadn't killed her.

Olivia smacked furiously at the
dirt and leaf litter clinging tenaciously to her costume, wincing at a pinch in
her left shoulder, a pain she knew from experience would be a tender ache
tomorrow. Her cheek throbbed and scrapes stung icily across both knees.

Bastard
.
He fought dirty.
Not a gentleman at all.

Of course not
. She frowned
at her own ridiculous objections. He wasn't a gentleman; he was a rogue, same
as she. They employed the same instruments: avoidance, reconnaissance, and,
when those failed, an effort to neutralize one's enemy.

Was he Russian or Austrian? They
were both high-stakes players when it came to espionage. The only difference,
in her estimation, was the symbols on their flags.

What she was
really
angry
about, Olivia admitted, was that she had been so certain of gaining the upper
hand, and he had outfoxed her. And she let him, perching on the wall and nearly
dying from laughter with every whack to his hat.
So stupid
. That smarted
more than any of her nicks or bruises.

Cold sweat beaded under the heavy
fabric of her dress. In her trade, overconfidence was a death sentence. Even if
he had been a simple thief, a slinking lover, she should have kept her guard
and assumed the worst. Instead he was a spy, and sharper than she had given him
credit for. Olivia resolved to ignore her comparatively minor wounds and be
grateful. He could have gutted her and left her body in the hedge; at least she
was alive.

And, she was made.

Cursing under her breath, she
fished for a watch chain pinned to her stays. It safeguarded a key she'd
crafted for the garden-gate; a gate some unsuspecting groundskeeper had
helpfully cleared a few days earlier.

She had been made, but so had he
.
She didn't need to be coy anymore, so the field was even. Olivia smiled; she
preferred hand-to-hand combat over cloak and dagger anyhow.

Now the trick was finding which
hole her Fox had dashed into and once there, she would have to subdue him. She
needed to move quickly. Fouche could arrive any time after midnight, and that
hour was fast approaching.

Architect
. It felt silly
calling Joseph Fouche by a shadow name, but it was fitting. He had been a
secretive Freemason for decades, and that might have influenced Whitehall's
choice. London's seat of intelligence rarely dealt in wit or puns, but they
were known to be apt. Police Minister Fouche, a man so daunting that Napoleon
had been too afraid to sack him in person, was viewed by her superiors as the
architect of French policy and French misery. Having lost both her parents to
the man, she shared Whitehall's opinion.