Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (10 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Agent of Influence.

Olivia skimmed the dossier once
more and tossed it onto the breakfast table between her and Ty.

Philipe reached out a slender
finger to pull it close.

Ty, face buried in the morning
papers, slapped a hand onto the stack. “Whitehall business only, your grace.”

Philipe, the least patient person
she'd ever met where Ty's antics were concerned, continued on his path, pinning
one edge and pulling against the weight of Ty's palm. “I am of Whitehall,
monsieur.”

“Allied support.” Ty bent the
newspaper in half. “Not an agent.” He flicked the newspaper back up.

She watched their exchange,
resisting an urge to roll her eyes.

Leaning forward, Philipe struck
Ty's boot with a stout fist. “Get your foot off my table, major.”

A polished black leather heel
wiggled in provocation. “My
foot
is not on your table.”

Philipe's dark brow raised and he
prepared to return fire. This could go on all day.

Enough
. Clattering cup
against saucer, Olivia grabbed the stack of papers, pulling it in front of her
and out of their reach. “Pay attention, agents and non-agents.” She waved the
top sheet at two sets of wide eyes. “Agent of Influence. The very one racing us
for Talleyrand's correspondence.”

Two hands snapped for the paper.
She drew back, holding them higher and trying not to laugh. The top sheet was
nothing more than Grayfield's signature approving the dossier's release.

“Countess Elena Breunig,” she
started. “Daughter of an Austrian watch maker. Married a French count, widowed
by a French count ten months in. Wealthy, political, witty.”

Philipe was already nodding. “I
know the one. Beautiful. Plays the harp like an angel. Her salon is very
exclusive.”

“And her opinions
very
Austrian, if one carefully considers their roots.” She was the absolute
definition of an agent of influence. Even when they worked directly for a
handler, it was nearly impossible to connect the agent to their country of
origin. Some clever person at Whitehall, more educated about such things, had
been weighing Breunig's opinions, unraveling, determining who most benefited
from the outcomes she pressed. Elena didn't wear disguises or travel under
false papers. She used her beauty and connections to influence the hands of
powerful men. Austria stood to gain or lose a great deal depending on how
France was divided up and what terms it was willing to give. Breunig, as the
Austrian emperor's informant, would act for the most desirable ends.

Finishing a bite of egg, Philipe
leaned in, squinting through morning sunlight at the papers still on the table.
“I can very well see her in that role. Though I'm not certain what makes you
believe she's your competition this time around.”

She had rearranged the facts all
morning, distilling a novel's worth of information into a few drops. “Follow
with me. The congress is sitting now in Vienna, where Breunig was visiting only
a fortnight ago. Prussia wants Saxony, Russia wants Poland. Her native Austria
wishes for them to have neither.” She gathered the rest of the dossier into a
pile and set it back in the center near the coffee pot.

Ty thumbed the pages, handing each
one off to Philipe as he finished reading. “Everyone wants their own piece of
Europe when this is all over, but nobody can agree on how to cut the cake.”

She circled something with her
finger, bringing it to Ty's attention. “Talleyrand has signed a secret
agreement with Austria and Britain, against Russia and the Prussians should
they get their way. We know that thanks to the letters we claimed from Fouche
in January.” She downed the last of her tea.

A smile drew across Ty's lips. “And
Austria is here now to insure that their investment in Talleyrand was worthy.”

She nodded.

“Not only that,” added Philippe.
“Talleyrand, self-interest aside, has made himself indispensable to the
Austrians. If Fouche supplants him, negotiations change. Austria loses their
man on the inside. They’ll play him against Fouche for as long as possible.”

“What does that give us?” Ty, in
military fashion claimed a spoon, a cup and its saucer, arranging them on the
table. “Talleyrand as France,” he waved the spoon, “over here, with Britain and
Austria.” He hid the spoon behind the cup and saucer. “Except no one knows he's
dealing with them.” A sugar bowl and cream pitcher came next, set far apart. He
tapped the bowl. “No one cares about Prussia getting Saxony. They can sod off.”
He held up a butter knife and placed it beside the pitcher. “Neither Fouche nor
Talleyrand wants anything to do with Russia, but Fouche would give them Poland
to meet his own ends.”

She watched his porcelain battle
map unfold, amused and impressed. “He would, which is why Austria is paying
Talleyrand so handsomely to prevent it. And so arrives Breunig. She invites
some grand figures to tea, asks a few questions. Puts her ear to the
floorboards.” She leaned back into the plush blue damask. “We can look through
the other dossiers but I believe this is our best course for now.”

Ty ducked his head. “I defer to the
lady, as ever.”

“That will do major,” she chided,
nonetheless warmed by his praise.

Their glance stretched on, until
Philipe cleared his throat. “I will tell you what I know of her habits.”

His offer surprised her. “You know
something of her routine?”

Philipe rotated his plate slowly
with both index fingers, nodding, biting the inside of his cheek. “Something,
yes.”

Understanding dawned on her. “Ah.”
There was a beautiful woman involved; of course he knew something.

Ty leaned out, spearing a chunk of
ham with his fork. “He means they were lovers, Dimples.”

Philipe's napkin caught Ty's chest
with a sharp pop. “There is a lady present, Major Burrell.”

“Who, Olivia?” Ty's eyes widened,
the effect too comical for her to be offended. “Have you ever witnessed her
stub a toe? She could teach the British fleet a few things.”

Olivia turned down her eyes, hands
folded, doing her best to look ashamed. “My delicate female character is
impressionable. I'm hardly a match for Major Burrell's influence.”

Shaking his head, Philipe scooted
out from the table and stood up. He wagged a finger between her and Ty. “You
two deserve one another.”

“How cruel,” she shot back.

“Unaccountable,” accused Ty.

“I'm sure. Up with you both. Let's
go somewhere more private and I'll tell you what I know.”

*          *          *

“I thought you said private,” Ty
grumbled, swatting a cyclone of gnats away from his face. “This is practically
barbaric.” He hated insects, of any variety. They were the stuff of biblical
plagues. If he'd known in advance that Philipe intended to make them sit in the
orangery, he would have burned it to the ground first.

“It smells divine,” protested
Olivia, drawing a deep breath of tart lime and orange leaves.

“It's India, all over again.”
No
matter how good it smelled, no matter how lovely she was in the sunlight.

Philipe pinched a brown leaf from
one of the newly matured plants. “You may go back inside, major. I find the
prospect of conversing alone with Miss Fletcher perfectly agreeable.”

“This will do,” he muttered,
ignoring Philipe's provocation.

With a glance to the iron and glass
framework overhead, he wondered at the number of spiders waiting to descend.

He would stop complaining about the
venue; he would also be vigilant.

Philipe settled himself into a
little wrought iron chair. Fashionable and entirely uncomfortable, it exactly
matched the lacy scroll pattern of a round table around which they'd gathered.
Why did Philipe always sit on Olivia's side? Not that round things had a side,
but wasn't he awfully close to her? She was engaged, after all. Maybe Philipe
needed reminding at cards tonight.

“First and foremost, Elena is not
your enemy. Not in the usual sense, anyhow. No poisons. She would never engage
you in any sort of hand-to-hand aggression.”

“Administrative?” asked Olivia.

Philipe nodded. “Entirely
political. Have you ever seen one kitten in a hurry to outdo its litter mates
to the cream? Climbing over heads, pawing to gain the lead. But the first
moment another bats or hisses...” He smacked hands together.

Ty couldn't help rolling his eyes.
“A kitten?”

Philipe grinned. “A tigress, in
fact. But that is a conversation more suited for when you and I are alone.”

Touché
. He glanced at
Olivia, elbows on the table, both hands pressed to her mouth while she stared
out through the glass. A hint of scarlet painted her cheekbones, and he swore
she concealed a smile. He realized he was staring when Philipe cleared his
throat.

“Elena is clever and determined.
You won't get any easy admissions from her. Not without coaxing.”

He leaned into his chair, unable to
let Philipe's words pass unremarked. “Spoken from experience?”

Philipe sat back and crossed his
arms, one side of his mouth cocked up. “You know, major, you've ridden me a bit
this morning regarding my amours. However, I recall you being smitten beyond
reason on more than one occasion.”

“Is that so?” Olivia perked up,
looking him over.

If La Porte gave her leverage, he
would never outlive her teasing. He tapped her foot beneath the table. “Pipe
down, Dimples.”

“What a stupid pair of roosters.”
Olivia shook her head, a smile in her eyes betraying annoyance, bending her
words. “Back to the matter at hand.” She tapped one slender finger against the
table. “Routine, habits?”

“Her routine is fixed, practically
set in stone. Elena has her inner circle, and she wants them to know where to
find her at all times. Gardens on Tuesday, opera on Thursday. Invitations for
everything go out weeks in advance.”

A very different sort of espionage
than what he'd always known. She was a creature of habit,
wanting
to be
found. Standing out, only blending in when she must. He glanced to Olivia.
“Tomorrow is Thursday. Let's head to the opera, see what we can do to spot
her.”

“She dresses only in black. Golden
haired, pretty mouth, green eyes. Shouldn't be difficult, since you know what
you're looking for,” offered Philipe.

He might have been describing
Olivia. Ty studied her, then Philipe, wondering again at the pair's attachment.
            Olivia’s smile was appreciative. “But very difficult, if the lady
doesn't wish to be seen. Clever. How many people could pick out one woman in
black from another?”

“Precisely,” said Philipe.

Ty gave their surveillance a brief
moment of thought. “Olivia?”

“Yes, major?”

“Tomorrow, we are going out for the
evening.”

Her wink caught his breath. “Yes,
major.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Chateau de LaPorte, Paris - February 21st, 1815

Ty leaned back against the wall,
shoulder beside the doorway, and slid hands deeper into his pockets. “I am
sorry.”

“Well, I'm still cross with you.”
Olivia's voice echoed back from inside her bedchamber, punctuated by slamming
drawers and something clattering against a table top. “You said we were going
out.”

He
had
said that, and then
wondered why it had taken Olivia nearly two hours of preparations in order to
leave for routine surveillance. Their miscommunication had been apparent when
she'd appeared on the staircase, fit for the royal opera and too beautiful to
belong on his arm. For two people who lived by information, it was not their
finest moment. It had taken half their ride to the opera for him to confess
their purpose. Two days later, Olivia was still sour.

“Well, we did go out.” It was the
wrong thing to say. He recognized that after the words were out by a frosty
silence that followed. Helpless, he plowed ahead. “I suppose I did not clarify
how far
out
.” To the carriage precisely, which went to the opera, and
that was it. They sat inside the cab and watched. A breakdown in their
relations could be traced to about that point in the evening.

“Only an absolute monster allows a
lady to spend an hour on her hair just to sit in a horse-scented box.” She
stepped out into the hall, smile giving her away, betraying the annoyance she'd
used to torment him for twenty minutes. Not that he cared at the moment.

Black was entirely her color. A
high collared velvet pelisse hugged her bosom, flaring at the waist. Where the
coat parted in front, it revealed a silken gloss of black skirts. A black
bonnet framed her oval face in contrast to her rosy lips and ivory skin.

“How do I look?”

Swallowing, he nodded slowly.
“Good. Agreeable. You look...good.”
And I sound like a bloody idiot
.

She didn't seem to notice.
“Desirable, since I'm actually getting out of the carriage this time.”

“Complaining, always complaining!
We have an Irishman in the ranks.” He held out his arm to her.

She rested fingers on his sleeve.
“Burrell sounds a bit Irish to my ears.”

“Then I know of what I speak.”

Her elbow caught his side. “Can we
go now? My stockings are slipping already.”

“If I can be of service in
any
way...” He braced for a volley, only half teasing.

Instead, she grabbed his sleeve,
jerking him toward the stairs. “I'll keep that in mind.”

*          *          *

Olivia hugged herself against the
damp night, burrowing deeper inside their alcove on the side street. “Philipe
isn't happy about our plan.”

Ty ducked his head around the
corner from the shadows of the alley, getting a look up and down the street.
“How unfortunate he did not have a better one.”

“He didn't exactly have a say in
ours,” she protested. They hadn't left Philipe room for input. The bulk of the
discussion
may
have consisted of Ty instructing Philipe to 'kiss his
arse.’ She'd become too practiced at ignoring their ridiculous bickering to
recall details.

Ty's head shook. “Forgive my lack
of sympathy; La Porte having to entertain a beautiful woman for a few days.
What a terrible burden.”

“Elena will be a captive, for all
intents and purposes, and will probably not take it well. Philipe's position
may be less enviable than you think.” It was only for a few days, until they
had Talleyrand’s letters, but Elena could make that feel much longer were she
inclined. Olivia decided
she
would not make things easy on him, under
similar circumstances.

Ty raised on tip-toes, trying to
see something further down the block. “I'd be happy to trade places, to test
that theory.”

“Is this how it always goes with
you two, tomcats screeching at one another?”

He smacked a fist into his palm,
grinning. “Sounds about right. You should see me and Webb.”

Their prowess remained unmatched in
their own minds. She shook her head, leaning forward to peer around him.
“Anything yet?”

“No.”

She looked over her clothes again,
feeling the first tinges of doubt at their plan. She could mimic Elena’s style,
her walk, but she couldn’t make herself shorter or more Austrian. Pretending to
be Elena Breunig from a distance just long enough to steal her information was
feeling like a very long time, indeed.

Leaning farther out, she squinted
against the lamps for a better view. The street ended at a mansion's high stone
fence; one iron gate stood fixed to its posts stout as ever, the other torn
free long ago and carried away for some other purpose. An overgrown drive
rambled up to the house itself. She couldn't see it now, under a cloudy sky
somewhere nearing midnight, but she'd been past enough times to have a rough
image in her head. It was mostly unremarkable. Like the gate, parts of the
facade had been torn free, reused elsewhere or destroyed out of malice. There
was no one to stop it. Whoever owned the house had been exiled or executed long
ago. A once protected sanctuary of the nobility was now a moldering shell. She
did recall that the second floor balcony support was an elaborate coiling dragon.
Strange that it was still there, given the care and artistry to its carving,
and the mob's distaste for it.

They had followed Elena Breunig to
the house for the second night in a row. Her visit last night had been brief.
If Olivia guessed, she had not found what she'd expected on her arrival, and
left by hired carriage almost as quickly as she'd come. Tonight, however, they
had languished down the street for nearly two hours, gripped by dampness and a
soft breeze, waiting. For what, she had no idea.

Ty, looking equally impatient for
an answer, straightened. “Well, if we're taking her, we're taking her. I'm not
convinced the time will be more right an hour from now than at this very
moment.” He tugged on the brim of his hat. “Let's go.”

Grabbing the leather handle of her
traveling bag, she followed Ty out into the street, glancing left and right for
any sign they were being watched. They were on Paris's outskirts, a section
more notoriously dilapidated than many others. There was little foot traffic, those
who did travel the area at such an hour taking little interest in the
activities of an anonymous man and woman. Those people scurried past, too
engaged in a certain business of their own.

She raised skirts above the sticks
and litter, taking cues from Ty's leaps and dodges through upturned
cobblestones. Another time she would have worn something more practical. Their
plan tonight required her switching places with the soon-to-be abducted
countess, and that came with particular costume requirements. Working in a
dress was torture. A day would come, she vowed, when ladies wore trousers.

When they passed the gate post, Ty
ducked down and she followed suit. They stopped and watched, listening for any
movement. Dry tree limbs rattled from the darkened yard. A barn owl betrayed
them, announcing their approach, but there was no one to hear him as far as
Olivia could tell. “Pistol?” she whispered.

Ty nodded and took off his hat,
setting it on a low pile of bricks at their feet. “Loaded. Are you all set?”

Patting her coat, she indicated the
blade beneath. “At the ready.”

She could hear his smile in the
dark. “Then forward we march.”

When they reached the door, Ty
rested his hand on the knob and turned. It didn't budge.

She was caught off guard. “Locked?”

“Mm.”

“Why would she lock it, if she were
expecting someone?”

“Maybe they're coming in by another
door,” he whispered. “The garden?”

“Or they have a key.” She stared at
the weathered door, doubting herself. “Are we certain she went in?” She
thought
she knew what they'd seen, but it was hard not to wonder now.

Ty must have shared her doubts. He
glanced overhead, took a half step back, and craned his neck. “Look at that.”

She followed his eyes. A thin band
of gold was visible at the bottom of one window. Heavy curtains shut it away
from eyes searching farther off. Standing directly below, the candlelight was
plain as day.

“If there's light, she's in there.
What she's about is another matter entirely,” he whispered.

She studied the yard, the porch,
considering who might be coming and how they would enter. “I think we should
use this door. It's locked, so there's less chance of its being watched from
inside.”

“Agreed.” Ty had already dropped to
his knees and was tugging a thin black leather case from his breast pocket. Easily
mistaken for a bankbook, she knew its true identity: Ty's prized set of lock
picks. Clean and oiled, all facing the same direction. Each iron shaft was bent
into a ring at the top, a few tied with small scraps of ribbon in different
colors, a code reminding him which buildings they most easily opened.

Raising a leg, he folded back the
pouch flap, resting the whole thing across his thigh. He had a skill, deftness
with locks which she envied.
Lift, scrape, and turn
. With a few moments'
work and a handful of soft oaths, the mechanism sprang free and the handle
rotated beneath his palm.

He opened the door slowly, an inch
at a time, peering further through the crack with each increase. Lungs aching,
Olivia realized she'd been holding her breath.

No sound, no movement. After what
seemed an eternity, Ty widened the crack enough to get his head through and
glanced both directions. At last he swung the door completely open. Dusting off
his pants he stood up. “After you, mademoiselle,” he whispered.

Hiking her skirts, Olivia stepped
over the threshold into a new layer of darkness. Beyond the reach of street
lamps and blazing house lights, scant illumination pierced the mansion’s murky
window panes. She could make out shapes littering the entry hall, chunks of
stone and plaster. Someone had cleared a path to the stairs and that was all.
If at any point they had to run, they were both likely to break their necks.

She looked to Ty in the silent
hall, slowing her breaths and listening. A wagon clattered by, blocks away, and
then the house was still. Ty grasped her sleeve, took a step forward, but she
pulled him back and pressed a finger to her lips

There was a creak above. A trickle
of dust poured from between the boards through a wide hole in the plaster
overhead. Ty cocked his head then held up three fingers in turn.
Ground
floor, first floor, second floor
. She was always impressed at his ability
to judge distance by sound. He was an artillery commander, after all.

There were no voices or footsteps,
no other sounds. She tipped her head toward the stairs and Ty nodded, starting
forward.

Thank goodness for light shoes.
Odds were good that they were bound to fall through at least one tread as it
was, and she didn't need boots making it worse.

Every step was tedious; testing the
boards, resting more weight, listening for any noise. Repeat.

At a glacial pace they reached the
first floor landing. Olivia paused to catch her breath from mental rather than
physical exertion. She leaned in until they were nearly nose to nose. “Next time,
you're scaling the wall. You can call me in when it's safe.”

“And miss climbing an entire set of
stairs behind you?” he whispered. “Not a chance.”

“Hush.” She was glad for the
darkness concealing burning her cheeks. Ty's quips always managed to hit a mark
and she preferred to not encourage him, no matter how flattering.

On the last step before the second
floor landing, Olivia was just beginning to trust their good luck when a gust
of air rattled up the stairwell, shuddering doors ahead.

Ty pressed two fingers into the
small of her back. He'd felt it, too: someone had opened the front door.

They were caught in a delicate
balance. One turn of the staircase, and whoever was behind them would easily
spot them, even in the dark. Move too quickly, and they'd give themselves away.

Stepping past her up onto the
landing, Ty braced at the next door and nodded. She rested a hand on the knob
and waited. She struggled to hear anything over a heartbeat thundering at her
ribs.

The front door slammed, jarring in
its frame. In the same instant, she shoved open their door. Ty slipped in and
she followed, nearly pressed against his back. Instead of trying to close it
again, she pressed one foot at the door's base to hold it at a crack, able to
open no further.

Footsteps. They marched the stairs
deliberately, at a speed and weight which suggested a man's boots. Olivia took
a breath and held it when they struck the floor outside.

Step, step, step.

They crossed the landing and
mounted the next flight without pause.

She exhaled, bracing a hand on Ty's
shoulder while her head swam. Hiding never got easier, any less nerve wracking,
no matter how many times she'd done it.

He threw her a glance over his
shoulder. “Nice timing we have.”

Nodding, she strained to hear
anything upstairs. A door thumped, followed by the murmur of voices. One
feminine and the other masculine hummed through the old walls.

“Should we call it off?” she
whispered. An unknown quantity in the mix was a recipe for trouble.

Ty was quiet, considering. Then he
shook his head. “No. Not yet. Let's wait a bit, see who stays and who goes.”

Willing to trust Ty's gut, she
settled on the floor, back scratching against fans of peeling paint, and worked
to make out any of the conversation upstairs.

Ty settled beside her, hands folded
on his chest.