Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (20 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ty settled deeper into his chair's
blue velvet cushion, resting against its plush back and experiencing a moment
of bitterness that his opera box was more luxurious on assignment than it ever
was at home.

Thalia, perched beside him, twined
an arm with his and leaned closer. He responded with a press of his elbow,
otherwise studiously ignoring her. She was used to being admired, the center of
attention. He had discovered very quickly that nothing unbalanced her more than
being relegated to the background. Each time he presented her the cold
shoulder, she chased harder.

Not that it was easy to ignore her.
She was radiant, as usual. Yards of champagne silk caught the light from a
chandelier, a reflected glow catching her auburn hair on fire. A dip to her
bodice was calculated with mathematical precision to draw a man’s eye and hold
it, revealing, but not exposing quite enough to be dismissed as vulgar. Her
perfume wafted to him in a faint but seductive breeze, reminding of her
attractions even when she was out of view.

He kept his mind off of her by
surveying the room and taking in the immense crowd. Even floor seats were
uncharacteristically full. If Napoleon's approach had daunted anyone, they
weren't showing it. Not that he was surprised. Willful ignorance was the least
of the evils around him. Infidelity, overt deception, and greed all took
precedence, personified in spades by those in attendance.

On the left side of the hall,
Talleyrand filled his usual box almost directly across from Fouche, his nemesis
in more than politics. Both sat ensconced in frames of marble and gold gilt,
masterwork paintings, and ostentatious decoration, their private boxes financed
by a monarchy they both despised.

Talleyrand slobbered over his
latest ornament, the celebrated opera singer Madame Grassini, chortling and
tickling her with the tassel of a blue silk curtain. The raven-haired beauty
had been one of Napoleon's more notorious lovers before his exile. It seemed
that, whatever differences of opinion he professed in public, Talleyrand now
had more in common with the emperor than he wished to admit.

Fouche’s box was a stark contrast.
He and his young wife sat like elegantly dressed statues, their whole party
dour faced and silent. He searched the hall with a hawk’s gaze, making notes,
committing names and actions to the steel vault of his memory. Where others
came to the opera for entertainment, Fouche came for surveillance.

The royal box was conspicuously
empty, signaling that at least someone in France was rightly nervous about the
impending invasion. Gold-leaf garlands climbed the marble columns on either
side, blooming at the feet of ecstatic cherubs, whose joy felt out of place
under the circumstances. Gold draperies framed a pair of oval-backed blue
velvet chairs, each occupied by a wreath of white lilies, a symbol of the
monarchy since medieval times.

As the orchestra's tuning became
audible over the murmur of the crowd, Fouche stood up and bowed to his guests,
then slipped between the curtains behind him and into the hallway. Ty was just
preparing to make an excuse to Thalia and follow, when an usher appeared in the
royal box.

He patted a thin hand at the crown
of his white wig and hovered on the threshold a moment. With something like a
hurried bow, the usher darted around the chairs, arms hooking nervously and
scooping up the wreaths. He flitted out the way he'd come with a few glances
over his shoulder. It was telling that despite the usher’s deference to his
sovereign, the police minister’s orders carried more weight.

Fouche reappeared in his box
moments later, expressionless but looking infinitely more relaxed. The king and
his Parisian citizens might not be giving Napoleon's progress the concern it
deserved, but Fouche was most certainly giving it public attention. Ever the
forward thinker, Ty had no doubt the man was laying groundwork now for proof of
his loyalty to the emperor.

Thalia pressed closer, wafting a
floral scent across him with a lazy wave of her fan. “
Tamburlaine
? I do
not know this story.”

Giving in to his impulse, he rested
the heel of one shoe atop the rail, wondering how long it would take to annoy
her. He'd found that ignoring her, coupled with slight boorishness, was an
excellent way to resist her ample charms. Not that she was deterred. “A bandit
makes a promise to gain the throne for his benefactor. He breaks the promise,
taking it instead for himself. Layers upon layers of betrayal.” He studied her
face, amused at a wide-eyed blink.

“He perseveres again and again.
Murders his family, whole cities. Only after burning his holy book and
forsaking his god is he finally defeated.”

Thalia snapped her fan shut and
swatted his arm, pouting. “Now you've spoiled it! I know the ending.”

“Forgive me, madame. I assumed you
could guess how it would end.” He was insulting her, digging at her attachment
to Fouche, but Thalia ate up the praise greedily, blushing and ducking her
head.

A commotion four boxes over his
left shoulder caught his attention, cutting off any further prodding of Madame
d'Oettlinger.

Philipe breezed in, followed by his
giggling, boisterous entourage, and filed to take his seat. Olivia was attached
to his arm and Ty could only stare. Gold gilt on every surface of the hall
reflected the blinding light of a thousand candles, and she was still the
brightest thing in view.

An ocean of cream silk gathered
across her breasts and shoulders, flowing down and hugging her waist. The
fabric practically glowed beneath an over gown of ivory tissue, set afire by a
thousand embroidered gold dots echoing a chandelier of diamonds at her throat.
There was no ignoring her; he needn't count the number of heads snapping her
way in order to appreciate it. Where Thalia was required to put forth effort to
be noticed, Olivia drifted effortlessly. Ty put his foot down, self-conscious
without understanding why.

Philipe, seated on her far side,
leaned in to whisper something, flashing perfect teeth as he grinned ear to
ear. Of course he was grinning, the bastard. What a burden, having to play the
part of Olivia's consoling lover.

Not that she was getting the short
end. The la Porte's Portuguese bloodlines were fully on display in their young
heir. Dark good looks offset an outrageous sweep of black hair that would turn
romantic poets green with envy. He moved with a natural energy that drew eyes
to him wherever he went.

Olivia laughed at whatever he had
whispered, then cocked her head, leaning in close to hear him over the din of
voices and instruments. She raised her fan, half concealing them both while she
replied. What was she saying? He strained a little, working for a look at her
mouth. Did her lips really need to be so close to La Porte’s ear? Ty crossed
his arms and put his foot back on the balustrade.

Beside him, Thalia shifted impatiently.
“Some pretty bauble has captured your attention, I fear.” Annoyance added pitch
to her voice.

He had forgotten himself for a
moment, an unforgivable error where his companion was concerned. Not only was
she vain, but she was far too intelligent for him to suffer such lapses of
attention. Turning fully toward her, he grasped both her hands. “An unfair
accusation, from a woman so beautiful. Like the sun, a man cannot gaze upon you
directly for long. Instead, I must steal glimpses when I am able, relishing
them in the darkness between.”

She only seemed half mollified.
“Stop this. Your flattery is too much.”

She wasn't completely fooled, but
the only choice at this point was to forge ahead. “You are playing coy. You
have heard the same before, from other lovers.”
            Thalia gasped. “Lovers? You presume a great deal about us.”

The lights dimmed around them and a
hush fell over the orchestra floor. He counted, held her eyes, calculated. “We
shall see.” Timing his wink to the first tap of the conductor's baton, he
bought himself the last word.

A hungry smile curved Thalia's
lips, and music swelled.

Satisfied, he turned his attention
to the stage.

*          *          *

“I want to dig my thumbs into her
eyes.” Olivia whispered to Philipe behind the screen of her fan, plastering on
a smile.

Chuckling, he curled fingers more
tightly around her hand where it rested on his thigh. “And so you should. Teach
her a lesson for poaching the major.”

Her only answer was a glare. She
would not admit, out loud, to any jealousy where Ty was concerned. After her
behavior for the last three days, Olivia doubted she needed to. She’d been
uncharacteristically grumpy and short with Philipe during Ty’s pursuit of the
baroness, but she wasn't going to own to it.

Thanks to the hall's curve, there
was no getting a look at Ty without it being obvious. Even so, she stole a few
glances in his direction. There was nothing suspicious about it, after all;
they were quarreling lovers, and rumor had it she was taking it all much harder
than her former beau.

She
was asking him
something. Ty cocked his head, lazy smile drawing up one side of his mouth. He
pointed to one of the dancers. Their laughter was all movement and no sound,
drowned by the lead actor's rich baritone.

Philipe must have seen the direction
of her stare, watching Ty's exchange with Madame d'Oettlinger. He chuckled,
leaning close. “Come now, don't torture yourself. Look over there. That pretty
thing on the right, just at the curtain? That is Talleyrand's favorite bit of
marzipan.”

Without meaning to, Olivia sat up
and craned her neck, studying Madame Grassini's face for any sign the woman had
caught her lover’s dalliance. “Talleyrand is a... patron of the arts, then?”

“Mm. But he must eat in the pantry,
if you take my meaning. Madame does not approve of his having any other
sweets.”

Bringing his public mistress along
while he observed his secret one; she shook her head at his machinations. “And
he thinks no one will tell Grassini that he's attended every performance this
week of his new confection?” Confused, Olivia shook her head, wondering at
anyone who believed their dalliances would remain a secret. In Paris, of all
places. “Someone will have let it slip before we reach the bottom of the
staircase tonight. Just to see the two minxes claw one another.”

Philipe nodded, grinning. “Perhaps
I will visit his box, between acts?”

“Don't you dare!” she laughed,
smacking him with her fan.

He drew back, looking wounded. “You,
of all people, objecting to a bit of… orchestration?”

“I don't object in the least to
your stirring the pot. Unfortunately, we won't be here long enough to witness
the fallout.” They had only come in order to be seen together, for
confirmation, to make it plain that Elizabeth Hastings had replaced Henry
Lennox on the heels of his indiscretion with a certain baroness.

“The truth!” Looking satisfied, he
leaned back in his chair. “That's more like it.”

The truth
. Philipe's words
struck a chord deep inside. She and truth had been on uneasy terms of late.

Philipe returned his attention to
the stage while she dared another glimpse at Ty. He too was watching the stage,
and Olivia studied him in silhouette, eyes tracing the firm lines of his face.
She had never expected to see him again, after that first meeting at the
comte's ball. At least not in any civil fashion. He had been an adversary, and
she would have given no quarter if their paths crossed again.

Grayfield had intentionally pitted
them against one another, wanting assurance that they could work together and
still walk away if the other was compromised.

At least one of them
was
compromised. She watched Ty, chest aching as Thalia laid her head on his
shoulder, a voice protesting that it should be
her
. Ty had done
something to her that first night; poison or brainwashing. He had gotten inside
her, and she could no longer think rationally or be objective where he was
concerned. She was jeopardizing their assignment. She wanted to kiss him again,
for Ty to put his hands on her with the same urgency as before. She couldn't
stop thinking about it, months of memories suffocating her.

He must have felt her gaze. Ty
glanced her way, but she snapped her eyes to the stage before a look could pass
between them. She couldn’t tell him. Ty, thank God, was a professional with
more discipline than she possessed. He would tell her what she already knew:
that her involvement was dangerous and that they should go their separate ways.
No point going through him and humiliating herself in the process. She would
write Grayfield at the first possible moment, as soon as she could be alone,
and ask to be recalled. Her heart ached at the thought, but it had to be done.
Recalling how close she'd been to losing control days before, even as Thalia
watched through the wall, was both a thrilling and terrifying memory.

They lived in a world where a
single mistake was fatal, and where Tyler Burrell was concerned, she'd already
made more than one.

“It must be time to leave by now,”
she whispered to Philipe. They had only intended to stay through the second
act, and she was desperate for any excuse to go.

Nodding, Philipe stood and took her
hand, mumbling goodbyes to his party. If he'd noticed her agitation, he had the
grace not to mention it.

Her mood worsened as they passed
through the curtain and into the hall. Dufresne stood waiting as they exited,
examining them through the port holes of his little murderer's spectacles. Then
he fixed them with a placid, empty smile. “Your grace.” His bow was minimal.
“You are not enjoying the performance?”