Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (21 page)

“Not particularly. Madam Destrian
sings flat and the subject matter is a little too
au courant
to be
fantasy.” As he spoke, Philipe positioned himself between her and DuFresne.

Dufresne's smile hardened, enough
that Olivia was astonished by what he said next. “Madame d'Oettlinger is
holding an impromptu soiree on Friday night. I would be honored to have you as
my guest, your grace.” He glanced to her. “And, of course, this radiant
creature. You must bring her along, to delight us all.”

What was his aim?
He could
obviously barely tolerate having to speak to them, and now he wanted them to
attend as
his guests
? Olivia moved the puzzle pieces, trying to sort
them out. She was still running to keep up with Elena Breunig's connection, and
he was on to a new game. Was he acting on Thalia's orders, or Fouche's? Had Du
Fresne engineered something on his own to curry favor with his employer?

They would find out soon enough.

Philipe extended a hand. “I accept.
Convey my gratitude to the lovely baroness.”

DuFresne took Philipe's hand, eyes
narrowed. “We can ride out together tonight, if you would like. Enjoy a weekend
in the country. My carriage is just out front...”

He was testing, prodding. She could
practically see Dufresne's nose twitch while mentally he circled them, sniffing
out their purpose.

She draped herself on Philipe's arm
and sighed. “The duke and I have...business together, here in town.”

“A social call? I can wait and save
you the trouble of traveling separately. How long will it take?”

She smiled, and slipped a hand
inside Philipe's coat. “Sometimes hours.”

This time Du Fresne flushed, his
jaw twitching. More than uncomfortable, he was disgusted, confronted with the
sort of aristocratic, base indulgence he was determined to weed out.

He spun on a heel. “Then I shall
look for you on Friday.”

Philipe nodded. “Depend upon it.”

She watched Du Fresne pass until he
was through the curtain and back inside his box.

“Curious,” whispered Philipe.

“Very curious. We'll have to be on
guard.”

Philipe batted his eyes, trying a
coquettish smile. “Sometimes hours,” he mimicked. “I am
always
on my
guard with you around. Who knows what might come out of that mouth!” Laughing,
he led them down the first sweeping flight of wide marble stairs.

She scoffed. “Do not pretend for a
moment that I have offended your chaste ears.”

“Just the contrary. You say all
sorts of wonderful things. Suggestions I know you have no intention of
fulfilling.” His teasing was tinged with wistfulness.

She brought them to a stop on the
second landing, probing with narrowed eyes. “Are you making advances at me,
your grace?”

Philipe leaned against the carved
fans of the balustrade, giving her a once-over with his gaze, a look which had
more effect than she thought possible. “If I am? Is there a hope of
succeeding?”

“No,” she admitted, without needing
to think. Her professional feelings about Ty might have altered, but
personally, nothing had changed. Not that Philipe's attention wasn't
flattering.

He flashed a heart-stopping grin,
not looking the least bit offended. “Then yes, I am making advances. Keeping my
place in the queue until Major Burrell moves out of my way.”

“Hush.” She smiled, despite wincing
inside at a jest that struck a little too close to the mark.

“I am a patient man.” He
straightened and sighed. “Anyhow, I get you for a little while longer. Come.”
He tugged her sleeve, taking her down the next flight. Just in time; she could
have sat on the steps, laughing and crying over her ability to catch the eye of
any man but Tyler Burrell.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Resting cheek to fist, Ty studied
Thalia from across the carriage, catching glimpses of her face through the
intermittent lamplight that spilled golden beams in from the street. She
relaxed when it was just the two of them. Her way of speaking became
conversational, one topic flowing into the next so naturally that Ty quickly
grasped what a simple thing it must be for a man to spill his secrets. She
radiated an authority that bordered on maternal, tempered by a seductive air.
It wasn't hard to see how she used her charms to stroke the vanity of the
insecure, such as Napoleon and Fouche, while still retaining her autonomy.

She was no pawn. That had been
established early in the night. When Fouche had sent his third note around to
their box, ostensibly as an 'admirer,' and Thalia had sent it back unopened
with the valet, she also got up and closed the curtain. Fouche might be her
handler, but Thalia had the confidence to manage her own affairs.

She was no Olivia. Thalia had
brains aplenty, but her skill was all glamour touched with some cleverness.
Sixteen; it was the number of mistakes she'd made so far tonight, small errors
that Olivia would never have made.

Olivia's espionage was an art. How
to brew a poison and how to apply it. When to use her breasts and when to use
her knife. She had loyalty and quick wits, enough to earn his respect, and then
his trust.

Thalia, he noted, exclusively
worked alone. Fouche handled her, but she was most definitely not an equal
player. She might be formidable, dangerous, but in a spy's dialect, working
alone said you had broken the rungs on your way up the ladder.

“You are pensive, all of a sudden.”
She watched him without expression.

“Contemplative.” He stretched a
hand, inviting her across the small space.

Thalia's grip was gentle. That
surprised him. She was such a force of nature, he had expected grasping,
nipping, rough seduction. She fit herself into a small space between his hip
and the cab, facing him and knee to knee. Still he braced for the usual
trappings: bawdy language, fingers on his trousers before his hat was off.

She started at his collar, just her
fingertips hovering against his coat. On to his shoulders, grasping his lapel.
Fingers tugging the fabric, thumbs skimming down his shirt, waistcoat. There
she stopped. It wasn't at all what he'd expected.

He had to do something. That was
part of the role he now played. There was no denying that what she was doing
felt good as her nails dug into the hair above his ear. Good, and wrong.

As she progressed, he experienced a
hesitation he'd never felt while on assignment, and certainly never with a
beautiful woman. He didn't want to touch her. He didn't want to proceed at all.
For days, he'd found himself putting her off, using every trick in his arsenal
to divert her, knowing in the back of his mind that it couldn't last forever.

And as much as he tried to deny it,
his new-found reluctance had a name: Olivia. He felt no hesitation with
her.
He could kiss her if he had to. Hell, he could kiss her if he
didn't
have to. Like Thalia, Olivia was part of an assignment. What was the
difference?

Finally, he settled for running a
knuckle along Thalia's cheek. Eyes closed, her head tipped up. Her invitation
was unmistakable. Once again, he hesitated. He had to get hold of himself.
Thalia was an intelligent woman, and it wouldn't take long for her to become
suspicious.

Olivia would laugh at him, perhaps
make a joke about him taking a blow for king and country. The idea relaxed him,
and he cradled Thalia's neck. He closed his eyes and Olivia was in his mind
immediately, as it seemed she always was, of late. As Thalia's lips found his,
he imagined Olivia at the Comte's estate, the taste of wine and violets between
her full lips, her velvet gown gripping his clothes with the same insistence as
her hands. Thalia's lips were thinner, less gentle, and her fingers were long
but thicker than Olivia's and not as elegant. If he kept his eyes shut, it was
close enough that he could imagine Olivia with him in the carriage. It was
close enough to get the job done.

So why did it feel like a betrayal?

The carriage shuddered, breaking
him from his reverie. They had arrived at Thalia's house. Their driver barked a
command, reins jingled and the carriage slowed.

Ty pulled away, opened his eyes and
caught Thalia's heavy-lidded smile. He raised one hand, brushing her knuckles
to his lips. “This is where I leave you, madam.”

He needed to get inside, and she
would invite him. He couldn't be too eager, though, and risk showing his hand.

“I've enjoyed an enchanting
evening, Lord Lennox.” She started to rise, then caught his cheek and kissed
him again. “I hate that it's come to an end.”

Ty adopted a face of mock regret.
“I fear it must. People will talk.”

Thalia was still close to him, and
her words came low and breathless. “People already talk, monsieur, yet we enjoy
no benefit.”

“That seems terribly unfair.”

Somehow she was closer. He could
feel every word she spoke on his lips. “A situation to be rectified.”

He made himself take her hand,
pulling back slightly and sweeping an arm at the door. “And so we shall.”

*          *          *

Olivia sat stiff-backed before her
high oak secretary, the tension up her back worsened by laces pulled too
tightly for her to lean forward. She stared at the rough brown sheet of
foolscap and it stared back. It was innocent enough, but she knew better. It
was threatening her, daring her to stab a quill into the inkwell and stab Ty in
the back.

Tell him
, a voice begged.
Just
tell him
.

The whisper set her emotions to
boiling, and she dipped her nib to shut them up. She had turned over an ache in
her heart a thousand times, plotted out the right words, amputated sentences
into a poor imitation of her feelings over and over, but her confession
wouldn’t come. She'd buried all of her feelings for Ty in a vault, deep beneath
layers of terrible things. Loneliness, self-loathing, and a desperation to take
what Ty could offer rather than nothing at all. She'd buried them and they were
never coming out. Revolution, La Force, her work had all taught her to suffer
without expecting result. Suffer and endure in greater and greater measure. She
had recognized, at last, that misery would quite literally kill her before she
could ever force a confession to Ty. Even at the risk of tearing them apart.
Shame burned her face at the realization that she was as fundamentally broken
inside as she’d accused Madame Osipova of being.

Face stiff, she tapped the quill's
point, violating the paper's clean, innocent space.

Ethan,

With Major Burrell's active
surveillance of the baroness, I no longer see that my role in our assignment is
necessary. In fact, it is a liability. Friction between myself and Tyler has
moved irretrievably into animosity. We are unfit partners and he no longer
depends upon my judgment. We cannot work together.

We are compromised. I am
compromised, and as the major must continue on with Philipe's help, it seems a
mistake that I should remain around either one. Making Philipe my partner is
not a viable option. Recall me to England, please. Reassign or dismiss me. I
wish to leave Paris at the first opportunity. Send me, or I will go.

She creased the page, covering her
lies from view, hot tears streaming harder with each fold of the paper. Tipping
her head side to side, she pressed eyes into her sleeves, trying not to wet the
ink. Walking it to the entry hall, she placed the envelope into a hollowed out
space behind a small door not much bigger than the letter itself. Concealed
from the outside by an old lamp, all sensitive correspondence was picked up
there. She set it inside, and then she stared. It could be plucked back. Taken
and burned. She could always write Ethan again later, if she changed her mind.

Except that she couldn't. Heart
aching, eyes aching, she would never have the fortitude to write another such
letter. Chest straining, she slammed shut the compartment and slid down a wall
at her back. Cradling her knees for any sort of comfort, she buried her face in
her arms and sobbed, Ty's face in her mind refusing to be banished.

*          *          *

He closed the door behind Thalia,
turning a small silver key in its lock. She perched on a small red velvet
settee at the foot of her bed, darting eyes watching his every move, a cat
ready to pounce. He held up the green glass bottle. “Champagne, ma belle.” He
smacked the cork soundly against the mantle and it launched free with a
satisfying pop, sweet liquid spilling out over his fingers.

Thalia's lips turned down in a
pretty pout. “Non. It gives me a terrible headache.”

He slid the stemware onto a little
marble-topped console table by the door. “You must. To celebrate our
acquaintance.” Filling both glasses, he turned back and held one aloft. “One
mouthful only, for me. This will be a memorable occasion, after all.” Closing
the distance between them, he placed a glass in her outstretched fingers.

Her look was demure, full of
feigned innocence. “And why is that?”

“When a man and woman who have
burned so completely for one another finally consummate their desire, can it be
otherwise?”

Thalia's breath came faster. He saw
it in the way her breasts rose and fell harder against her neckline,
threatening to spill free. She raised the rim to her lips, downing the
champagne in a single gulp and holding out her glass. “Again.”

He took it, replacing it on the
table, and clucked his tongue. “No. Not yet. I do not want a headache to spoil
our fun.” Slipping from his jacket, he tossed it over the arm of the settee.

Thalia stood, smoothing the front
of his shirt, flicking fingers at the knots of his cravat until it came undone
and slipped to the floor. Her movements managed be quick, almost efficient,
while still incredibly sensual. She was very good at this. Her fingers pinched
his shirt tail, and she tugged it free of his waistband, slipping it over his
head with ease earned by years of practice. Dragging nails over his chest, she
smiled. “You are no stranger to physical exertion.”

“The boxing ring holds a certain
appeal,” he admitted.

“I detest violence, and yet I
approve. An athletic man has a great deal of stamina, in my experience.”

“You have no idea.” Circling hands
around her waist, Ty pressed her back down onto the sofa, kneeling at her feet.
He hooked one black silk slipper with a finger, tugging it from her foot.
Thalia fell back onto the cushions, draping arms out along each side, watching
him with a half-lidded gaze.

Raising her leg higher, he draped
it over a shoulder. She gasped when his teeth grabbed the hem of her stocking,
her heel biting into his back. Ty worked at the undergarment slowly, content
with taking his time.

He traced his path in reverse,
laying kisses up her thigh and hating that it wasn’t horrible. Her skin was
smooth, perfumed with soap and a hint of some exotic flower. When he reached
her inner thigh, he dug teeth into her soft flesh, catching her staccato
panting and a drowsy curve to her moan. “It’s time we retire to the bed,” he
instructed, running fingers beneath her bunched skirts.

Slow breathing and then a gentle
snore.

Standing up, Ty dropped Thalia's
limp leg with an unceremonious thud. He gave her credit; she'd lasted longer
than most of the targets he'd used his sleeping concoction on over the years.
He had made it through both slippers and one whole stocking and had paid
excessive attention to the opposite knee before Kate's powder had taken effect.

One of the many reasons he'd grown
to love Kate over the years was that she didn't ask unnecessary questions. He'd
gone to her early on with some silly excuse about playing a prank on an officer
with whom he played cards. She'd raised an eyebrow when he'd expressed a desire
for a powder that could put someone to sleep but not alter the flavor of
whatever they were drinking. No more explanation, and she’d not challenged him.
Three years on and he had another weapon in the art of espionage, not to
mention a friend who likely puzzled over the odd things he and his fellow
officers did to each other.

Thalia had been suspicious,
procuring the glasses from the pantry herself, carrying them as far as the
bedchamber. Everyone always expected it to be in the glass. He smiled at his
own ingenuity, tipping the bottle until a little vial floated out into his
palm.
They expected it in the glass, but never in the bottle
. Olivia had
taught him that and how to remedy the problem.

When she'd asked for a second round
hard on the heels of the first, he was prepared to knock the bottle over to
keep Thalia from killing herself if she'd insisted. She was dangerous, but they
needed her alive. Fortunately, she had graciously taken no for an answer.

He leaned her forward on the sofa,
unlacing the back of her gown and wrestling it off. One knot of red curls came
free in the effort.
Even better
. He mussed the other side until it was
held halfway up by a last few tenacious pins.

Crouching, he tossed her over his
shoulder and skirted the bed. With one hand he tossed the bedding, and with the
other he yanked sharply on her petticoat, tearing one of its flounces halfway
off.

Satisfied, he dumped Thalia on the
mattress and began unbuttoning his pants. Kicking them off, he undid the
drawstring on his small clothes, dropping them to the floor. He poked them
halfway under the bed with his foot, but not so far that an attentive maid
could miss them.