Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (23 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The mansion at the foot of Rue
Jardins, bordered by gardens on both sides, immediately gave Olivia the
impression of a doll house. It was high and narrow, capped by a bell-shaped
roof, and fanned with sweeping steps. Hedges reached out along both sides of
the yard, making the mansion appear taller and farther away than it really was.
Olivia imagined she could circle around to the back yard, find the house
completely open, and move tiny furnishings between its floors.

It didn't fit her impression of
Thalia at all. That wasn't surprising, as it had previously belonged to someone
else. Several someone’s, even. Her mansion and its furnishing had been stripped
from the dead and exiled to create a web for more dead and exiled. This cycle
had repeated as the next owners had felt the bite of Madame Guillotine or been
set upon by the mob.

When she'd been here previously,
she'd been too on guard and focused on Thalia to fully comprehend the eerie
sensation of being amongst the mismatched memories of other people's lives. She
let it feed her bitterness, at Thalia and Ty, and mostly at herself.

Moving across the dance floor with
Philipe, she tried not to let her roiling emotions overwhelm her as he led them
into their next turn.

“You move with grace, Lady
Elizabeth,” he murmured, his smile a seductive white line beneath his black
mask.

“I hate dancing,” she muttered
back, ashamed of her petulant tone. It was true, however. She'd been made to
start lessons just before her thirteenth birthday, all arms and legs and nearly
a head taller than the dancing master. He had snapped at her slowness, scoffed
at her gracelessness, and jabbed her with his thin baton at every error. Tender
and pampered, unspoiled by LaForce, she had flinched and cried for weeks on end
until Monsieur DaVide had grudgingly declared her 'adequate.’

Still smiling, Philipe pressed on,
undeterred by her bristling. “Unlike other pursuits, in dancing,
skill
has little to do with enjoyment.”

She knew what he was doing; he'd
done it a hundred times before. Philipe was testing the waters in his own
charming way, making it known that he wanted more. As she glimpsed Ty waltzing
with Thalia over Philipe's shoulder, his eyes stealing glances her way, Olivia
was content to let him. She let go of Philipe's hand and stepped back. “I could
do with some air. Find us some champagne?”

Philipe nodded, smile broadening.
“And then I shall find you on the terrace.”

A glance to Ty said he'd witnessed
their exchange, and by his tells she knew it was eating him. He couldn't end
his dance with Thalia, and Olivia relished for a moment that he would just have
to stew on it. She was being unfair, but rationality had been in short supply
lately.

She passed from the ballroom's
glittering white and yellow confection onto a stone terrace sweetened by the
first of summer's roses. A rushing fountain farther out in the garden swept
over the quartet and drowned all but the loudest voices. Olivia chose a quiet
corner as far from the doors as she could, away from torches and guests, and
rested her arms on the balustrade. She took a few deep breaths to gather
herself.

“Lady Elizabeth.”

It was
not
Philipe. She
froze at the sound of her alias drawn tight between Emil DuFresne's lips.

Her mind raced. Why was he here?
Why was he
ever
at a ball, an opera, a dinner? He didn't dance, or sit,
or eat; he was just
there
, lurking, circling, and shifting against the
backdrop. Even if she hadn't been privy to the man's dealings, Elena Breunig's
murder, he would have made her skin prickle.

She turned slowly, willing muscles
to relax, to not betray a hint of surprise or unease at his presence. “Monsieur
DuFresne. If you've come seeking a dance, I'm free at the moment.”

Her suggestion seemed genuinely to
fluster him, and he glanced to his polished shoes. She might have surprised
him, but she knew better than to think she'd unbalanced him. He reminded her of
nothing more than an awkward, introverted lad at times, easily thrown off and
embarrassed, but he was dangerous behind the facade.

He laced hands behind his back,
fixing her with an unreadable stare. “No, mademoiselle. I only wish to talk.”

Turning fully toward him, she
leaned back against the balustrade and rested her elbows. “Equally agreeable.”

“Hastings,” he repeated, coming a
half-step closer. “It is a common surname in your country.”

“It is,” she agreed. “Makes sorting
my account with the dressmaker something of a trial.”

DuFresne nodded through her jest,
brows furrowed behind his spectacles, and he claimed another step. “A common
name, but a rather uncommon woman. I'm certain we were introduced before,
sometime prior to
Madame’s
last fete.”

Her wariness of the situation
ratcheted up a notch. She surreptitiously glanced around, looking for an escape
route, beginning to regret the fact that she'd chosen a more remote location to
wait for Philipe. “I've only been in Paris since January. We would both recall
it.”

Another step, and DuFresne's hand
slipped inside his coat. “Perhaps we both do.”

She swallowed, judging his height,
examining the thickness of his neck, weighing what it would take to
incapacitate him with her bare hands. Confident at first that she could
overwhelm him, she paused to wonder if Elena Breunig had made the same
miscalculation.

“Lady Elizabeth.” She resisted the
urge to exhale at DuFresne’s words, spoken this time by more comforting lips.
Instead of coming to stand next to her, Philipe put himself squarely between
her and DuFresne as he had at the opera, blocking the smaller man from view.
“Monsieur.”

“Your grace.” DuFresne's greeting
held a flinty edge, and then silence twined between them.

“Was there something else you
desired of the lady?” Philipe demanded at last.

“No, not at all. Enjoy the remains
of your evening.”

DuFresne came into her view again,
his back shrinking toward the house. She claimed the champagne from Philipe,
downing it in a single pass and planting her glass on the rail with more force
than intended. “What was that remark supposed to mean?”

Philipe shook his head, still
watching DuFresne's retreat. “That we should be cautious.” He turned back to
her with a grin. “Which we are, always.” He claimed her glass, tipping half of
his champagne inside and holding it back to her. “He'll be dealt with soon
enough.”

He took her hand, pulling her down
the garden stairs. She should stop him, turn back, but her feet claimed each
step eagerly. Behind her was nothing but turmoil; Ty, Thalia, DuFresne, even
the house itself. The garden ahead was serene, quiet, and a moment spent with
Philipe below was welcome.

The garden was shallow, with room
for little more than an octagonal stone fountain, a few ironwork benches, and
tall sprays of spring flowers along its hedges. Butting up against pleasure
gardens outside its walls made it appear larger, fooling Olivia into thinking
they'd only gone a few steps from the house. When they reached the border she
turned back and discovered the house was much smaller than she'd expected,
sparkling against an inky night sky.

Taking up a position beside her,
Philipe leaned over the wall, bracing his arms and considering his glass for a
long moment. A night breeze wafted his cologne to her. It was different than
Ty's, a spicy musk hinting that being alone in the dark was the perfect place
for them.

“I have business on my estate in
Amboise,” he said. “I'd planned to retire there next week, to make preparations
for a certain emperor's
arrival
.” He leaned into the space between their
bodies, pressing his shoulder to hers. She enjoyed the heat and comfort, not
moving to pull away.

“You're frustrated, Olivia.” He
whispered her true name for their ears alone, “Triste. Travel with me to
Amboise.” His fingers brushed her cheek, longer and less weathered than Ty's,
but sweeping hair from her cheek with an equal gentleness. “If I cannot cheer
you, at least I can distract you.” He reached back, tugging free the strings of
his mask and removing it with intent.

She downed the last of her
champagne, bracing, daring to turn and face him completely. Philipe was always
tempting, and tonight he radiated everything attractive in the opposite sex; a
manly physique, bold charm, and an earnest note to his invitation which made
her believe their time together in Amboise could be
much
, much more than
a distraction.

She backed up slowly, her gaze on
his face, and Philipe matched her step for step until her back met the cold
stone wall. She waited, for his body to press hers, his hands to brace beside
her, but he moved no closer. A part of her wanted him to continue, to stop
thinking and allow the comfort he spoke of to wash over her.

His voice was quiet, almost timid,
as if afraid to hope. “The looks you afford Major Burrell are unmistakable. I'm
not foolish enough to count myself in his class, not in your eyes.” He gave her
a wistful smile. “But I would worship you, Olivia…” He trailed off, his fingers
gripping hers. He raised her arm and pressed his lips to the naked flesh inside
her elbow. An invitation, perfectly placed to let her decide whether or not to
continue.

It felt good. Better than good.

And it felt wrong. As unfair to
Philipe as it was to herself.

Gently she pulled her hand back,
side stepping him enough to put space between them. She closed her eyes,
pressed harder into the wall, its cold bracing her. “I cannot give my heart to
anyone else, and I cannot give my body without its permission.”

Philipe sighed and pressed a
lingering kiss to her cheek, then pulled away; anything more, and he might have
worn through her resolve just then. Inside, she ached for what he was offering,
the uncomplicated warmth and pleasure of it. Another part of her railed against
the thought, hating that she was tempted.

“My heart is constant, Olivia,
where you are concerned. In Portugal we say a man with patience can have
whatever he desires,” he whispered against her ear. “I
am
a patient man,
lindeza
. Here, if your heart ever changes.”

She managed a laugh that was more
of a sigh, resting her head against his broad shoulder. “Take me inside then,
and prove how patient we
both
are.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

She was in her room. Not inside
Thalia’s mansion, but her father’s. Far off in the chateau, a door shuddered in
its frame, and her mother screamed.

A crash brought her wide awake,
another sound echoing in her ears that might have been her
own
screams.
Reality and her nightmare mixed, leaving her confused and disoriented. It was
the second time the noise had rattled her walls; somewhere deep in her brain
she made the connection. It came again, jarring the headboard, followed by a
crisp snap of splintering wood.

Olivia was out of the bed in a
flash, stabbing arms into the sleeves of a wrapper while boots pounded in the
marble entry hall downstairs. This time she would heed her mother’s pleas, she
would be ready when the soldiers came. And they
were
coming; she knew
the sound as well as she knew her own heartbeat.

Screams echoed up the stairs,
followed by men shouting and several authoritative barks that came rapid-fire
before she'd had time to finish dressing.

She grabbed her knife from inside a
shoe beneath the bed and darted for the door, concealing the blade as she went.
Guests already hovered on the landing, peering down into the hall where others
cowered. Before them was arrayed a company of French soldiers standing shoulder
to shoulder, bayonets held ready, overflowing the wide foyer.

Her head swam, and she willed each
breath to come slowly and fan away a buzzing at her temples, a threatening
darkness at the edge of her vision. This time was different, she reasoned, but
it wasn’t; it was always the same. The soldiers were here for her, her and Ty.

Ty, still mostly dressed, hung back
at the opposite side of the balcony, Thalia curved to his side. The sight put a
sour taste in her mouth, and, in a less precarious situation, she would have
made her displeasure clear. She felt slightly better when he immediately sought
her out with his eyes, and his blanched face said plainly that things were too
grave for jealousy.

Madame
, more composed than
Olivia would have expected at such an hour, detached herself from Ty and took
one halting step at a time down the staircase. “Sergeant, what have you done to
my door? Why are your dirty boots stomping into my hall? You would have been
admitted, had you knocked.”

A bit haughty for a woman with an
entry full of soldiers, Thalia was certainly not sounding as intimidated as she
was acting. She was either very brave, or not at all surprised by the
intrusion. The thought chilled Olivia, and a new thread of fear laced her
thoughts.

Ignoring Thalia, the commander
reached into a pouch at his hip. Producing a sharply creased sheet of paper, he
held it aloft, not bothering to read it. “Which of you is Philipe, Duc de la
Porte?”

Olivia enjoyed no relief at
discovering the sergeant’s true target. She knew how it would go, the
questions, games of the mind meant to confuse and unbalance, punctuated by
blows from a fist or a rifle butt. A sick terror, wishing for it all to be a
nightmare, and for it simply to be over.

Philipe, who had appeared at her
shoulder while she watched the exchange play out, swallowed and was silent.

She glanced at Ty. His face wore
the same terrified, sleep-addled expression as everyone else, but she knew
better. His brows were furrowed over narrow eyes that took in the scene with
predatory concentration. Without looking at her, he made a light fist, smacking
a hand to it.
Ambush
.

Olivia studied the intruders below.
Green coats, red facings; French Dragoons. They were not local soldiers. Olivia
reached her right hand slowly to her left shoulder.
From a long way
.

Ty's nod was almost imperceptible.

The commander raised a fist. One of
his men broke rank, highly polished boots pummeling the marble. He stopped
before aging Henri Britton and a woman Olivia did not recognize, grasped his
rifle stock and drew it back, dragging screams from both targets. With the butt
aimed squarely at their faces, he stood ready for an order to strike. The
commander waved his paper. “La Porte! Give him to me. Shall I crack you all
like eggs and dig out your secrets?”

Olivia clutched Philipe's shirt
sleeve. “Go!” she whispered. “Through my room. There's a low roof to the right
of the window. It’s an easy jump.”

“Out of the question,” he rasped
back.

Still cocked back and eager to
swing, the soldier glanced from his target to others paralyzed nearby. “Papers!
Perhaps you would all like to show your papers?”

His officer snapped a nod. “You all
have them at hand, I am sure. All in order, nothing amiss...”

Papers
. It was a favorite
threat of the Republic. People forgot them all the time and if they
were
presented, nothing need really be out of order. An official’s 'concern' was
enough for a man or woman to be detained and questioned, a fact which struck
fear into the populace.

Guests below were glancing at one
another, murmuring over the state of their documents, some patting fruitlessly
at their dressing gowns as though they carried passports in their night
clothes. Heads swiveled, looking for the duke and questioning silently whether
they should speak up. The dragoons were having an effect, and not everyone
present counted Philipe as a friend. Any moment, someone was bound to point him
out, or give him away even if they did not mean to.

Olivia pressed fingers at his
shoulder. “You have to get out. We need you now more than ever.”

He shook a fist at her. “Those
soldiers know I am here. If I flee, everyone present will be interrogated.
Perhaps beaten, imprisoned. Worse! You, of all people, know how these things
go, Olivia.” His tone was grim, mouth a hard edge, eyes flinty. He wasn't going
to run.

Her desperation rose. “It's a price
we all have to pay,” she ground out.

He dodged the topic with a brave
smirk. “They have questions, nothing more.”

“Philipe, they smashed open the
door!” She
did
know how this would go, precisely why his arguing baffled
her. She caught herself before jamming a finger at the splintered panel. “That
is not
questions
.”

“I've done nothing wrong!”

Resting elbows on the rail, she
cradled her forehead in her palms. “Guilt or innocence doesn't matter to them.
We both know better. You’ve raised arms against Napoleon once, and that’s
enough.”

“I'm going. I will be all right.”
Sweat beading at his temples said otherwise. He must be eaten up with fear,
with the mad hum of thoughts shouting simultaneously that he was a dead man,
and that he could persevere. She knew the feeling all too well. The urge to
scream, beg or feign illness, or to simply run blindly in any direction just to
postpone the inevitable. It was self-preservation.

“I will be all right,” he repeated,
nodding to himself. “So will you and the major.”

You and the major
. Suddenly
she understood his willingness to go, and it infuriated her. Helpless, she
looked to Ty, who was staring back at her with equal disbelief as Philipe made
ready to move forward. He tapped a palm against the rail.
Stop him
.

Slipping a hand into her pocket,
Olivia curled fingers around the knife's grip. They were fast approaching
desperate measures. She pressed closer to Philipe, whispers more urgent.
“Everyone here is willing to make a sacrifice They are doing our country a
service. If you flee, so will you.”

“Did fleeing aid your parents?”

His jab found its mark and rage
stole her voice. She didn’t need it. Philipe tangled fingers in her hair, and
his lips pressed to hers with a sweet urgency which briefly silenced her fear.
She clutched at his hair, his jaw, willing him to stay even as he pulled back.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, and before she could find words, he raised a
hand in the air. “Here! I am la Porte!”

Staring past him at Ty’s frozen
expression, Olivia brushed two fingers under her chin:
Too late
.

Philipe, to his credit, didn’t
hurry the steps or cower. He covered the distance with all the grace and
dignity of his title, head high and stern-faced. To Olivia it was still a death
march.

Ty clasped and unclasped his hands,
as if ready to take on the entire regiment single-handedly. He turned back to
her, casting her a look filled with the same impotent rage beating in her
breast. He leaned on the banister, gripping its polished wood.
We must meet
.
Two fingers raised, indicating her room.

The soldiers dragged Philippe down
the last two steps, jamming with fists and gun butts at his back and sides even
when he did not protest and she endured every blow with him. The blood in her
veins chilled at the Dragoons' demeanor. Philipe was not being treated with
courtesy or with consideration for his rank. He was not being handled as an
asset, he was being handled as garbage. They were not taking him for
questioning, or even to be held in reserve for the impending political chess
game. In the courtyard, on the road, in Paris, anywhere from this moment on, he
could be slaughtered. It was the inevitable conclusion; she knew it in her
heart.

Philipe was on his knees now, the
result of a pistol that had come from nowhere to strike his face. While two men
shackled his hands, he pressed his nose to his shoulder, staunching the flow of
blood painting his upper lip. “What are the charges? As a loyal son of France,
I deserve at least to know my crimes.”

The commander held up his warrant.
She had expected him to smirk or demean his prisoner. The detached, empty
manner in which he listed the charges was far more chilling. It was just a
task, another order to be crossed from his list. “For raising arms against the
true emperor of France. For conspiring with enemies of the state. For
conspiring with the traitors Villan and Charbrand to assassinate the emperor.”

Napoleon had become emperor after
Philipe had opposed him. He was being tried for something which had not been a
crime when he'd done it. They lived in a world gone mad.

She waited for Philippe to yell or
protest, but he was still, his lips working in confusion. Olivia suspected that
he finally grasped the gravity of the situation. There was no possible way he
had been anywhere long enough to conspire with Charbrand's known band of
radicals, and it didn't matter. He had been found guilty of an idea, a rumor,
and condemned before a single Dragoon had mounted his horse. Accusations of
conspiracy, violence; they were just bureaucratic names for '
culling'
.
Philipe would not be granted the same quarter as before.

At bayonet point, Philipe was
prodded into the night. Fifteen pairs of boots turned and stomped in unison,
creating a chilling, final sound. Horsetail plumes swung from their retreating
helmets, snakes threatening a strike at any who dared follow.

It took nearly all of her
discipline to stand there passively as they filed out, to reconcile that for
now, she and Ty would have to let things stand. Thalia was still watching, and
now, likely waiting.

A lady's wail cut the silence in
their wake, punctuated by quiet sobs or manly outrage muttered between the
guests. Madame Bellon collapsed without anyone moving to break her fall, the
man closest to her standing frozen in only a shirt and dressing gown and ringed
by a puddle of urine.

Thalia, petrified until now on the
bottom step, swept across the hall hurling black insults at the patrol, too
comically far away to hear a single word she barked in their wake. Reaching the
entry, she claimed a jagged door fragment, cradling it to her chest. Then she dropped
to the marble, hung her head, and began to cry. The sequence was perfect, as if
scripted for the stage, and Olivia didn't trust it for a moment.

She had seen enough. Without
looking at anyone else, she went back into her room, shutting her door on one
terrible scene while reliving another.

There was no time to write
Whitehall and organize something on Philippe's behalf. She and Ty would have to
get the duke back on their own. Hopefully with more success than those who’d
done the same for her parents.

*          *          *

Pressed as flat against the wall as
he could manage to stay out of a cold mist falling from the night sky, Ty
tapped on Olivia's window pane. It swung open, revealing a darkened room and
nothing more. Grabbing the ledge, Ty braced his toes against the wet limestone
wall and hauled himself inside.

Olivia's room was truly dark with
not a single candle lit. Only lamps from the mews across the yard, the same
ones which had lit his climb, offered hints of silhouettes inside.

“Olivia,” he whispered, searching
and waiting for his eyes to adjust.

“Here,” she called back from inside
the curtains of a massive bed.

He closed the distance with
measured steps until his knees bumped the mattress, then sat. He found Olivia
in the dark by her breathing. Gathering a fistful of her sleeve, he pulled
until she raised up, falling against him and resting her cheek against his
chest. She clung to him as if drowning, and he found himself doing the same,
pouring days of tension and uncertainty into his embrace. “We can sort this
out, Olivia. We'll get him back.”

“We don't know that, Ty,” she
whispered in return. “There are new rules now. A whole new madness. We cannot
pretend for a moment that we know what will happen, that there's anything
rational to this new regime.” She squeezed him tighter. He didn't know
everything about her past, but he could infer much; her expression when the
soldiers had burst into Thalia's hall coupled with her shaking like a leaf in
his arms spoke of her painful experience.