Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (34 page)

“No!” He answered in unison with
Grayfield, and they exchanged a glance. They had both denied her once already,
upon their arrival.

“Then I'll get it myself.” She sat
back up.

Ty raised a finger. “I'll put a
knee on your chest, Olivia. Don't sodding test my resolve right now.” He would
sit on her for her own good, if that's what it took.

Crossing her arms, Olivia glared
and kept silent, and he had the niggling sense they weren't done.

Grayfield, dressed half in regular
clothes and the rest a haphazard arrangement of bed garments, leaned back in
his chair and studied them with red-rimmed eyes. “Let’s have a look at what
you've brought.”

Crumpled, dirty and blood-stained,
no one would guess that the letters in his hand were more valuable than coins,
jewels, or even lives. For a second, his fingers disobeyed, refusing to let go,
to part with cargo so dearly purchased. Ethan raised an eyebrow, and Ty forced
his fingers to open, letters dropping to the desk in haphazard pile.

Ethan pinned the top one with a
finger, dragging it to him, and began to read. His frown deepened by degrees
and then he sighed, casting away the first page. “There is my first answer. Du
Fresne used La Porte’s old letters and documents to gain Elena’s confidence.
Presented himself as a go-between looking to protect Philipe.”

Elena’s meetings with DuFresne at
the old mansion – now he understood. “He plied her for all the information he
could. And she cooperated, believing Philipe was aiding her cause.”

A grave nod was his only answer for
a moment. Then Ethan tapped the discarded paper. “Several agents are exposed
here. Whitehall will have to bring them in quickly.”

“One of those is personal,” slurred
Olivia, still wedged into the sofa, but now with a death grip around the
much-contested bottle of port.

Even injured, she was a handful.
“Dammit, Olivia. Give me that!”

She glared at him again, the effect
ruined by eyes that blinked out of tandem. “I wouldn't try it. Not unless
you've a good relationship with your
left
hand.”

“Leave her be!” cut in Grayfield. “Stop
bickering. Dire as things stand, I must congratulate you both on what you’ve
recovered.” He held up one of Thalia's letters, waving it like a flag. “On the
day Fouche advised the king to retreat, he wrote d'Oettlinger of arrangements
that needed to be made for the emperor's arrival in Paris, and of his plan to
personally welcome Napoleon. That, incredibly, is not the most damning
information here. There's more, about La Porte's –” Ethan caught himself and
stood up, brushing the pages into a stack. “Speaking of the baroness...”

“Dead,” Olivia offered between
swigs.

“Circumstances?” asked Ethan.

“Fitting.” Straightening, Ty folded
his arms.

Olivia had been reluctant enough to
share with
him
that she'd dispatched Thalia. She was staring at nothing,
the bottle clutched in her hands with no intention of answering.

Ethan chewed the information a
moment, then shrugged. “I’m satisfied, for now. Wait here while I dress. Piers
should be in with food directly.” He came around the desk, resting a hand on
Ty's shoulder. “We have grounds to arrest the bastard, at last. One of you
should be there, as a witness. I imagine you'd like to see the thing through to
the end.”

“If anyone has the pleasure, it
should be Olivia. She –” Ty glanced over his shoulder and stopped. She was
burrowed into the cushions, one arm hanging to the floor, bottle propped
against her knee. Her chest rose and fell with such evenness that he was
certain a six-gun battery could not have woken her.

Ethan shook his head. “Looks as
though you'll have to stand in her stead. I'll be back directly.”

While he waited, Ty settled on the
corner of Ethan's desk and picked up the letters, getting a look at their
contents for the first time. There was a damning amount of information about
Fouche and the baroness, shameful for two veterans of espionage. Being certain
of victory had made them reckless. Reading between the lines, it wasn't
difficult to puzzle out why: Olivia had been right; the pair were clearly
lovers, run away with themselves inside their world of two.

The last page was a personal letter
to Fouche, different from the more professional tone of the preceding ones. He
skimmed it over, eyes too tired to decipher both French and the complicated
penmanship. Then a single word caught his eye:
Olivie
.

Madame d'Oettlinger believed she
had identified her blonde rival. She speculated on the matter, confessing she
had bolstered her suspicions by breaking into Olivia's room and searching her
belongings. It was precisely why they kept any incriminating personal items at
their safe house. He doubted Thalia could have found much. And by the next few
lines, he was correct. The only thing she’d discovered was a silk-covered
journal wedged under a false bottom in the wardrobe.

“Truly, Olivia?” He shook his head,
wondering at the existence of a more clichéd hiding spot. He skimmed Thalia’s
words.

'...and then she wrote that
unrequited love was not a terrible thing. It is a ‘perfect’ love which can be
imagined any way one wishes, and so she would carry on and try not to be
triste. What a pathetic notion...'

He watched Olivia sleeping and
turned the mystery over in his mind.

Love.

Not John. She hadn't loved him, Ty
was certain. La Porte? Nothing more than attraction.

Dare he hope?

There were a few lines on the back.
He flipped over the page, eager for some clue.

'...by her jealous looks and
flushed faces, I can only surmise it is he who torments her. I take extra pains
with my attentions, enjoying it when she is provoked...'

His gaze snapped back to Olivia.
Her behavior at the opera, her attitude at the estate the night La Porte was
taken; it could all be construed as jealous. And then her note to Grayfield,
asking to be recalled. Sighing, Ty hung his head and dropped the letter.

Compromised
. Olivia hadn't
meant loyalty, and he’d never doubted her on that count. She'd meant precisely
the affection and trust which had been exploited in Elena Breunig to expose
Philipe.

How had he been so blind, and she
so damned stubborn? If there were any chance of shaking her awake in that
moment, he would have tried it. Ethan's boots ringing down the stairs out in
the hall said there was no time anyhow. He folded the letter and stuffed it
inside his coat for later. Like so many moments in his espionage career, he
knew something about which he could do nothing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“Fouche!” Grayfield rammed a fist
against the high oak gate before them, rattling the ornate panels like loose
teeth. “Lâche! Venez affronter le peuple de France!”
Coward! Come and face
the people of France!

Silence greeted him. No sound from
the other side of the gray stone facade. Hooves clattered by on the street and
curious murmurs rose from passersby, but for all Ty could tell, the inside
might as well have been a tomb. Wind whistled through the gate, as if daring
them to enter.

Ethan planted his top hat back on
his head, readying for battle. Impatient lines creased his broad forehead,
pulling at the corners of piercing blue eyes. He stepped back and swung the pendulum
of his arm, passing sentence on the doorway. “Open it.”

Gendarmes scrambled, falling into
formation along either side of a stout log. It was fixed with three sets of
iron handles, equipped for no other purpose than force.

Ty watched the soldiers as they
formed up, acknowledging the barked orders. He wondered if they were seeing the
gendarmes’ cooperation for the last time. In a week, the men would answer to
the emperor. Considering the soldiers in the forest and the detachment that had
come for Philipe, he wondered if Grayfield had conscripted the last loyal men
in Paris.

The men drew backward at a
double-march, a trebuchet being tightened.

“Pret, greve!
” Ready, strike!

Forward at a gallop, the ram struck
with a shudder. Faces grimaced, arms tightened. They went out again like the
tide.

Pret, greve!

Splinters this time.

Pret, greve! Pret, greve!

One panel swung open, shivering.
The other tore half from its hinges, leaning and defeated. Ethan's men poured
over the threshold.

They passed through a stone arch on
the far side of the outer courtyard, a doorway guarded by a high iron gate. The
wooden one had been locked. Amusingly, this one stood ajar.

He had expected resistance. A
glance from Ethan said he had, too. Fouche's personal guard, servants. Something
was amiss. Still, he fully anticipated a trap.

All was still around them. Gravel
crunched beneath fourteen pairs of boots as they moved along a path between the
hedges and topiaries of the inner courtyard.

The house reminded him of a fancy
mantle clock. Weathered limestone ledges gave perch to carved nymphs and heroes
that watched their approach with unblinking eyes. The high windows were laid in
neat rows all the way to a steep lead roof, and all were empty and dark. No
faces peered out to track their progress. No servants went running to warn
their master.

Staring up at the chateau's high
Baroque facade, Ty suddenly shared Olivia's disgust for the Republic. Men like
Fouche were content to live in the houses of the Ancient Regime. To hang its
art, walk its gardens, sit in its operas. Even imitate its opulent excess.

They just refused to be ruled by
its kings.

Soldiers flanked the low wide steps
in pairs, muskets presented, leading all the way up to the French doors. Ethan
grasped the handle and turned, swinging the door open to reveal a dimly lit
hall. Ethan swirled two fingers in the air, then pointed to the opening.
Soldiers fell into file, hustling nearly soundlessly into the house.

Drawing his pistol, Ty led Ethan in
the troop's wake. Black and white marble tiles fit into a diamond pattern,
creating an optical illusion which drew the eye to a sweeping spiral staircase
which tunneled overhead into a weak shaft of light. It made his head spin. On
each landing for as far as he could see hung masterwork paintings, but beyond
that, the house was fittingly austere for such a dour man. No art, little
decoration. Like Fouche himself, just shades of gray.

He and Ethan passed the staircase,
continuing into the hall. All pretense of stealth was abandoned now that they
controlled the house. Footsteps hammered on the floor above, the stop and start
of pistons as men searched the upper rooms.

They reached the first door. Ty
stopped, held up a hand, and Ethan nodded, drawing his own pistol. Turning the
knob, Ty pushed just until it unlatched. He waited a breath. Then with back
pressed to the wall he pushed the door with his toe, swinging it slowly open.

Darkness greeted them. It was a
study or an office, gauging by thin light spilling in from the hall. They
searched the room as if they’d practiced it a thousand times, Ty going left
while Ethan went right. He moved past a fireplace to behind a desk, looking in
every shadowy corner and under anything that might hide their quarry. Grayfield
snapped open two sets of curtains in turn, insuring no one hid behind them.

Ty flicked at papers on the desk.
“Interesting, but empty. We can come back to it in a moment.”

Nodding, Ethan led them back into
the hall.

They repeated their process on the
next two rooms, a formal parlor and a piano room. Each was as cheerless and as
empty as the last.

When they reached the last door Ty,
exhausted and frayed, grabbed the knob and threw it open.

His surprise, and Grayfield's,
reminded him of the dangers of complacency. This room was bright, compared to
everything they’d seen so far. Pale yellow curtains were drawn open, and
plaster work covered the walls in blues, pinks and golds. The parlor was cold,
chilled by an overcast day, and no fire burned in the hearth.

A shivering woman huddled on a silk
sofa, wearing a thin brown dress that was hardly fit to warm her. She was
young, perhaps thirty. Pretty, in an understated way, with glossy brown hair
and wide chocolate eyes that lent her a more exotic air than she could
otherwise have claimed. One small hand strangled a handkerchief while the
fingers of her other worried a chatelaine at her chest.

Ethan stepped past, into the room,
glancing side to side. “Madame?”

Swallowing hard, she nodded slowly.
To Ty it seemed more an acknowledgment that someone had spoken rather than an
answer to any question.

“Madame Fouche? Ernestine?”

She pressed the handkerchief at
swollen eyelids. “Oui.”

“Monsieur?” Ethan asked, still
searching the room.

Ernestine shook her head, eyes
welling. “No.”

They were too late.
Ty wanted
to yell, to slam his fist into the wall. They’d been so close. He dreaded
telling Olivia that Fouche had escaped.

Ethan had knelt before Ernestine.
“Where?”

A shrug. “He paced the house all
day yesterday. Waiting for a letter. Last night he put some things in a case.
Just a trip into town, he said.” A dam broke, and for a moment Ernestine sobbed
into her limp, much-used cloth. “This morning he sent everyone away. He said I
could not go with him.”

Ethan snapped to attention. “Where?
How long ago?”

“At dawn,” she sobbed. “His trunk
banged the wall. It woke me.”

Ty pulled his watch. “It's eleven.
He could be anywhere.”

“And yet, he is not. He wouldn't go
far with his emperor so close at hand.” Ethan looked Ernestine over, then
sighed.

Ty understood the gesture. The
woman was a mouse, timid on a good day, and terrified right now. Fouche
probably didn't trust her with a key to the good silver, let alone any
information of import.

Ethan reached into his coat pocket,
producing their warrant. “Your husband is under arrest, Madame. Wherever he is.
You will remember this, if he contacts you.”

Ernestine began to cry again, well
before Ethan had finished speaking. Ty fished in his trousers pocket for his
own handkerchief, stepping forward and holding it out to her. As he stepped
back, a suspiciously formed shadow to the right of the couch caught his
attention as it shifted over a Persian rug beneath the sofa.

Snapping his fingers at Ethan, Ty
pointed over the back of the couch. Ethan stood and clutched his pistol at the
ready, and Ty circled around the sofa and a weeping Ernestine.

A small part of his mind half
expected to find Fouche behind the sofa, but he immediately dismissed the idea.
Ernestine didn’t seem capable of that sort of deception. What, or rather
who
he found nearly broke his heart.

A girl, perhaps ten years old,
huddled behind the furniture. She hugged her knees through lavender silk
skirts, trying and succeeding to look even smaller than she was. When she
realized Ty had found her, she looked up with wide blue eyes as red-rimmed as
Ernestine's. Ty returned his pistol to his waistband and held out a hand.
“Come. There's nothing to worry over here. Come and sit with your mama.”

She was deceptively tall when she
stood up. Her face was a doll-like oval, rounded and sweet, but there was a
straightness to her nose and a shape to her eyes that was undeniably her
father's. Despite looking nothing like her, she reminded him of Olivia, and
Ty's heart ached.

“Pauline.” Ernestine's arms formed
a little circle, and she gathered the child, pulling Pauline to her side. She
glanced between him and Ethan. “Pauline is monsieur’s daughter, sir.”

Fouche had thought enough to
dismiss his household staff, but had left his wife and daughter behind to face
the retribution he'd surely known was coming. It was disgusting, and
characteristic. He probably expected them to sit and wait calmly for his
return, whenever that might be. Around the time of Napoleon's arrival, Ty
surmised. The casual arrogance he felt for their efforts, and that of his
family’s fate, was despicable. Ty clenched his fist.

“What...” Ernestine glanced to her
step-daughter, and cleared her throat. “What will happen to us?”

He raised a hand to reassure the
pair. “Calm yourselves. You've done nothing wrong. As Mister Grayfield has
instructed, if you hear from Monsieur Fouche, you are to report it to the
police at once.”

Ernestine rubbed her eyes, looking
tired and confused. “But only for a few days more, no?”

Ethan shook his head, concern writ
across his brow. “Meaning what, Madame?”

“When the emperor returns. Joseph
says it will be a week or so. Then what should I do?”

The realization hit Ty like a punch
in the gut. The last four days had been a blur. A fight to outdo Fouche, even a
fight for survival. He hadn't stopped to appreciate that if they did not subdue
the police minister now, it would be too late. Thalia capturing them might have
been her undoing, but it had it also bought Fouche the time he needed to flee.

Their efforts, at least the most
direct ones, were at an end.

“Monsieur?” Ernestine sat forward,
clutching Pauline to her side. “What shall I do?'

Exchanging a glance with Ethan, he
shrugged. “What everyone else is doing, Madame. I suppose you should pray.”

*          *          *

Ethan rested a palm on his study
door, steadying himself to walk through. Major Burrell had left it to him,
delivering the bad news to Olivia. Not that he blamed Tyler. Her reaction was
bound to be biblical in fury, and they’d just been through a harder time than
any partnership he’d ever overseen. Taking a breath, he stepped in.

An unexpected presence in the study
caught his breath and brought a smile to his face in spite of his dire news.
His wife never failed to enchant him, no less breathtaking now than when they
had met two years earlier.

Sofie reclined in her chair across
from Olivia, petite figure presiding over her tea tray with the grace of a
queen. Her smile at his entrance washed away some of the day's misery. Gray
eyes clouded with a hint of something just for him, a passion that had drawn
them together from their first meeting.

He leaned in, brushing a kiss to
her temple, and swept away a few raven strands playing at her cheek. “You
arrived this morning?”

“Early. I stopped to see my father
at the consulate.” She reached out and squeezed Olivia's bandaged hand.
“Though, had I known I would find such good company, I would have come
directly.”

Olivia grimaced. “I think you are
very generous with the phrase
good company
.” Her eyes widened, and she
sat up, so suddenly that the tea table swayed perilously close to tipping. She
searched an empty hall at his back. “Where is Tyler?”

“At ease, Olivia. He has gone home
to rest and see to his wounds. On my orders. Burning the safe house took a bit
more doing than I had anticipated, for such a dry old house.”

She would see it in his face.
Olivia, one of the most perceptive people he had ever met, would not miss the
signs. “He sent you to bear the bad news.”

Sofie got up, circling, seating
herself beside Olivia while he claimed the empty chair.

“He didn’t send me, I volunteered.
No food and no sleep in three days; I couldn’t allow him anything but rest.”
After Olivia’s mysterious letter and their trials of the last few days, Ethan
was happy to take the proverbial bullet and spare the major her wrath.

He steeled himself, took a deep
breath. “Fouche was gone when we arrived. His wife and child were present, but
no one else.”

Olivia inhaled, the longest breath
he'd ever seen anyone take, as though she were silently screaming in reverse.
She blew it out slowly, between barely parted lips. For a moment he was afraid
of her. He almost felt badly for Joseph Fouche.

“How? When?”

“We surmise he must have had an
arrangement with the baroness. She was supposed to write or rendezvous when she
had taken care of…” Ethan caught himself. “When matters were settled at
Vincennes. When she failed to show, it was likely an agreed-upon signal to her
handler that something had gone wrong. He fled at dawn, we know not where.” He
ground his teeth in frustration. “If Whitehall had given me enough men to watch
his residence… As it is, counting the major, we comprise the British
intelligence presence for all of Paris. Everyone else has been recalled ahead
of Napoleon’s arrival.”