Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (5 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Olivia looked from the torn scrap
of paper between her trembling fingers to the crumbling building, then back
again. Perhaps the '1' was a '7'. Her handwriting was always something of a
mess when she hurried.

The houses might have been
renumbered; Napoleon's bureaucracy enjoyed putting its own meaningless stamp on
the city now and then. Glancing down both sides of the street, she was
disappointed to have her theory dashed away.

She willed the derelict house
before her to be a clerical error and not another broken thread, but there was
only so much make-believe one could indulge in a Paris alley, hem steeped in
the gutter and skin gnawed by winter's chill.

Madame Bardine had been the last
person to set eyes on her parents’ bodies with any certainty. If she had ever
lived at 21 Rue Valen, the dressmaker was long gone. She'd left shortly after
their murders, judging by crumbling gray stone forming the house’s burned-out
shell. An indeterminate mix of mud and horse manure heaped against a splintered
door which hadn't been opened in recent history. A pot-bellied black rat
lumbered across the span of an eroded windowsill, paused to eye her curiously, and
then dropped into the wet muck at her feet. He was not intimidated, and by his
size, Olivia was not surprised.

He pawed at something, grabbing it
with hooked teeth. As the rat dragged it into the light, he revealed a mangled
door mouse, its carcass abused by something larger, probably an ally cat. The
rat tugged its nearly decapitated prize, waddling for a hole at the base of the
steps.

First tears pricked her eyes, and
then she laughed. Irony so thick could only be tolerated with laughter;
otherwise she'd go mad. A giant rat consuming its helpless, near headless prey
was too symbolic to be taken seriously by any rational mind. It had been
Paris's story for nearly thirty years.

Hers too.

Steeling her heart and stiffening
her face, she went back the way she had come through the alley. Batting away
disappointment for what seemed like the thousandth time, she weaved between
splintered crates, mounds of tattered clothes, discarded food, and animal
entrails writhing with the slick bodies of more rats. The stench was held in
check, barely, by the cold and was made more offensive in the absence of a
black, buzzing cloud to warn of each slimy gray heap.

She was glad that Ty had gone out
for the night. No matter how she fortified herself on days like today, reaching
a dead end was always crushing. Ty would want to cheer her, tease her. In any
other circumstance he'd be welcomed, even effective. But not today; today she
wanted only to be left alone.

*          *          *

La Porte Estate, Paris – February 14
^th
, 1815

It was a tangle, the life of an
agent. Ty often forgot that, away with the army. His existence there was easy,
ordered, and even in battle mostly uncomplicated. Despite that, he still got
the hang of espionage again quickly enough any time he was recalled by
Whitehall. He had to; it was a matter of life and death. Like the army, spying
had rules for everything: Never leave by the same path you entered. Whenever
possible, convert an adversary to an asset. Do not be a creature of habit. No
spy should ever have public routines; those were observable, actionable by an
enemy agent. Private habits, though, were the lifeblood of espionage. And just
as with the army, thorough reconnaissance and sound preparation nearly assured
success.

Rules for everything, he amended,
until something went wrong. Then damn the rules, and every man for himself.

Ty was
not
exactly thinking
any of these things. He had tried, since realizing and then regretting that he
was awake. A noise Olivia had made while getting out of bed roused him and put
their assignment into his head. That might have started a domino effect of
brilliant musings, except that all clarity slammed abruptly into a wall of last
night's gin. Meaningful thoughts stuck in its haze, while the rest of his
addled mind circled rudderless on down the stream.

La Porte
. His brain spit the
name as a curse.
Do come to my townhouse major. A sporting hand of cards,
major
. Philipe didn't speak that way, of course. It was just how the duke
sounded when Ty was cross with him. Then his friend became an insipid dandy.

It happened whenever they spent an
evening out together: One gentleman's club became three. Two hands of whist
stretched into an hour of wagers. A waterfall of champagne flowed into brandy
and then something stronger. He awoke with a heavier head, lighter pockets and,
from time to time, his clothes gone. Stolen, probably. He certainly hadn't
given
permission
for anyone, no matter how comely, to take his garments.
Had he?

Creature of habit
. Perhaps
he should examine his
routine
with La Porte more carefully.

Ty rubbed his eyes, groaning at
drapes pulled cruelly wide. Olivia had no doubt arranged them with the
intention of punishing him. Horrid woman. He'd set her straight once he was
above the sheets and cured by a hair of the dog.

Now his routine began.

He washed head to toe and shaved.
Teeth brushed, nicks dabbed, cologne splashed. Always the good sort; no telling
who you might encounter on the street. Seville orange and bergamot, lemon zest
and a hint of cedar, mixed up by his man in Jermyn Street back in London.
Buckskin breeches snug, linen shirt pressed, navy jacket hemmed precisely to mid-thigh;
people took notice, the sort of people he and Olivia wanted to attract. Cravat
tied at the height of fashion, he kept a shelf in the wardrobe stacked with
lengths of starched linen just for the purpose. Calf-high boots were always
brushed to a mirror shine. Beaver top hat, kid gloves. Pocket watch, calling
cards, and a handkerchief. A tin of Esselman's beeswax lip balm, a necessity if
seduction was required. Then came his other tools: pistols, pen knife, a card
of lock picks and choking powder.

This at least was a world apart
from his life with the army. In the field, black powder grit perpetually caked
beneath his nails. His shirt was colored off-white from smoke, sweat and days
of wear, rolled to the elbows with his coat abandoned to keep its red wool
something like clean.

A different life, a different
person. Sometimes he nearly lost track.

Ty gave himself a once-over in the
glass. Gloves in hat, at last he was ready to go down.

He had never observed Olivia's
routine, not at any length. The thought occurred without warning, on his
jarring sojourn down the staircase. Given that she rose at least an hour
earlier than he did, Ty wagered it was extensive. Observed or no, its results
were lost on him.

A sweet musk of vanilla and
something rich like cognac hung in their chamber long after she'd gone,
whispering to him the moment his eyes opened. Her skin when it brushed his was
supple, marking him with a scent of roses. Gold waves clung to her crown in a
mound of curls nothing short of an architectural feat. Silk head to toe every
day, just as she was clad now, crossing the hall. Buttery primrose sheathed her
arms and gathered at her breasts, then fell from her waist to brush the floor
behind her.

He rushed the last step, loping
just quickly enough to catch a ribbon at her waist as she passed into the
dining room. Pinching it, he tugged to stop her progress.

She snatched it from his hand,
glancing around the room to insure that they were alone. “If you wanted to
undress me, major, you've missed your opportunity for the day.” A smile bent
her throaty challenge.

He countered with a wink. “The day
is young, mademoiselle.” He had been partnered with Olivia long enough to know
she was immune to his charms. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t make a satisfying
challenge.

She leaned in, faltering his next
breath. “Conserve your strength for a more agreeable target. We have real work
to do.”

He watched the graceful way in
which she managed eggs onto her plate, not envying her work day. His half of
their partnership was encryption and reconnaissance, and it was all simple
enough. There was a back door, or there was not. It was kept locked, or it wasn't.
The butcher's boy reached the corner punctually at three, or he was not always
on time. A convenient window left open, a rope just where you needed it; a
receipt for candles which was anything but.

Olivia did real, laudable work.
Paralytics, poisons. Disguises, forgery. A brilliant actress who fooled
everyone, from time-to-time him included.

He spared a glanced behind them,
then speared two pieces of thick bacon. “Are we the last two souls in the
house?”

Pouring coffee from a steaming
silver pot, Olivia set a full cup in front of him, trading it for the empty one
near his plate. “Madame Ordbrande,” she offered without needing further
explanation.

“Tonight. Of course.”
Madame
had just returned from Sweden, newly-minted mistress of a prince, with heaps of
his gold in her purse. Everyone in the house would sleep late, dine late, and
prepare rigorously for a five-hour stretch of debauchery. Her fete tonight was
quite the thing in many circles, their current hosts included.

A flash of sunlight caught on the
coffee pot's sterling belly, and Ty winced, shielding his eyes a moment. “Why
is every drape in the house open!”

Squinting, Olivia examined him with
narrowed eyes, then returned to her toast. “I thought you didn't imbibe while
traveling
.”

'Traveling' was their innocuous
code word for 'spying'. He knew what she was asking: was their mission safe
from intoxicated lips, and was he fit for duty
now?

Frowning, he drained bitter liquid
from his coffee cup, ignoring a burn from tongue to throat. “I do not, except
with a particular friend.”

“Friend?” Olivia raised her eyes,
regarding him through steam from her own delicate mug.

“Friend,” he insisted
halfheartedly, wondering at any friendship that left him feeling the way he did
now.

“Friend,” she repeated, nodding and
scraping a last dainty bite from her plate. “Does he have horns and cloven
hooves, perchance?”

He put a finger on each side of his
head, poking them up until she snorted with laughter. “In fact, he does.” He
would take her bait and enjoy getting the better of her.

Long, slender fingers lifted her
plate and she set it aside with the grace of a queen, smile beatific. “Perfect.
I'm certain he finds your life a cautionary tale.”

Conceding her point, he chuckled
while she refilled his cup.

He should feel more gratitude for
Olivia and her sunny disposition. They had been forced together, after all. She
could have been boorish or sour. Or continually eager for a round of
arm-wrestling, like his last
female
Prussian asset. He'd been lucky to
be paired with Olivia. She was witty and engaging, serious about her work. And
beautiful; he could acknowledge it even if she was spoken for. He could still
enjoy his view across the table. As partners went, he’d fared pretty well. By a
teasing light in her eyes as she studied him now, he hoped the feeling was
mutual.

Once breakfast was over, they began
the next portion of their routine. Olivia doled out papers between them:
Swedish, French, Prussian, British. All were equally divided, and then they
began to comb. Gossip column fragments which might hint at a target's
whereabouts or plans. Messages from other agents buried in the script of an
advertisement for gout liniment. Political dark clouds signaling trouble on the
horizon.

Olivia gasped, leaning in closer to
her paper as though proximity would help her absorb whatever she had read.
“Lady G.F. succumbs to
criminal
affection
for Ld. M. Lady G.F.
now in a delicate
condition.”

Ty knew first hand this was
not
assignment-related information. “Not his bastard.” He didn't bother looking up;
he could feel Olivia's gaze burning the disregard from his face.

“You sound markedly confident.”

He shrugged. “I am. She did not
hand me my walking papers for 'Lord M.'” He met Olivia's eyes, wiggling brows
for her amusement. “Now, the man for whom she truly abandoned me...
that
would be considered 'criminal'.” He had liked Georgiana, liked her a great
deal. They had enjoyed one another for the better part of a year, and her
sudden rejection had stung much more than it should.

Olivia tossed her paper aside,
arching back into her chair and raising her breasts with no regard for a
captive audience. Gathered yellow silk strained at her effort, dipping lower
over ivory skin. Biting his lip, Ty redoubled efforts to focus on a sunspot
lighting the wall behind her.

“Strange that someone would call
you out for
saying
so. But publish it here,” she tapped a sheet of
print, “and they'll not object to
reading
it.”

“Well, no, of course not,” he
quipped. “Gossip is for the downstairs. Reading is for the
educated
classes.”
It was a tender subject for a man who hailed from somewhere in between.

He began to match her laugh, then
caught a faint tap of shoes on the staircase out in the hall. “Quick,” he
whispered, “Company is coming.”

Olivia might take ultimate pleasure
in her headboard ruse, but he lived for these moments. Every opportunity to pay
attention to a beautiful woman was welcome. Jumping to his feet, he came
halfway around the table's round top. Planting one palm against the marble, the
other at her nape he brought his lips to the perfumed hollow beneath her ear.
The smooth pads of her fingers brushed sensitive skin along his jaw, and Ty
steeled himself.