by Baird Wells
Boots crunched the gravel three or four carriages back, and they weren't stopping to check them. He was coming. She wrestled with the carriage blanket, trying not to jostle the springs, mounding the heavy stinking gray wool over herself.
She held her breath a little each time she inhaled, working to slow her pace and keep quiet.
The footsteps grew closer, drawing to an abrupt stop outside her carriage. She felt the cab tip down on the right side, under his weight leaning in through the window.
“Chase is up. Come on out.” His voice was deep and silky, inviting her to comply.
He was bluffing. There was no way he could know for certain that she was in that particular carriage. Olivia stayed quiet under the blanket, willing her limbs to complete stillness.
There were a few more steps. She dared hope for a moment that she had fooled him. Then the cab bounced with a light rhythm for a moment, and there was a tearing sound, like fabric ripping.
Whatever he was doing, she was genuinely nervous. An oblique attack made it harder to prepare. She tensed, preparing at last to flee.
The blanket snapped up without warning, frigid night air biting at her damp skin. An arm poked in through the small door, dangling a jagged strip of her crimson velvet hem.
His gaze fixed her, a triumphant lift to his blond brows. Blue eyes. She could see that now, an arms-length apart and not distracted by his mouth on hers.
“You left this outside the carriage,” he informed her, words dripping with smugness.
Olivia groaned. She must have shut it in the door in her hurry to climb in. Still tensed to bolt she sat up, but his droll tone cut her hope off at the knees.
“Don't bother.” He shook the fabric again. “I used the other half to secure the door behind you.”
His mouth formed an arrogant curve on one side, and he raked his fingers at her. “Let's have them. All of them, and no adders or poisoned blades. It's time I was on my way, unless you're up for an encore.” His eyes fell meaningfully to her lips, and her face burned against the cold. Damn his cockiness. And his good looks.
Sometimes it was important to know when you should retreat, regroup, and he was blocking her only escape route. She could claw and stab, but his stouter frame had her trapped in the cab's small space. Fighting him would be a battle of attrition and probably a losing effort. Surrender now was a kind of self-preservation allowing her to continue the fight another day.
She knew him, knew his face. It was too handsome and distinctive to blend into a crowd. She would see him again. She would find him; she was very good at her work.
At least he had the decency to look away while she peeled the sweat-dampened papers from her bodice. He plucked them up regally with the arrogant self-assurance of a conqueror. There was some retort brewing on his lips behind that infuriating grin, no doubt the quip of a poor winner. When he opened his mouth, all that came out was the unmistakable click-click of a pistol being cocked.
The Fox's wide eyes said he had heard it too; perhaps felt its cold barrel pressed to him.
Another voice reached her from outside in the dark, filtered, but not enough to miss its razor edge. “I will take those. Turn – slowly, major! No reason to rush and upset anybody.”
Major? Olivia looked him up and down from her place behind him, nearly laughing at the genius of his ruse. He had been wearing his actual uniform.
“That's quite far enough. Letters, please, and anything else of interest you may have.”
She tried to place the stranger's voice, but it was still muffled. When her Fox, hands held up, turned and she could see past him, it became clear why. Their newcomer was dressed for the masquerade in a costume she must have seen on twenty other men. Anonymous black silk, his face concealed and mouth wrapped with a heavy sash.
He took the letters, absorbing them into the folds of his cloak. “I commend you both. This evening has been a challenge from start to finish.”
Start to finish? Who was he?
Waving his pistol with the ease of a fan, he directed the Fox in beside her.
Olivia felt the heat of his body, caught a hint of citrus she recalled from the hollow of his throat. She scooted over, not meeting the major's eyes.
“I cannot have you summoning anyone waiting inside, and I certainly do not need the likes of you two,” said the stranger, waving the barrel between her and her companion, “nipping at my heels.”
Their captor pulled down the shade and shut the door with a final snap that gave her some relief. At least he didn’t seem set on shooting them. There was a rustle, and then the night was quiet.
Finally, she exchanged a glance with the major, who only raised a brow.
“A friend of yours?” she drawled.
Without answering, he drove a boot into the door, throwing it open and snapping whatever had held it shut. He vaulted out; there was no voice, no gunshot. Peering past him to the outside, the only evidence she could find of the stranger was his silk cape pooled on the driveway.
Short bursts of footsteps echoed back to her. The major was running between carriages, checking each one on a path back toward the house.
Now was her chance. When he finished looking for the stranger, he would turn his attention on her. Olivia slipped from the cab and the moment he leaned inside another window, she turned on her heel and fled.
* * *
Paris Whitehall offices – January 5th, 1815
Ty paused at a sturdy brown door, hand on the knob, and took a breath. To say he was dreading the conversation he was about to have would be an understatement. His superior, Lord Ethan Grayfield, was not just Whitehall's chief spymaster. He was a major, and a highly-decorated veteran of the Peninsula. He expected his orders to be carried out on the battlefield and in the shadows. He demanded success. Grayfield was not going to be pleased at the missing letters.
Taking one more breath, he pushed open the door and stepped in.
The room's absolute plainness struck him every time. It could have belonged to anybody; a simple oak desk and matching credenza standing completely anonymous. A sea of papers fanned both surfaces, few names and little to identify their purpose to the average person. If Lord Grayfield disappeared tomorrow, his replacement could be installed before lunchtime with minimal fuss. The only exception was a painting of a lighthouse, its bold lines of black, white and crimson hung prominently behind his desk in stark contrast. It was a gift from Ethan’s wife, and to Ty’s knowledge the only personal possession the man could claim in all of France.
Grayfield stood at his entrance. “Major Burrell. Have a seat.”
He saluted. “Sir.” Moving to take his usual spot in the guest chairs at Grayfield's desk, it dawned on him that one was already occupied. Well occupied, he amended, when the lady stood up and turned around. He liked women of every variety, not willing to limit himself as some men did with narrow preferences. But as his tastes ran, Ty admitted the woman before him ranked near to perfect.
Upturned eyes narrowed, appraising him frankly. Her nose was prominent but graceful, like a statue's, drawing his gaze to full lips, the sort to make a man curious at testing their firmness.
Her green silk bonnet perched like a small flower garden on blonde curls which would hardly be contained. A velvet coat traced her curves, its color almost exactly mimicking the mossy shade of her eyes. ‘Lovely’ was a pale appellation.
Ethan swept a hand at his breathtaking guest. “Major, I beg leave to introduce you to Miss Olivia Fletcher.”
“Olivia will do,” she added softly.
Ty bowed, recovering himself. “On the contrary, it is I who should beg you, Lord Grayfield.” He raised his hat to Miss Fletcher, meeting her eyes, but there was no sign she'd heard his compliment. She stared unblinking while silence stretched between them, near to snapping. Then she fell into her chair, presenting him with her back.
Snob.
Ty grunted and moved to the chair beside her. Dropping to the cushion, he fought a natural urge to k
ick his boots up onto the desk. It was a bad habit he indulged on campaign and one Grayfield would not tolerate.
“Major, I am certain you know why you are here,” Ethan began unnecessarily.
Ty glanced at Olivia, placid beside him. Were they truly going to discuss the particulars in front of a civilian? “Respectfully sir, I would not wish to bore Miss Fletcher with the details of my visit.”
She had faced forward, still as a doorpost since sitting, but now she snapped to face him. For the first time he noted a thin, crescent-shaped cut beneath her left eye. Ty frantically combed the catalog of his brain. Her gaze was expectant, and Ty had the sense everyone in the room was aware of something he was not.
When it dawned on him, he groaned: It was a cut that exactly mirrored the curved edge of a mask.
She had seen his face but managed to keep her own concealed right up until she'd disappeared into the night. He slapped the desk and jabbed a finger at her. “Austrian? Russian? Who sent you ahead of me for those damned letters?”
Her mouth snapped open, but Grayfield’s laughter cut her reply. “I did.” He raked a hand through his sweep of black hair. “In fact, I sent you both.”
Olivia animated beside him, bracing her hands on the desk and coming half out of her seat. “You? We nearly killed each other!”
“Nearly. You are both mostly whole,” quipped Grayfield, unruffled.
Ty did not appreciate being toyed with, not when he'd proven himself a hundred times over. His hackles rose. “If we've reached a place where you feel the need to test my loyalty-”
Ethan raised a hand, cutting him off. “Quite the opposite, major. I have an assignment that requires a pair, a team. I believed you two would work well together and I was not disappointed.”
He looked to Olivia who smiled for the first time, dropping his heart by two ribs. Memory intruded, the feel and shape of them against his own. He shifted in his seat.
“The Fox, outfoxed,” she teased.
Mischief in her words quickened his pulse, but it was tempered by disappointment. “It doesn't matter. We still lost the letters.”
Blue eyes dancing, Ethan clasped a hand over his mouth to muffle his voice. “I certainly do not need the likes of you two nipping at my heels!” Their mutual gasp pulled the air from the room. He reached into his jacket, producing Fouche's letters.
Exchanging a dubious glance with Olivia, Ty squinted, struggling to believe what he was seeing. Then he grinned at Ethan. “You clever bastard.”
“Major.” Ethan frowned, pointing to Olivia who was still fixed on the letters. “There is a lady present.”
She answered with an unladylike snort and went on staring in disbelief at their prize. “Unbelievable,” she whispered.
Ethan smiled his approval. “You both succeeded, and I hope you bear no hard feelings.”
Ty found himself the victim of Olivia's accusing finger. “He shoved me off of a wall.”
He could hardly believe her nerve. “She lit the house on fire!”
“Iron out your differences now,” ordered Grayfield. “You will be close enough to suffocate each other during your time in Paris.”
Ty settled deeper into his chair, studying Olivia in profile. Things were looking up. “I'm equal to the challenge.”
She shrugged, looking just as at ease. “I can think of worse ways to pass the springtime in France.”
Then, she winked.
CHAPTER ONE
Paris – February 10th, 1815
At well past three in the morning, most of the guests on the Comte d'Bregnon's estate outside of Paris were in their bedchambers, but they were hardly asleep. Their ears turned eagerly at sounds echoing from the apartments of a handsome, young English diplomat.
Many a suspicious brow had been raised at dinner and afterward at cards. How closely he had leaned in to the pretty blonde! Asking her name, and how she was enjoying the country. Whispers passed from lips to ear among the guests while he recited a poem, eyes lingering on his prey between each stanza. Knowing glances spread like wildfire when the pretty miss went to take in the evening air, and her admirer slipped out onto the terrace after. The pair had been less discreet hours later when the lady retired to bed. An indecently short moment passed before the gentleman had loped up the staircase after her.
The guests smirked and giggled beneath their quilts. What they heard now from the chamber at the end of the hall was unmistakably a tryst; what reason did they have to think otherwise? Enthusiastic moans tempered a bed's creaking protest, both stating the obvious.
If they could peer inside the room, however, their feelings on the matter would have been quite different.
* * *
“Oh, ohhh!” On her knees, Olivia banged their headboard into the wall twice more, choking down a laugh. “Yes! Oh, yes!”
Ty's head turned toward her from under their ivory quilt, and he cracked one eye. “Everyone at dinner thinks they know how much brandy I consumed. Time for a finale, if you wish to keep it believable.”
He was no fun. She rolled her eyes, rhythmically striking wood into plaster. “This is supposed to be our first night as lovers. You truly want people to believe the king's fireworks last longer?” She paused to moan. “How will your reputation ever recover?”
Chuckling, Ty rolled onto his back. “This isn't my first visit to Paris. My reputation is in no danger.” He winked.
She ignored him, redoubling her efforts. “Oh, ohh...” She jabbed him with a foot. “Some help?”
His sigh was dramatic. “Fine.” Ty offered a loud, half-hearted groan, and she banged the wall one last time.
Falling to the mattress, she doubled up with laughter, gasping for breath. Clutching her chest, she grinned at Ty. “I will never get tired of that.”
“Hmph.”
He pretended to be grumpy, but she knew better. They'd been partners long enough that he didn't fool her anymore. Nearly two months; not long enough for most people to feel acquainted, but she and Ty weren't most people. Good instincts told one a great deal about a person, and they both had good instincts.
She wriggled under the heavy damask quilt and turned to face Ty, lowering her voice to a hush. “How many days, do you think?” They were waiting for a chance at getting their hands on coveted intelligence. Their ruse as lovers got them noticed, made them exciting and elicited invitations which moved them ever closer to their target. Mostly they were waiting for a go-ahead from their contact, the Duc de la Porte, a signal that the time was right.
Ty shrugged, staring up at the canopy. “Three, perhaps,” he whispered back. “A week at most. La Porte expects word from his man any time now.”
“Perfect. I told John I would be a fortnight longer.” She fiddled with the naked space on her third finger, absent its engagement band, wondering at a nervous pressure in her chest. Maybe it was how much more often she'd lied to John. Maybe it had been the grim line of his mouth, frustration and disappointment drawing up his features, when she had casually mentioned leaving for Paris again.
There had been a time when she wouldn't have hesitated to call their relationship comfortable. John respected her wishes, her space, or so she thought. But they still hadn't set a date, made a single arrangement. An opera, the park; they were content in each other's company, but did they truly seek it out? John was handsome, stern and confident in an attractive way that made her believe there was more beneath the surface, but it rarely boiled over. They kissed, and hands dared inside shirts and necklines. Still, she had the sense that if it never happened again, he wouldn't be much bothered. She'd started to wonder if they were comfortable, or mechanical.
“He grants you a good deal of latitude. What did you tell him this time?” asked Ty.
“That someone found information about my parents. Which is true,” she sighed. “Partly.” Espionage was all measurements, of consoling one's self not with the truth, but with how much of the truth one was able to tell. With John it hadn't been much lately.
&
nbsp; “I can't fathom how you manage your work, with him dangling after you back home.”
She dodged his question with one of her own. “It can't be any easier for you. What about your lady with the army?”
“That ship has sailed, and for the very reason I wonder at your engagement. Kate was clever enough to perceive that I hold something in reserve.” He sighed and closed his eyes, wriggling deeper into the mattress and signaling that the conversation was over. “Life is simple for me. All my love is unrequited.” He softened his bitterness with a smile. “Except the army. She is a faithful mistress.”
Looking at him now, she had a hard time believing Ty's romantic field was as barren as he claimed.
Silent, she watched him in the lamplight until his breathing grew slow and even. It had been just two months; she forgot that, when Ty plied her with his easy charm and some nameless quality that whispered for her to trust him. His integrity struck her as unshakable, making his physical charms that much more appealing. Not that help was necessary. Ty's face was made to catch a lady's attention, his body made to keep it. Tall and athletic, he lacked a pampered softness common in so many men of the Quality.
Olivia shook her head, casting away the thought, realizing her gaze had paused too long on Ty's broad forehead and tousled blond hair. And on his lips. She remembered how they felt, firm against her own, leading with the skill of a dancer.
Enough. She had no business continuing down that path. Her relationship with John was complicated already. Besides, Ty wasn't any different, no more special, than other men.
At least that's what she told herself at times like these. Personal attachment aside, relations between agents was forbidden. Reprimand, dismissal and on rare occasion stricter punishment was meted out by Whitehall. Dalliances created attachments which caused an agent to lose perspective, betray one another and risk exposing the entire operation. Assignments were sometimes all she had, all that kept her mind occupied against darker thoughts. They brought her to France, affording her opportunity to find her parents and free her native country. Her fiancé aside, Tyler Burrell, however tempting, was not worth the risk.