Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2)

by Baird Wells

  Wriggling deeper into the mattress, she settled eyes on darkened window panes. Espionage meant playing all sorts of roles. Actress, courtesan, whore, blushing innocent. Her first encounter with Ty had been as an adversary, and she had treated him no differently than any other. Anything she'd had to do in the past shouldn’t bother her now.

  He jabbed her shoulder. “Put out that lamp so I can get some rest, now that you've exhausted me. Unless you're not finished,” he murmured through a yawn.

  Chuckling, she tucked away her guilt and reached out to turn down the lamp. Olivia reminded herself that at least two things were true in her existence of lies: She was stuck with Major Ty Burrell, and their partnership was complicated.

  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 14th, 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 sh
e 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.

  These moments. These were the times which required a spy's every ounce of discipline and self-control. It was only an assignment, merely a diversion to fool bystanders into trusting what they saw. Olivia certainly did not have some inexplicable hold on him in these moments. He was tired, cranky and too long without the attentions of a lady. That was all.

  Her influence over him since the comte's masquerade was another matter entirely.

  Creature of habit, indeed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Their safe house was the last building at a Y-shaped intersection between the Rue Durantin and Rue Ravignan. High and narrow, an anvil wedged at the end of the block, tiny balconies ringed each floor like teeth. Its yellowed limestone was as dusty and weathered as any other building on the surrounding three streets, but the walk out front was clear of litter and manure. The step was swept clear of leaves in the fall and snow in the winter, all to keep the house looking tidy and lived-in.

  All of this was owing to Monsieur Beltran, the caretaker. He came two or three times a week when the house was unused, conspicuous in his black-and-white striped jacket. He tipped a hat to the ladies, nodding to children spinning their hoop down the street. The man was a fervent Royalist, his history as forgotten over time as his face. He'd been the king's valet once, according to Whitehall, and his loyalty still burned bright. When whispers had spread throughout the underground of Britain's espionage of her need for a native Frenchman to aid with simple but vital tasks undermining Napoleon, Beltran had been the first to leave a brief, neatly printed introduction on the desk at the Hotel d'Arblay. It was no more than a hotel frequented by wealthy tourists, as far as most people knew. Beltran had obviously known better.

  His routine in tending the safe house was kept in meticulous detail, the mark of a good valet. A wonder of domestic organization, Beltran maintained a nondescript brown leather journal. It was stored in a drawer of the console table in the entry hall, where Ty had discovered it a day earlier. Its spine was nearly worn white on each side from a thumb and forefinger, updated faithfully upon his every visit for two years. There was no one to directly oversee Beltran's efforts, no steward or chamberlain, but should one appear tomorrow, Ty had no doubt that the man could acquit himself as a hard worker.

  Ty had seen Beltran tending the house once or twice while in Paris on business other than Whitehall's. Beltran made a show of going in
the door, of coming back out a moment to tap his boots off on the step or shake some dust from a table cover, making certain the people on the street caught sight of him. There was a little chart, a separate sheet of vellum folded and tucked inside his log, establishing a rotation for the lighting of lamps so that different parts of the house were illuminated in turn. Beltran's activities were itemized with costs, in order to account for his allowance from Whitehall.

  Evening meal at M. Denair's tavern, 3s.

  Napped on sofa after reading the daily papers – purchase, 1s.

  Bed linens sent out to monthly laundry, 10s.

  Elbows resting atop his desk, Ty thumbed each page, squinting curiously at the next column. He was tucked into one corner of the formal parlor, leaned over a wide oak desk littered with half finished work. Three shelves set into the wall above him were no less cluttered, much, he imagined, to the constant anxiety of poor Beltran who'd been instructed not to arrange them. Light was scarce despite it being early afternoon in the outside world. Curtains of the first floor rooms, excepting the dining room, were never opened for any reason. Ivory silk drapes covered the panes, sandwiching heavy wool blankets that dissuaded even the most prying sets of eyes.

  As it had so many times today, his gaze wandered to Olivia, seated before a round card table. Its coarse white canvas drape was stained all sorts of browns and boasted more than one char-edged burn. He waved the journal to gain her attention. “Do you ever wonder at Monsieur Beltran?”