by Baird Wells
With a glance to the iron and glass framework overhead, he wondered at the number of spiders waiting to descend.
He would stop complaining about the venue; he would also be vigilant.
Philipe settled himself into a little wrought iron chair. Fashionable and entirely uncomfortable, it exactly matched the lacy scroll pattern of a round table around which they'd gathered. Why did Philipe always sit on Olivia's side? Not that round things had a side, but wasn't he awfully close to her? She was engaged, after all. Maybe Philipe needed reminding at cards tonight.
“First and foremost, Elena is not your enemy. Not in the usual sense, anyhow. No poisons. She would never engage you in any sort of hand-to-hand aggression.”
“Administrative?” asked Olivia.
Philipe nodded. “Entirely political. Have you ever seen one kitten in a hurry to outdo its litter mates to the cream? Climbing over heads, pawing to gain the lead. But the first moment another bats or hisses...” He smacked hands together.
Ty couldn't help rolling his eyes. “A kitten?”
Philipe grinned. “A tigress, in fact. But that is a conversation more suited for when you and I are alone.”
Touché. He glanced at Olivia, elbows on the table, both hands pressed to her mouth while she stared out through the glass. A hint of scarlet painted her cheekbones, and he swore she concealed a smile. He realized he was staring when Philipe cleared his throat.
“Elena is clever and determined. You won't get any easy admissions from her. Not without coaxing.”
He leaned into his chair, unable to let Philipe's words pass unremarked. “Spoken from experience?”
Philipe sat back and crossed his arms, one side of his mouth cocked up. “You know, major, you've ridden me a bit this morning regarding my amours. However, I recall you being smitten beyond reason on more than one occasion.”
“Is that so?” Olivia perked up, looking him over.
If La Porte gave her leverage, he would never outlive her teasing. He tapped her foot beneath the table. “Pipe down, Dimples.”
“What a stupid pair of roosters.” Olivia shook her head, a smile in her eyes betraying annoyance, bending her words. “Back to the matter at hand.” She tapped one slender finger against the table. “Routine, habits?”
“Her routine is fixed, practically set in stone. Elena has her inner circle, and she wants them to know where to find her at all times. Gardens on Tuesday, opera on Thursday. Invitations for everything go out weeks in advance.”
A very different sort of espionage than what he'd always known. She was a creature of habit, wanting to be found. Standing out, only blending in when she must. He glanced to Olivia. “Tomorrow is Thursday. Let's head to the opera, see what we can do to spot her.”
“She dresses only in black. Golden haired, pretty mouth, green eyes. Shouldn't be difficult, since you know what you're looking for,” offered Philipe.
He might have been describing Olivia. Ty studied her, then Philipe, wondering again at the pair's attachment.
Olivia’s smile was appreciative. “But very difficult, if the lady doesn't wish to be seen. Clever. How many people could pick out one woman in black from another?”
“Precisely,” said Philipe.
Ty gave their surveillance a brief moment of thought. “Olivia?”
“Yes, major?”
“Tomorrow, we are going out for the evening.”
Her wink caught his breath. “Yes, major.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chateau de LaPorte, Paris - February 21st, 1815
Ty leaned back against the wall, shoulder beside the doorway, and slid hands deeper into his pockets. “I am sorry.”
“Well, I'm still cross with you.” Olivia's voice echoed back from inside her bedchamber, punctuated by slamming drawers and something clattering against a table top. “You said we were going out.”
He had said that, and then wondered why it had taken Olivia nearly two hours of preparations in order to leave for routine surveillance. Their miscommunication had been apparent when she'd appeared on the staircase, fit for the royal opera and too beautiful to belong on his arm. For two people who lived by information, it was not their finest moment. It had taken half their ride to the opera for him to confess their purpose. Two days later, Olivia was still sour.
“Well, we did go out.” It was the wrong thing to say. He recognized that after the words were out by a frosty silence that followed. Helpless, he plowed ahead. “I suppose I did not clarify how far out.” To the carriage precisely, which went to the opera, and that was it. They sat inside the cab and watched. A breakdown in their relations could be traced to about that point in the evening.
“Only an absolute monster allows a lady to spend an hour on her hair just to sit in a horse-scented box.” She stepped out into the hall, smile giving her away, betraying the annoyance she'd used to torment him for twenty minutes. Not that he cared at the moment.
Black was entirely her color. A high collared velvet pelisse hugged her bosom, flaring at the waist. Where the coat parted in front, it revealed a silken gloss of black skirts. A black bonnet framed her oval face in contrast to her rosy lips and ivory skin.
“How do I look?”
Swallowing, he nodded slowly. “Good. Agreeable. You look...good.” And I sound like a bloody idiot.
She didn't seem to notice. “Desirable, since I'm actually getting out of the carriage this time.”
“Complaining, always complaining! We have an Irishman in the ranks.” He held out his arm to her.
She rested fingers on his sleeve. “Burrell sounds a bit Irish to my ears.”
“Then I know of what I speak.”
Her elbow caught his side. “Can we go now? My stockings are slipping already.”
“If I can be of service in any way...” He braced for a volley, only half teasing.
Instead, she grabbed his sleeve, jerking him toward the stairs. “I'll keep that in mind.”
* * *
Olivia hugged herself against the damp night, burrowing deeper inside their alcove on the side street. “Philipe isn't happy about our plan.”
Ty ducked his head around the corner from the shadows of the alley, getting a look up and down the street. “How unfortunate he did not have a better one.”
“He didn't exactly have a say in ours,” she protested. They hadn't left Philipe room for input. The bulk of the discussion may have consisted of Ty instructing Philipe to 'kiss his arse.’ She'd become too practiced at ignoring their ridiculous bickering to recall details.
Ty's head shook. “Forgive my lack of sympathy; La Porte having to entertain a beautiful woman for a few days. What a terrible burden.”
“Elena will be a captive, for all intents and purposes, and will probably not take it well. Philipe's position may be less enviable than you think.” It was only for a few days, until they had Talleyrand’s letters, but Elena could make that feel much longer were she inclined. Olivia decided she would not make things easy on him, under similar circumstances.
Ty raised on tip-toes, trying to see something further down the block. “I'd be happy to trade places, to test that theory.”
“Is this how it always goes with you two, tomcats screeching at one another?”
He smacked a fist into his palm, grinning. “Sounds about right. You should see me and Webb.”
Their prowess remained unmatched in their own minds. She shook her head, leaning forward to peer around him. “Anything yet?”
“No.”
She looked over her clothes again, feeling the first tinges of doubt at their plan. She could mimic Elena’s style, her walk, but she couldn’t make herself shorter or more Austrian. Pretending to be Elena Breunig from a distance just long enough to steal her information was feeling like a very long time, indeed.
Leaning farther out, she squinted against the lamps for a better view. The street ended at a mansion's high stone fence; one iron gate stood fixed to its posts stout as ever, the other torn fr
ee long ago and carried away for some other purpose. An overgrown drive rambled up to the house itself. She couldn't see it now, under a cloudy sky somewhere nearing midnight, but she'd been past enough times to have a rough image in her head. It was mostly unremarkable. Like the gate, parts of the facade had been torn free, reused elsewhere or destroyed out of malice. There was no one to stop it. Whoever owned the house had been exiled or executed long ago. A once protected sanctuary of the nobility was now a moldering shell. She did recall that the second floor balcony support was an elaborate coiling dragon. Strange that it was still there, given the care and artistry to its carving, and the mob's distaste for it.
They had followed Elena Breunig to the house for the second night in a row. Her visit last night had been brief. If Olivia guessed, she had not found what she'd expected on her arrival, and left by hired carriage almost as quickly as she'd come. Tonight, however, they had languished down the street for nearly two hours, gripped by dampness and a soft breeze, waiting. For what, she had no idea.
Ty, looking equally impatient for an answer, straightened. “Well, if we're taking her, we're taking her. I'm not convinced the time will be more right an hour from now than at this very moment.” He tugged on the brim of his hat. “Let's go.”
Grabbing the leather handle of her traveling bag, she followed Ty out into the street, glancing left and right for any sign they were being watched. They were on Paris's outskirts, a section more notoriously dilapidated than many others. There was little foot traffic, those who did travel the area at such an hour taking little interest in the activities of an anonymous man and woman. Those people scurried past, too engaged in a certain business of their own.
She raised skirts above the sticks and litter, taking cues from Ty's leaps and dodges through upturned cobblestones. Another time she would have worn something more practical. Their plan tonight required her switching places with the soon-to-be abducted countess, and that came with particular costume requirements. Working in a dress was torture. A day would come, she vowed, when ladies wore trousers.
When they passed the gate post, Ty ducked down and she followed suit. They stopped and watched, listening for any movement. Dry tree limbs rattled from the darkened yard. A barn owl betrayed them, announcing their approach, but there was no one to hear him as far as Olivia could tell. “Pistol?” she whispered.
Ty nodded and took off his hat, setting it on a low pile of bricks at their feet. “Loaded. Are you all set?”
Patting her coat, she indicated the blade beneath. “At the ready.”
She could hear his smile in the dark. “Then forward we march.”
When they reached the door, Ty rested his hand on the knob and turned. It didn't budge.
She was caught off guard. “Locked?”
“Mm.”
“Why would she lock it, if she were expecting someone?”
“Maybe they're coming in by another door,” he whispered. “The garden?”
“Or they have a key.” She stared at the weathered door, doubting herself. “Are we certain she went in?” She thought she knew what they'd seen, but it was hard not to wonder now.
Ty must have shared her doubts. He glanced overhead, took a half step back, and craned his neck. “Look at that.”
She followed his eyes. A thin band of gold was visible at the bottom of one window. Heavy curtains shut it away from eyes searching farther off. Standing directly below, the candlelight was plain as day.
“If there's light, she's in there. What she's about is another matter entirely,” he whispered.
She studied the yard, the porch, considering who might be coming and how they would enter. “I think we should use this door. It's locked, so there's less chance of its being watched from inside.”
“Agreed.” Ty had already dropped to his knees and was tugging a thin black leather case from his breast pocket. Easily mistaken for a bankbook, she knew its true identity: Ty's prized set of lock picks. Clean and oiled, all facing the same direction. Each iron shaft was bent into a ring at the top, a few tied with small scraps of ribbon in different colors, a code reminding him which buildings they most easily opened.
Raising a leg, he folded back the pouch flap, resting the whole thing across his thigh. He had a skill, deftness with locks which she envied. Lift, scrape, and turn. With a few moments' work and a handful of soft oaths, the mechanism sprang free and the handle rotated beneath his palm.
He opened the door slowly, an inch at a time, peering further through the crack with each increase. Lungs aching, Olivia realized she'd been holding her breath.
No sound, no movement. After what seemed an eternity, Ty widened the crack enough to get his head through and glanced both directions. At last he swung the door completely open. Dusting off his pants he stood up. “After you, mademoiselle,” he whispered.
Hiking her skirts, Olivia stepped over the threshold into a new layer of darkness. Beyond the reach of street lamps and blazing house lights, scant illumination pierced the mansion’s murky window panes. She could make out shapes littering the entry hall, chunks of stone and plaster. Someone had cleared a path to the stairs and that was all. If at any point they had to run, they were both likely to break their necks.
She looked to Ty in the silent hall, slowing her breaths and listening. A wagon clattered by, blocks away, and then the house was still. Ty grasped her sleeve, took a step forward, but she pulled him back and pressed a finger to her lips
There was a creak above. A trickle of dust poured from between the boards through a wide hole in the plaster overhead. Ty cocked his head then held up three fingers in turn. Ground floor, first floor, second floor. She was always impressed at his ability to judge distance by sound. He was an artillery commander, after all.
There were no voices or footsteps, no other sounds. She tipped her head toward the stairs and Ty nodded, starting forward.
Thank goodness for light shoes. Odds were good that they were bound to fall through at least one tread as it was, and she didn't need boots making it worse.
Every step was tedious; testing the boards, resting more weight, listening for any noise. Repeat.
At a glacial pace they reached the first floor landing. Olivia paused to catch her breath from mental rather than physical exertion. She leaned in until they were nearly nose to nose. “Next time, you're scaling the wall. You can call me in when it's safe.”
“And miss climbing an entire set of stairs behind you?” he whispered. “Not a chance.”
“Hush.” She was glad for the darkness concealing burning her cheeks. Ty's quips always managed to hit a mark and she preferred to not encourage him, no matter how flattering.
On the last step before the second floor landing, Olivia was just beginning to trust their good luck when a gust of air rattled up the stairwell, shuddering doors ahead.
Ty pressed two fingers into the small of her back. He'd felt it, too: someone had opened the front door.
They were caught in a delicate balance. One turn of the staircase, and whoever was behind them would easily spot them, even in the dark. Move too quickly, and they'd give themselves away.
Stepping past her up onto the landing, Ty braced at the next door and nodded. She rested a hand on the knob and waited. She struggled to hear anything over a heartbeat thundering at her ribs.
The front door slammed, jarring in its frame. In the same instant, she shoved open their door. Ty slipped in and she followed, nearly pressed against his back. Instead of trying to close it again, she pressed one foot at the door's base to hold it at a crack, able to open no further.
Footsteps. They marched the stairs deliberately, at a speed and weight which suggested a man's boots. Olivia took a breath and held it when they struck the floor outside.
Step, step, step.
They crossed the landing and mounted the next flight without pause.
She exhaled, bracing a hand on Ty's shoulder while her head swam. Hiding never got easier, any less nerve wracking, no matter
how many times she'd done it.
He threw her a glance over his shoulder. “Nice timing we have.”
Nodding, she strained to hear anything upstairs. A door thumped, followed by the murmur of voices. One feminine and the other masculine hummed through the old walls.
“Should we call it off?” she whispered. An unknown quantity in the mix was a recipe for trouble.
Ty was quiet, considering. Then he shook his head. “No. Not yet. Let's wait a bit, see who stays and who goes.”
Willing to trust Ty's gut, she settled on the floor, back scratching against fans of peeling paint, and worked to make out any of the conversation upstairs.
Ty settled beside her, hands folded on his chest.
Together, they waited quietly for an answer: Who was their newcomer? Predator, or prey?
* * *
The talking had been split evenly between the pair for at least half an hour. It was conversational, calm enough to be inaudible.
The woman's voice soaring in pitch was so unexpected that it brought him upright. Ty cocked his head, raising an ear to catch anything she said. Her male companion returned fire. As the fight approached fever-pitch, their voices merged into one indistinct hum like a colony of swarming bees. Something collapsed, rattled across the floor. A table? He glanced to Olivia, staring wide-eyed up at the ceiling, her face silhouetted by a rising moon.
A scream. Olivia jerked forward, ready to stand. He pulled her back with two fingers on her wrist, shaking his head. No. Whatever the fate of either person upstairs, charging in now could only spell danger.
Then it was just the woman and sounds of a struggle. She yelled the same sounds, a phrase, three or four times. They were fighting; he recognized meaty thuds from his time in the boxing ring, flesh against flesh. A heavy wooden thud shuddered through the walls. Whatever it was rolled a short distance and stopped. Then it was just the man's voice uttering a few words here, and there with no reply. Sweat chilled on his spine at the silence. Olivia's fingers gripped his shoulder.