by Baird Wells
He watched Olivia, toweling her hair. A spreading stain over her left shoulder blade caught his attention. “Have you taken stock of your wounds?”
She craned her head, trying for a glimpse of whatever he'd seen. “No, why?”
“Here,” He scooted behind her, cradling her hips inside his thighs, and unlaced the back of her dress. He worked quickly, willing it to feel like a chore and failing. She sat quietly, accepting his attentions without protest.
Folding out both halves of the bodice, Ty exposed her shoulders. Cuts laced her flesh in every direction from her neck to the smooth plain between her shoulder blades.
A jagged tear nearly as long as his pinkie finger bit across tender flesh above her armpit. Claiming the towel from her hand, he pressed it to the cut, catching blood pooling at its edge.
“How bad is it?” She was asking if it needed stitches.
“Nothing that won't heal on its own,” he promised, hopeful but not certain what he said was true.
“Any others?”
He swallowed. “Shall I check?” No. Say no. It had been a long night and, like his nerves, his will was fraying.
Olivia nodded, reaching back and gathering hair out of his way. Her neck was long, graceful, its gentle curve teasing his fingers. French milled soap caught his nose; the floral, expensive sort.
He tugged two more loops into her laces, then stopped himself. It was obvious where her wounds ended. He couldn't in good conscience undress her further. What was it about Olivia that made him forget himself? He had discipline in spades until their fingers touched, until he caught her eyes on him across a room. Matters weren't helped by her being witty and whip-smart, sweet and a touch mercenary.
It was just the work forcing them together, to rely on each other. That was all. They'd started out on intimate footing, and nights like tonight...
He leaned in, pressing his forehead to Olivia's damp shoulder. She inhaled sharply and relaxed beneath his weight.
“You have to be careful, Olivia. So very careful. Whoever he is, he's bold. Cunning.” The man who'd killed Elena Breunig had known what she was, had punished her for it. He might discover the truth about Olivia, too.
Olivia reached back and grasped his sleeve. “I'm not frightened. My Fox is cunning, too.”
CHAPTER NINE
Olivia pressed her back against the damp stone arch at the mouth of the alley, ignoring the rotten layer cake making up so much of the city. Painted wooden shop fronts topped with dirty plaster two and three floors overhead, windows peering down like sad eyes, bearing witness to so much suffering. None of them were the same size, even on the same building. Balconies, pediments, and even the width of the cobblestone lanes meandered without intent, patched together since medieval times and struggling, like its residents, to keep up.
A gutter split the roadway in two, bearing a trickle of stinking filth as it had over the last four hundred years. She took a deep breath through her mouth and tried not to smell it. The odor was bad enough, but the idea was worse. It had been a vessel for terror, for suffering. A commoner, even in death, could not escape his king; his blood ran to the sewer mingled with the blood of nobles, aristocrats, and the bourgeoisie alike.
The blood of my parents.
Slipping a little farther down the wall, Olivia closed her eyes, tipping back her head, and pushed away the memory. She hadn't seen it happen. From inside the prison hall, she had only heard it. Her father, throwing off his guards, dashing behind like a madman as her beautiful mother, brown locks hacked into tufts, linen gown dark with filth, was dragged from the room. Joseph Fouche had waved his gendarmes back, letting her father pass outside. How absolutely naive she had been, believing Fouche was allowing Jules to save her mother, and for believing that he could.
From outside, his shouts had been the clearest, telling the crowd to do what they must to him, and that surely they would not harm a lady. An empty bluff that had been proved wrong a thousand times since the Reign of Terror.
Fouche had gone on scrawling something in his wide, black canvas ledger, Death balancing his accounts without so much as a twitch to show he was aware of the exchange on the street. Mother's begging grew more desperate and sounded above the crowd, then her screams. Those sounds were quickly swallowed by a more hateful noise: cheering. An enthusiastic roar from the mob, signaling some of their blood lust had been sated. There were more screams; her mother was still alive as her lover was beaten, impaled. Reliving it over a decade, it was hard to tell anymore what was true and what she'd imagined. She'd been told later that her mother hadn't outlived her father by much. There was a kind of small mercy in it, if the rumor was true.
Drawing another breath to push down bloodstained memories, Olivia stood away from the wall, not wanting to touch any part of the hateful city.
Adjusting the curls of her red wig, she looked for a distraction, smoothing the mauve silk of her expensive but out-of-fashion gown. She needed to be ready when he arrived. Poking two fingers into her reticule, she checked the face of Ty's borrowed watch. Two minutes to noon; it was nearly time.
She caught sight of a gentleman at the far end of the alley, five streets down. He wore a polished beaver top hat, wide shoulders testing the lapels of his dove gray coat. His walking stick stabbed the cobblestones, driving forward and back in spite of his easy, graceful gait. She often watched Ty, but she rarely looked at him. They studied one another constantly; expression, body language, discrete signals. Probably not since their first or second encounter had she stopped to really take him in. And why not? She was at a loss to answer her own question. Looking at Ty was a pleasure for the eyes, as much as touching him was for lips or fingers. It was a rare thing, a man who required her to look up in order to meet his eyes. His blue eyes were an innocent, deceptive shade. His long arms and legs made him agile, while riding and boxing filled him out. Ty was imposing, but with an athletic grace. Looking at him was definitely a pleasure; absently, she vowed to do it more often.
A spy was required to be proficient at all sorts of things, but every agent had their hallmark, a signature. Ty's was an ability to charm even a marble statue. She hated to admit that it frequently worked on her as well as any mark. He had a way of making her feel as though they were the only two people in the world, and she was the most important half. Always toeing the line, pushing a boundary, softening his offenses with a smile that hypnotized her into forgiveness, even approval. All the while with a look in his eyes that practically had her begging for more. Now and then he left her wondering where danger truly lay: with their enemies, or each other.
The recovery of Talleyrand's letters had been tabled for nearly a week while they'd sorted through events at the mansion, ear to the ground for clues as well as danger. Once they were in agreement with Philipe that they hadn't been discovered, it was back to business as usual. Not that fleecing Talleyrand would be simple. He was shrewd by nature and cautious by necessity, thanks to Fouche's constant threats. His primary and unflagging weakness was being a hedonist. Good food, expensive wine, fine suits, and women in endless supply. She and Ty had conspired to supply him just such a temptation.
They couldn't arrive at the corner together. Some might call it paranoia, but she preferred 'practicality,’ If by any chance the thousand-eyed beast of Paris' intelligence ministry were watching, that would be a novice mistake. And so they had taken turns for days, setting Ty's watch by the cathedral bells. They’d observed foot traffic at mid-day, noting how punctual their mark was. After that, it was simply a matter of arranging a meeting.
Ty stormed at her now, dodging rickety wheelbarrows and heaps of debris shrouded in tarps, shouldering past the common folk. She nearly applauded. An actor could not have done so well, haughty lift of his nose and an inconvenienced stomp to his stride. He was every bit the aristocratic, wearied lover.
Between the crowd's murmur and her wide bonnet, there was no catching ambient sounds from the lane behind her. Ty lifted the walking stick, tapping it
forward twice, signaling that their target approached from the opposite direction.
Stopping in front of her, close enough to look intimate but far enough to be overheard, Ty tucked the stick under his arm. Passersby parted like a stream of water, flowing past them on each side.
“Why did you ask me here?”
She was impressed; his French was flawless. Pressing both hands to her belly, she cast glances around them. “I'm with child.”
The information snapped curious heads their way, slowing a few pairs of feet.
Disgust twisted Ty's handsome features. “Are you certain?”
She nodded slowly. “Entirely certain.”
“Is it mine?” His voice raised on the last word, his sneer convincing enough that a hand itched to slap him before she checked the impulse.
“Of course it's yours!” she shouted, closing the small distance between them.
Ty smirked, raking eyes over her from the ground up. “So it's mine. What do expect me to do about it?”
“To help! I need money. My aunt is in Lyons.” She tightened her throat, drew out the words to hint at threatening tears.
“Money! You do this, and now you want money?” He shouted the last word in her face as Talleyrand passed. Their mark had arrived.
Ty's walking stick struck beside her head a second later, pinging sharply off of the stones. Flinching, she jerked her face away.
He raised it again. “I ought to beat the insolence from you, along with that bastard seed!”
She held her breath. Now was the moment of truth.
A hand grabbed the shaft from behind, jerking it and spinning Ty, who offered no resistance.
She exhaled.
“Monsieur. It sounds as though the lady has had too much of your attention already.” Talleyrand gave the stick a sharp yank, pulling it from Ty's grip. His wide mouth turned down more than usual, exaggerated by the upturn of his prominent nose. With a free hand he removed his boat shaped hat, revealing a frizzed shock of silvery hair. He came forward two or three steps, hobbling on his club foot.
Ty adopted a boorish pose, loosely crossing his arms and smirking. “Why should I heed anything you have to say?”
Talleyrand's smile was demure, and he ducked his head. “Oh, there is perhaps not much to intimidate a man such as you. Not physically.” He raised his eyes again, and the smile faded, mouth stretched to a flinty line. Born, she guessed, from a lifetime of suffering for his defect. “I do not need to strike and hit, as you do. I do not fear your blows.” He threw the stick back to Ty for emphasis. “Obviously you are too ignorant, and do not appreciate to whom you speak. I will enlighten you: my right arm is the gendarmes; my left, the courts. You would be wise to leave me, and the lady, in peace.”
Talleyrand was no hero. Olivia was not converted to believing it, not for minute. He and the emperor had been a dangerous pair long ago, enough to leave a stain on the statesman's hands that was not easily washed away. He was, however, playing along beautifully to their tune.
Ty snapped his hat farther onto his head, sniffing. “Nothing could be more agreeable than leaving you both where you stand.” He strode past without another look, east down the alley, dissolving into the crowd.
Fumbling with the tail of her shawl, Olivia dabbed at both eyes, watching him go and letting her target make the next move.
Replacing his hat, Talleyrand made a small bow. “Madam.” With effort he shuffled out an about-face, starting slowly back down the lane on his original path. He carried some weight and boasted a lame foot, but she'd observed him enough times to catch his artificial delay.
“Monsieur! Monsieur, please,” she pleaded, extending an arm after him.
Talleyrand turned back, face expectant just as she'd predicted.
“You've been so kind already that I'm ashamed to ask more. My father has left me nothing now that I am...” She glanced at her belly, hanging her head a little more. “My aunt in Lyons is a widow of no small fortune.” Glancing up, she batted her eyes, sniffing. “I could repay you ten-fold, if you helped me reach her.”
He was breathing faster, tottering closer as she spoke. Talleyrand's appetite for women was rarely sated. He was a tempered politician of the empire, but he indulged lust equal to any of the old monarchy. Swallowing twice, he looked her over. “A lovely creature. How can I say no?” Closer now, Olivia caught the scent of snuff and liniment wafting from him. “You will not even have to repay the money.”
Smiling for all she was worth, she clasped his hands against her breasts, kissing twisted knuckles. “You are a good man. A kind man.”
He pulled one hand free, poking up a finger. “But I must be assured of getting...” He glanced to his fingers still resting at her breasts, “something for my trouble, no?”
Drawing back, Olivia lost her smile, adding a tremble to her voice. “Of course. I could not ask so much and not offer...something.” She looked to her feet, feigning shame.
He was nodding, faster and faster, glancing past her to the narrow corridor between two buildings. “We can settle our debt now, my dove.” He patted the left side of his trousers.
She caught the jingle of francs and the crease of papers. Perfect. “But...where can we go for privacy?”
Talleyrand swept his hand toward the alley. “This will do. We need only a little time.”
A little time for him to rut like a pig. Disgusting.
“No!” She shook her head, rocking back a half step. “No, I couldn't!”
“Shh! Shh.” He brushed her arm with urgent strokes, pressed her fingers with his. “You could, of course you could. There is no shame, if we choose to enjoy each other there.”
“We should wait,” she countered, enjoying the frustration creasing his face. “You can get us a room. And champagne!” She clapped her hands.
Talleyrand smiled, a knowing crook to his lips. “Your gown is out of fashion. The dye in your hair is a little...outré, yes?” His smile widened, and he shook his head. “Private rooms and champagne? We both know you are not that sort of dove.”
“Fine.” She crossed her arms, looking sour and letting him believe he'd caught her. “I need the coin. Let's be done with this.”
He scampered behind her into the alley. It was dim and no breeze swept the narrow passage. Wet plaster and damp cobblestones held onto the sewer's stink, and dank moss held tenaciously to the stone walls. Olivia offered up sympathy for the women who spent their lives forced to do what she was only pretending.
When she turned back, Talleyrand was already fumbling at his trousers. “I'm quite ready. Raise your skirts for me, quick now.”
“Wait. Let me help you.” Getting the papers out would be easy. Grabbing a fistful of his waistband on each side, Olivia bunched the fabric slowly, poking up the hidden pouch's contents just as she and Ty had practiced. The tailor on Rue Vivienne had been very helpful when Ty expressed the need for some sort of hidden pocket. The man had unknowingly shared the secret of his best customer.
Concealing the letters before Talleyrand noticed would be more difficult. Clasping his cheek, she ran kisses up his jaw, over his face, holding her breath against a stench of cheap cologne. He froze at the attention, panting, then pawed at her dress. With a free hand she stuffed the letters into her bodice, letting him believe she was stroking his chest.
“Halt, you two there!” The gendarme's voice was sharp, echoing off of the walls around them. Talleyrand released her skirts, jerking upright. Body half turned from the two constables, he worked at fastening his pants.
“That's the pair!” Ty's voice rang out from the street, beyond the alley. Bless him, his timing was perfect.
The first gendarme was an arms’ length away now, dangling a pair of shackles at her. She stepped back and twined herself around Talleyrand's stiff arm. The captain raised his shackles higher. “Don't fight, and don't run.”
“Do you have any idea!” sputtered Talleyrand, trying to shake her off. “Do you know who I am?”
Both the constables looked stricken when enough light hit Talleyrand's face to identify their superior. She choked back a laugh.
“Monsieur,” warned the captain, “you must take care in this area. Women such as this lie in wait for good men.”
Half points. The captain was right about her, but so very wrong about Talleyrand.
Ty, behind them, had been blocked from view until now. “That woman is my wife, sir!” His words stabbed the constables with accusation.
There was satisfaction in watching the unflappable Talleyrand flail his arms, eyes wide in confusion. “Your wife? No, no. I watched the two of you quarrel over her belly.”
“How she got that way and my disgust at it,” Ty bit out, “is not anyone's concern. We will settle the issue when we get home.” He glanced from one constable to the other, properly contrite. “If I may, good sirs.”
The gendarmes stared at Talleyrand, whose eyes darted between her and Ty, mouth hanging open.
Olivia held her breath. Would they would release her, or cart her to jail as the law dictated? An affair was not the same as prostitution, ironically, but she had no idea how the men before her would interpret what they had just witnessed.
With no orders from Talleyrand forthcoming, the captain finally held out a hand, raking fingers at Ty who sighed, filling it with a stack of jingling francs. Satisfied with his bribe, the captain stepped aside, opening the way for her to pass. “She is your matter to handle, and I wish you luck with it, monsieur. Good afternoon.”
Ty leaned past the gendarmes, squeezing her wrist, dragging her between them and against his side. “And handle the matter I shall,” he growled.
They were nearly free; she held her breath.
The constable replaced his shackles, stepping back next to his companion. “It seems all of our business is concluded here.” They nodded to Talleyrand, making little bows of respect while his eyes stabbed daggers at her. He was furious but wouldn't dare risk humiliating himself further in the gendarmes' presence.
Ty wasted no time, moving back down the alley before anyone could change their mind.