by Baird Wells
She made a halfhearted effort to pull her arm free of his grasp as they went. “Let go of me, you great ass!”
“Shut up.”
With one fist she pounded at the small of his back. “Raise a hand to me and I'll cut your throat while you sleep!”
Ty drug her from the alley and out into the lane, while she spit and hurled abuse for the benefit of two chuckling gendarmes and a glaring Talleyrand. They were attracting a crowd, as planned, creating a human barrier against Talleyrand's inevitable pursuit.
Ty hauled her as far as the rear door of a public house two streets down, doing a too-admirable job of taking wide strides and forcing her to skip along behind.
“I know you're tall,” she grumbled for his ears alone. “You don't have to show off.”
A chuckle was his only reply. Clearly, he did have to show off.
Once inside the servants’ entrance, he let her pass. Olivia gained the stairs as fast as she could manage, Ty at her heels. They reached the fourth-floor landing out of breath. Panting, Ty wiped the fog from a dirty window with his sleeve and peered out. Leaning over his shoulder, she was just in time to spy Talleyrand hobble up the worn stone steps and hammer at the door. The sound reverberated up the stairwell, vibrating the pane against her forehead. Talleyrand caught on quickly, she'd grant him that.
Laughing, Ty grabbed her hand, pulling her to the end of the dim hall. “Didn't take as long as I expected!” He toed a stool beneath a narrow attic door overhead.
“Was that the tallest thing you could find?” She cast a sideways eye over the rickety bit of furniture.
Tugging down on the rope, he frowned. “This is not the sort of public house where guests concern themselves with sitting, Dimples. Not on anything besides each other.” He shuddered, planting a foot on the stool. “I'm fairly certain that just my reconnaissance here yesterday nearly gave me bedbugs.”
She snorted, laughing as much at his bawdy joke as his revulsion at their surroundings.
The hammering downstairs came to a stop. She knew better than to believe Talleyrand would simply go away, not after what they'd taken. Her belief was confirmed moments later when shouts echoed up from the back hall. He was coming, with the gendarmes in tow.
She exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Ty, who hopped onto the stool and held out both arms for balance. “Time to go!”
He grabbed the mouth of the attic door, bending knees and elbows, hauling himself up with an easy grace which she paused to admire. He disappeared into the hole above; a second passed, and his arms appeared, waving her up.
Below, doors were thrown open, shuddering into a wall, the protests of occupants mingling with those of the police, an angry buzz swarming closer.
Grasping his long fingers, she gained the stool. She made a deep-kneed bounce and he pulled her in behind. The tension was fluid, the landing less so. She hit the beams with enough inertia to knock the wind from her chest. “I'm not a sack of potatoes, Tyler!” she coughed. He couldn't just throw her around.
“Sorry!” he hissed back from the shadows. “Perhaps you should decline the cake from time to time.”
She chuckled. “I'm fat and you're a drunkard. We deserve each other. Now help me up.”
Laughing, he grasped her elbow and hauled her in.
“Which side?” she whispered, fumbling in the dark as he drew up the door.
“Left,” he called back, choking off the last of the light.
Her palms raked along the grit and dust until they identified the candle's waxy shaft. “Matches?”
There was a metallic rattle, something shaking inside a tin. A grating sound, and then a small flame blazed to life in Ty's fingers. He touched a second match to the first, swearing as it burned down. “Light it quick, before we burn the damned building to the ground”
Not a pleasant memory; she ignored his caution and kept silent. Grabbing the candlestick's wooden shaft, she held it aloft so he could see the wick. It caught, offering a bit more illumination than the matches, but not by much. She got to her feet and raked a curtain of cobwebs away from Ty's shoulder, glancing at dry timbers around them. “We may burn it down either way.” She shuddered, recalling Elena Bruenig’s smoldering shoes and lolling tongue.
“Mm.” He was already bent over, hat on the floor, slipping out of his jacket. She followed suit, tossing aside her bonnet and working at her wig. It was hot and it itched unmercifully after half a day's wear. She presented him with her back. “Buttons?”
Her bodice fell forward almost before the word was out. “Good lord!” she gasped, feigning disapproval. “I hope you're less efficient as a lover than you are as a partner.”
“Depend upon it.” She caught the smile in his voice from over her shoulder.
Muffled shouts and commotion grew louder, moving closer out in the stairwell. Olivia shimmied out of the gown, turning and tossing it with the rest of their discarded costumes. Then she pulled the letters from deep in her stays, holding them out to Ty. “Here, you'd better take these before the ink runs.”
He looked her over. “You didn't have to give them to me. I would have gotten them myself.”
She rolled her eyes. “Incorrigible, as usual. Are you ready?”
“Nearly.”
Nodding, she finished the last few buttons along her bodice, smoothing out the worn green linen skirts of her new costume.
Ty wrestled with a wide leather traveling case, struggling to fit their belongings back into it. Frustrated, he pulled out the red wig, tossing it into one of the attic's dark corners and wedging his top hat in its place. He must have felt her eyeing him, and glanced up. “What? It is a very expensive hat!”
She pointed. “And a very expensive wig!” It wasn't, but she would enjoy seeing him sweat a little over it.
Pouting, he entrenched. “Well, I wear mine every day, so it takes precedence.”
“And I shall never wear mine again,” she concluded theatrically, delighting in how the attic's shadows deepened his scowl. “Are you ready or not?”
“Yes!” he whispered sharply. “Shall I send 'round an invitation, or can we go?”
She swept a hand across the attic, inviting him to lead the way.
Sighing, Ty grabbed the bag’s thick handles, hefting it up.
Voices ebbed and flowed from the rooms below, Talleyrand barking muffled instructions over masculine protests and a woman's outraged shrieking. His hounds were loping ever closer.
She moved behind Ty, one slow, light-footed step at a time over uneven beams. Once or twice she buried her face in her shoulder against the musty smell, stifling a sneeze.
When they reached the far well, Ty set down the bag and passed her the candle. With little effort and surprisingly little noise, he pushed aside the shell of an old armoire, revealing a doorway cut into the stone which led to a building next door. Memory had served her well. There was a time when Paris's upper crust had survived by just such passages. Marking down the passages was forbidden, a death sentence for the sympathetic landlords and proprietors who maintained them. Like so many things in a world where someone was always watching, listening, the only safe means was memorization. She'd found a few people who still remembered the doorways and their locations, and that had served her well on more than one mission.
She turned sideways, sliding through a small space between the cabinet and the wall, darting across a foot-wide gap between the two structures.
Ty handed off the bag and the candle then, leaping beside her with cat-like ease. He covered the entrance once more, and she relaxed. There was little chance of Talleyrand finding them now.
The attic they'd entered was lighted by three narrow dormer windows. They struggled to take in afternoon sun through a hundred years of dust coating their panes. It was enough light to work by, and she blew out the candle. There was little to see between the rafters: a handful of crates housing documents for the offices below, a strategically placed bucket for a leaky roof, and a tall, spindle-backed chair of a s
tyle abandoned by the passage of time outside. She nestled the candle stick between two of the crates, taking the bag from Ty so that he could manage the attic door. As they crept along, he looked back to her over his shoulder.
“Top floor is the clerks' lodgings. They're never dismissed before three. Formal offices on the ground floor and first floor. Second floor is the clerks' offices. Third floor belongs to a Doctor 'Stoutreed' or 'Longrod' or some such nonsense.”
She pressed a fist against her lips, cheeks straining.
Ty shook his head and whispered, “Quackery.”
They reached the door, and he paused. “Anyhow, he only sees patients, if you can believe it, at night.”
She widened her eyes for his benefit. “Curious.”
“Isn't it?” His brows wiggled, and she fought back another bout of laughter. “The short version is, I don't expect any interference, but we cannot be certain.”
He raised the door, and she was pleased to catch sight of a ladder below them. Coming up on the stool had been a bit tenuous. She could do without getting down that way.
Ty clambered down first, and she lowered the bag after. Her new, simpler dress was meant to help her blend into a lower class crowd once they reached the street, but the decrease in petticoats and flounces also assured she would probably not break her neck on the ladder.
She nearly had to eat her assurance, when her hem caught beneath her shoe on the second rung, fumbling her grip. She managed silent panic until Ty's hand, previously on her calf, drove beneath her skirt. His hand pushed against her backside in an effort to keep her from falling.
“What in the devil is that?” he hissed.
Tripping gingerly down the last two rungs, she met his wide eyes. “What the devil is what?”
His head cocked left and right, studying her dress as if he could see through it. “I mean what the devil have you got on under there?”
Feeling saucy now that they were nearly clear of danger, she grabbed a fistful of linen. Raising her skirt and shift above the knees, she revealed lacy white cuffs brushing her stockings. “They're drawers, Tyler.”
He squinted, and she watched him struggling to comprehend. “What do they do?”
Olivia shook her head slowly, confused at his confusion. “Provide... modesty?”
“Bloody hell.” He waved a finger, like he was casting a ward against something evil. “Are a great many ladies wearing them?”
How on earth would she know? Did men believe women discussed such things in company? That there was some highly intricate system for communicating the information while passing on the street? This time there was no fighting a laugh. “No. I don't know. I don't believe so.” She took a moment to be surprised, wondering that Ty of all people had yet to encounter the budding rage in women's undergarments.
“Oh, thank God.” His shoulders fell. “How in the hell would you get on, in a carriage or a hallway, if the lady were willing and the moment presented itself?” He groaned. “What a nightmare.”
She couldn't help it; he'd given her far too broad a target. “If I am ever willing, Tyler, I will give you ample notice.”
He opened his mouth to say something, and judging by a hint of color blushing his ears it was not his usual retort. A door flying open behind him froze the words on his lips.
A mole-eyed young man, a clerk if Ty's information were correct, glared at them from the doorway. Blinking twice at the sight of her standing there with her hem nearly at her waist he barked, “What is the noise? What in the hell are you two about up here?”
Ty turned, smoothly and slowly as though he had every right to be 'up here'. “I am looking for Doctor what's-his-name's office. He sold me a potion and it doesn't work.” Ty gestured to her, at the fabric still bunched in her fist, and threw up his hands. “Look! Look at her. And not a thing. See?”
Olivia preened at Ty's compliment, bawdy as it was.
Thrusting forward, he tugged up on the waistband of his pants. “Not a thing happening. No better than I was before.”
The boy raked fingers through his shock of brown hair, swallowing, looking more confused than suspicious. His expression ran the gamut from bewildered to sympathetic. “Unfortunate. Unfortunate,” he mumbled several times, while his brain seemed to weigh if he were truly awake. Finally, he pointed to the stairs. “A floor below, monsieur. I wish you luck, with your coin and your...affliction.”
Ty inhaled, ready to wrap up the charade, but the door closed in haste.
She could not blame the boy. In his place, she would have run for the hills well before their exchange was over.
Turning back, Ty winked and took up their bag. “See what trouble your ridiculous undergarments have caused?”
She followed him to the stairs, throwing a hooded glance over her shoulder as he let her pass. “Not as much as they could have.”
CHAPTER TEN
They met the next afternoon in the cellar of a tavern owned, indirectly, by Philipe. It was a regular meeting spot for Whitehall and French resistance alike. Philipe maintained safe grounds for agents without putting his name on the deed.
He was waiting when she and Ty arrived at the back entrance. Grayfield, mercurial as ever, came last.
To say the tavern was dank would be an understatement. A warm orange glow of lamplight was muted by beads of water dotting the cellar's smooth limestone walls. At least the smell was pleasant. Damp oak kegs and a yeasty odor of good beer hung on the still air. Olivia nestled deeper into her shawl against a chill, tracing the grooves of a rough wooden tabletop and waiting for the men to finish conversing.
She tapped a foot against the earthen floor, feeling each second drag by. It was important that Grayfield and Philipe decode Talleyrand's letters, understand their intent and consequences. It was her responsibility to follow whatever orders that produced. Until those orders arrived, she had other places to be.
Glancing up, she found Ty's eyes on her, watching from across the table. She stared back, waiting.
His expression, like his intensity, went unchanged.
“Major,” she murmured under Ethan and Philipe's rapid-fire exchange.
“Miss Fletcher,” answered Ty with the barest hint of a smile.
She cocked her head. “What are you so fixed upon?”
His brows raised. “Upon you, miss.”
She stared back with no idea what to say. Was it flirtation, or was he teasing out of boredom? As quickly as she'd caught his gaze, Ty turned his attention back to Ethan and Philipe, leaving her more confused.
“We've verified that Talleyrand and Fouche are not in collusion with each other.” Ty rested a finger atop one of the letters. “But this also proves that Talleyrand is up to something. We should take care with it, while we close in on Fouche.”
“We cannot spread ourselves too thin, and we are already running to keep up with Fouche.” Ethan leaned back, thoughtful a moment. “What do you propose?”
“Two birds with one stone,” she interjected, suddenly feeling as though she could read Ty's thoughts.
Ty smiled in return. “Eliminate both problems as we go. Save ourselves trouble at the end.”
Philipe nodded slowly. “You make an excellent point. If we eliminate Fouche, who will inevitably take his place? Talleyrand is a different shade of the same imperial cloth.”
Sitting forward, Ethan rested palms on the table as though trying to impress some great point. “Listen to me very carefully, all three of you. We toed a line with Osipova's letters, knowing the Russians were behind her. We overextended recovering these documents from Talleyrand. He too claims powerful alliances, including our own government. However we approach this, it cannot result in crossfire.” He looked from her, to Philipe, to Ty. “Britain, and Whitehall in particular, cannot afford a diplomatic fracas. We're still mending the last one.”
Ty held up his hands. “Surveillance. Nothing simpler. No covert entries, no interrupted correspondence. For now, we watch.”
An opportuni
ty to snare both wolves. Holding her breath, Olivia watched the struggle play out on Grayfield's face.
Ethan exhaled slowly, and nodded. “Cautious surveillance. I'll give approval to that much. Conditionally.”
Ty looked set to argue. “What condition?”
“Elena Breunig,” Ethan bit back.
She'd known Ethan long enough to grasp his meaning. They could observe Talleyrand but only in the course of their regular assignment. No drawing more attention than necessary, nothing to attract the woman's killer. And the moment that changed, they were done with Maurice Talleyrand.
Philipe winced, tight lines drawing up beneath his eyes. “We hadn't spoken in at least a year, but Elena was no intrigue. As you said Olivia, agent of influence.”
Nodding, Ethan massaged his temple. “Not much more than a politician. No intelligence more significant than a letter home.”
A cold trickle of realization ran down her spine. Whoever had executed Elena knew what she was, how to earn her confidence. They had killed her for much less than what her own assignments with Ty entailed.
Ty's eyes were on her, but his words aimed at Grayfield. “I understand. Conditionally.” Reaching inside his coat for the spectacles they'd found, he held them up for Ethan and Philipe to inspect. “Any thoughts on the owner? Have you seen these before?”
Ethan took them first, staring then closing his eyes. “Yes, and I can almost grasp where.” Then he exhaled, opening his eyes again and passing the evidence to Philipe. “No idea, not right now.”
“Expensive,” remarked Philipe, peering through an intact lens, testing an earpiece. “Well used. Look at how the gold inlay is burnished.”
“But clean,” Ty agreed. “Well used and meticulously cared for.”
“I do know of a man who wears such frames. I cannot say that these belong to him, and I’ve not a clue what Elena would be doing in his company.”
Her own eyes widened in imitation of the others, eager for what Philipe had to say.
“Emil DuFresne.”