by Baird Wells
Since women were not permitted in the establishment, they'd had little choice but to sit outside. By the finer points of the law, she was not allowed outside either, but he had woken feeling prickly after a night of poor sleep, in a mood to argue the technicality if anyone had the stones to mention it. Allegedly they were in a new, freer France. If his American friend Kate Foster had taught him anything, it was that in a free country people sat where they damn well pleased.
He watched Olivia, seated across the small round table, heavily absorbed in the afternoon papers. She was dressed like a Parisian confection against the season, ermine muff tossed carelessly on a third chair, draped in lavender silk from her high bonnet to her fur-trimmed hem line. The color, perhaps intentionally, he mused, made her stand out against the gaudy yellows and golds of ladies eagerly anticipating spring.
A waiter appeared at their table, dark eyes darting from him to Olivia. The young man smoothed his wiry brown hair as if trying to work up his courage. Finally, nervous lips bent into something like a smile. “Monsieur?”
“Cafe au lait,” answered Ty.
“Monsieur...” The waiter's nervous hand-wringing said as well as any words that Olivia's presence had been deemed a problem. “The lady...”
“She will have coffee also.” Ty tipped his head toward Olivia and smiled. “Vive libertie.”
Not brave enough to press, the waiter exhaled through a smile, nodding as much to himself as his guest. He moved off, weaving between tables back toward the entrance.
Ty glanced at Olivia to find her eyes on him, though her face was still tipped down at her papers. She laughed and sat back in her chair.
“What is so amusing, Dimples?” He took delight in calling her that, as much at the endearment as at having discovered weeks earlier how much it rankled her.
Green eyes narrowed, and then she smiled again. “I am continually impressed by your ability to play at charming and oblivious.”
“Watch and learn from a master,” he teased.
“You know, I used to feel sorry about trying to light you on fire...” She winked, and for a moment he was paralyzed at the saucy way her lips bent up at one side. Their first night on the comte's estate might have gone very differently had they not been halfheartedly trying to kill one another.
Blessedly ignorant of his thoughts, she tapped one slender finger against the white linen tablecloth, leaning in to be better heard over the rumble of carts and carriages. “I had a letter from Caroline, Countess Lewenhaupt. She may have provided us with some useful information.”
Olivia always had wonderful amounts of useful information. Despite revolution and the Terror, war and her parents' murder, she maintained an impressive number of influential connections.
“Something pertaining to our target?” he asked.
She nodded. “Indirectly. When the countess's friend was living in Karlsruhe, Caroline wrote to warn the lady of a certain woman. She calls herself Baroness d'Oettlinger, but Caroline believes this is an alias.”
Ty flexed fingers inside his gloves, forcing heat into his chilled palms, and watched activity along the street in front of them. “Karlsruhe has always been saturated with Napoleon's agents.”
Olivia shrugged. “Of course. Perched on the border, filled with diplomats. But Caroline seems to think that this d'Oettlinger was the most dangerous of all France's spies in Karlsruhe.”
He gave a low whistle, appreciating just what that meant. Espionage and encryption had always belonged to the French, with England and her allies running to keep up. Under men such as Joseph Fouche, Napoleon's police ministry had crafted a well-oiled intelligence machine. To be considered an integral gear in that machine was a dubious honor for their mysterious baroness.
The waiter reappeared, managing a steaming silver pot in one hand and a stack of cups and saucers in the other. Like Olivia, Ty fixed a polite smile, sitting in complete silence until the man had arranged everything, made a little bow and breezed away again to tend his other customers.
While Ty poured, Olivia slid her heavy chair halfway around the table, settling at his elbow. She leaned in, pulling a cup to her, speaking in hushed tones. “She's been in her own little exile since Napoleon went to Elba. Suddenly, a week ago, d'Oettlinger began making her way back to Paris.”
He paused mid-pour, turning over the information. “Do you believe she knows something of the emperor's plans?”
“No, but I'd wager that her lover does.”
He sat forward with a force that sloshed coffee out onto the cloth. “Fouche?” he whispered.
Olivia nodded slowly. “If she was the most dangerous spy in Germany a decade ago, who would Napoleon trust as her handler? Who could have trained her so effectively?”
He fought back a smile as she spoke. Only Kate had ever equaled Olivia for cleverness and intelligence. 'Admiration' was almost too thin a term. Still, he was left with a concern. “That means only that the police minister schooled her. It is not an indication of anything deeper.”
“If d'Oettlinger is willing to do so much for Fouche, there's more than patriotism at work.” She wagged a finger, cutting through the steam from her cup. “There would be inherent risk in her position; Fouche is not exactly known for his loyalty, but if she were blinded by love...” Olivia shrugged.
“A woman smart enough to be accounted a formidable spy would quite literally risk her neck with Fouche?” He shook his head.
Her smile drew slowly, causing him to swallow. “Don't be so hasty, dismissing her talents at managing him. A beautiful, witty lady has plenty of incentives to offer.”
Olivia wiggled her eyebrows, and he swallowed down a laugh, calling her bluff. “I'm at a loss, Miss Fletcher. Enlighten me.”
“I found a means to prevent you from poisoning me that night,” She puckered her lips ever so slightly, “So I believe I already have.”
His coffee suddenly became enthralling, and Ty busied himself settling the cup just so on the saucer.
Olivia leaned in, nearly touching shoulder to shoulder, searching his face. “Why, Major Burrell, are you blushing?”
He was. He sat back and crossed his arms. “I am. You have offended my delicate sensibilities.”
She snorted, shaking her head. “In any event, I performed a very rudimentary search of DuFresne's correspondence between my errands. Little of it goes out unsecured.”
“That was fast...”
“Apparently 'stable hand' is a lonely position. They're eager for company.”
“And...” Ty drawled, sipping his lukewarm coffee.
“There were instructions he make lodging and travel arrangements for an anonymous lady. Unsigned, but I know Fouche's handwriting.”
“So.” He placed hands just so on either side of the saucer, framing it just as he attempted to frame his thoughts. “The game has changed a bit. You and I may have to endure a very public conclusion to our liaison on her arrival.”
Olivia's lips turned down in a dramatic pout. “You mean you're going to break off our affair?”
He adopted a tone of regret. “With the mysterious Baroness d'Oettlinger come to town, I must.”
Olivia sputtered her mouthful of coffee. “Just like that, discarded! And after all I've done for you,” she teased. “She's a bit older than you, you know.”
At thirty himself, it was a negligible difference, but Olivia liked to employ any potential weapon. He shrugged, not bothering to hide a grin. “What they say about older women is true, Dimples.”
“That they wear higher necklines?” she smirked.
“No, but that is also true.”
“Appalling,” she whispered, not looking remotely appalled.
They had come to France for a fairly straight-forward purpose: to determine if Fouche was about to change loyalties against the king. His betrayal was practically a given, but they still needed to know with whom he was conspiring. The addition of the mysterious Baroness d'Oettlinger had added a new intrigue worth investigating. If Ol
ivia were correct, if Fouche and the baroness were lovers, there was potential for a wealth of evidence against the cutthroat minister.
Olivia began to speak again but he shushed her gently. The door of the offices across the street opened at last, and out stepped Talleyrand. Limping on his bad leg, he hobbled down the steps at a precarious angle, the features of his pug dog face pulled into agitated lines. Ty waited to see which direction he would travel: right towards his mistress's home, or left toward the Tuileries, the royal palace.
Talleyrand bobbed off to the left with the speed and grace of a three-wheeled cart. So it was business for the foreign affairs minister. Ty decided they should make Talleyrand's business, their business.
Forcing himself to wait two or three breaths, Ty slid his chair back and stood up, tossing a handful of coins to the tabletop with feigned ease. Then he held out a hand to Olivia, who was glancing perplexed at their mostly full cups. He smiled. “Let's start home. I believe it's going to rain.”
Her eyes widened with recognition at their secret phrase. She rose easily, taking his arm.
Olivia was clever, adaptable; he admired her skill once more.
He waited to speak until they were a good distance from the coffee shop, lost in the crowd and drowned by the noise of commerce echoing off of the high buildings all around. Tugging the brim of his top hat lower, he leaned close to her ear. “Something has happened. Talleyrand has been shut up all day, runners coming and going at breakneck speed. Now, he's hobbling off to the palace.”
“Russia?” she gasped. “Do you think they're finally moving against France?”
He shook his head. “Prince Metternich would have sent me warning.” Metternich's relations with Russia's Tsar had frosted, but he still had a good handle on the country's political maneuvering. For every Elena Breunig he planted in France, Metternich also supplied Whitehall with valuable intelligence. “I know where we ought to start, in order to puzzle this out.”
Why did it seem that any time he wished to get somewhere, every pedestrian in Paris was hurrying the opposite direction? Wide cobblestone sidewalks were choked with fashionable couples arm in arm, beginning their round of afternoon social calls. Merchants wedged their wooden barrows through, having sold off the day's inventory of rolls or cabbages. Noisy herds of young men trussed up like hams with their wide neck cloths and giant coat buttons blocked more urgent foot traffic Guffawing at one another, they jostled pedestrians, poking with elbows and walking sticks.
When one of the bucks in front of them nearly caught Olivia in the cheek with his cane, the last of Ty's patience snapped. He snatched the boy by his sleeve, spinning him around. “See here. If you come close to assaulting my lady again, I'll put your giant hat so far into that puddle that you'll be using it as a bucket.”
The lad's apologies were profuse enough, and Olivia's eyes wide enough, that he almost felt bad. Not badly enough to apologize, though. Instead, Ty tipped his hat in silent acknowledgment as the contrite gaggle allowed them to pass.
Olivia smiled, taking his arm a bit more firmly. “I am impressed.”
Oddly unsettled, he worked to cover it. “You shouldn't be. In the army, one shouts at people all the time.”
“Oh, not that. I didn't think you'd engaged in enough manual labor to know what a bucket is.”
“Milkmaids, Dimples.” He dared a glance, catching the faint pink staining her cheeks, and smiled. “Here we are.” He pointed at the townhouse just ahead. “Wait here. I'll see if he's at home.”
He took the gray stone steps two at a time, rapping a brass knocker against the black lacquered door. The white plaster facade, set with high narrow windows, was as austere as the man who lived within.
The door slid open a crack, and a curious-faced butler peered out into the afternoon sun.
Ty slipped his calling card into the opening. “Major Burrell for Lord Haddon. Urgently.”
Lord Haddon had served as Britain's ambassador to Austria, had been instrumental in convincing them to join against Napoleon. With the emperor in exile, he had become a political jack of all trades; minister, adviser, diplomat. As an elder statesman, when anything of import occurred, Haddon was one of the first to hear it, and not exclusively because Ethan Grayfield was his son-in-law.
The butler did not bother taking the card to his employer or even glancing at it. He stepped back and swung the door wide, glancing with concern up and down the street as Ty waved Olivia in behind him.
They stood in a dim entry hall, waiting. Olivia elbowed him, pointing overhead. The mural was astounding, crafted in a Classical style. Men, cherubs, beasts of the forest all telling their tale beneath the blue dome of heaven. The artwork was the only real feature the hall boasted, probably because it was the only item which could not easily be removed. Haddon's residence, like so many others in Paris, had been emptied and abandoned by its owner, either under the threat of Napoleon or the Allies. Residents had settled in other lands, enjoying more security in exile while many others had been fed to the guillotine. In their absence, everything was confiscated or looted. When foreigners like Haddon settled in Paris, the homes in which they resided were spartan at best.
“Burrell. You have a suspicion; I gather that's why you've come.”
George Haddon knew him well, knew that Ty only darkened his door step when a gut feeling warned him to do so, or when things were falling apart. Haddon descended a polished staircase behind them, frowning at their portentous arrival.
“Lordship.” Ty bowed low and beside him, Olivia curtsied. Spotting her, Haddon smiled. “Miss Fletcher. What a delight to find you here in the city. How are you, and how is Portsmouth?”
“I am very well, thank you. And my uncle also. He is working with Lord Bathurst and the war ministry, which suits him, of course.”
Her voice was soft, and if he did not know better, Ty would have guessed Olivia was flustered. It was understandable. Even nearing fifty, George Haddon was still one of London's most eligible bachelors. Tall, silver-haired, with the appearance of having been carved from stone, thin lips and gray eyes lent him an imposing aura. Until he smiled, as he was now. It was a gesture that transformed his face, sending every lady within sight up into the boughs. Ty hoped to be as lucky at Haddon's age.
“I'm glad to hear he's keeping busy.” Haddon straightened his cravat, buttoned the front of his coat, obviously preparing to go out. Ty was pierced by the man's gaze. “You perceive that Talleyrand has had some news. I gather you have come to discover what he knows.”
Ethan must have told Haddon that they were observing Talleyrand. “I have. Miss Fletcher and I have some business yet in Paris. We'd like to know if it's been compromised.”
Haddon strode past, waving them down the hall. Ty passed into the study, Olivia beside him, and their host locked the door. He moved to a stout desk, perching on its tidy surface and crossing his arms. “You will not like it.” Patting at something in his breast pocket, Haddon sighed. “A week ago, Bonaparte left Elba with six hundred men in tow. Wednesday, he planted his boots on French soil. Two thousand strong, increasing at every place he stops.”
Ty massaged his temple, while beside him Olivia whispered, “No.” Whatever news he'd braced for, however terrible he thought the situation might be, this was worse. So much worse. “No one had any notion he was plotting this? No one caught a hint of his escape?”
“Not a breath. He waited until French and English guard ships were at their most distant, and sometime before dawn,” Haddon swept a hand aloft, “he drifted away like smoke.”
Meaning not a single effort had been made thus far to stop his progress. No one had even known to prepare.
“This is what makes him dangerous.” Olivia's face was buried in her hands as she spoke. “How much discipline and sheer will does it take, not to breath a word or show a sign? Biding your time for nearly a year?” She met his eyes finally, and Ty appreciated then how hard the news must be hitting her.
He held her eyes, willing h
er to be strong. “We have stopped him once, Olivia. We can do it again. We will.”
“He murdered my parents.” She scrubbed hands over her face. “It's a nightmare, like some biblical plague. He presses on, relentless, resurrecting himself. Unstoppable.”
“Napoleon can be stopped! We've done it before.” He hadn't meant to yell, but he needed Olivia to have faith in him now, as much as she ever had.
Haddon patted her shoulder, diffusing the tension. “We'll see him settled as he deserves, girl. It will just take a little more doing.” Ever the ambassador.
Ty grasped his proffered hand, and then Haddon was moving for the door. “A special cabinet meeting has been convened; I cannot stay longer. I beg you remember, major, that you and Miss Fletcher are now privy to events that are known to perhaps three other people in all of Paris.”
Ty nodded. “Not a word, sir.”
“Very good. I wish you both the best of luck in your endeavors here. Seems we may have more need of you, before the end.” A force of nature, George swept from the room, leaving them to wander behind in tense silence.
As Haddon's carriage rumbled away, Olivia settled on the front step. Numbly untying her bonnet, she planted it in her lap. Ty paused, halfway to the street, hailing a passing coach that showed no interest in stopping.
Olivia cradled her delicate chin in her palm, staring into the distance. “Look at all these people, Tyler. Going on with their lives, no notion of what's coming.”
“They've weathered it before, and they can again.” He swept fingers over rioting gold strands atop her head. “So can you.”
“How many more times? Each time I come to Paris on some new clue, I tell myself this time. This will be the time someone truly knows something about my parents.”
“Do you ever consider that perhaps it's simply too soon for anyone to speak up?”
“Too soon?” Olivia flicked her hand, rejecting the idea. “It's been a decade.”