by Baird Wells
Not that it was easy to ignore her. She was radiant, as usual. Yards of champagne silk caught the light from a chandelier, a reflected glow catching her auburn hair on fire. A dip to her bodice was calculated with mathematical precision to draw a man’s eye and hold it, revealing, but not exposing quite enough to be dismissed as vulgar. Her perfume wafted to him in a faint but seductive breeze, reminding of her attractions even when she was out of view.
He kept his mind off of her by surveying the room and taking in the immense crowd. Even floor seats were uncharacteristically full. If Napoleon's approach had daunted anyone, they weren't showing it. Not that he was surprised. Willful ignorance was the least of the evils around him. Infidelity, overt deception, and greed all took precedence, personified in spades by those in attendance.
On the left side of the hall, Talleyrand filled his usual box almost directly across from Fouche, his nemesis in more than politics. Both sat ensconced in frames of marble and gold gilt, masterwork paintings, and ostentatious decoration, their private boxes financed by a monarchy they both despised.
Talleyrand slobbered over his latest ornament, the celebrated opera singer Madame Grassini, chortling and tickling her with the tassel of a blue silk curtain. The raven-haired beauty had been one of Napoleon's more notorious lovers before his exile. It seemed that, whatever differences of opinion he professed in public, Talleyrand now had more in common with the emperor than he wished to admit.
Fouche’s box was a stark contrast. He and his young wife sat like elegantly dressed statues, their whole party dour faced and silent. He searched the hall with a hawk’s gaze, making notes, committing names and actions to the steel vault of his memory. Where others came to the opera for entertainment, Fouche came for surveillance.
The royal box was conspicuously empty, signaling that at least someone in France was rightly nervous about the impending invasion. Gold-leaf garlands climbed the marble columns on either side, blooming at the feet of ecstatic cherubs, whose joy felt out of place under the circumstances. Gold draperies framed a pair of oval-backed blue velvet chairs, each occupied by a wreath of white lilies, a symbol of the monarchy since medieval times.
As the orchestra's tuning became audible over the murmur of the crowd, Fouche stood up and bowed to his guests, then slipped between the curtains behind him and into the hallway. Ty was just preparing to make an excuse to Thalia and follow, when an usher appeared in the royal box.
He patted a thin hand at the crown of his white wig and hovered on the threshold a moment. With something like a hurried bow, the usher darted around the chairs, arms hooking nervously and scooping up the wreaths. He flitted out the way he'd come with a few glances over his shoulder. It was telling that despite the usher’s deference to his sovereign, the police minister’s orders carried more weight.
Fouche reappeared in his box moments later, expressionless but looking infinitely more relaxed. The king and his Parisian citizens might not be giving Napoleon's progress the concern it deserved, but Fouche was most certainly giving it public attention. Ever the forward thinker, Ty had no doubt the man was laying groundwork now for proof of his loyalty to the emperor.
Thalia pressed closer, wafting a floral scent across him with a lazy wave of her fan. “Tamburlaine? I do not know this story.”
Giving in to his impulse, he rested the heel of one shoe atop the rail, wondering how long it would take to annoy her. He'd found that ignoring her, coupled with slight boorishness, was an excellent way to resist her ample charms. Not that she was deterred. “A bandit makes a promise to gain the throne for his benefactor. He breaks the promise, taking it instead for himself. Layers upon layers of betrayal.” He studied her face, amused at a wide-eyed blink.
“He perseveres again and again. Murders his family, whole cities. Only after burning his holy book and forsaking his god is he finally defeated.”
Thalia snapped her fan shut and swatted his arm, pouting. “Now you've spoiled it! I know the ending.”
“Forgive me, madame. I assumed you could guess how it would end.” He was insulting her, digging at her attachment to Fouche, but Thalia ate up the praise greedily, blushing and ducking her head.
A commotion four boxes over his left shoulder caught his attention, cutting off any further prodding of Madame d'Oettlinger.
Philipe breezed in, followed by his giggling, boisterous entourage, and filed to take his seat. Olivia was attached to his arm and Ty could only stare. Gold gilt on every surface of the hall reflected the blinding light of a thousand candles, and she was still the brightest thing in view.
An ocean of cream silk gathered across her breasts and shoulders, flowing down and hugging her waist. The fabric practically glowed beneath an over gown of ivory tissue, set afire by a thousand embroidered gold dots echoing a chandelier of diamonds at her throat. There was no ignoring her; he needn't count the number of heads snapping her way in order to appreciate it. Where Thalia was required to put forth effort to be noticed, Olivia drifted effortlessly. Ty put his foot down, self-conscious without understanding why.
Philipe, seated on her far side, leaned in to whisper something, flashing perfect teeth as he grinned ear to ear. Of course he was grinning, the bastard. What a burden, having to play the part of Olivia's consoling lover.
Not that she was getting the short end. The la Porte's Portuguese bloodlines were fully on display in their young heir. Dark good looks offset an outrageous sweep of black hair that would turn romantic poets green with envy. He moved with a natural energy that drew eyes to him wherever he went.
Olivia laughed at whatever he had whispered, then cocked her head, leaning in close to hear him over the din of voices and instruments. She raised her fan, half concealing them both while she replied. What was she saying? He strained a little, working for a look at her mouth. Did her lips really need to be so close to La Porte’s ear? Ty crossed his arms and put his foot back on the balustrade.
Beside him, Thalia shifted impatiently. “Some pretty bauble has captured your attention, I fear.” Annoyance added pitch to her voice.
He had forgotten himself for a moment, an unforgivable error where his companion was concerned. Not only was she vain, but she was far too intelligent for him to suffer such lapses of attention. Turning fully toward her, he grasped both her hands. “An unfair accusation, from a woman so beautiful. Like the sun, a man cannot gaze upon you directly for long. Instead, I must steal glimpses when I am able, relishing them in the darkness between.”
She only seemed half mollified. “Stop this. Your flattery is too much.”
She wasn't completely fooled, but the only choice at this point was to forge ahead. “You are playing coy. You have heard the same before, from other lovers.”
Thalia gasped. “Lovers? You presume a great deal about us.”
The lights dimmed around them and a hush fell over the orchestra floor. He counted, held her eyes, calculated. “We shall see.” Timing his wink to the first tap of the conductor's baton, he bought himself the last word.
A hungry smile curved Thalia's lips, and music swelled.
Satisfied, he turned his attention to the stage.
* * *
“I want to dig my thumbs into her eyes.” Olivia whispered to Philipe behind the screen of her fan, plastering on a smile.
Chuckling, he curled fingers more tightly around her hand where it rested on his thigh. “And so you should. Teach her a lesson for poaching the major.”
Her only answer was a glare. She would not admit, out loud, to any jealousy where Ty was concerned. After her behavior for the last three days, Olivia doubted she needed to. She’d been uncharacteristically grumpy and short with Philipe during Ty’s pursuit of the baroness, but she wasn't going to own to it.
Thanks to the hall's curve, there was no getting a look at Ty without it being obvious. Even so, she stole a few glances in his direction. There was nothing suspicious about it, after all; they were quarreling lovers, and rumor had it she was taking it all muc
h harder than her former beau.
She was asking him something. Ty cocked his head, lazy smile drawing up one side of his mouth. He pointed to one of the dancers. Their laughter was all movement and no sound, drowned by the lead actor's rich baritone.
Philipe must have seen the direction of her stare, watching Ty's exchange with Madame d'Oettlinger. He chuckled, leaning close. “Come now, don't torture yourself. Look over there. That pretty thing on the right, just at the curtain? That is Talleyrand's favorite bit of marzipan.”
Without meaning to, Olivia sat up and craned her neck, studying Madame Grassini's face for any sign the woman had caught her lover’s dalliance. “Talleyrand is a... patron of the arts, then?”
“Mm. But he must eat in the pantry, if you take my meaning. Madame does not approve of his having any other sweets.”
Bringing his public mistress along while he observed his secret one; she shook her head at his machinations. “And he thinks no one will tell Grassini that he's attended every performance this week of his new confection?” Confused, Olivia shook her head, wondering at anyone who believed their dalliances would remain a secret. In Paris, of all places. “Someone will have let it slip before we reach the bottom of the staircase tonight. Just to see the two minxes claw one another.”
Philipe nodded, grinning. “Perhaps I will visit his box, between acts?”
“Don't you dare!” she laughed, smacking him with her fan.
He drew back, looking wounded. “You, of all people, objecting to a bit of… orchestration?”
“I don't object in the least to your stirring the pot. Unfortunately, we won't be here long enough to witness the fallout.” They had only come in order to be seen together, for confirmation, to make it plain that Elizabeth Hastings had replaced Henry Lennox on the heels of his indiscretion with a certain baroness.
“The truth!” Looking satisfied, he leaned back in his chair. “That's more like it.”
The truth. Philipe's words struck a chord deep inside. She and truth had been on uneasy terms of late.
Philipe returned his attention to the stage while she dared another glimpse at Ty. He too was watching the stage, and Olivia studied him in silhouette, eyes tracing the firm lines of his face. She had never expected to see him again, after that first meeting at the comte's ball. At least not in any civil fashion. He had been an adversary, and she would have given no quarter if their paths crossed again.
Grayfield had intentionally pitted them against one another, wanting assurance that they could work together and still walk away if the other was compromised.
At least one of them was compromised. She watched Ty, chest aching as Thalia laid her head on his shoulder, a voice protesting that it should be her. Ty had done something to her that first night; poison or brainwashing. He had gotten inside her, and she could no longer think rationally or be objective where he was concerned. She was jeopardizing their assignment. She wanted to kiss him again, for Ty to put his hands on her with the same urgency as before. She couldn't stop thinking about it, months of memories suffocating her.
He must have felt her gaze. Ty glanced her way, but she snapped her eyes to the stage before a look could pass between them. She couldn’t tell him. Ty, thank God, was a professional with more discipline than she possessed. He would tell her what she already knew: that her involvement was dangerous and that they should go their separate ways. No point going through him and humiliating herself in the process. She would write Grayfield at the first possible moment, as soon as she could be alone, and ask to be recalled. Her heart ached at the thought, but it had to be done. Recalling how close she'd been to losing control days before, even as Thalia watched through the wall, was both a thrilling and terrifying memory.
They lived in a world where a single mistake was fatal, and where Tyler Burrell was concerned, she'd already made more than one.
“It must be time to leave by now,” she whispered to Philipe. They had only intended to stay through the second act, and she was desperate for any excuse to go.
Nodding, Philipe stood and took her hand, mumbling goodbyes to his party. If he'd noticed her agitation, he had the grace not to mention it.
Her mood worsened as they passed through the curtain and into the hall. Dufresne stood waiting as they exited, examining them through the port holes of his little murderer's spectacles. Then he fixed them with a placid, empty smile. “Your grace.” His bow was minimal. “You are not enjoying the performance?”
“Not particularly. Madam Destrian sings flat and the subject matter is a little too au courant to be fantasy.” As he spoke, Philipe positioned himself between her and DuFresne.
Dufresne's smile hardened, enough that Olivia was astonished by what he said next. “Madame d'Oettlinger is holding an impromptu soiree on Friday night. I would be honored to have you as my guest, your grace.” He glanced to her. “And, of course, this radiant creature. You must bring her along, to delight us all.”
What was his aim? He could obviously barely tolerate having to speak to them, and now he wanted them to attend as his guests? Olivia moved the puzzle pieces, trying to sort them out. She was still running to keep up with Elena Breunig's connection, and he was on to a new game. Was he acting on Thalia's orders, or Fouche's? Had Du Fresne engineered something on his own to curry favor with his employer?
They would find out soon enough.
Philipe extended a hand. “I accept. Convey my gratitude to the lovely baroness.”
DuFresne took Philipe's hand, eyes narrowed. “We can ride out together tonight, if you would like. Enjoy a weekend in the country. My carriage is just out front...”
He was testing, prodding. She could practically see Dufresne's nose twitch while mentally he circled them, sniffing out their purpose.
She draped herself on Philipe's arm and sighed. “The duke and I have...business together, here in town.”
“A social call? I can wait and save you the trouble of traveling separately. How long will it take?”
She smiled, and slipped a hand inside Philipe's coat. “Sometimes hours.”
This time Du Fresne flushed, his jaw twitching. More than uncomfortable, he was disgusted, confronted with the sort of aristocratic, base indulgence he was determined to weed out.
He spun on a heel. “Then I shall look for you on Friday.”
Philipe nodded. “Depend upon it.”
She watched Du Fresne pass until he was through the curtain and back inside his box.
“Curious,” whispered Philipe.
“Very curious. We'll have to be on guard.”
Philipe batted his eyes, trying a coquettish smile. “Sometimes hours,” he mimicked. “I am always on my guard with you around. Who knows what might come out of that mouth!” Laughing, he led them down the first sweeping flight of wide marble stairs.
She scoffed. “Do not pretend for a moment that I have offended your chaste ears.”
“Just the contrary. You say all sorts of wonderful things. Suggestions I know you have no intention of fulfilling.” His teasing was tinged with wistfulness.
She brought them to a stop on the second landing, probing with narrowed eyes. “Are you making advances at me, your grace?”
Philipe leaned against the carved fans of the balustrade, giving her a once-over with his gaze, a look which had more effect than she thought possible. “If I am? Is there a hope of succeeding?”
“No,” she admitted, without needing to think. Her professional feelings about Ty might have altered, but personally, nothing had changed. Not that Philipe's attention wasn't flattering.
He flashed a heart-stopping grin, not looking the least bit offended. “Then yes, I am making advances. Keeping my place in the queue until Major Burrell moves out of my way.”
“Hush.” She smiled, despite wincing inside at a jest that struck a little too close to the mark.
“I am a patient man.” He straightened and sighed. “Anyhow, I get you for a little while longer. Come.” He tugged her sleeve
, taking her down the next flight. Just in time; she could have sat on the steps, laughing and crying over her ability to catch the eye of any man but Tyler Burrell.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Resting cheek to fist, Ty studied Thalia from across the carriage, catching glimpses of her face through the intermittent lamplight that spilled golden beams in from the street. She relaxed when it was just the two of them. Her way of speaking became conversational, one topic flowing into the next so naturally that Ty quickly grasped what a simple thing it must be for a man to spill his secrets. She radiated an authority that bordered on maternal, tempered by a seductive air. It wasn't hard to see how she used her charms to stroke the vanity of the insecure, such as Napoleon and Fouche, while still retaining her autonomy.
She was no pawn. That had been established early in the night. When Fouche had sent his third note around to their box, ostensibly as an 'admirer,' and Thalia had sent it back unopened with the valet, she also got up and closed the curtain. Fouche might be her handler, but Thalia had the confidence to manage her own affairs.
She was no Olivia. Thalia had brains aplenty, but her skill was all glamour touched with some cleverness. Sixteen; it was the number of mistakes she'd made so far tonight, small errors that Olivia would never have made.
Olivia's espionage was an art. How to brew a poison and how to apply it. When to use her breasts and when to use her knife. She had loyalty and quick wits, enough to earn his respect, and then his trust.
Thalia, he noted, exclusively worked alone. Fouche handled her, but she was most definitely not an equal player. She might be formidable, dangerous, but in a spy's dialect, working alone said you had broken the rungs on your way up the ladder.
“You are pensive, all of a sudden.” She watched him without expression.