by Baird Wells
He struck the table, jarring a fork to the floor. “Bollocks. Something.”
She dropped the newspaper and sat forward in her chair. “All right then. I am bored with hearing you mention her.”
“Pardon?” Whatever he had expected, it wasn't that. Thalia was part of their assignment. How could he not discuss her?
“She's vapid, promiscuous, and gaudy. And a traitor. I find it all disgusting.”
'All' meaning his interactions with the baroness? He could swear Olivia forgot that they were on an assignment. If he didn't know better, he would suspect her of taking their recent falling-out personally. Disgusting? “How is that?” he asked.
Eyes narrowing, her voice raised to a mimicking pitch. “Thalia managed her pony with skill. Thalia wore green today. Thalia spoke some words.”
“Well,” he hesitated, still not clear on Olivia's frustration. “Those are all true. Those are things I have observed her doing.” Minutiae, undoubtedly, but he and Olivia had always talked about everything.
Covering her mouth with her fingertips, Olivia rolled her eyes above an artificial smile. “Tee hee!”
“What...in the hell...” He was too confused to finish or even formulate the sentence. “Olivia, are you drunk?”
“No,” she snapped, getting up with enough force to rock her chair. “No I am not. But that may well change before noon.”
This wasn't like her. Olivia was one of the most intelligent, level-headed women he'd ever met. Nothing she was saying right now made any sense. Something was very wrong, and he had no time to sort it out. He was engaged to take Thalia to the park and there was no breaking the appointment. Frustration threatened to boil over as he realized that he couldn't mention that fact to Olivia. Not with the way she was acting right now.
“Unfortunately, I cannot stay to assist.” He rose, wishing he could ask her to come with him a ways, to talk things through. Perhaps a walk and some fresh air would help. He couldn't, though, not when he and Thalia were so openly an item.
“Of course you can't.” Olivia crossed her arms, looking past him.
Ty wasn't certain if it was an acknowledgment or an accusation. Either way, he didn't seem able to win. “Well...will you be at her masquerade tonight? I recall our last one being rather entertaining.”
“I will,” she answered, ignoring the jest. “With Philipe.”
He stiffened against the cushion, caught off guard by her information. “What do you mean 'with'?” It wasn't that he was bothered about her going with La Porte. It wasn't that at all. It was just surprise at the way she'd worded it. As with everything else that she'd said over the last five minutes, it felt like she was having an entirely different conversation.
She held up one finger, then another. “I will be there, he will be there.” She pushed them against each other. “And we will be together.”
All right, he was a little bothered. “No.” He shook his head. “I don't like it; this sounds unwise. There will be too many of us in close proximity. We risk being discovered.”
She sniffed, looking away. “Philipe is supposed to be my consoling lover.”
The word grated on him. “But he is not your lover.”
She stared back, blinking.
“Olivia.” Pushing out his chair, he stood up slowly, heart picking up its pace at her continued silence. The way Philipe took every opportunity to brush her hand, his jealous quips at the party. His never-ending questions about where she was, if she were joining them... “Olivia,” he repeated, watching for some reaction, “he is not your lover.”
Her arms waved. “Thalia is not your lover. And yet, you two go everywhere together.”
That was not the answer he'd hoped for. Could she not see the difference? Had she gone temporarily insane? “Of course she's not. Making love to a woman takes time and effort, two forms of currency I have no desire to spend on Madame d'Oettlinger.”
He was growing more agitated by the moment, more frustrated, but she sat there unengaged. “That is not the point.”
He'd had enough. “Well, then, dammit, what is?”
The hall clock bellowed a sickly chime, showing its age and cutting through their argument.
Olivia took a step back from the table, putting more distance between them. “I will see you tonight, Tyler. With Philipe.”
Snatching his hat from the table, he offered her the slightest bow. “I hope this evening finds you in better spirits.”
“It won't,” she threatened, not meeting his gaze.
Something about a note to her words was a revelation. Ty set his hat back down and studied her. “Dimples, are you feeling neglected?”
“What?”
“You are.” It had only occurred when he realized that he was, too. “A little cross, perhaps, that we can't spend all of our time together?” He leaned in closer, grinning. “Bed feel a little empty, lately?” After all, it had been just the two of them for months, and he wasn't enjoying Philipe's occasional interference. Putting himself in her place, things became more clear.
Olivia deflated and fell back into her chair, looking eager to agree. “Now that you mention it, I am. I cannot play cards alone, and you're the only person who cheats with any merit. Philipe is always out somewhere.” She shrugged. “Anyway, even if he did know a one-legged prostitute joke, he would never tell it to me.”
Ty was sure there was more at work than she was owning up to, considering the conversation they'd just had, but he would take what he could get at the moment.
Reaching across the table, he chucked her gently under the chin. “This isn't forever. We'll be back to our old selves soon enough.”
* * *
“Sit down.”
Grayfield always gave the instruction, even when Ty was already sitting, as he was now.
Ethan settled across the desk, hands folded as though he were pushing together two halves of an idea. “I've received Miss Fletcher's letter.”
“I expected you would have,” he bluffed. He no notion what Grayfield meant, but it seemed unwise to own to the fact that his partner had done something to which he wasn't privy. What letter had she sent? What would Olivia say to Grayfield that she wouldn't discuss with him first? He’d been occupied with Thalia much of the day, but Olivia knew how to find him if she needed to.
“What I am trying to determine is, can the pair of you at least finish your current portion of the assignment? This is vitally important, and we've no time to place new agents.” Ethan flicked a half-folded letter atop his desk. “I would ask her, but I know better, based on her tone.”
What tone? He resisted an urge to massage his temple, scrub at his face, tells which would give him away to Ethan. This, after his morning conversation with Olivia, had left him wanting to pummel something. Swallowing down his frustration, he struggled to piece the situation together. “When last we spoke, I understood that to be her intent. She had no other object in view but to continue our assignment. If she's written otherwise, I believe it was a mistake.”
“'Recall me at once' hardly leaves room for confusion, major.”
She had written that? Ty wracked his brain, struggling for any clue as to why Olivia would ask to be recalled and not breathe a word. They were making progress, DuFresne located and the baroness nearly snared. Fouche was on the horizon.
Pieces began to fit. They'd argued more in the last few days than in the entire months before. She'd been absent from the safe house frequently of late. He'd assumed that she'd been following information about her parents, but now he wondered. It began to sink in: Olivia was putting distance between them. But over the baroness? It couldn't be anything so trivial; she would tell him.
Wouldn't she?
Ethan leaned in, forcing him to swallow, positive the spymaster could read his every thought. “Let me make certain I have this set clearly. You are saying that you do not believe Miss Fletcher wishes to be recalled, and that she has not communicated that desire to you, despite her expressly writing me to reques
t it?”
“She has never once discussed it with me.” That much, at least, was true. But she would damn well discuss it with him now, if she was at the safe house for a change.
Sitting back, Ethan picked up the letter and waved it. “Then translate for me what this really means.”
He wouldn't share half-formed conclusions with Grayfield. The man was far too shrewd. For now, he only had guesses, and poor ones. Relaxing, he sighed, trying to look at ease. “I think she's in a rare fit of pique. I'd never insult Olivia by claiming 'female hysteria' or some nonsense, but Fouche at large, Napoleon's return, and her parents,” he shrugged, “it's all conspired to push her to the edge.” It was the best he could cobble together, but as he spoke the words, he realized how weak they sounded. She'd dealt with far worse in her life and had come through it admirably.
He just prayed Ethan was mollified, for now.
Ethan's eyes narrowed, and Ty wondered if he'd spotted holes in the story. “Why would she write to me?”
He gestured to the letter resting on Ethan's desk, dying for even a glimpse of its contents. “If she's frustrated with me and La Porte, then she can hardly come to us.” He scoffed loudly at the notion for effect. “Perhaps Olivia needs to hear from someone who knows her best that we all want the same thing: Fouche strung up, Napoleon forgotten in a cell. Her parents found, France at peace. I imagine it's not an easy thing for her to remember, given how long she's been alone.”
Ethan patted the cryptic sheet of paper. “What do you suggest I do with this?”
He understood what Ethan was asking. A reason, any reason, to shelve the issue for now. The precariousness of their position, Napoleon on the horizon, everything coming together as it was now; this couldn't have come at a worse time.
He wanted to hear that it was nothing, even if they both knew that it was bollocks.
“It was a mistake,” Ty managed, wishing he could believe it and hearing the quaver in his own words. “A misunderstanding. Burn it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The mansion at the foot of Rue Jardins, bordered by gardens on both sides, immediately gave Olivia the impression of a doll house. It was high and narrow, capped by a bell-shaped roof, and fanned with sweeping steps. Hedges reached out along both sides of the yard, making the mansion appear taller and farther away than it really was. Olivia imagined she could circle around to the back yard, find the house completely open, and move tiny furnishings between its floors.
It didn't fit her impression of Thalia at all. That wasn't surprising, as it had previously belonged to someone else. Several someone’s, even. Her mansion and its furnishing had been stripped from the dead and exiled to create a web for more dead and exiled. This cycle had repeated as the next owners had felt the bite of Madame Guillotine or been set upon by the mob.
When she'd been here previously, she'd been too on guard and focused on Thalia to fully comprehend the eerie sensation of being amongst the mismatched memories of other people's lives. She let it feed her bitterness, at Thalia and Ty, and mostly at herself.
Moving across the dance floor with Philipe, she tried not to let her roiling emotions overwhelm her as he led them into their next turn.
“You move with grace, Lady Elizabeth,” he murmured, his smile a seductive white line beneath his black mask.
“I hate dancing,” she muttered back, ashamed of her petulant tone. It was true, however. She'd been made to start lessons just before her thirteenth birthday, all arms and legs and nearly a head taller than the dancing master. He had snapped at her slowness, scoffed at her gracelessness, and jabbed her with his thin baton at every error. Tender and pampered, unspoiled by LaForce, she had flinched and cried for weeks on end until Monsieur DaVide had grudgingly declared her 'adequate.’
Still smiling, Philipe pressed on, undeterred by her bristling. “Unlike other pursuits, in dancing, skill has little to do with enjoyment.”
She knew what he was doing; he'd done it a hundred times before. Philipe was testing the waters in his own charming way, making it known that he wanted more. As she glimpsed Ty waltzing with Thalia over Philipe's shoulder, his eyes stealing glances her way, Olivia was content to let him. She let go of Philipe's hand and stepped back. “I could do with some air. Find us some champagne?”
Philipe nodded, smile broadening. “And then I shall find you on the terrace.”
A glance to Ty said he'd witnessed their exchange, and by his tells she knew it was eating him. He couldn't end his dance with Thalia, and Olivia relished for a moment that he would just have to stew on it. She was being unfair, but rationality had been in short supply lately.
She passed from the ballroom's glittering white and yellow confection onto a stone terrace sweetened by the first of summer's roses. A rushing fountain farther out in the garden swept over the quartet and drowned all but the loudest voices. Olivia chose a quiet corner as far from the doors as she could, away from torches and guests, and rested her arms on the balustrade. She took a few deep breaths to gather herself.
“Lady Elizabeth.”
It was not Philipe. She froze at the sound of her alias drawn tight between Emil DuFresne's lips.
Her mind raced. Why was he here? Why was he ever at a ball, an opera, a dinner? He didn't dance, or sit, or eat; he was just there, lurking, circling, and shifting against the backdrop. Even if she hadn't been privy to the man's dealings, Elena Breunig's murder, he would have made her skin prickle.
She turned slowly, willing muscles to relax, to not betray a hint of surprise or unease at his presence. “Monsieur DuFresne. If you've come seeking a dance, I'm free at the moment.”
Her suggestion seemed genuinely to fluster him, and he glanced to his polished shoes. She might have surprised him, but she knew better than to think she'd unbalanced him. He reminded her of nothing more than an awkward, introverted lad at times, easily thrown off and embarrassed, but he was dangerous behind the facade.
He laced hands behind his back, fixing her with an unreadable stare. “No, mademoiselle. I only wish to talk.”
Turning fully toward him, she leaned back against the balustrade and rested her elbows. “Equally agreeable.”
“Hastings,” he repeated, coming a half-step closer. “It is a common surname in your country.”
“It is,” she agreed. “Makes sorting my account with the dressmaker something of a trial.”
DuFresne nodded through her jest, brows furrowed behind his spectacles, and he claimed another step. “A common name, but a rather uncommon woman. I'm certain we were introduced before, sometime prior to Madame’s last fete.”
Her wariness of the situation ratcheted up a notch. She surreptitiously glanced around, looking for an escape route, beginning to regret the fact that she'd chosen a more remote location to wait for Philipe. “I've only been in Paris since January. We would both recall it.”
Another step, and DuFresne's hand slipped inside his coat. “Perhaps we both do.”
She swallowed, judging his height, examining the thickness of his neck, weighing what it would take to incapacitate him with her bare hands. Confident at first that she could overwhelm him, she paused to wonder if Elena Breunig had made the same miscalculation.
“Lady Elizabeth.” She resisted the urge to exhale at DuFresne’s words, spoken this time by more comforting lips. Instead of coming to stand next to her, Philipe put himself squarely between her and DuFresne as he had at the opera, blocking the smaller man from view. “Monsieur.”
“Your grace.” DuFresne's greeting held a flinty edge, and then silence twined between them.
“Was there something else you desired of the lady?” Philipe demanded at last.
“No, not at all. Enjoy the remains of your evening.”
DuFresne came into her view again, his back shrinking toward the house. She claimed the champagne from Philipe, downing it in a single pass and planting her glass on the rail with more force than intended. “What was that remark supposed to mean?”
&n
bsp; Philipe shook his head, still watching DuFresne's retreat. “That we should be cautious.” He turned back to her with a grin. “Which we are, always.” He claimed her glass, tipping half of his champagne inside and holding it back to her. “He'll be dealt with soon enough.”
He took her hand, pulling her down the garden stairs. She should stop him, turn back, but her feet claimed each step eagerly. Behind her was nothing but turmoil; Ty, Thalia, DuFresne, even the house itself. The garden ahead was serene, quiet, and a moment spent with Philipe below was welcome.
The garden was shallow, with room for little more than an octagonal stone fountain, a few ironwork benches, and tall sprays of spring flowers along its hedges. Butting up against pleasure gardens outside its walls made it appear larger, fooling Olivia into thinking they'd only gone a few steps from the house. When they reached the border she turned back and discovered the house was much smaller than she'd expected, sparkling against an inky night sky.
Taking up a position beside her, Philipe leaned over the wall, bracing his arms and considering his glass for a long moment. A night breeze wafted his cologne to her. It was different than Ty's, a spicy musk hinting that being alone in the dark was the perfect place for them.
“I have business on my estate in Amboise,” he said. “I'd planned to retire there next week, to make preparations for a certain emperor's arrival.” He leaned into the space between their bodies, pressing his shoulder to hers. She enjoyed the heat and comfort, not moving to pull away.
“You're frustrated, Olivia.” He whispered her true name for their ears alone, “Triste. Travel with me to Amboise.” His fingers brushed her cheek, longer and less weathered than Ty's, but sweeping hair from her cheek with an equal gentleness. “If I cannot cheer you, at least I can distract you.” He reached back, tugging free the strings of his mask and removing it with intent.
She downed the last of her champagne, bracing, daring to turn and face him completely. Philipe was always tempting, and tonight he radiated everything attractive in the opposite sex; a manly physique, bold charm, and an earnest note to his invitation which made her believe their time together in Amboise could be much, much more than a distraction.