Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2)

by Baird Wells

  Swallowing hard, she nodded slowly. To Ty it seemed more an acknowledgment that someone had spoken rather than an answer to any question.

  “Madame Fouche? Ernestine?”

  She pressed the handkerchief at swollen eyelids. “Oui.”

  “Monsieur?” Ethan asked, still searching the room.

  Ernestine shook her head, eyes welling. “No.”

  They were too late. Ty wanted to yell, to slam his fist into the wall. They’d been so close. He dreaded telling Olivia that Fouche had escaped.

  Ethan had knelt before Ernestine. “Where?”

  A shrug. “He paced the house all day yesterday. Waiting for a letter. Last night he put some things in a case. Just a trip into town, he said.” A dam broke, and for a moment Ernestine sobbed into her limp, much-used cloth. “This morning he sent everyone away. He said I could not go with him.”

  Ethan snapped to attention. “Where? How long ago?”

  “At dawn,” she sobbed. “His trunk banged the wall. It woke me.”

  Ty pulled his watch. “It's eleven. He could be anywhere.”

  “And yet, he is not. He wouldn't go far with his emperor so close at hand.” Ethan looked Ernestine over, then sighed.

  Ty understood the gesture. The woman was a mouse, timid on a good day, and terrified right now. Fouche probably didn't trust her with a key to the good silver, let alone any information of import.

  Ethan reached into his coat pocket, producing their warrant. “Your husband is under arrest, Madame. Wherever he is. You will remember this, if he contacts you.”

  Ernestine began to cry again, well before Ethan had finished speaking. Ty fished in his trousers pocket for his own handkerchief, stepping forward and holding it out to her. As he stepped back, a suspiciously formed shadow to the right of the couch caught his attention as it shifted over a Persian rug beneath the sofa.

  Snapping his fingers at Ethan, Ty pointed over the back of the couch. Ethan stood and clutched his pistol at the ready, and Ty circled around the sofa and a weeping Ernestine.

  A small part of his mind half expected to find Fouche behind the sofa, but he immediately dismissed the idea. Ernestine didn’t seem capable of that sort of deception. What, or rather who he found nearly broke his heart.

  A girl, perhaps ten years old, huddled behind the furniture. She hugged her knees through lavender silk skirts, trying and succeeding to look even smaller than she was. When she realized Ty had found her, she looked up with wide blue eyes as red-rimmed as Ernestine's. Ty returned his pistol to his waistband and held out a hand. “Come. There's nothing to worry over here. Come and sit with your mama.”

  She was deceptively tall when she stood up. Her face was a doll-like oval, rounded and sweet, but there was a straightness to her nose and a shape to her eyes that was undeniably her father's. Despite looking nothing like her, she reminded him of Olivia, and Ty's heart ached.

  “Pauline.” Ernestine's arms formed a little circle, and she gathered the child, pulling Pauline to her side. She glanced between him and Ethan. “Pauline is monsieur’s daughter, sir.”

  Fouche had thought enough to dismiss his household staff, but had left his wife and daughter behind to face the retribution he'd surely known was coming. It was disgusting, and characteristic. He probably expected them to sit and wait calmly for his return, whenever that might be. Around the time of Napoleon's arrival, Ty surmised. The casual arrogance he felt for their efforts, and that of his family’s fate, was despicable. Ty clenched his fist.

  “What...” Ernestine glanced to her step-daughter, and cleared her throat. “What will happen to us?”

  He raised a hand to reassure the pair. “Calm yourselves. You've done nothing wrong. As Mister Grayfield has instructed, if you hear from Monsieur Fouche, you are to report it to the police at once.”

  Ernestine rubbed her eyes, looking tired and confused. “But only for a few days more, no?”

  Ethan shook his head, concern writ across his brow. “Meaning what, Madame?”

  “When the emperor returns. Joseph says it will be a week or so. Then what should I do?”

  The realization hit Ty like a punch in the gut. The last four days had been a blur. A fight to outdo Fouche, even a fight for survival. He hadn't stopped to appreciate that if they did not subdue the police minister now, it would be too late. Thalia capturing them might have been her undoing, but it had it also bought Fouche the time he needed to flee.

  Their efforts, at least the most direct ones, were at an end.

  “Monsieur?” Ernestine sat forward, clutching Pauline to her side. “What shall I do?'

  Exchanging a glance with Ethan, he shrugged. “What everyone else is doing, Madame. I suppose you should pray.”

  * * *

  Ethan rested a palm on his study door, steadying himself to walk through. Major Burrell had left it to him, delivering the bad news to Olivia. Not that he blamed Tyler. Her reaction was bound to be biblical in fury, and they’d just been through a harder time than any partnership he’d ever overseen. Taking a breath, he stepped in.

  An unexpected presence in the study caught his breath and brought a smile to his face in spite of his dire news. His wife never failed to enchant him, no less breathtaking now than when they had met two years earlier.

  Sofie reclined in her chair across from Olivia, petite figure presiding over her tea tray with the grace of a queen. Her smile at his entrance washed away some of the day's misery. Gray eyes clouded with a hint of something just for him, a passion that had drawn them together from their first meeting.

  He leaned in, brushing a kiss to her temple, and swept away a few raven strands playing at her cheek. “You arrived this morning?”

  “Early. I stopped to see my father at the consulate.” She reached out and squeezed Olivia's bandaged hand. “Though, had I known I would find such good company, I would have come directly.”

  Olivia grimaced. “I think you are very generous with the phrase good company.” Her eyes widened, and she sat up, so suddenly that the tea table swayed perilously close to tipping. She searched an empty hall at his back. “Where is Tyler?”

  “At ease, Olivia. He has gone home to rest and see to his wounds. On my orders. Burning the safe house took a bit more doing than I had anticipated, for such a dry old house.”

  She would see it in his face. Olivia, one of the most perceptive people he had ever met, would not miss the signs. “He sent you to bear the bad news.”

  Sofie got up, circling, seating herself beside Olivia while he claimed the empty chair.

  “He didn’t send me, I volunteered. No food and no sleep in three days; I couldn’t allow him anything but rest.” After Olivia’s mysterious letter and their trials of the last few days, Ethan was happy to take the proverbial bullet and spare the major her wrath.

  He steeled himself, took a deep breath. “Fouche was gone when we arrived. His wife and child were present, but no one else.”

  Olivia inhaled, the longest breath he'd ever seen anyone take, as though she were silently screaming in reverse. She blew it out slowly, between barely parted lips. For a moment he was afraid of her. He almost felt badly for Joseph Fouche.

  “How? When?”

  “We surmise he must have had an arrangement with the baroness. She was supposed to write or rendezvous when she had taken care of…” Ethan caught himself. “When matters were settled at Vincennes. When she failed to show, it was likely an agreed-upon signal to her handler that something had gone wrong. He fled at dawn, we know not where.” He ground his teeth in frustration. “If Whitehall had given me enough men to watch his residence… As it is, counting the major, we comprise the British intelligence presence for all of Paris. Everyone else has been recalled ahead of Napoleon’s arrival.”

  Closing her eyes, Olivia exhaled again, looking entirely peaceful. “He'll be back. He always comes back, on one side or the other. I can wait.” She met his eyes, her own clouded. “I can wait.”

  He reached into his p
ocket next to the unfulfilled warrant, pinching at a small square of vellum. “Fouche left this for you. I am delivering it against my better judgment, but I trust you will know what to make of it.” He held out the note.

  For a moment she stared, only blinking. Finally, she claimed it, touching as little of the paper as possible. Tracing the long, neat letters with a finger, she whispered the word: Olivie. She unfolded its crease.

  He watched her eyes trace the line of words he'd read earlier and was surprised when she smiled.

  The spy is inherently a traitor.

  Sofie claimed the note, depositing it like rubbish beside the teapot. “Ignore it, Olivia. He wants only to get in one final blow. Don't give him the satisfaction.”

  She was right, in his opinion, and it amused him that a man known for understanding his opponents, a man who had the least excuse for misunderstanding Olivia, had so painfully underestimated her.

  “Final blow? No. No, no.” Olivia relaxed against the blue sofa. “We are a long way from finished.”

  “Done for now, I'm afraid.” Ethan hooked a finger behind his head at the mantle, claiming the bottle of port Olivia had abused earlier, and poured some into a teacup while Sofie scowled. “I have dismissed you and Major Burrell. Paris is now hostile territory. Until the coalition army has established itself, it isn't wise or safe for you to operate here.”

  “But Fouche will be back. We can still stop him,” she argued.

  “Not before Napoleon retakes the city, Olivia. We’ve no time for more than packing.”

  Olivia’s arms shot up. “He's betrayed us, again! He's changed sides. Again. Napoleon never kept him reined in like the Allies did. Surveillance, documentation, detention. The Terror will begin anew.” Her words were heated, passionate in the way that only someone who’d lived during the time she described could be.

  “Leave Fouche to his new master. He will be Bonaparte's problem until we can get our sea legs, regroup and snare him.”

  “The people's problem!” She scoffed, pounding a fist into her palm. “It’s unthinkable. Unacceptable.”

  He understood her frustration and felt every bit of it himself. He had fought Napoleon in the army as a code breaker, then later a spy master. At every turn, the man reappeared, stronger than before, seemingly unbeatable. It wasn't easy to retreat, and it was doubly hard asking it of someone else. “For now we must accept this. Those are our marching orders, direct from the War Ministry. And as much as you or I might hate to admit it, they make sense for now.”

  Olivia stood up, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. There was a time when he'd known her well enough to understand how to control her. How to discipline the wild urchin rifling men's pockets at coach stops. The woman before him now...

  She wasn't wild or undisciplined anymore. Nor was she hysterical or even irrational. Perhaps she was a little too rational, considering. She was calculating and fiercely intelligent. Bloodthirsty in the depths of her eyes. She would give no quarter, offer no diplomacy, only striving for vengeance. Trying to penetrate her obstinance, Ethan repeated himself. “That is our directive from Whitehall.”

  “I do not answer to Whitehall. You have dismissed me.”

  He pursed his lips. “From Paris. I haven’t dismissed you from Whitehall’s service. We're all leaving before Wednesday.”

  Olivia opened her mouth, but Sofie stood up between them. “Ethan, look at her. This is a discussion for another time.”

  Ever the ambassador, like her father. She was right, of course. He’d gain no traction with Olivia, not right now. Her hair was a wild mess, her clothes were dirty, and her face resembled the loser’s in a boxing match. The last thing she could bear to hear right now was that they'd been beaten. Retreating a little, he nodded. “We can conclude our business another time, Miss Fletcher.”

  Something occurred to him as Sofie was showing Olivia out. “Olivia? Major Burrell spoke with me about the matter of your being recalled. I need to know, do you take issue working with him, specifically?”

  A softening of Olivia's features, a frightened lift to her eyebrows confirmed what he already suspected. “Did he tell you that? That I do not wish to work with him?”

  Employing a tried and true tactic, he answered her question with a question. “Was La Porte the problem, or has something happened to cause a division between you and the major?”

  She paused a long time, her eyes far away. “No.” The word was barely a whisper, Olivia's head shaking almost imperceptibly. “No, I wouldn't say so.”

  “Good. Fraternizing is expressly forbidden between agents. Were I to become aware of it, I would be required to dismiss you both immediately.” He let the meaning hang between them.

  Olivia cocked her head. “Were you to become aware?”

  “Were I to become aware,” he repeated.

  Olivia nodded. “I understand. Thank you.”

  Satisfied that she understood, he ushered her toward the door. “My carriage will see you home. I will come 'round to check on you. If you need anything at all, I expect you to let me know.”

  Suddenly, she looked young and fragile. Sad. He would have hugged her, if he believed for a moment she would allow it. Tears pooled along her bottom lashes, and Olivia nodded. “Thank you,” she repeated, communicating a much deeper meaning.

  Sofie closed the door on Olivia's departure and returned to the couch, falling onto its cushions with an exhausted lack of grace. “Sometimes I believe things cannot get any worse for her. And then I am surprised.”

  “She’s too stubborn for me to do a damned thing with.”

  She smirked. “You are the expert on stubborn women, my lord.”

  He laughed for the first time in days, and prodded Sofie's calf with his boot. “I cannot fault her entirely, in this case. Major Burrell is doing his part, as well.”

  “They need each other now. What a ridiculous time to entrench.”

  He refilled the port in his cup, then drained it back to porcelain. “I doubt either of them knows what to make of this new Olivia. I don't. Do you?”

  “No,” Sofie admitted, picking at a thread on the cushion.

  “I'm afraid of her.” He hadn't fully realized how much until now. The measured depths of Olivia's rage, and her determination to end Fouche. “Whatever she does when I leave Paris could be interpreted as sanctioned by Whitehall, even if we openly disavow her actions. Treaties, negotiations...they could all be jeopardized.” He pinched at the bridge of his nose.

  “Olivia does not need our interference.” Sofie leaned forward and took his hand. “Leave the treaties and negotiations to my father, and leave Joseph Fouche to his fate.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Olivia tucked the last of her clothes into a straining chest, its lid protesting with every shove until she got it latched. She was done, all her belongings packed and ready for her flight from Paris. The task had occupied her every waking moment for three days, keeping her mind from all that had happened, from everything except missing Ty. With nothing left to occupy her, she wondered at the wisdom of being alone with her thoughts. There were books left in the parlor, and some writing paper, things that she didn’t need or that didn’t belong to her. Leaving her baggage haphazardly around the room, Olivia decided she preferred boring activity to dangerous silence.

  A rapping at the door snapped her from her book. She paused, waiting for the door to open, then recalled that there was no one left to get it. She’d given the household staff leave to quit Paris in advance of Napoleon's arrival. She would have to answer it herself.

  A cool evening breeze, damp and heavy, painted her cheeks as she swung the door open. Ty, looking smart as ever in a dove gray coat the color of lifting clouds, filled the doorway. He raised his hat slowly, as if afraid she might ask him to go.

  They stood that way for a long moment, taking each other’s measure. Olivia with no idea what to say. They'd been through so much together over the last few months and even more the last few days.
Their mission was over, and she realized that she was looking at him for the first time not as a partner, but as... What?

  Finally, Ty bowed and broke the silence. “Miss Fletcher.”

  She smiled, charmed by his formal address. “Major Burrell.”

  He waved a hand lamely in her direction. “I was hoping that you might be at home for visitors.”

  “I am. Very much so.” She shook her head at an equally lame reply.

  Ty pressed the brim of his hat to his chest, swallowing as though the weight of the world bore him down. “There are some things I would like to say to you.”

  Nodding, Olivia realized she had been holding her breath, and suddenly noticed the last sprinkling of rain beading on Ty's shoulders. “Oh! Oh my goodness ... come in. Would you like to come in?” She should just stop speaking; it was only getting worse. She sounded ridiculous.

  To her relief, he smiled. “Yes, please.”

  Stepping aside, she let him pass into the hall and took more time than necessary in closing and locking the door. Why was it so hard to face him? She fumbled for anything to do, a way to keep busy. “Give me your hat.” She grasped the damp brim without waiting, shaking off the water and setting it on a table at the foot of stairs. “Coat?”

  “Thank you.” He turned, shrugging out of the sleeves, letting her pull it down. Her heart skipped, fingers buried between his collar and the warm, damp linen at his back. “Goodness, you're soaked to the bone! Did you walk here?”

  He faced her, blue eyes fixed unblinking on her own. “I did. I needed a quiet stretch, to think.”

  She poked a finger toward the kitchen stairs. “You must be frozen. Can I make you some tea or –”

  “Gin. Gin will do.”

  Olivia ignored the tightness of her laughter. “In that case, we'll go directly to the parlor.”

  It was her favorite room in the house and was the one decorated most closely to her own tastes. White walls stood out with beautiful plaster work and molding rather than the bright paint or gilt frames most common these days. A large assortment of books crowded the shelves on either side of the white marble fireplace, and there was little enough furniture that she could decline guests without being rude.