by Zoë Archer
Both of them had made the right choice by stopping when they had. It didn’t make falling asleep any easier, though. After tossing around restlessly on his bed, he relieved some of his tension with a fast, hard wank. He’d tried not to think of her as he’d touched himself, yet his damn resolve broke, and it was her hand he imagined around his cock when he came. It didn’t feel quite … right. Though they had kissed, she hadn’t given him permission for anything else. But he’d used her as he’d pleasured himself. And he wasn’t certain how he could look at her without feeling, for the first time, a stab of conscience.
* * *
The rows of booksellers lining the Seine looked like a reader’s paradise to Bronwyn. She admired the clever design of the wooden stalls, that opened and unfolded much like books themselves. There had to be dozens of stalls, some selling illustrations or photographs in addition to the countless books, titles on their spines in French, English, Spanish, Italian, and even Latin, for the students across the river.
As she and Marco walked past the booksellers, it was all she could do to keep from stopping and browsing through the stalls’ wares for hours. Much as she loved music, books were doorways leading to worlds she’d never know.
But things were tense between her and Marco, dimming her enjoyment of the books. He and Bronwyn hadn’t spoken much to each other all day. There was almost remorse in his gaze. Did he regret kissing her? And did she feel the same? He was the first man she’d kissed since Hugh’s death—and she was still theoretically in mourning. Yet she wanted to grab Marco and kiss him again. What was wrong with her?
How was she supposed to feel?
She tried to distract herself with the books. “I almost wish we weren’t meeting Simon and Alyce.” Her voice sounded strained, thin. “It would be wonderful to find a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo in its original language.” Though she hadn’t any money to buy the book, even if she found it.
“Monsieur Verne holds more appeal for me,” Marco said.
She raised her brows. “Seems awfully fantastical for a pragmatist like you.”
His mouth tilted in a slight smile. “Yet even pragmatists like to believe in impossible things.”
She seized on the topic, grateful for the distraction from her thoughts. “Do you think it will ever happen? Ships that fly all the way to the moon? Electrically powered submersibles? It seems so outlandish.”
He gave one of his shrugs. “It may be as commonplace in the future as a Channel crossing. A man alive a hundred years ago would scarcely believe he could travel from London to Edinburgh in only a matter of hours.”
“Perhaps they’ll invent a potion that makes us live twice as long,” she said. “How amazing it would be to see such miracles come to pass.”
Despite the circumstances for her being in Paris, she wanted to revel in this moment, with the timeless Seine and limitless books. But between their search for Devere, and her confusing feelings about Marco, she couldn’t.
She caught a glimpse of Simon and Alyce up ahead, both looking at a book Alyce held. Their heads were bent together, and they exchanged small, intimate smiles.
Longing pierced Bronwyn. She’d never had that kind of closeness with Hugh. They’d been content to share a house, a table, and sometimes a bed. At the time, she hadn’t felt deprived or lonely. All marriages she knew were conducted in the same way.
But here was a glimpse of something she’d never truly witnessed: genuine love and respect between a husband and a wife. It glowed in Simon’s eyes and shone in Alyce’s smile, and the way they unfashionably found excuses to touch one another. A hand brushed against a sleeve. How Alyce sometimes bumped her shoulder against her husband’s in a gesture of affectionate teasing.
As she and Marco approached the couple, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Hoping to see a similar look of longing on his face. But he was as opaque as ever. An expert in hiding what he truly thought. One might imagine nothing affected him at all.
But she knew differently after last night.
Simon glanced up as they neared. He was a well-trained operative, because he didn’t wave or call out, or any of the things ordinary people might do when spotting friends on the street. He only gave them a clipped nod.
“Productive night?” he asked when Bronwyn and Marco reached him.
“Devere can’t afford whores,” Marco reported bluntly, “and he’s not looking for company in the cafés, either. At least he wasn’t last night.”
“A bloke of single-minded purpose,” Alyce said.
“So it seems,” Bronwyn answered. Barges floated up and down the Seine, and pedestrians strolled along the stone quays and beneath the bridges spanning the river. Rubbish floated on the surface of the water and boatmen shouted curses at each other. How would she remember this moment later? Therein lay the beauty of remembrance. One could select things to recall and draw a veil over the rest. Years later, when she thought back to this time, she’d remember the darkly handsome, purposeful man beside her, the books, and the ancient river.
“And you?” Marco picked up a volume and idly thumbed through its pages. It appeared to be about tropical plants. “Have you uncovered where we can run our gambling friend to ground?”
Simon stuffed his hands into his overcoat pockets, yet somehow he still looked elegant. “Alyce and I learned some things as we suffered through the world’s most excruciating dinner party.”
The Cornishwoman rolled her eyes. “They spoke English for my benefit, but they kept saying they suffered from ennui, which, close as I can figure, means ‘having too much money and not enough brains to find something to do.’ For God’s sake, they live in palaces and eat foods I can’t even figure out, but they say they’re just so bored.” She shook her head in disbelief.
“Parisians seem to have perfected artful agony,” Marco agreed. He slipped the book back onto its shelf and pulled out another, this one about architecture. “What of the gaming?”
“The high-level games seem to concentrate around Place Vendôme,” Simon answered. “But there are about three regular floating games of the lower level you can find in Clignancourt.”
“That’s where we’ll find Devere,” Bronwyn guessed.
“If I were the sort of belly-crawling vermin that he seems to be,” Simon answered, “then yes, you’ll find him there.” To Marco, he said, “I’ll give you the addresses where the games are usually held.”
As the two men talked, Alyce’s stomach gave a sudden loud growl. The woman covered her belly with her hand and chuckled with embarrassment. She whispered to Bronwyn, “We haven’t had breakfast, and I’m so hungry. I barely ate anything last night on account of not knowing what the blazes they were serving me. Things they called escargots and cervelles.”
“Better avoid that,” Bronwyn whispered back. “It’s snails and brains.”
Alyce’s complexion took on a distinctly green hue. “We didn’t have much to eat in Trewyn, but Lord preserve me from eating garden pests and cow brains.”
“If a server offers you boeuf or poulet,” Bronwyn said, “you’re safe.”
The other woman nodded. “Cheers. Everyone talks about how la-di-da the food is over here, but I thought I was going to starve.”
“Worst comes to worst,” Bronwyn advised, “keep a cooked sausage in your reticule and slip it onto your plate when no one’s watching.”
Alyce laughed—a husky, full laugh—causing Simon to gaze at her with undisguised adoration. Something flashed in Marco’s eyes, too, but he wasn’t looking at Alyce. He looked at Bronwyn.
Her heart thudded. Ever since last night, hot tension had been growing between them, barely checked by the kiss.
“The first game’s tonight at eleven,” Simon noted. “Runs until dawn, so I’d suggest you rest up beforehand.”
She could use it, too. Absinthe and Marco had played havoc with her dreams.
“And those are the only games worth investigating in Paris?” he pressed Simon.
&nb
sp; The gentleman looked offended. “Six years of friendship, but where’s the faith in my abilities?”
“Right up your—”
“All right, lads.” Alyce held up her hands. “We’re all tired and hungry, so we’ll keep the schoolyard taunts in our pockets. And yes,” she added, “these three games were the best options. There aren’t heaps of underground gaming hells, not with fear of the law.”
“I didn’t think the citizens of Paris were so law-abiding,” Bronwyn said.
Simon looked wry. “They’re mostly afraid of raids and having to pay off the police. Otherwise, there’s a long and storied tradition of Parisian disobedience.”
“Then I think England calls you home again,” Marco said, “or wherever else your next assignment is.”
Drawing his wife close, Simon said, “We haven’t had our honeymoon yet and I promised Alyce to show her my favorite café in the Cap d’Antibes. It’s too early for the high season, so we should have the town to ourselves.”
His tone was perfectly polite, but given the way Alyce turned pink, Bronwyn had a very good idea how they’d make use of their solitude.
Bronwyn stuck out her hand. “Thank you both for all the work you’ve done on my behalf. I’m afraid words are rather tiny things when it comes to expressing gratitude.”
In turn, Simon and Alyce shook her hand. Bronwyn had to resist the need to shake her hand out after Alyce’s impressively strong grip.
“All in a day’s work, et cetera,” Simon said.
“A night’s work, rather,” Alyce amended.
After Marco shook hands with the other Nemesis agents, they parted company. The last Bronwyn saw of the couple, they were strolling hand in hand along the banks of the Seine, Alyce marveling at the scenery while Simon watched the look of wonderment on her face with a fond smile.
Another ache of longing spread through Bronwyn. She’d come to Paris to find her missing fortune, yet what she discovered was how much else was missing in her life.
* * *
She found it on her bed, later that day. A small, brown-paper-wrapped parcel, with no writing on the paper and nothing else to indicate what it was or where it had come from.
Tearing off the paper, she discovered it was a book. Le Comte de Monte-Cristo. She flipped open the cover and saw someone had written something on the flyleaf.
Enjoy the adventure.—M.
It surprised her to realize she already was.
* * *
It would be hours before the gaming club opened, leaving Bronwyn and Marco ample time to dine. They sat at one of the numerous restaurants lining the street, a bottle of red wine standing sentry at their small table, and a succession of plats placed in front of them. No escargots or cervelles, but roasted chicken and potatoes suffused with herbs and garlic, almost austere but rendered down to its purest form of gastronomic pleasure.
The pleasure of the food felt distant, though, with the strain still hanging between her and Marco.
She searched for an innocuous topic. “This bistro’s food reminds me of someplace.”
“Amélie-les-Bains?” he asked.
She made a face. “God, no. The spa served boiled beef to its healthiest patients, and the others ate barley gruel. I swore off boiled anything after that.”
“They should be tried for crimes against cooking. My mother would never stand for food treated as an afterthought.”
Did he know that he spoke of himself and his family? She didn’t want to point it out. Instead, she held this small piece of information, the way a diver would cradle a pearl pried from the depths of the ocean. There was warmth and affection in his voice when he talked of his mother. Strange to think that he even had parents, rather than emerging fully formed from the world’s secrets.
She wanted to ask him dozens, hundreds of questions about his past and his family, yet he had to be approached carefully, like a wild animal, in gradual sideways steps, hoping that he wouldn’t bolt. Or at least not retreat into silence.
After taking another bite of her chicken, she mulled the taste. “The Lake District,” she said at last. “When I was a little girl, we took a holiday in the Lake District. The first time I’d ever been out of London. I couldn’t understand where all the buildings had gone. It scared me. I thought a monster had come and eaten them up.”
He smiled a little.
“My mother said that out in the country,” she said, “the buildings were like dandelion puffs, and blew away, leaving the green hills behind. I wasn’t scared after that. And that first night at our inn by Ullswater, they served us plain roast chicken. It tasted so … real. Like how a chicken was supposed to taste. Until now, it was the most delicious thing I’d ever eaten.”
“Italian cooking is always best. This comes a close second.” He gestured at his plate with his knife and fork. “Peasant food. Meant to nourish more than just the stomach.” Before she could respond to this, he asked softly, “What happened to your parents?”
“Lucy didn’t say?”
“She mentioned you were orphaned, but no details.”
Bronwyn pushed the food around on her plate. “An accident after I’d been married—train derailment. You probably read about it in the papers. The Bulhouse Bridge tragedy.” She took a long sip of wine. “It’s one of the reasons why you find me dependent on the munificence of Nemesis. Had my mother and father still been alive, they would’ve welcomed me home. And you already know I haven’t got any siblings besides my sister and her oaf of a husband.” Then, because it seemed opportune, she pressed her luck. “You?”
He surprised her by actually answering. “Mother and father both alive. Two sisters. Both unconventional.”
“And they come from your family?” she couldn’t help but tease.
He actually laughed, warming her more than the wine.
Perhaps now would be a good time to ask him other questions. Learn about where he’d gone to school, what he studied there, how he’d become a spy. She hungered for any crumb of information about him. Something that helped her solve the unfolding enigma that was Marco.
The tension between them loosened, yet as they continued to eat, and while the wine and food and man opposite her cast warmth over her, she was at all times aware that later that night, they’d be hunting the miserable fellow who’d stolen her fortune. It seemed that since her widow’s veil had been lifted, the world was always edged with darkness.
* * *
Marco glanced over at Bronwyn. She sat beside him on a hard wooden bench in one of Clignancourt’s seedy cafés, positioned across from the shabby private home that hosted tonight’s gaming hell. Her lips pressed thin and her hands knotted together in her lap. Should he tell her to make herself more at ease? Her tense posture stood out in this place of slovenly, listing drunkards and bleary addicts, but no one seemed to pay her much attention, mired as they were in their own demons.
The smell of cheap wine and liquor hung over the garishly lit café. Unlike the cafés of Montmartre, the ones of Clignancourt held no intellectual debate or artistic ambition. He recalled how she talked of music, the passion she felt for it, her secret wish to become a professional violinist. Her passion had inflamed his own. But there was none of that among the people of Clignancourt. Only the desire to escape the grim world.
“We should have gone into the gambling hell,” Bronwyn murmured.
“Safer out here.”
She gazed at the café with disbelief. Two men scuffled in the corner while a whore shrieked at them. “Hard to believe.”
“Even legal gaming hells don’t have much access to doors or windows,” he said. “No fast exits. The crowds are thick, too, and noisy.”
She raised a brow. “A seasoned agent like you shouldn’t be fazed by such conditions.”
“I’m not. But usually I go into scenarios like that alone, or with a trained partner.”
“Does that make me a liability?” she asked flatly.
“Not at all. I need you to help me identify D
evere if he shows, but I can do my job better if I know you’re safe. This place might be a rattrap, but it’s more secure than there.” He nodded toward the house across the street, where men and the occasional woman slouched in, ready to throw away their money on crooked games of chance.
“Harriet taught me how to fight,” Bronwyn countered.
“A fist can’t protect you from a knife in the back.”
“But you can.”
“When you’re with me,” he said, “nothing will happen to you.”
He always looked after the safety of his clients. That had to be the only explanation for the overwhelming sense of protectiveness he felt toward her. Just part of the job.
It was his coolness—and outstanding language skills—that had attracted the attention of a government recruiter at Cambridge. In addition to his boxing, he’d been captain of the rugby team, and known for doing whatever was necessary to obtain a victory, including inventing plays that had never been used before. The agent who’d approached him had said that his skills would go to waste if he followed in his father’s line of work. Marco had been younger then, almost naïve, and hadn’t been able to fathom how this stranger knew so much about him.
But the offer of government work that made a true difference—not some useless sinecure or dull work behind a desk—had intrigued him. That, the possibility of traveling to the distant corners of the empire to defeat Britain’s enemies, and striving to erode the power of the elite.
Before he’d been approached by the government recruiter, he hadn’t known exactly what to do with himself. Oh, he excelled at all his studies, but to what end, he hadn’t known. Going into the family business didn’t interest him. Neither had soldiering.
But the secret work of espionage had. Quietly, deliberately altering the course of … everything. Including the dismantling of power by those of the old guard. It was a new world, where intelligence, ambition, and drive shaped destiny—not the good fortune of birth. The old guard had made him, his father, and his father’s father feel insignificant … he would be the one to tunnel beneath the castle’s foundations, until the whole structure came plummeting down.