Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (15 page)

“He may never have known what
happened. And there are others, Olivia. More witnesses somewhere. We'll find
them.”

“We?” There had never been a 'we'
where her parents were concerned. Not even Uncle Edward had made much effort,
too resigned for wading into the past.

Her question seemed to give Ty
pause. He stopped walking, and they became an island in the crowd. “Yes.”
Slowly, he nodded. “Yes, we. We are partners now. I’ll do all that I can to
help you.”

She had no idea what to say. How to
say it. Heart and chest ached in unison. Touched but uncomfortable, Olivia
squeezed his arm. Smiling, she dug an elbow gently into his side. Then she held
out her palm. “You can start with candy.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Paris – March 3
^rd
, 1815

Ty settled back in his wrought iron
chair outside
Le Renard,
Paris' oldest coffee house and strongly
resisted the urge to rest his boot on the table top. March was not his favorite
time of year in the city. It was always chilled and damp, the indistinct grays
and browns of winter still clinging desperately to trees and buildings. People
shuffled by, heads down against a weak but biting breeze, offering little
conversation and no greetings to other passersby.

At least cold mitigated the
metropolitan
aroma
.

He had come to the coffee house as
part of Talleyrand's surveillance. Specifically, to watch for a courier who had
entered the ambassador's offices across the street, and to see if DuFresne made
an appearance. He'd brought Olivia along to soothe a fit of pique after going
three days without her company. There had been almost no leads regarding her
parents since their arrival in January. Now she had half a page full. Her
inquiries never interfered with their work, but they did keep her away in
between tasks, a fact that had made him irritable of late.

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 Olivia 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.