Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (16 page)

The butler did not bother taking
the card to his employer or even glancing at it. He stepped back and swung the
door wide, glancing with concern up and down the street as Ty waved Olivia in
behind him.

They stood in a dim entry hall,
waiting. Olivia elbowed him, pointing overhead. The mural was astounding,
crafted in a Classical style. Men, cherubs, beasts of the forest all telling
their tale beneath the blue dome of heaven. The artwork was the only real
feature the hall boasted, probably because it was the only item which could not
easily be removed. Haddon's residence, like so many others in Paris, had been
emptied and abandoned by its owner, either under the threat of Napoleon or the
Allies. Residents had settled in other lands, enjoying more security in exile
while many others had been fed to the guillotine. In their absence, everything
was confiscated or looted. When foreigners like Haddon settled in Paris, the
homes in which they resided were spartan at best.

“Burrell. You have a suspicion; I
gather that's why you've come.”

George Haddon knew him well, knew
that Ty only darkened his door step when a gut feeling warned him to do so, or
when things were falling apart. Haddon descended a polished staircase behind
them, frowning at their portentous arrival.

“Lordship.” Ty bowed low and beside
him, Olivia curtsied. Spotting her, Haddon smiled. “Miss Fletcher. What a
delight to find you here in the city. How are you, and how is Portsmouth?”

“I am very well, thank you. And my
uncle also. He is working with Lord Bathurst and the war ministry, which suits
him, of course.”

Her voice was soft, and if he did
not know better, Ty would have guessed Olivia was
flustered
. It was
understandable. Even nearing fifty, George Haddon was still one of London's
most eligible bachelors. Tall, silver-haired, with the appearance of having
been carved from stone, thin lips and gray eyes lent him an imposing aura.
Until he smiled, as he was now. It was a gesture that transformed his face,
sending every lady within sight up into the boughs. Ty hoped to be as lucky at
Haddon's age.

“I'm glad to hear he's keeping
busy.” Haddon straightened his cravat, buttoned the front of his coat,
obviously preparing to go out. Ty was pierced by the man's gaze. “You perceive
that Talleyrand has had some news. I gather you have come to discover what he
knows.”

Ethan must have told Haddon that
they were observing Talleyrand. “I have. Miss Fletcher and I have some business
yet in Paris. We'd like to know if it's been compromised.”

Haddon strode past, waving them
down the hall. Ty passed into the study, Olivia beside him, and their host
locked the door. He moved to a stout desk, perching on its tidy surface and
crossing his arms. “You will not like it.” Patting at something in his breast
pocket, Haddon sighed. “A week ago, Bonaparte left Elba with six hundred men in
tow. Wednesday, he planted his boots on French soil. Two thousand strong,
increasing at every place he stops.”

Ty massaged his temple, while
beside him Olivia whispered, “
No
.” Whatever news he'd braced for,
however terrible he thought the situation might be, this was worse. So much
worse. “No one had any notion he was plotting this? No one caught a hint of his
escape?”

“Not a breath. He waited until
French and English guard ships were at their most distant, and sometime before
dawn,” Haddon swept a hand aloft, “he drifted away like smoke.”

Meaning not a single effort had
been made thus far to stop his progress. No one had even known to prepare.

“This is what makes him dangerous.”
Olivia's face was buried in her hands as she spoke. “How much discipline and
sheer will does it take, not to breath a word or show a sign? Biding your time
for nearly a year?” She met his eyes finally, and Ty appreciated then how hard
the news must be hitting her.

He held her eyes, willing her to be
strong. “We have stopped him once, Olivia. We can do it again. We
will
.”

“He murdered my parents.” She
scrubbed hands over her face. “It's a nightmare, like some biblical plague. He
presses on, relentless, resurrecting himself. Unstoppable.”

“Napoleon can be stopped! We've
done it before.” He hadn't meant to yell, but he needed Olivia to have faith in
him now, as much as she ever had.

Haddon patted her shoulder,
diffusing the tension. “We'll see him settled as he deserves, girl. It will
just take a little more doing.” Ever the ambassador.

Ty grasped his proffered hand, and
then Haddon was moving for the door. “A special cabinet meeting has been
convened; I cannot stay longer. I beg you remember, major, that you and Miss
Fletcher are now privy to events that are known to perhaps three other people
in all of Paris.”

Ty nodded. “Not a word, sir.”

“Very good. I wish you both the
best of luck in your endeavors here. Seems we may have more need of you, before
the end.” A force of nature, George swept from the room, leaving them to wander
behind in tense silence.

As Haddon's carriage rumbled away,
Olivia settled on the front step. Numbly untying her bonnet, she planted it in
her lap. Ty paused, halfway to the street, hailing a passing coach that showed
no interest in stopping.

Olivia cradled her delicate chin in
her palm, staring into the distance. “Look at all these people, Tyler. Going on
with their lives, no notion of what's coming.”

“They've weathered it before, and
they can again.” He swept fingers over rioting gold strands atop her head. “So
can you.”

“How many more times? Each time I
come to Paris on some new clue, I tell myself
this time
. This will be
the time someone truly knows something about my parents.”

“Do you ever consider that perhaps
it's simply too soon for anyone to speak up?”

“Too soon?” Olivia flicked her
hand, rejecting the idea. “It's been a decade.”

He nodded to the street. “Not for
these people.
They
see Joseph Fouche every day, on whichever side he's
claiming at the moment. They pass the Place de la Concorde and that hulking
guillotine too bloody huge, and maybe still useful, to be torn down. For them,
I'm not certain that
any
time has really passed in Paris.”

“You're right.” Olivia drew a deep
breath, and some of the tension eased from the pretty oval of her face. “I'm
just tired of running away. Of being chased away,” she corrected.

He picked up her bonnet, settled it
over her curls. Smoothing its silk ribbons, he looped them into the start of a
bow, enveloped by the scent of vanilla bark from her clothes and hair.
Close
your eyes, lean into it
, a voice whispered. Instead he pulled back and
stood up, chiding that it was not the time, then reminding himself that it was
never
the time.

With Olivia he forgot himself
entirely, and there was no hope of improving any time soon. He forgot that they
were assigned together, even that she was engaged. Dangerous territory that he
tried to avoid at all costs. He leaned down and reached out a hand, admitting
it was impossible ignore how their fingers fit together.

He was destined to be star crossed
when it came to affairs of the heart. That had become apparent years before.
The first woman in ages to claim him to his very soul had no interest in more
than friendship. A close and irreplaceable friendship, but hardly satisfying to
the ache on his chest. Still, Kate would forever be the standard by which he
judged all others. Was it worrisome or encouraging that since meeting her in
January, Olivia had surpassed it?

Something occurred to him as they
traced a path back to their lodgings. “Haddon called Lord Portsmouth your
uncle.”

She nodded slowly. “He's one of the
few who acknowledge the truth.”

“Seems a strange bit of hair
splitting.” Portsmouth was Olivia's uncle, unquestionably. He wasn't clear on
why Edward Fletcher was so often referred to as her father.

“Doesn't it? Uncle Edward traveled
so much when I was a child, so of course when he brought me to England, people
seized upon that detail to fuel gossip. No matter how much evidence was
presented, rumors abounded that I was his child. Some, especially his enemies
in parliament, have never recanted; they still refer to me as his.” Olivia
sighed. “More willing to accept the illegitimate daughter of an Englishman,
than an Englishwoman and her French duke.”

“What a delightfully impossible set
of rules we live by.”

She drew herself up, looking regal
despite her twitching lips. “Such complicated etiquette to being a bastard.
What of the Burrell clan?”

“Equally complicated, though
we
are not Burrells. I was raised with my uncle's nine children, every one of us
illegitimate.”

“My goodness! Your uncle must
possess a great deal of stamina,” Olivia teased.

The thought had crossed his mind.
“My father claims me, and a brother but can grant us very little, which suits
me. I am perfectly happy to remain anonymous and live my life unmolested by the
ton
.”

“Anonymous?” Olivia scowled up at
him. “Who is your father, that you must remain anonymous?

“Completely beside the point.” He
didn't want to discuss it, not even with Olivia. People always treated him
differently, General Webb being a rare exception. He'd made a mistake
discussing this at all. Olivia was too intelligent not to fit the pieces
together.

Her gears were working. He could
see it in the narrowed green depths of her eyes. “Nine cousins. Raised in
London. And you were born about eighty-five...”

She was going to puzzle it out.

Olivia gasped, pressing a hand to
her mouth. “That means your father is –”

“Yes, perhaps it does,” he
admitted. “Or perhaps there are simply a lot of amorous noblemen about London.”

Her throaty laugh warmed him
against a nipping afternoon breeze. “That seems plausible. But then explain how
you came by your name. Is it an alias?”

He led them through a low stone
arch, out into the square. “Burrell is a family name on my mother's side.
Adopting it was the only request of an aunt who settled me in her will.”

Pressing closer against him, Olivia
rested her head against his arm, laughing.

He nudged her, smiling. “What's so
amusing?”

She looked up at him, color in her
cheeks from the laughter. Good lord she was beautiful. “Is it any wonder you
and I are not who we claim to be in our professional lives? We are not really
ourselves in our
personal
lives.”

He led them out across the square.
“Dimples, I know exactly who you are.”

*          *          *

“Olivia?”

She was preparing to give Ty a
piece of her mind for his ridiculous nickname when a familiar voice snapped her
around at the far edge of the street.

Olivia wished she had kept walking
and the gentleman believe he was mistaken. Now the damage was done and all she
could do was make the best of it.

She had no idea how.

“John!” She spoke the name before
her mind could reconcile the word with the man before her, buying time. Dammit,
why was he in Paris? He hadn't said a word when she had talked about going to
Lyons. Did he suspect something? Mind racing, she waved a hand at Ty, stalling.
“John, this is Major Burrell. He was just escorting me back –”

John's eyes narrowed to dangerous
blue slits in the shadow of his low brim. “I am acquainted with Major Burrell.”
He spit the words. “His reputation precedes him, at home
and
abroad.”

Ty, to his credit, took a few steps
forward, hand outstretched. He was polished as always, not a sign of the
awkwardness he must be feeling. “Mister Talmadge, a pleasure. Miss Fletcher has
had infinitely good things to say...” He trailed off when John's arms laced
firmly across his chest, withholding a hand.

Dodging a post-chaise and two
enthusiastic boys chasing a cat, Olivia closed the distance, leaning in to John
and praying her smile was not as nervous as it felt. “What's brought you to
Paris?”

He held up a hand almost before she
had finished. “You set sail eight weeks ago, Olivia. All that time you have
been in
Lyons
looking for your parents? You must think me an idiot.
Lyons is not that big.”

She put a step between them, hurt
by his unspoken accusation and not willing to lie. “Is Lyons the only place in
France I am permitted to go?”

John's jaw clenched beneath a dark
sideburn. “Did you go there
at all
?”

“Please, I had a very good reason –”

“Paris last October, Vienna in
July?” He threw a heated glance at Ty over her shoulder. “Is that
truly
where you went? Or somewhere else?”

For the first time, Olivia felt she
had the right to be defensive. “As a matter of fact, it was.” She could feel
things crumbling, slipping like sand through her fingers.

John stabbed a finger at Ty. “What
are you doing here now, with him?

“Major Burrell is a
friend
.
He was escorting me back to my lodgings.” Two things that were true, at least.

John stiffened, deflecting her
answer. “Truthfully, Olivia. Why is he here?”

She swallowed hard, working at a
knot in her throat. “I have no idea.” There were more reassuring things she could
have said; it became painfully clear
after
the words were out. What was
she supposed to do? John had never once come close to stumbling upon her
secret, and now she was practically cornered. At her back, Ty cleared his
throat, an unspoken prompt for her to craft a clever excuse, or any at all. But
she had none. “I cannot say,” she finished weakly.

“Perhaps you do not need to.” John
held out his hand. “I would like my ring back.”

“No!” Catching herself, Olivia
lowered her voice to a whisper. “Please, John, you have to trust me. You know
better; this isn't what it seems.”