Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (17 page)

His hand stayed put, expectantly
outstretched. “Tell me why you are here with Burrell.”

Frustrated tears pricked at the
corners of her eyes. “Please,
please
just trust me,” she whispered,
glancing around. They were drawing looks from the passing crowd, pedestrians
slowing their pace to catch an earful of the drama.

John snorted, unaware or uncaring
of an audience. “That's asking a great deal, Livvy.”

Fury rose so quickly that she
forgot to be quiet. It was a gentleman's duty to escort a lady, after all. She
and Ty weren’t engaging in more than twenty other pairs of men and women
passing by. “
Trust
?” she hissed. “Asking for your trust is a burden? I
have never once given you cause to doubt my faithfulness, my fidelity. I have
trusted you in your absence for weeks on end, and this once, trust is too much
to ask?” She tugged the band from her finger, crushing it into John's stiff
palm. “You're right. You should have this back.”

She knew by his stare, and the
disbelief with which he studied the ring, that John had not truly expected her
to part with it. He’d wanted nothing more than reassurance. Determined to
argue, bicker, perhaps chase her as she stormed away and smooth things over,
John's gaping mouth, stuttering half- words, said he'd only meant for her to
sooth justly inflamed pride.

There was no sense dragging it out.
John could not give her his trust, and in a moment of clarity, Olivia realized
she had no right to ask it of him. Haring off unexpectedly, alone, almost never
to the destination she claimed; it would test any man's resolve, even one as
stalwart as John. Her thoughts picked their way around her confusion with Ty, a
breath of shame preventing her from exploring lines she may have blurred for
more than necessity.

She turned back to Ty, stock still
and looking stricken where she had left him at the street corner. “Take me
back,” she whispered hoarsely. “Take me back to the hotel.”

She waited as they crossed the
square, for John to lope up beside her and pull her back, to call her name. Her
ears throbbed with listening for it.

Nothing
. Just the murmur of
the crowd threading between rumbling carts, the clip-clop of hooves.

Blessedly, the hotel came into
view, rising up at the far side of the square. Eyes aching, Olivia gave silent
thanks. Under curious stares and whispers, it was the farthest distance she
could manage to hold herself together.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ty leaned against the tavern's cold
stone face, watching his breath steam in the crisp night air. A
stoop-shouldered man shuffled past, muttering to himself inside a moth-eaten
scarf. Three figures, a man and two women, appeared over and over at the mouth
of a darkened alley. A pimp, looking for an opportunity to hawk his wares. He
had determined, correctly, that Ty was not a customer. Burrowing deeper into
the wool of his greatcoat, Ty listened to the sounds inside. A constant murmur
of conversation punctuated by tankards slamming, drunken guffaws, and
occasionally the only one or two stanzas a singer could recall from a bawdy
song echoed within. Dishes clinked together in a basin, ringing off the narrow
basement window. His ears caught and sorted every sound, accustomed to
listening for a voice, a tidbit drowned beneath the obvious.

To his left, the tavern's front
door swung wide and struck the building's face, jarring hard enough to
reverberate through the stones at his back. A wet, skidding sound followed.

He caught the barkeeper's stocky
silhouette hung half outside, one hand buried in his apron pocket, the other
jabbing into the air. In rapid French, he cursed a figure now crumpled at the
foot of the tavern's low steps, oaths so colorful that even Ty's ears burned a
little at the translation.

The lump on the sidewalk groaned
and rolled onto its belly with the grace of a mating pig. Getting half up onto
his feet, the man stumbled and shook a fist. “I will, sod your mother! Sod you
too!”

Ty had expected John to be crocked,
having witnessed him put down a few pints in their time. Watching him now,
weaving, bending over panting, vomiting into shrubs at the end of the building,
Ty realized John was utterly
pissed
.

So much for conversation. He would
have to follow John and hope that, wherever he was headed, by the time they got
there he'd have sobered enough to talk.

After several minutes of pressing
into a building's shadows or ducking behind fences when John got himself turned
the wrong direction, Ty realized they had a way to go. Unfortunately, he had
been in Paris enough times to reckon out what their direction was: Rue
Montmartre. The street boasted all sorts of vanguard establishments for daytime
patrons: silks and chocolates, the finest wines. There were equal indulgences
at night, however, when fashionable ladies were in bed and their men still
roamed.
Le Temple du Satin
was just as popular, if not so openly
discussed, as its above-board neighbors. Not that it was inconspicuous. A gaudy
Grecian facade and blazing torches on either side of the door caught eyes from
two streets down. A brazier burning some God-awful 'aphrodisiac' incense choked
every person passing by.

John was just preparing to mount
the steps when Ty loped up, jumping ahead of him and blocking his path into the
brothel. “John, before you go inside –”

The swing caught him off guard. It
was the deftness, that a man so drunk had nearly landed a sound blow.
Conditioned by years of boxing, Ty rocked back, weaving left just in time.

“Goddamn you, Burrell. I should put
your fucking handsome nose through the back of your head.” John bared his
teeth, listing to one side and raising an arm.

“Why?” Ty dodged another, less
well-aimed blow. “Oh, because
Olivia
was lying to you?”

John scrubbed at a broad chin,
weaving a little, absorbing the words. His face dimmed from angry to confused.
“Livvy wouldn't lie to me.”

She would, just not about this.
“Then why in God's name would you strike me? Have I ever raided another man's
hen house?”

The question forced John to see
some reason, but a stubborn scowl said he didn't like it. “No,” he spit.

Ty nodded. “No, I have not, and I
don't intend to start now.” He left out the weeks of temptation he’d resisted
in order to keep honest. Instead, he gestured to the brothel's double doors.
“If you step inside, your chance to make amends is lost. Olivia will never take
you back, reeking like old sweat and perfume. Nor should she.”

“She shouldn't take me back,
anyhow!” John was yelling, but Ty wasn't certain he was aware of it.

“Shh! Stop your goddamn raving
before you bring the gendarmes down on us.” He had to find them transportation
and quick, before John started bellowing things that got them both into a great
deal of trouble. What John was doing now was precisely the reason Ty never
imbibed more than a glass while on assignment, no matter what observers were
tricked into believing.

Jamming two fingers between his
lips, he waved down a passing cab and began dragging a limp- limbed John toward
the conveyance. The balding, heavily bearded driver spit, landing most of it in
his facial hair and glared. “No, no! You cannot put him in my cab. If he pisses
–”

Rifling in his breast pocket, Ty
threw a handful of francs into the driver's foot well. “I'm good for the
difference. Rue de la Madeleine.”

Getting John into the coach took
the same amount of effort as it might a sack of lead ball tied to a rabid fox.
But in the end, and with a lot of swearing, Ty got him loaded and panted up
behind, wondering that he was in a worse mood than when he'd started.

John fell back against the dirty,
pocked leather squabs and as the cab lurched forward he emitted a wet belch. Ty
rested a hand on the door in preparation, but after a moment, his companion
fell back, slumped in his seat, and lolled in time with the wheels.

Studying his former partner, Ty
struggled for something to say. Finally, he sighed. “I had no idea 'John
Talmadge' was you.”

John cracked an eye, still bent
back over the seat. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning, you dense ass, that I
wouldn't have escorted your fiancée through Paris without your permission had I
known.”

He wasn't certain if the sound that
came from John was a hiccup or a sob. “It doesn't matter. I was never angry
with her,” John slurred. “Edgy, because she caught me in Paris, certainly. And
then mad with guilt when I realized I had been doing just what I’d accused her
of.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Lying to her all along.”

Ty sat forward, trying to hold
John's wavering gaze. “I
did
help her look for her parents, John. Olivia
was telling the truth about that.” Not about most everything else, but now was
not the time for
that
conversation.

John nodded and was silent. Ty had
no idea if he was thoughtful or asleep.

They were approaching John's
lodgings, if the card in his pocket was to be believed. Ty rapped on the
ceiling, signaling the driver to stop.

An absence of motion roused John,
who scrubbed his face again. “I lied, but not because I wanted to.”

Ty nodded his agreement. “You lied
to her, but not because you don't love her.” It was killing him, not being able
to confess that Olivia too was a Whitehall agent. But there were rules,
protocol, and they were in place for good reason. If John didn't already know
about Olivia, it was not his place, or right, to tell.

“I don't
love
her,” he
cried. Surprise in John's voice said he'd only just come to the realization.

A hazy length to the words left Ty
with doubts. “Just go apologize. Make her apologize, if you can manage it. Stop
being so damned stubborn.”

John shook his head, anguish
overblown thanks to the liquor. “I don't want to patch things up. But I don't
want to be without her.”

For the first time all night, they
were truly in sympathy. Ty had felt precisely the same way with Kate.

John rooted in his lapel pocket
with two limp fingers. Producing something, he held it out with a trembling
hand. “Take this. I have no sodding clue what to do with it.” He dropped
Olivia's engagement band into Ty's outstretched palm.

Before he could argue, John
half-rolled from the seat, falling against the door. It swung open and he
crumpled to the ground and was still.

Groaning, Ty jumped out behind,
pocketing the ring. He grabbed John under the armpits, hauling him toward the
darkened townhouse like a sack of grain. In through the hall, up the stairs, Ty
saw very little, huffing and puffing at the effort of dragging the
uncooperative form through the house. The first two bedrooms were vacant. He
tugged John into a third when he spied clothes on the floor and belongings
dotting a tabletop.

“I'm not putting you in bed, you
lit bastard,” he declared, leaving John on his side on the rug near the
firebox. Making certain John was out cold, he scanned the room carefully. John
had not been there long, not long enough to have a stash in the floor or the
wall boards. He checked the lining of several coats in a trunk, and even pried
at the lining of the trunk itself, but to no avail. Just as he stood and was
about to give up, Ty spotted a pair of ratty leather boots poking out from
beneath the dust ruffle. No one would ever steal them, let alone wear them.
Certainly not John who prided himself on a smart appearance.

Bending down, he grabbed the right
one, turning it over and tapping the heel with his finger. Hollow. Producing a
small knife from the sheath inside his waistband, Ty pried up the heel's wooden
cap until it revealed a curled bit of paper.

Ty pulled out the bundle, folded
into an impossibly small stack, and opened it up. As hoped, they were John's
traveling papers, embossed with his French alias. Stuffing them into his coat
and replaced the boot.

Tomorrow, news of Napoleon would
spread through Paris like wildfire. Without papers declaring him as French,
John Talmadge would be just a British subject, and all of His Majesty's
citizens were about to be called home. John would be livid, but it was a
kindness. The further from Olivia, the less John could torment himself and the
sooner he could get over being such a miserable drunkard.

He toed John's limp form on the way
by, giving his shoulder a pat with his shoe. “Good luck, old bloke.”

Slipping out into the darkened
hall, Ty shut the door quietly on John's snoring.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Madame Trouville sliced a thin hand
between them. “Absolutely not. Dinner is served in the
dining
room. The
dining room, Major Burrell!” She patted urgently at her silvery bun, as though
his request had threatened both her physical and mental fortitude.

Ty imagined that the casual
observer would think he had asked for madame to
move
the dining room, and
not simply to bring dinner up to Olivia.

The house they had settled on as
their Paris residence was located centrally between the police ministry and
their handler's unassuming offices. Unfortunately, due to a 'misunderstanding,'
which had culminated with payment being stolen and the crew foreman’s throat
being cut, the house was nowhere near ready. Instead, they were guests of Villa
Trouville, an inn catering exclusively to upper-class clientele. Even so, its
proprietress was not about to pamper every whim of her well-to-do occupants.

Madame Trouville ran her
establishment exactly like she ran herself; lean, well-kempt and with starched,
military efficiency. He might have worried just then that he had met the only
woman in France he could not charm. As with all aspects of his work, though, he
had performed thorough reconnaissance.

“Come now, Hermine.” He tugged one
of her apron ties. “Perhaps a Belgian chocolatier can persuade you?” He
knew
it would before he'd asked the question. A chamber maid he'd made eyes at the
day before had admitted her employer's weakness with delightful ease. He held
out the pink and brown paper box for Hermine's inspection, her severe brows
relaxing ever so slightly. “And, of course, I would be in your debt...” he
offered.

“Hush!” Hermine snatched the little
parcel, looking sour at her own weakness, and Ty knew he'd won.

“I suppose, but just this once!”
She poked up a finger. “You do not breathe a word to my other guests. This is
not a flophouse, a brothel. My girls do not scurry from room to room.”

He bowed low, mostly to hide a
smile. “I am your most humble servant,
ma belle
.”

For the first time, Madame
Trouville smiled, her blush deepening, and she swatted at him with a tea towel.
“You! Out with you, Major Burrell.”

Chuckling, he ducked her next blow,
sliding out the door and onto the stairs.

Olivia had refused to leave her
room since the previous day. Not precisely refused, he amended. It was more
that she had lain in her bed and not gotten up.

Not that she'd missed a great deal.
Word of Napoleon's march had broken over the city like a wave. True to form,
Parisians had born the ill tidings grim-faced and resigned.

It was guaranteed income, for his
part. When he was done spying for Whitehall in Paris, it would be back to the
field with His Majesty's army. That would mean no more Olivia. He explored the
thought more than he'd allowed himself all day, resisting a pressure behind his
ribs.

He also felt a touch guilty. If
John had seen her with anyone else, he would have had little reason to question
Olivia's conduct. She might have convinced him she was acting with propriety,
and they would have patched things up. His reputation had done her no favors.

Should John and Olivia smooth
things over? It wasn't his place to ask, but Ty still wondered. Two people in
love enough to become engaged, and neither one knew the truth about the other.
It hardly seemed the basis for a lasting marriage, but he was certainly no
expert. His liaisons were with women who sought no declarations of love, and bore
no ill will when their affair reached its natural conclusion.

How long since the last time that
had happened? He struggled for a moment to recall the last lady with whom he
had been involved. Not with Georgiana; that had been a miss. Before that, he could
hardly remember, grasping only that the encounters at some point had no longer
satisfied him.

What had changed? He mounted the
next step, struggling to answer his own question.

*          *          *

He rapped on the door.

Silence
.

Ty turned the knob slowly, door grating
in its frame.

“I don't recall asking you in.” Her
voice was barely audible, words mumbled into her pillows.

“I did not hear you say
not
to come in.” His rebuttal earned a sigh.

Olivia sprawled belly down on the
mattress in semi-darkness, buried under more covers than were necessary, arms
folded beneath her cheek and curls tumbling unbrushed across the pillows.

Ignoring that she was in nothing
but a shift, he moved to the window, tugging at the wide sash to draw back the
curtains. The rusty glow of a sunset spilled in through the panes, setting the
room aglow and lighting her hair aflame.

Olivia groaned, squinting against
the light, and turned her face away. “Is it dinner time?”

“Nearly.”

She was quiet a moment. Then,
softly, “I don't want to see anyone.”

He settled on the edge of the bed,
brushing her arm through soft linen. “I've arranged for dinner to be brought
up.”

She turned back, peeking at him
through golden strands. She wasn't exactly smiling, but he could see thanks in
her eyes. Ty held out a small bouquet he'd concealed behind his back, laying it
on the pillow when she didn't reach to take it.

“You know I hate flowers.”

He did know. At least, he knew she
often claimed as much. Judging by her wistful expression sometimes when they
passed a flower cart, Ty questioned her assertion. He wondered if it was some
association more than the flowers themselves. “That is very ungrateful,” he
teased, tapping the bouquet. “Do you know how hard I had to work at this time
of year to find these? I was forced to pilfer from no less than three very fine
yards.”

Olivia scowled, and then to his
great delight it broke, and she laughed. “You got them from the hothouse.”

“I did. And I like you so much that
I
paid
for them.”

Reaching out, she raked them close
with slender fingers and inhaled the blossoms. “Mmm.” She sighed, closing her
eyes.

He smoothed golden waves from her
cheek, studying her face. “How are you?”

“No complaints. A little more tired
than usual today. I thought perhaps a bit more sleep would keep me sharp for
the night ahead.”

He pretended to squint at her.
“Obviously you did not get enough.”

“Meaning what?”

“You must be exhausted, because you
cannot think me stupid enough to believe that. Care to tell me the truth now?”

Her face crumpled, eyes falling shut.
“I hurt. My heart hurts.”

“Of course it does. Made worse
because no one is really to blame for it. Not you, or John.”

Finally, she met his eyes. “I've
been thinking about something you said. You were right; my engagement to John
was selfish. I took what he offered, knowing that I couldn't return it.”

Laughing, Ty got up and slipped off
his coat, tossing it onto the foot of the bed. If only she knew the truth
behind her friction with John; if only he could tell her. “Only people bitter
over love can be rational about it, Dimples.”

He lay down on top of the quilt and
scooted close to her, feeling a need to comfort. She turned without warning,
wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her face to his chest. His heart
broke for her, the same feelings still so recent for him, even if the wound had
closed. Ty pondered that his time with Olivia had done the most to patch him
up. “I'm sorry. Cold comfort, I know, but this misery
will
pass.”

“I'm not sad,” she murmured into
his shirt.

He couldn't have heard her correctly.
Her breath whispering against his neck stole his thoughts. He rolled away, for
some sanity, and tried to look down at her face. “What?”

“I'm not sad. At least, not about
John. Isn't that horrible?
That
is what's making me upset.”

“What do you mean?”

Olivia rolled back onto her pillow,
blinking up at the ceiling. “I feel relief. Gratitude that it's over and done.
Shame at both of those things and shame that I didn't have the guts to call it
off months ago.”

He was so confused. This was why
his affairs were simple and mutual. “You've been sulking for two days because
you do
not
love John?”

She pressed hands to her eyes. “No,
I don't believe I do. I thought I did. We were comfortable. He asked little of
me. There were weeks at a time when I saw not a hair of his head. When I would
travel to France or off on some assignment, he never got anxious. It was
comfortable,” she repeated, “And that was all.”

Understanding at last, he pulled
her back against him. Anyone who had observed Olivia for a single hour knew
that
comfortable
could hardly satisfy her. She needed a man to match
wits and wills, someone to antagonize her into letting off steam before she
boiled over. Everything he knew from experience that John was not. He pitied
John's not deserving her, while envying the man who did.