Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (18 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Olivia peered outside the carriage,
watching the street pass by and marveled again that not being in love with
someone could sting so much. She'd had some time to lick her wounds, but not
long. Two days, precisely, before the out-of-city post going in to DuFresne's
office increased, while the outflow decreased. She surmised whoever he was
expecting was close now, concerned with keeping him apprised of their progress,
while he was required to do nothing but monitor and be prepared. There had been
a courier to his house late the previous night, one to Fouche's, and then
nothing. The letters dried up, signaling in her experience the proximity of
DuFresne's mystery woman. Not truly a mystery by her estimation, but she'd been
proved wrong before.

She studied Ty across the carriage,
his head tipped back against the seat, hat discarded beside him. He'd been her
unflagging bright spot the last three days, cheering, teasing, and cajoling
until she was too amused or annoyed to dwell on thoughts of John.

Taking in his civilian clothes,
gray trousers, and a smart black greatcoat with more buttons than three of her
gowns, she tried to conceive of a Major Burrell. She'd seen him in his uniform,
of course, but that was hardly the same thing as actually seeing the man at
work. A studious, disciplined Ty was a curious thing. Not that she couldn't
believe it; Grayfield had made no bones regarding the major's prowess on the
field. Ty had plenty of skills which hinted at his abilities as a soldier, but
she wondered at a life so different from the one they led now.

“Major Burrell.” She tested it out
loud, surprised when his head lifted slowly rather than snapping up.

“Hmm?”

“I just wished to say it. Ty,
Tyler. Tyler Burrell, Henry Lennox. I wanted to try that one, too.”

His head fell back, eyes closed,
with a smile playing at his lips. “So you should. That's truly who I am,
Dimples.”

“A soldier?”

“A soldier,” he agreed.

“By choice?”

He sat up, grinning. “Of course!
Look at my family. A bastard can be anything: a drunkard, a syphilitic, God
forbid a politician. All sorts of avenues I could have chosen.”

“So not much of a choice at all.”

“I suppose I could have sat idle,
enjoying a meaningless title on a crumbling estate, too deep in the pockets to
light the fireplaces.”

“Still safer than India,” she
teased.

“But India had beautiful women and
malaria, both of which swayed my decision.”

“And plenty of gold to be made,
which did
not
?”

“It played a part,” he admitted,
prodding her with a boot. “In any matter, the army's the only place I've ever
truly felt at home. My family adores my medals, detests my income, and despises
my parentage. No one in my regiment gives a damn. As long as I give sound
orders, take pains for their welfare, and don't withhold the grog, my men like
me fine.”

“And General Webb,” she recalled,
the name standing out from so many of Ty's stories.

“A brother,” he nodded, and Olivia
noted he did not amend it to 'like a brother'. “The only man I can slug this
morning and get crocked with this evening, and no hard feelings in between.”

“Sounds...” Olivia shook her head,
“complicated.”

“It's not.” He was staring at her
now, all but a hint of his smile faded away. “Not nearly as complicated as some
matters.”

“Meaning?” She thought she grasped
his meaning just fine, but Ty had brought them to the edge of uncomfortable
territory.

He shrugged, breaking the tension,
and the moment passed. “Meaning Webb and I get on fine.”

A yawn creased her face for a
countless time since setting out, sparing her from redirecting their
conversation. “I either need to turn in early or wake up late. Doing just the
opposite is wearing a thin spot.” She pressed fingers to gritty eyes, feeling
out of sorts.

Ty nodded, stifling his own yawn as
the carriage rumbled to a stop. “We need to observe more people like us and
fewer like
them
.” He cocked a head toward the door. “Bureaucrats are
guilty of all sorts of terrible things, bad hours being the worst.”

Snorting, she leaned forward,
trying to see past him out the small window. “We can wait there.” She tapped a
finger to the glass, pointing out a public house across the street where
coaches were trading out frothing horses. “We'll have a vantage point from
behind the crowd
and
our target.”

Craning his neck, Ty worked for a
glimpse up and down the street. “Are you certain this is her coach stop?”

“The last letter came from a
village to the east. If she comes in by the east gates, and DuFresne travels a
concealing but not inconvenient distance –”

Ty's waving hand cut her off. “God
woman, you put Archimedes to shame. Yes or no will suffice.”

Snorting, she smacked his arm. “Get
out then, and stop complaining.”

Ty darted out ahead, helping
navigate the teeming avenue. While he slipped inside the public house, Olivia
fit herself into the last remaining seat on one of its benches, smoothing her
brown homespun coat to avoid eye contact with a leering man beside her. Her
coat and calico dress were poor, hinting at domestic employment, and he boasted
just enough buttons and pockets to suggest a somewhat better station in life.
Better, and superior, judging by the way he leaned back ogling her, one arm
stretched out along the bench. “What's your name?”

“Marvalle.”

“Ooh!” He stroked a thick, brown
side burn. “Formal.” He scooted closer, undeterred.

Ty reappeared from inside, paper
under his arm. She widened eyes, cocked her head ever so slightly at her new
acquaintance.

Smirking, Ty strolled passed,
leaned against a porch post and unfolded his paper.

Ass. She would remember this, the
next time there was an Osipova, the next time he begged for an intervention.

“Awfully quiet, aren't you Miss
Marvalle?”

She squinted at the crowd in front
of them, stiffening to keep him at a distance without crowding the poor old
woman on her right. “I'm waiting for someone.”

“Maurice Naire.”

“What?” She snapped to face him,
taken aback.

Grinning, he smoothed a lapel.
“That's who you're waiting for.”

“Perhaps it is.” Cocking her head,
she smiled. Fishing in her reticule, she produced a pencil and a scrap of
paper, scrawling an address and folding it up. Then she pressed it into his
sweaty palm. “My rooms are upstairs. Have an ale, wait for me in the front
room. As soon as I've seen my aunt home,” she leaned into him against an odor
of beef and tobacco, “I'll be along.”

His eyes darted below her waist.
“You clean?”

Beggars really could be choosy.
“For a few months now,” she whispered, winking.

Naire was on his feet with haste
enough to jar the bench. “How long?”

“Half an hour, no more than that.”

He tipped his hat, backing away and
jostling several pedestrians. “Madam, I shall await you anxiously.”

“Mmhm.” Nodding, she giggled,
sweeping him away with a flick of her fingers. Not until he was lost in a sea
of people did she risk a glare at Ty, who was trying – and failing – to keep
one eye on her and one on his paper. She narrowed her eyes further, earning a
helpless shrug. Laying a finger at her throat, she pulled it in a slow line,
then rearranged herself to put Ty from her line of sight.

They didn't have to wait long.
Fortunate, because she could have nodded off right there on the bench had the
coach had been any longer in coming.

DuFresne must have been watching
from somewhere nearby. From thin air, he appeared beside the coach moments
after it drew to a halt, timed to perfectly to be coincidence. Olivia worried
for a moment that he had seen them arrive together, but he paid no more
attention to her and Ty than he did anyone else milling around the stop.

Two well-dressed gentlemen climbed
down, and then a young, plainly dressed woman who could have been a wife or
sister. When they were clear, Dufresne positioned himself before the door and
extended a thin hand inside. What he retrieved was not what she had expected,
and she dared a look at Ty to catch his expression.

For all her secrecy in getting to
Paris, the baroness wasn't hiding her arrival. A giant, green silk calash hid
her face, the bonnet high and deep enough to resemble a small carriage canopy.
She was clad in a matching gown, shawl and gloves, identity hidden even as she
drew every eye along the street.

His back was to her, preventing her
seeing his expression, but Olivia wondered how DuFresne was receiving the
attention his charge garnered from every quarter. He was not a man who enjoyed
the public eye. Olivia imagined she could already sense friction between
DuFresne and the newcomer.

Actually witnessing the baroness's
arrival was the quickest bit of their entire morning. DuFresne pressed a hand
to her glossy sage back, ushering her around the coach, past the public house
and out of sight.

Ty folded his paper, striding
confidently back across the street. That was her cue. She stood, weaved between
a tight-knit crowd of onlookers, and made her way along the sidewalk for a few
blocks. They were in a rougher neighborhood, and another woman might have been
intimidated by the area and the locals. These were her people in a sense, where
she and Ty came for information, or to hire a pair of hands dirtier than their
own. Feeling at home, she exchanged 'good morning' with a handful of strangers
passing the shops, and with Long Nel who was up and looking for customers
earlier than usual.

Their coach drew up at an alley
just ahead of her, and Olivia climbed in, not waiting for Ty or their driver. She
whacked Ty's shoulder with her purse, earning a cackle. “Don't dawdle; Naire is
waiting.”

“Ass,” she muttered again,
wrestling against a moth-eaten seat. “I cannot believe you didn't help me.”

“Help you?” He flipped off his hat,
tousling his hair. “Help
him
. I was afraid you'd gut the man. Where did
you send him, really?”

“Madam Martine's. He seemed to be
in need of her services.
Am I clean
.”

She crossed her arms, and Ty
laughed again. “Very ungentlemanly of him.”

“Hm.”

“So,” he swatted at her knee then
sat back, “is this the baroness your friend warned you of?”

“I think it must be. Fouche will
get her letters of introduction in order to circulate her in the best society,
but they have to want to meet her in the first place. Her appearance today says
she knows how to accomplish that, skillfully. Everyone will be whispering,
speculating, having no notion of her identity and dying to learn more.”

Ty nodded slowly, looking pleased
with her assessment. “I know someone who figures amongst the
very
best
society in Paris, and what lady could possibly refuse an invitation from the
Duc de la Porte?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

If the revolution had been a
cautionary tale, at least some of France had failed to learn its lesson.
Calling la Porte’s estate
grand
would be thin praise. A garden just
coming into bloom was held in check by the Seine sparkling past under a nearly
full moon; this was the breathtaking view from the ballroom. Not that the view
from any other room was less eye-catching, every one having been opened to
their wild mob. Cards and gambling in one parlor, where the money flowed as
freely as champagne in another. Another featured pink cakes mounded with red
berries, chocolate truffles in crystal sugar, and enough diamonds present on
those partaking to bankrupt a treasury. All was absolute luxury, glittering
excess. Ty couldn't help feeling that the nobility had come full circle since
the days of the Terror. La Porte's fete tonight would have put a smile on Marie
Antoinette's rouged lips.

It served its purpose. Philipe had
adopted a role in order to attract certain people, elicit certain behaviors to
see how the currents flowed. It helped that the La Porte estate was one of the
last in France not confiscated or entirely bankrupt. A clever stash of Portuguese
gold kept Philipe's extravagant machine humming along. He brought the wealthy
and political all to one place to be observed, overheard.

Ty rested a shoulder against the
mantle in the first floor parlor, half observing the room and half using the
opportunity to watch Olivia. He was too hot from the champagne, an unseasonably
warm night, and the coals toasting his backside, but it was the best vantage
point in the room to accomplish his goals.

Conversation hummed, even in the
hall outside and laughter was raucous at the tamest of moments. Giggles and
screams rang up and down the staircases, leather soles smacking against marble,
giving chase. He wondered if guests drank to enjoy themselves or to tolerate
the circus around them. Mulling it over, he drained his port and discarded his
glass atop the mantle.

If she shared his discomfort,
Olivia wasn't showing it, perched on the edge of a sofa beside Philipe. Her
dress was a froth of cream silk and gold embroidery, sleeves gathered up and
bodice plunging down, flattering her long arms and a bosom teased by a cascade
of garnets and diamonds.

She was on her second round of
cards with Philipe, who didn't seem to realize that the sofa had
two
cushions, instead occupying the middle and forcing Olivia to sit close. Well,
not forcing exactly. That implied an unwillingness which Olivia wasn't showing.

Philipe whispered something that
made her laugh. She pressed her cards to her chest, falling back into the
cushions and displacing a fountain of ostrich plumes in her hair. A deep pink
stain to her cheeks could have been blamed on champagne, except Ty knew she
observed his same rules regarding drinking. He wondered at its cause; Philipe
ran a finger up her arm.

Ty jerked away from the fireplace,
flexing his hand. He and Olivia were supposed to be lovers after all. He didn't
appreciate any man, even La Porte, taking liberties. Waiting until he caught
her eye, Ty circled, weaving between flirting couples and preening young bucks
setting their sights on potential prey. He stared at Olivia with a challenge,
daring her to warn him away. Her smile was slight, playing just at the corners
of her mouth, but her eyes followed without blinking. He caught the tension in
her shoulders, a quick rise and fall to her chest.

They tracked one another until he
was behind her, and she was forced to return her attention to her cards.
Olivia's turn had come, and she studied her hand. He stalked the sofa, watched
her palm the dice and rattle them with a flick of her wrist. This was his
moment. Ty braced his hands on the sofa's gilt wood trim, leaning in and
brushing his lips against her shoulder.
They were lovers, after all.

Olivia's gasp was sharp. Her dice
struck the table's edge, bounced, and clattered haphazardly between the feet of
some nearby guests. He froze at the path of her knuckles, tracing his jaw.
Olivia was his partner, exempt from and likely immune to his forms of
seduction. That hadn't stopped him from wondering on occasion at potential
success.

“You cost me the hand,” she breathed.

Curious, he traced a path to her
ear. “Judging by your cards, I've saved you some coin,” he whispered.

Philipe smirked and turned his
attention back to his own cards. “Your lady plays for entertainment, not coin.
And it seems she'll have neither from
you
.”

If he didn't know better, he would
guess Philipe was jealous. He appreciated the feeling. Running his fingers down
Olivia's bare arm, he plucked the cards from her fingers, tossing them onto the
sofa. They were drawing all sorts of attention now.
Perfect
. “A dance
then, to amuse her?”

Olivia's head fell back into his
shoulder, eyes closed. She was good at pretending, too good in moments like
these. “If that is the most you're prepared to offer, it will have to do.”

“It is.” He tugged her up from her
seat, leading her around the couch in half a spin. “For now.” They were
suddenly playing a dangerous game. Fraternizing was forbidden between agents,
but that wasn't deterring him; if anything it heightened the tension. Ty bit
his tongue against more innuendo, all the while watching Olivia for the hint of
a genuine invitation. Her silence made him question if she was feeling the
same.

He tucked her arm into his, guiding
them out into the hall. Either the room was too hot or the port too strong.
Maybe he hadn't eaten enough. Touching Olivia was having a completely overblown
effect. Charming and seducing women was part of an assignment now and then.
Sometimes it was just for leisure. Learning not to lose his head over it was a
skill on which Ty prided himself.

Steeped in these thoughts, he was
unprepared when Olivia checked him with her shoulder, forcing them into an
alcove against a closed door. Her arms laced around his neck, lips raking his
jaw. Frozen, he forgot to do anything for a moment, even breathe.

Her breath fanned his ear. “Feeling
possessive this evening, major?”

Registering footsteps from down the
hall, he snatched her wrists, turning them, trapping her between his body and
the door. “If Philipe enjoys touching you so much, perhaps
he
should
play the role of lover.”

Olivia raised her chin in what he
swore was a challenge. “Philipe doesn't wish to
play
the role.”

The information provoked him, and
Ty felt something slip. Pinning Olivia's arms above her head against the door,
he made short work fitting their lips together. It was exactly as he
remembered. Better. Her tongue was sweet with champagne, perfume dizzying,
drifting up with the heat between their bodies. She arched, tearing free a
groan which surprised him.

Shuffling paused over his shoulder,
then gasps and giggles passed by, whispering down the hall. He broke away,
catching his breath and letting go of Olivia's arms.

Her lips parted with soft pants,
and her eyes dropped to his mouth; the gesture was unmistakable. Leaning
halfway into the space between their bodies, he waited for her to meet him. If
she gave the slightest invitation...

Olivia pressed fingers to her lips,
her cheeks. “We've laid enough groundwork. Oettlinger is here somewhere; we
should keep looking.”

No
, a voice protested. They
should slip into the room behind them and throw down the lock. Distance had
cooled the rush of blood pounding at his temples, and Ty argued with himself
more rationally.
She's your partner.
John's absence from the equation
was still new, and his own romantic dealings tangled.

But that didn't change the fit of
his palm against her waist, the way her whisper ran like a hand over his body.
He drew a breath and stepped away, hating himself for the distance. “Ballroom?”

“Mm.” Slouched back against the
door, she looked no more eager to go than he felt. “We'll find her eventually.”

“Eventually,” he repeated, brushing
her wrist, testing silken skin to see if it held the same power over him. “So
there's no need to go running down there just yet...”

Olivia snorted, straightening and
working to tidy the feathers in her curls. “We can't take our roles
too
seriously.”

He ran a finger across her throat,
tracing the line of her necklace. “I am nothing but serious where a beautiful
woman is concerned.”

Laughing, she snatched his hand,
pulling him along behind. “That's enough. Save your theatrics for our mark.”

Ty groaned, letting her tug him
behind, still convinced that leaving the privacy of their alcove was a mistake.

*          *          *

Observing the crowd, Olivia
reminded herself that it was called a 'ballroom' and not a 'dance room.’ Thank
goodness, because no one present seemed interested in dancing. Champagne
glasses turned upside down over eager lips, tipping out every last drop before
being relinquished to a harried servant. Two men in matching brown velvet suits
sandwiched a plump woman, performing their own gypsy rendition of a waltz. A
handsome young man in a good yardage of claret silk chased two pretty girls
around the room's perimeter, his shouts and their shrieks swallowed up by the
quartet and the laughter of other revelers. The trio barreled into one lady,
then upended a helpless card table and a silver dessert tray before setting
course for the terrace doors, to the relief of everyone.

Ty elbowed her, pointing in their wake.
“Think we can find one more lady to join us?”

She stifled a laugh behind her
hand. “Doubtful odds, finding a woman who
wants
to outrun you.”

“Thrill of the chase, Dimples.”

Breaking their gaze, she pointedly
ignored his remark. Swollen lips were frustration enough, tempting her to dwell
longer than was wise on their kiss upstairs.

A cherubic man, stocky and boyish,
shuffled from one seated guest to the next with his top hat outstretched.
Grateful for a distraction, she grabbed Ty's sleeve. “Look! Garter gathering.”

Ty frowned at her, at the scene
before them, and then at her again. “What?”

“Garter gathering. Have you never
played it?”

“What?” he repeated, looking
equally dubious.

She sighed. How had Ty of all
people missed out on such a thing? “Each gentleman puts one of his lady's
garters in the hat,” she explained. “Then all the men draw one, and have to
find the woman to whom it belongs.”

One brow raised and Ty smiled,
rubbing his chin a bit too thoughtfully. “And then?”

She stomped her foot, pretending
impatience. “Have you no imagination? They dance, converse. Obviously the less
faithful engage in other activities.”

Ty looked her up and down, making
her face burn. “How does the gentleman get his lady's garter in the first
place?”

It was her turn to smile. “That is
entirely
his
concern.” She expected that to conclude the conversation,
realizing too late that she should have known better. Ty's head swiveled,
looking for something. Without warning strong hands gripped her beneath the
arms, hefting her onto a table behind them.

Shrieking, she grasped the edge of
the tabletop, trying to balance and praying the whole thing didn't collapse.
“What are you doing!”

Fingers wrapped her ankle, and Ty
pulled her leg to his side. A hand slipped under her hem, skimming her calf
until it reached the bend of her knee. He tugged her garter's tail, magician's
fingers slipping it free of its buckle in two quick movements. An electric
thrill coursed through her at his light touch.

A moment later he dangled the blue
and gold embroidery in front of her, grinning. “I’ve found my ticket to play
the game.” His expression was smug, and he was entirely
too
adept at the
maneuver he'd just used.

“You're not actually going to
participate.” Of course, he was. This was Ty.

He dangled the garter higher,
backing away a step, then two. “After missing out for all these years? It seems
I've been attending the wrong sorts of parties.”

Fighting a laugh, she snatched
hopelessly at the ribbon, nearly toppling herself and the table. “There's no
guarantee you'll pull mine from the hat,” she warned.

Ty threw a glance at her over his
shoulder. “Perhaps I don't mean to.”

A sharp retort died on her tongue
as he sauntered off toward a woman she didn't recognize. Reclined deep into a
massive arm chair, she had one delicate foot suspended in midair so that a man
with the top hat, kneeling before her, could remove her garter. Her cheeks
flushed a shade nearly as deep as her ocean of beautiful auburn hair. Fine
teeth bit into a lower lip that was full, nearing seductive. Olivia had no
doubt they had at last discovered Thalia, the Baroness d'Oettlinger. She
conducted herself with the same theatrics and grace as the woman at the coach
stop.

Ty thought so too, judging by his
trajectory. After dropping her garter into the black silk hat, he leaned over
the woman, fingers brushing the sleeve of her emerald silk gown. Whatever he
said earned a gasp followed by a coy smile. Thalia turned, giving Ty her full
attention, and an exchange passed between them. Olivia could see the woman's
face, how her smile turned up at one side, blue eyes brightening at Ty's
whispered suggestion. She nodded, and with a glance around them pressed
something into his palm. Ty's hand went into his jacket, her attention turned
back to her companion, and he immediately turned and met Olivia's eyes from
across the room. He wiggled his brows, patted his breast pocket, and moved a
few paces from the baroness while the man with the hat finished taking up his
collection.