Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (19 page)

The gatherer caught everyone's
attention with a sharp whistle, raking a hand through the garters, tumbling
them at random. Men rushed forward, elbowing, chortling, and grabbing for their
prize. Olivia pressed both hands over her mouth at the ridiculous sight. It
reminded her of cows wandering about ready to mate. Garters dangling overhead,
the men milled around, eyes darting in every direction for a woman to claim her
accessory. Olivia wondered how many ladies would see their pursuer and quickly
decide that they'd rather continue their evening one garter short.

In the midst of the giggling chaos,
Ty strode forward for his turn. The movement was quick, fluid. She could only
spot it because she knew him, knew his tells. He snapped his right arm, curled
fingers into his sleeve, and thrust his hand into the hat. What he pulled out
had, of course, already been in his possession: the baroness' other garter,
claimed by way of Ty's usual charm. He made a ridiculous show of searching the
room, intentionally looking past the baroness two or three times before she
leaped up and grabbed his arm. Olivia couldn't hear his words, but she could
read his lips.

'Yours? No! This belongs to you?
Impossible. I could never be so fortunate.'
The last bit she embellished.
Ty's mouth had formed a lot of words, and she just imagined the sort of syrupy
nonsense he usually spouted. And, as usual, it was working. He poked the garter
into his breast pocket, hanging out for all to see, and took the woman's
slender hand.

“It seems the major has found his
mark.” Philipe appeared at her side, tipping a nod toward Ty.

“This is his area of expertise,”
she admitted, trying to keep a strange bitterness from creeping into her voice.

“I must admit, it's impressive
watching the man work. He must be quite the
beau
in London.”

“He doesn't want for admirers, if
that's what you mean.” She didn't like the way the words tasted, especially not
after the kiss they'd shared upstairs. In fact, she didn't like how close Ty
was standing to the baroness, or the way he swiped a lock of hair behind her
ear.

It was just an assignment. He was
playing his part, doing what had to be done. It was nothing strange, nothing
they hadn't done before.

So why didn't it feel that way,
this time?

Philipe bent an elbow. “Garden?”

“Yes, please.” She grasped his arm,
glad for the distraction and afraid to let Ty and the baroness out of her
sight.

*          *          *

For the first time in a
long
time, he was nervous. Perhaps for the first time since he'd met Olivia and
realized how quickly she had proved herself an equal.

The same was true of Thalia, the
Baroness d'Oettlinger, or whatever her name was. Since discovering her
existence and anticipating her arrival in Paris, he had hoped she would prove
to be just another runner. A mule for messages, harvesting gossip from the rich
and elite for her handler. Those hopes had been dashed within moments of
meeting her, and he wondered if Olivia too had underestimated their new rival.
It was his first instinct to place Olivia and her skill above all others, but
ten minutes of conversation had proved the women to be on equal if opposite
footing. Now, like a good soldier, he would have to think strategy.

It wasn't hard to see where her
success came from. Beauty could be easily dismissed; there were plenty of
attractive women in Paris. Thalia, however, was on another level. She had a
Botticelli face with a proud nose, cupid's bow lips, and wide blue eyes framed
by fiery locks that blazed in the candle light. More than looks, confidence
exuded from Thalia with a magnetism that was nearly impossible to resist. Over
the course of three waltzes, he could discover no subject on which Thalia had
not acquitted herself. When it came to literature, she knew Byron and Shelley.
She defended the paintings of Lawrence even if she could not defend his reputation.
Whist she played and well, judging by the casual way she discussed it. Opera,
she sang it. Latin, she spoke it.

By the time he led her into the
last turn and the violins faded away, Ty wondered if she were a woman at all.
Perhaps Napoleon had invented a convincing automaton, accomplished in every
fashion, to act as his chief agent.

Where Olivia chose her moments,
striking from the shadows to accomplish her goals, Thalia glittered in the
open, larger than life, hiding in plain sight. Even so, she had a weakness.
Olivia’s friend had reckoned out what Thalia was, and that meant a misstep
taken somewhere. He just had a feeling that weaknesses would be very, very hard
to flush out.

It was easy to see how men more
vain, more political, fell victim to the baroness. He was a spy, a professional
who knew Thalia for what she was, and still he was captivated. Their arms were
loosely twined, and her fingers barely brushed his wrist. The gesture was
innocent enough, but she'd taken her glove off seemingly for the purpose of
seduction. Her lack of acknowledgment could have been coy, except that she
exuded raw sexuality. Her touching, it said, was merely an extension of her
personality.

He felt relief as he caught sight
of Olivia gliding in through the terrace doors, though it was short-lived. He
noticed her, but she was most definitely not paying him a lick of attention.

Philipe was telling a story, his
graceful artist's fingers using Olivia's arm to measure points for emphasis.
Why was he forever touching her? Ty knew as a fact that Olivia didn't enjoy
being pawed at. Was she going to say something?

The pair nearly plowed into him and
the baroness before showing any awareness of their surroundings. Ty swallowed
his frustration, hiding it behind a smile. He bowed slightly to Olivia and
Phillipe, then turned to Thalia. “Baroness. Our host you know already. His
lovely ornament this evening is Lady Elizabeth Hastings.”

Olivia arched a brow at his use of
‘ornament’ and opened her mouth against a scowl.        Philipe cut in, perhaps
anticipating the likelihood of an acid remark. “Lady Elizabeth, I am only too
happy to present the Baroness d'Oettlinger.”

Thalia's reaction should not have
surprised him. She was, after all, a consummate actress. Still, he'd half
expected raised hackles and tight smiles. Instead, Thalia embraced Olivia,
brushing fingers over her cheek. “Lady Elizabeth is unmistakable and hardly
needs an introduction. La Porte has barely done her justice with his praise.”

What praise? What had La Porte been
saying about Olivia? He glanced between the pair, looking for a hint of
anything there.

For her part, Olivia colored
prettily and ducked her face. Thalia might be worthy of the stage, but he
wagered she'd met her match. “You are gracious to take such notice, baroness.
I've badgered our host all night for an introduction, but he has been painfully
tardy.”

“And your friend Lennox here,
also.” Thalia stroked his arm. “Shame on them both.”

“A pity we didn't cross paths
earlier.” Olivia said, stifling a yawn. “We can hardly stay longer.”

He understood. They needed to talk,
compare notes. It had become clear that if they were to do battle with Fouche's
lovely monster, they had best come prepared.

Thalia took one of his hands, and
one of Olivia's. “Nonsense,” she purred. “Stay as late as you wish. We will
glut ourselves on the pleasures of the night.”

Olivia pulled a sad face beside
him. “Unfortunately, our lodgings are across town. And I do mean
across
.
We've some distance to go, yet.”

Thalia released him and grasped both
of Olivia's hands, stepping back and smiling sweetly at her. Then she spared a
glance for him. “You must be my guests then, tomorrow night. I have let the
manor at the foot of Boulevard des Capucines.”

Olivia gasped, drawing their
admirer closer. “At the gardens?”

“Oui! We shall walk them upon
waking.” Thalia leaned her head back, looking him over frankly. “Whenever that
may be.”

He matched her with his own raking
gaze, offering a hint of a smile. “That sounds like a challenge, madame.”

Turning, she led Olivia off toward
the entrance, full red lips curving up in a smile. “That it is, monsieur.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Chateau des Jardins, Paris - March 7th, 1815

Olivia couldn't deny that they'd
passed a thrilling evening at the baroness's manor, even if it was possible she
was trying to kill them – which it was, in a life of espionage. Not directly
with knives or poison, at least not yet. For now, Thalia's offensive was purely
intellectual and emotional. Olivia had no doubt that could change at the first moment
she felt threatened or saw an opportunity.

Still, Madame d'Oettlinger's
chocolate was the finest, her beef cooked to perfection, and Olivia was
determined to enjoy it all for as long as their charade lasted.

That might not be long, judging by
how far Thalia's backside was planted in Ty's lap. The baroness might pretend
to be Olivia's newest confidante, but if anyone was getting information out of
the woman, it was him.

Her obsession with Ty had become
apparent by how closely Thalia had dogged him for the past two days. At the
bookseller, coffee house, theater, or museum, Madame didn't bother pretending
that the meetings were coincidental and showed no shame at pawing over Ty the
moment she arrived.

Olivia wasn't certain if she should
respect the honesty of Thalia's perseverance or fear the woman twice as much.
In any case, she seemed perpetually three buttons shy of making love to Ty, and
that meant his old
mistress
had to go.

She was headed for a row with Ty,
and soon.

*          *          *

Turning the knob, Olivia stepped
into complete darkness and shut the door behind her. As she waited on the
threshold for her eyes to adjust, a hand snaked out, grabbing her wrist. A
finger pressed to her mouth just as she was about to gasp.

“Come here,” whispered Ty. “Look at
this.” He led her one halting step at a time through the chamber, stopping when
her knees bumped something that must have been a bed frame. He leaned close,
lips almost against her ear. “It's just as we thought.”

As her vision acclimated to the wan
moonlight from a high window, she was able to make out his hand before her
face, pointing at the wall directly across from the bed. He leaned forward and
something metal scraped the wall, one of his lock picks, maybe. There was a
faint creak, and a shaft of light hardly bigger than a pinpoint, spilled in
from the room next door.

A peephole.

Olivia grasped his sleeve. “Here is
our opportunity,” she whispered. “The baroness is rather infatuated with you.
Perhaps if you were jilted by your lover...” They had intended to wait,
construct a more public row, but Thalia was all the audience they needed.
Tonight, she would undoubtedly be watching, listening. If they meant to change
their game, there was no time like the present.

She could practically hear Ty's
smile in the dark. “She would then sweep in from the wings to console me. How
thoughtful of her.”

Chuckling, she stepped away.
“Hurry, light the lamp.”

While Ty fumbled the matches,
striking one and blazing the room to life, she pried at her shoes, kicking them
under a small cherry wood vanity beside the door. She glanced around, gathering
now that the peephole was concealed by a painting, and wondered how many more
secrets were hidden just out of sight.

Moving almost to the center of the
room, in full view of the peephole, she stopped in front of Ty.

He looked her over. “Shall I yell
or are you going to slap me first?” he whispered. He raised both hands to her.
“I have no idea how to engineer this.”

She shook her head, fighting the
urge to laugh. “I won't strike you because you haven't given me reason to. Have
you never fought with a lover, or at least seen it done?”

“Of course. But everything
explodes. Passion, spontaneity. I'm a poor actor,” he whispered, shrugging.

“I think you should give yourself a
little credit. Seduce me first. Then we can claw each other's eyes out.”
Reaching between them, she twined their fingers together, raising Ty's hand and
resting it against her bodice. “You've been to the opera, major. There must be
a crescendo before there’s a finale.”

A door shut out in the hall, a
faint thump jarring the small cover behind the peephole. Now they had an
audience.

Understanding dawned across Ty's
face, but he didn't smile at the analogy. If she had to guess, he looked
nervous. But he had played plenty of roles in his time, and he would get
comfortable soon enough.

He swallowed hard, tentatively
raising a hand to her breast.

They'd never get anywhere at this
rate. Olivia laced her arms behind his neck and brought her lips to his throat.
He flinched, but she pressed on. His cologne filled her nose, heady with a
soapy finish. It brought back memories; Ty pressing her to the wall, his tongue
against hers stilling a hand on her knife. She gave herself a mental shake, but
it wasn't enough; she was lost to his touch.

His fingers twisted in her hair,
and he pulled her head back, tracing her ear with his tongue. She had dipped
her toe. Despite his initial hesitation, Ty was keeping pace admirably.

Her lips caught the sweat and salt
below his jaw, and her breathing came faster. Burrowing hands inside his coat,
cupping broad shoulders, she slid it off.

“Olivia...” Ty moaned, his voice
strained.

His coat struck the wall beside
them, sliding to the floor. She worked at the knot in his cravat, punctuating
the effort with little kisses to his chin. “Just put your hands on me.” It
didn't matter that someone was watching. She wanted his hands on her, wanted
him to touch her. Everywhere.

Warning bells sounded somewhere in
the back of her mind, screaming that she was going too far, endangering their
work, that she had to gather herself.

She ignored them.

“Wait, Olivia...”

He frustrated her to no end
sometimes. Enjoying herself, taking a bit of pleasure in her work while he
fussed. What was the problem? “What!”

“How far?” he whispered against her
shoulder, “When do I stop? I don't want to –”

Enough
. She crushed his
lips, catching the rest of his protest with her mouth. Whatever he had been
asking, she must have answered it. Deft fingers at the small of her back worked
each button of her dress open. He stepped into her, forcing her head back and
filling the last breath of space between their bodies. The scales tipped and
suddenly Ty had all the power. She gave herself over as the gown pooled around
her feet.

He circled her wrists with long
fingers, putting one arm and then the other behind her back. Pausing a moment
to survey the result, Ty brought his hands up the insides of her arms to cup
the outside of each breast through her chemise. His palms were broad and warm,
kneading gently.

Her head fell back, and her entire
world was his touch.

Had this been the plan all along?
The fact that they were supposed to be putting on a show had seemed to fade
into the distance as his lips brushed her throat and the line of her stays.

Ty's arm hooked behind her knees,
and then he was carrying her to the bed. The way he dropped her was anything
but gentle, the force of the mattress pressing out some of her breath, but she
didn't mind. Planting a knee between hers, Ty stretched out over her, crushing
her into the quilt. It felt good, she admitted. Right, somehow.

She wanted this. Wanted Ty. Her
partner. This couldn't happen. Not like this, not here.

Not at all. The warning was faint
and insubstantial.

His tongue worked between the cleft
of her breasts, then trailed to her shoulder where he nipped gently.

She gasped, pressing up into him.
“Fiddle with your buttons,” she whispered during a breath of clarity.

His hand jabbed between them. “I
can't reach.”

“You don't have to. Just pretend.”

“Oh, right. Christ Olivia, you
don't make it easy for a man to think...” He tugged his waistband one last
time.

“Now my skirts.”

Ty grabbed a fistful of her
petticoats, hauling them to her knees. At last he had caught on. One more tug
and he thrust against her.

It wasn't difficult to feign a loud
moan, and Olivia closed her eyes, head falling back. “Again,” she bit out
softly. “Call me Thalia,” she said, hating the taste of the words as they
passed her lips.

His hips jerked again, and Ty
groaned. “Oh, Thalia...”

The slap landed on his cheek with a
satisfying crack. Somehow, he had not anticipated the next step. She felt
genuine guilt at his wide-eyed expression, but still drove fists into his
shoulders, pretending to be pinned. “Get off me, you rutting goat.” To her
surprise, he really was holding her down.

“Elizabeth, wait!”

“Let me up or I’ll scream the house
down.”

Now, he relented, sitting up beside
her and raking fingers through his hair. “It’s the bottle talking, not me.”

“Your body says otherwise,” she
spit, wriggling from the mattress and grabbing her dress.

“And what of it,” he bellowed
loudly enough to be heard by their observer, “that I find her appealing? She is
an attractive woman. You could admit that, were you not so bloody jealous.”

Olivia stuffed herself back into
her gown. “Jealous? As though my feelings are irrational! And yet I hear her
virtues praised a hundred times a day.” She smacked at her skirts, thankful
that their argument had put a stop to her earlier unchecked madness. “You may
return to the house in the morning and move out your things.”

Ty crossed his arms. “We will
discuss this first.”

“No we will not. I am not going
back to the house.”

He sat up, looking genuinely on
edge. “Where will you go, then?”

“I find the La Porte estate clears
my head.”

“The hell you will!”

“I am not your property!” she
shouted back, choking down laughter.

From there they played their
assigned parts. He apologized profusely, she ignored him. He ranted at her, she
ignored him. He blamed the alcohol again, she ignored him. Finally, he lay on
the couch across the room and was quiet, and they smiled but avoided each
other's eyes. Inside, her heart was a racehorse at full gallop, shaking the
effects of Ty's touch and she wondered how things would proceed now that they'd
played their hand.

*          *          *

He was awake now, stabbing at her
in the dim morning light with narrowed eyes. “You did not tell me that your
plan included my sleeping on a dollhouse sofa half the night.”

Olivia threw her arms wide. “What
was I supposed to do?” she whispered back. “People do not have a row and then
tuck in together.”

Groaning, he unfolded slowly,
brushing fruitlessly at wrinkles in his clothes. “I would. No man or woman
should suffer such cruelty,” he muttered, kicking the sofa for emphasis.
“Anyway, the sun is barely up. Do we just hunker in silence for the next few
hours?”

Listening, Olivia caught a thump
from the next room, a drawer or cabinet shutting. The spider was waiting, web
already spread to snare her prey.

“If you leave the room now,” she
breathed, practically mouthing the words, “she will catch you before you reach
the staircase.”

Ty's eyes widened. “Think so?” He
ran a hand from crown to ankles in an effort to set himself to rights. With a
small salute, he opened their door and slipped out into the hall.

Olivia held her breath, counted to
four.

Monsieur Lennox, up so early?

She mouthed Thalia's words, coming
to her as only a murmur through the wall. She was speaking at a volume which
insured Olivia could hear her.
Bitch
. The baroness was claiming Ty, and
letting her know it. A breath later Thalia's door shut again, and Olivia could
hear their voices echoing off of the plaster. How predictable.

She fell back against the quilt,
the smile on her face at war with the trepidation in her heart.