Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (22 page)

Grabbing their glasses and the
bottle, he ducked behind a Venetian screen in the corner of the room to empty
the contents into a chamber pot.

It was perfect that champagne gave
her headaches. That would mask a similar effect from the laudanum and
nightshade. Surveying his handiwork and feeling satisfied, Ty wriggled back
into his trousers, and went to work searching the room.

*          *          *

The passing of time since posting
her letter to Ethan had been torture. She had checked the box every hour
thereafter, resting fingers on the knob and then snapping it open as though
something poisonous might lunge out. Still, she had been surprised when on the
fourth or fifth confrontation, the box had turned up empty.

Up to that moment, she'd been able
to take it back. She could have walked to the drop point and taken the horrible
letter back, ripping it to shreds and absolving herself of the shame. Sick
tension in her belly had churned up into her throat at finding it gone. Guilt
hung in a cloud around her, and Olivia had scurried for bed, certain that Ty
would arrive home any moment. She couldn't look him in the eye, not now.
Tomorrow, when she'd had time to dig a little hole for her betrayal, to cover
it over and pretend, she could face him.

Just not tonight.

And then, he didn't come. Minutes
ticked by that turned to hours, counted out at a grating pace by the hall
clock. What was he doing, what could be taking so long? Olivia squeezed her
eyes shut, pushing away the obvious answer.

As was true with her and Ty, not
all of his exchanges with the baroness were purely an act. That was espionage:
mixing just enough truth into the fiction to make things believable. He'd been
willing to go as far as necessary with Osipova, with other women who were
probably less alluring than Thalia. The churning in her stomach roiled to an
outright surge and she wanted to be sick, to cry and scream it all out and then
to stand outside Oettlinger's ugly little mansion and break out every window
with rocks.

Sitting up, she pressed hands to
her eyes. Disgust at thoughts of Ty and the baroness were mitigated by a cold
relief. Her impulses were dangerous, unprofessional. She'd done the right
thing, asking to be recalled.

Slipping from the bed, she crept
along the hall and down the stairs, fearful of being caught on her errand. Why?
She wasn't eighteen and there was no Uncle Edward to rail over her sneaking gin
or riding astride in the park. If Ty came in now, he would question her. He was
too keen when he caught her in her cups, prodding til he got his answer about
why and what was the matter.

Not tonight, she gloated, unlocking
the tantalus and palming the vodka. If Ty wasn't home now, there'd be no
getting so much as her
name
out of her when he did arrive.

Olivia gathered her necessities: a
tumbler, a stack of handkerchiefs, and a tin of mint lozenges that would sooth
her stomach come morning. Arranging them on the bedside table, she pulled the
curtains tight, lit a candle, and crawled beneath the quilt once more.

When she uncorked the vodka, its
stopper practically jumped into her hand. It was meant to be; she'd made the
right choice. One dram then another, she tossed them back, wincing and priming
the pump. That would dull the ache quickly, and from there she could take her
time. It was late and she was exhausted in every way. Olivia had expected the
vodka to numb her, take away enough of the edge for her to sleep. Instead she
was agitated, thoughts an angry jumble tangling more with each passing moment.
Rational ideas blurred at their edges, melting like wax and mingling with much
less rational ones. On her next mouthful, reason bowed out, allowing her to
form all sorts of now-plausible ideas. That Ty had played with her just as he
had Osipova, Thalia and the rest. Of course, that wasn't true. They had shared
too many private moments for his attention to be an act.

Don't be so hasty
, insisted
the vodka.

What then?
she wondered, but
the liquor had no answer. Just an unintelligible mob roar insisting that she
should stay angry, that she was right for leaving Tyler, and offering no clear
reason why.

She was glad to be done with Ty.
Yes, in fact it felt liberating. No more frustrated touching, awkward
exchanges, arguments. How much time had she wasted on an ever-more-convoluted
scheme to catch Talleyrand, Fouche? Forget what the Allies wanted, what value
he had as a prisoner. She could get the job done with a pen knife and a patient
hiding spot beneath the man's bed.

Abandoning her glass, she took a
long draw from the bottle. Let Ty keep at his fool's errand, and Whitehall too
for that matter. She would spend every waking moment until Napoleon's arrival
looking for her parents as she should have been doing all along.

At the idea of her parents a dam
broke, and she reached for the first handkerchief atop her stack.
Bones
.
She had spent her entire life aside from Whitehall looking for bones, bloody
scraps of clothes. Once they were found, what then? Would she sit with her
macabre heap, suddenly fulfilled and happy?

No.
She swigged deep on the
bottle again. She would be just as sodding miserable as she was now. Nothing
would bring her parents back. Nothing could kill Fouche or stop Napoleon.
Nothing could make Ty come home and put his arms around her. Grabbing his pillow,
she hurled it across the room, landing it half inside the cold fireplace. She
didn't need them. She didn't need any of them.

With a last swig, she fell back
against the bed and let the room spin.

It wasn't rational, or even wise,
but she would go on alone.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Ty rested his head in his hands,
elbows braced atop the dining table in a bid to keep him from hammering his
head against it. He thought they had already covered his night with Thalia. It
certainly felt that way, Olivia spending their little time together this
morning at the safe house criticizing his every decision. When he had thought
himself free and tried to steer them onto a more genial course, she'd taken
them right back to the baroness. Uncharacteristically, he noted she had yet to
ask if he’d found anything during his reconnaissance. She’d also yet to brush
her hair, a portentous sign.

“But she'll remember nothing, if
what you say is true,” Olivia protested.

“
Nothingness
. Her memory
will paint itself. We drank champagne, I kissed her knees. She awoke with
temples throbbing, clothes torn, room in shambles and a bite mark below her décolletage.
All of which tally up to an amazing night of passion.”

Olivia snorted.

He would have been delighted by her
casual response, but there was a sharp, sarcastic edge to the sound that was
uncharacteristic. His annoyance began to simmer. “What is prickling at you this
morning?”

Here it came. He could see it in
the lift of her brows, a feigned wideness to her eyes. A single-word curse
dreaded by men everywhere: “Nothing.”

He struck the table, jarring a fork
to the floor. “Bollocks. Something.”

She dropped the newspaper and sat
forward in her chair. “All right then. I am bored with hearing you mention
her.”

“Pardon?” Whatever he had expected,
it wasn't that. Thalia was part of their assignment. How could he
not
discuss
her?

“She's vapid, promiscuous, and
gaudy. And a traitor. I find it all disgusting.”

'All' meaning his interactions with
the baroness? He could swear Olivia forgot that they were on an assignment. If
he didn't know better, he would suspect her of taking their recent falling-out
personally.
Disgusting?
“How is that?” he asked.

Eyes narrowing, her voice raised to
a mimicking pitch. “Thalia managed her pony with skill. Thalia wore green today.
Thalia spoke some words.”

“Well,” he hesitated, still not
clear on Olivia's frustration. “Those are all true. Those are things I have
observed her doing.” Minutiae, undoubtedly, but he and Olivia had always talked
about everything.

Covering her mouth with her
fingertips, Olivia rolled her eyes above an artificial smile. “Tee hee!”

“What...in the hell...” He was too
confused to finish or even formulate the sentence. “Olivia, are you drunk?”

“No,” she snapped, getting up with
enough force to rock her chair. “No I am not. But that may well change before
noon.”

This wasn't like her. Olivia was
one of the most intelligent, level-headed women he'd ever met. Nothing she was
saying right now made any sense. Something was very wrong, and he had no time
to sort it out. He was engaged to take Thalia to the park and there was no
breaking the appointment. Frustration threatened to boil over as he realized
that he couldn't mention that fact to Olivia. Not with the way she was acting
right now.

“Unfortunately, I cannot stay to
assist.” He rose, wishing he could ask her to come with him a ways, to talk
things through. Perhaps a walk and some fresh air would help. He couldn't,
though, not when he and Thalia were so openly an item.

“Of course you can't.” Olivia
crossed her arms, looking past him.

Ty wasn't certain if it was an
acknowledgment or an accusation. Either way, he didn't seem able to win.
“Well...will you be at her masquerade tonight? I recall our last one being
rather entertaining.”

“I will,” she answered, ignoring
the jest. “With Philipe.”

He stiffened against the cushion,
caught off guard by her information. “What do you mean 'with'?” It wasn't that
he was bothered about her going with La Porte. It wasn't that at all. It was
just surprise at the way she'd worded it. As with everything else that she'd
said over the last five minutes, it felt like she was having an entirely
different conversation.

She held up one finger, then
another. “I will be there, he will be there.” She pushed them against each
other. “And we will be together.”

All right, he was a little
bothered. “No.” He shook his head. “I don't like it; this sounds unwise. There
will be too many of us in close proximity. We risk being discovered.”

She sniffed, looking away. “Philipe
is supposed to be
my
consoling lover.”

The word grated on him. “But he is
not
your lover.”

She stared back, blinking.

“Olivia.” Pushing out his chair, he
stood up slowly, heart picking up its pace at her continued silence. The way
Philipe took every opportunity to brush her hand, his jealous quips at the
party. His never-ending questions about where she was, if she were joining
them... “Olivia,” he repeated, watching for some reaction, “he is
not
your lover.”

Her arms waved. “Thalia is not
your
lover. And yet,
you two
go everywhere together.”

That was not the answer he'd hoped
for. Could she not see the difference? Had she gone temporarily insane? “Of
course she's not. Making love to a woman takes time and effort, two forms of
currency I have no desire to spend on Madame d'Oettlinger.”

He was growing more agitated by the
moment, more frustrated, but she sat there unengaged. “That is not the point.”

He'd had enough. “Well, then,
dammit, what
is
?”

The hall clock bellowed a sickly
chime, showing its age and cutting through their argument.

Olivia took a step back from the
table, putting more distance between them. “I will see you tonight, Tyler.
With
Philipe.”

Snatching his hat from the table,
he offered her the slightest bow. “I hope this evening finds you in better
spirits.”

“It won't,” she threatened, not
meeting his gaze.

Something about a note to her words
was a revelation. Ty set his hat back down and studied her. “Dimples, are you
feeling neglected?”

“
What?
”

“You are.” It had only occurred
when he realized that he was, too. “A little cross, perhaps, that we can't
spend all of our time together?” He leaned in closer, grinning. “Bed feel a
little empty, lately?” After all, it had been just the two of them for months,
and he wasn't enjoying Philipe's occasional interference. Putting himself in
her place, things became more clear.

Olivia deflated and fell back into
her chair, looking eager to agree. “Now that you mention it, I am. I cannot
play cards alone, and you're the only person who cheats with any merit. Philipe
is always out somewhere.” She shrugged. “Anyway, even if he
did
know a
one-legged prostitute joke, he would never tell it to me.”

Ty was sure there was more at work
than she was owning up to, considering the conversation they'd just had, but he
would take what he could get at the moment.

Reaching across the table, he
chucked her gently under the chin. “This isn't forever. We'll be back to our
old selves soon enough.”

*          *          *

“Sit down.”

Grayfield always gave the
instruction, even when Ty was already sitting, as he was now.

Ethan settled across the desk,
hands folded as though he were pushing together two halves of an idea. “I've
received Miss Fletcher's letter.”

“I expected you would have,” he
bluffed. He no notion what Grayfield meant, but it seemed unwise to own to the fact
that his partner had done something to which he wasn't privy. What letter had
she sent? What would Olivia say to Grayfield that she wouldn't discuss with him
first? He’d been occupied with Thalia much of the day, but Olivia knew how to
find him if she needed to.

“What I am trying to determine is,
can the pair of you at least finish your current portion of the assignment?
This is vitally important, and we've no time to place new agents.” Ethan
flicked a half-folded letter atop his desk. “I would ask
her
, but I know
better, based on her tone.”

What tone?
He resisted an
urge to massage his temple, scrub at his face, tells which would give him away
to Ethan. This, after his morning conversation with Olivia, had left him
wanting to pummel something. Swallowing down his frustration, he struggled to
piece the situation together. “When last we spoke, I understood that to be her
intent. She had no other object in view but to continue our assignment. If
she's written otherwise, I believe it was a mistake.”

“
'Recall me at once'
hardly
leaves room for confusion, major.”

She had written that? Ty wracked
his brain, struggling for any clue as to why Olivia would ask to be recalled
and not breathe a word. They were making progress, DuFresne located and the
baroness nearly snared. Fouche was on the horizon.

Pieces began to fit. They'd argued
more in the last few days than in the entire months before. She'd been absent
from the safe house frequently of late. He'd assumed that she'd been following
information about her parents, but now he wondered. It began to sink in: Olivia
was putting distance between them. But over the baroness? It couldn't be
anything so trivial; she would tell him.

Wouldn't she?

Ethan leaned in, forcing him to
swallow, positive the spymaster could read his every thought. “Let me make
certain I have this set clearly. You are saying that you do not believe Miss
Fletcher wishes to be recalled, and that she has not communicated that desire
to you, despite her expressly writing me to request it?”

“She has never once discussed it
with me.” That much, at least, was true. But she would damn well discuss it
with him now, if she was at the safe house for a change.

Sitting back, Ethan picked up the
letter and waved it. “Then translate for me what this really means.”

He wouldn't share half-formed
conclusions with Grayfield. The man was far too shrewd. For now, he only had
guesses, and poor ones. Relaxing, he sighed, trying to look at ease. “I think
she's in a rare fit of pique. I'd never insult Olivia by claiming 'female
hysteria' or some nonsense, but Fouche at large, Napoleon's return, and her
parents,” he shrugged, “it's all conspired to push her to the edge.” It was the
best he could cobble together, but as he spoke the words, he realized how weak
they sounded. She'd dealt with far worse in her life and had come through it
admirably.

He just prayed Ethan was mollified,
for now.

Ethan's eyes narrowed, and Ty
wondered if he'd spotted holes in the story. “Why would she write to
me
?”

He gestured to the letter resting
on Ethan's desk, dying for even a glimpse of its contents. “If she's frustrated
with me and La Porte, then she can hardly come to
us
.” He scoffed loudly
at the notion for effect. “Perhaps Olivia needs to hear from someone who knows
her best that we
all
want the same thing: Fouche strung up, Napoleon
forgotten in a cell. Her parents found, France at peace. I imagine it's not an
easy thing for her to remember, given how long she's been alone.”

Ethan patted the cryptic sheet of
paper. “What do you suggest I do with this?”

He understood what Ethan was
asking. A reason, any reason, to shelve the issue for now. The precariousness
of their position, Napoleon on the horizon, everything coming together as it
was now; this couldn't have come at a worse time.

He wanted to hear that it was
nothing, even if they both knew that it was bollocks.

“It was a mistake,” Ty managed,
wishing he could believe it and hearing the quaver in his own words. “A
misunderstanding. Burn it.”