Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (4 page)

“A friend of yours?” she drawled.

Without answering, he drove a boot
into the door, throwing it open and snapping whatever had held it shut. He
vaulted out; there was no voice, no gunshot. Peering past him to the outside,
the only evidence she could find of the stranger was his silk cape pooled on
the driveway.

Short bursts of footsteps echoed
back to her. The major was running between carriages, checking each one on a
path back toward the house.

Now was her chance. When he
finished looking for the stranger, he would turn his attention on her. Olivia
slipped from the cab and the moment he leaned inside another window, she turned
on her heel and fled.

*          *          *

Paris Whitehall offices – January 5
^th
, 1815

Ty paused at a sturdy brown door,
hand on the knob, and took a breath. To say he was dreading the conversation he
was about to have would be an understatement. His superior, Lord Ethan
Grayfield, was not just Whitehall's chief spymaster. He was a major, and a
highly-decorated veteran of the Peninsula. He expected his orders to be carried
out on the battlefield and in the shadows. He demanded success. Grayfield was
not going to be pleased at the missing letters.

Taking one more breath, he pushed
open the door and stepped in.

The room's absolute plainness
struck him every time. It could have belonged to anybody; a simple oak desk and
matching credenza standing completely anonymous. A sea of papers fanned both surfaces,
few names and little to identify their purpose to the average person. If Lord
Grayfield disappeared tomorrow, his replacement could be installed before
lunchtime with minimal fuss. The only exception was a painting of a lighthouse,
its bold lines of black, white and crimson hung prominently behind his desk in
stark contrast. It was a gift from Ethan’s wife, and to Ty’s knowledge the only
personal possession the man could claim in all of France.

Grayfield stood at his entrance.
“Major Burrell. Have a seat.”

He saluted. “Sir.” Moving to take
his usual spot in the guest chairs at Grayfield's desk, it dawned on him that
one was already occupied.
Well occupied,
he amended, when the lady stood
up and turned around. He liked women of every variety, not willing to limit
himself as some men did with narrow preferences. But as his tastes ran, Ty
admitted the woman before him ranked near to perfect.

Upturned eyes narrowed, appraising
him frankly. Her nose was prominent but graceful, like a statue's, drawing his
gaze to full lips, the sort to make a man curious at testing their firmness.

Her green silk bonnet perched like
a small flower garden on blonde curls which would hardly be contained. A velvet
coat traced her curves, its color almost exactly mimicking the mossy shade of
her eyes. ‘Lovely’ was a pale appellation.

Ethan swept a hand at his
breathtaking guest. “Major, I beg leave to introduce you to Miss Olivia
Fletcher.”

“Olivia will do,” she added softly.

Ty bowed, recovering himself. “On
the contrary, it is I who should beg you, Lord Grayfield.” He raised his hat to
Miss Fletcher, meeting her eyes, but there was no sign she'd heard his
compliment. She stared unblinking while silence stretched between them, near to
snapping. Then she fell into her chair, presenting him with her back.

Snob
.

Ty grunted and moved to the chair
beside her. Dropping to the cushion, he fought a natural urge to kick his boots
up onto the desk. It was a bad habit he indulged on campaign and one Grayfield
would not tolerate.

“Major, I am certain you know why
you are here,” Ethan began unnecessarily.

Ty glanced at Olivia, placid beside
him. Were they truly going to discuss the particulars in front of a civilian?
“Respectfully sir, I would not wish to bore Miss Fletcher with the details of
my visit.”

She had faced forward, still as a
doorpost since sitting, but now she snapped to face him. For the first time he
noted a thin, crescent-shaped cut beneath her left eye. Ty frantically combed
the catalog of his brain. Her gaze was expectant, and Ty had the sense everyone
in the room was aware of something he was not.

When it dawned on him, he groaned:
It was a cut that
exactly
mirrored the curved edge of a mask.

She had seen
his
face but
managed to keep her own concealed right up until she'd disappeared into the
night. He slapped the desk and jabbed a finger at her. “Austrian? Russian? Who
sent you ahead of me for those damned letters?”

Her mouth snapped open, but
Grayfield’s laughter cut her reply. “I did.” He raked a hand through his sweep
of black hair. “In fact, I sent you both.”

Olivia animated beside him, bracing
her hands on the desk and coming half out of her seat. “You? We nearly killed
each other!”

“Nearly. You are both mostly whole,”
quipped Grayfield, unruffled.

Ty did not appreciate being toyed
with, not when he'd proven himself a hundred times over. His hackles rose. “If
we've reached a place where you feel the need to test my loyalty-”

Ethan raised a hand, cutting him
off. “Quite the opposite, major. I have an assignment that requires a pair, a
team. I believed you two would work well together and I was not disappointed.”

He looked to Olivia who smiled for
the first time, dropping his heart by two ribs. Memory intruded, the feel and
shape of them against his own. He shifted in his seat.

“The Fox, outfoxed,” she teased.

Mischief in her words quickened his
pulse, but it was tempered by disappointment. “It doesn't matter. We still lost
the letters.”

Blue eyes dancing, Ethan clasped a hand
over his mouth to muffle his voice. “I certainly do not need the likes of you
two nipping at my heels!” Their mutual gasp pulled the air from the room. He
reached into his jacket, producing Fouche's letters.

Exchanging a dubious glance with
Olivia, Ty squinted, struggling to believe what he was seeing. Then he grinned
at Ethan. “You clever bastard.”

“Major.” Ethan frowned, pointing to
Olivia who was still fixed on the letters. “There is a lady present.”

She answered with an
unladylike
snort and went on staring in disbelief at their prize. “Unbelievable,” she
whispered.

Ethan smiled his approval. “You
both
succeeded, and I hope you bear no hard feelings.”

Ty found himself the victim of
Olivia's accusing finger. “He shoved me off of a wall.”

He could hardly believe her nerve.
“She lit the
house
on fire!”

“Iron out your differences
now
,”
ordered Grayfield. “You will be close enough to suffocate each other during
your time in Paris.”

Ty settled deeper into his chair,
studying Olivia in profile. Things were looking up. “I'm equal to the
challenge.”

She shrugged, looking just as at
ease. “I can think of worse ways to pass the springtime in France.”

Then, she winked.

CHAPTER ONE

Paris – February 10
^th
, 1815

At well past three in the morning,
most of the guests on the Comte d'Bregnon's estate outside of Paris were in
their bedchambers, but they were hardly asleep. Their ears turned eagerly at
sounds echoing from the apartments of a handsome, young English diplomat.

Many a suspicious brow had been
raised at dinner and afterward at cards. How closely he had leaned in to the
pretty blonde! Asking her name, and how she was enjoying the country. Whispers
passed from lips to ear among the guests while he recited a poem, eyes
lingering on his prey between each stanza. Knowing glances spread like wildfire
when the pretty miss went to take in the evening air, and her admirer slipped
out onto the terrace after. The pair had been less discreet hours later when
the lady retired to bed. An indecently short moment passed before the gentleman
had loped up the staircase after her.

The guests smirked and giggled
beneath their quilts. What they heard now from the chamber at the end of the
hall was unmistakably a tryst; what reason did they have to think otherwise?
Enthusiastic moans tempered a bed's creaking protest, both stating the obvious.

If they could peer inside the room,
however, their feelings on the matter would have been quite different.

*          *          *

“Oh,
ohhh
!” On her knees,
Olivia banged their headboard into the wall twice more, choking down a laugh. “
Yes!
Oh, yes!
”

Ty's head turned toward her from
under their ivory quilt, and he cracked one eye. “Everyone at dinner
thinks
they know how much brandy I consumed. Time for a finale, if you wish to keep it
believable.”

He was no fun. She rolled her eyes,
rhythmically striking wood into plaster. “This is supposed to be our first
night as lovers. You truly want people to believe the king's fireworks last
longer?” She paused to moan. “How will your reputation ever recover?”

Chuckling, Ty rolled onto his back.
“This isn't my first visit to Paris. My reputation is in no danger.” He winked.

She ignored him, redoubling her
efforts. “Oh,
ohh
...” She jabbed him with a foot. “Some help?”

His sigh was dramatic. “Fine.” Ty
offered a loud, half-hearted groan, and she banged the wall one last time.

Falling to the mattress, she
doubled up with laughter, gasping for breath. Clutching her chest, she grinned
at Ty. “I will never get tired of that.”

“Hmph.”

He pretended to be grumpy, but she
knew better. They'd been partners long enough that he didn't fool her anymore.
Nearly two months; not long enough for most people to feel acquainted, but she
and Ty weren't most people. Good instincts told one a great deal about a
person, and they both had good instincts.

She wriggled under the heavy damask
quilt and turned to face Ty, lowering her voice to a hush. “How many days, do
you think?” They were waiting for a chance at getting their hands on coveted
intelligence. Their ruse as lovers got them noticed, made them exciting and
elicited invitations which moved them ever closer to their target. Mostly they
were waiting for a go-ahead from their contact, the Duc de la Porte, a signal
that the time was right.

Ty shrugged, staring up at the
canopy. “Three, perhaps,” he whispered back. “A week at most. La Porte expects
word from his man any time now.”

“Perfect. I told John I would be a
fortnight longer.” She fiddled with the naked space on her third finger, absent
its engagement band, wondering at a nervous pressure in her chest. Maybe it was
how much more often she'd lied to John. Maybe it had been the grim line of his
mouth, frustration and disappointment drawing up his features, when she had
casually mentioned leaving for Paris again.

There had been a time when she
wouldn't have hesitated to call their relationship comfortable. John respected
her wishes, her space, or so she thought. But they still hadn't set a date,
made a single arrangement. An opera, the park; they were content in each
other's company, but did they truly seek it out? John was handsome, stern and
confident in an attractive way that made her believe there was more beneath the
surface, but it rarely boiled over. They kissed, and hands dared inside shirts
and necklines. Still, she had the sense that if it never happened again, he
wouldn't be much bothered. She'd started to wonder if they were comfortable, or
mechanical.

“He grants you a good deal of
latitude. What did you tell him this time?” asked Ty.

“That someone found information
about my parents. Which is true,” she sighed. “Partly.” Espionage was all
measurements, of consoling one's self not with the truth, but with how much of
the truth one was able to tell. With John it hadn't been much lately.

“I can't fathom how you manage your
work, with him dangling after you back home.”

She dodged his question with one of
her own. “It can't be any easier for you. What about your lady with the army?”

“That ship has sailed, and for the
very reason I wonder at your engagement. Kate was clever enough to perceive
that I hold something in reserve.” He sighed and closed his eyes, wriggling
deeper into the mattress and signaling that the conversation was over. “Life is
simple for me. All my love is unrequited.” He softened his bitterness with a
smile. “Except the army. She is a faithful mistress.”

Looking at him now, she had a hard
time believing Ty's romantic field was as barren as he claimed.

Silent, she watched him in the
lamplight until his breathing grew slow and even. It had been just two months;
she forgot that, when Ty plied her with his easy charm and some nameless
quality that whispered for her to trust him. His integrity struck her as
unshakable, making his physical charms that much more appealing. Not that help
was necessary. Ty's face was made to catch a lady's attention, his body made to
keep it. Tall and athletic, he lacked a pampered softness common in so many men
of the Quality.

Olivia shook her head, casting away
the thought, realizing her gaze had paused too long on Ty's broad forehead and
tousled blond hair. And on his lips. She remembered how they felt, firm against
her own, leading with the skill of a dancer.

Enough
. She had no business
continuing down that path. Her relationship with John was complicated already.
Besides, Ty wasn't any different, no more special, than other men.

At least that's what she told
herself at times like these. Personal attachment aside, relations between
agents was forbidden. Reprimand, dismissal and on rare occasion stricter
punishment was meted out by Whitehall. Dalliances created attachments which
caused an agent to lose perspective, betray one another and risk exposing the
entire operation. Assignments were sometimes all she had, all that kept her
mind occupied against darker thoughts. They brought her to France, affording
her opportunity to find her parents and free her native country. Her fiancé
aside, Tyler Burrell, however tempting, was not worth the risk.

Wriggling deeper into the mattress,
she settled eyes on darkened window panes. Espionage meant playing all sorts of
roles. Actress, courtesan, whore, blushing innocent. Her first encounter with
Ty had been as an adversary, and she had treated him no differently than any
other. Anything she'd had to do in the past shouldn’t bother her now.

He jabbed her shoulder. “Put out
that lamp so I can get some rest, now that you've exhausted me. Unless you're
not finished,” he murmured through a yawn.

Chuckling, she tucked away her
guilt and reached out to turn down the lamp. Olivia reminded herself that at
least two things were true in her existence of lies: She was stuck with Major
Ty Burrell, and their partnership was
complicated
.