Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (51 page)

“She might have changed ships.
There were so many leaving that day, hers might have been full.”

“Which day?” Ty was unfolding the
manifest again.

“The day of Waterloo. Everyone was
fleeing in a panic.”

Finally, he met her eyes.

Understanding dawned on her in the
same moment he must have grasped the truth. She dared the thinnest smile at the
tangle they’d uncovered. “Kate was not aboard the Union. But why did she
leave?” What had been so dire that Kate had fled shipboard?”

“The bloody retreat,” muttered Ty,
more to himself than for her ears. After a breath, he looked at her with
anguish almost equal to when he’d belied Kate dead. “Some hussars abandoned the
field, during the worst of the fighting. She must have crossed paths with them
in Antwerp and God knows what they told her.”

She pressed at a heart aching for
Ty, and for Matthew and Kate. “Something so horrible that she believed all hope
was lost.”

“Shite!” He sat fully upright,
raking fingers through his hair. “Matthew is in for one goddamn surprise when
he lands in New York.”

“Him? Think of her! How devastated
was she, sailing for America without telling a soul, not even you?” Olivia
imagined the crushing agony she would feel in Kate’s place, thinking her love
dead and the battle lost.

“Shite!” he barked again, scrubbing
a hand over his face. “I would pay a king's ransom to see their faces. Serves
them right for all their stubborn maneuvering.”

He was relieved, and angry at being
relieved; she knew him well enough to read it in the tense lines of his face.
Olivia wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. “No, it
does not serve them right. They must both be in agony.” She kissed his chin.
“But not for much longer, thanks to you.”

Muscles in his shoulders relaxed,
and Ty exhaled. “What would have happened, if we had not dared that trip to
London? If I hadn’t flayed Matthew and demanded he visit Kate’s home?” His face
blanched. “I might have separated them and never set things right.” Folding up
the manifest, he tossed it onto his bedside table and met her eyes. “God bless
you, Mrs. Burrell.”

Her heart swelled at his use of her
name, and she pecked a kiss to his temple. “I love you, too.”

Settling back against the pillows,
he wrapped her with an arm and she gave in to his insistent tugging. “Whatever
happens in our future, promise me something.”

Nodding, Olivia held her breath.

“This is very, very important.
Olivia?”

“What?” she breathed, ready to make
any number of promises to spare him the misery which Matthew and Kate must have
endured.

“Promise me that you will
never
tell Webb about that second manifest. He'll chew my arse over this mistake for
the rest of my days.”

Swallowing a laugh, she nestled
closer to his side. “Hmm.”

He pulled back, eyes wide. “What?
What is ‘hmm’?”

“Oh, nothing. I'll keep your secret.”
She inspected her nails, fiddling with her ring. “For now.”

“Loyalty, Olivia,” he protested.

“Leverage,” she countered, enjoying
the upper hand.

He ducked and stole a kiss, then
dug two fingers into her ribs. “Witch!”

They lay there teasing and laughing,
her threats escalating against his promises to subvert her. At last, Ty pulled
her over him, and their laughter subsided.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Paris - December 4
^th
, 1815

It had been difficult, getting used
to staying in one place. Not moving from city to city, learning not to look
over her shoulder each time she stepped onto the street.

Had,
Olivia thought, leaning
back into the embrace of Ty's favorite brown corduroy armchair. She stretched
stockinged feet out across her ottoman, wiggling her toes in the heat that
emanated from a glowing fireplace.

Slowly drifting snowflakes had
spent the day forming a thin mantle over the peaks of Notre Dame, just visible
out her parlor window, its ancient stone bathed in pink and rust by the sunset.
Spiced tea warmed her from the inside, and Olivia took a moment to simply enjoy
being cozy. After everything she’d endured, all that she’d done, it felt
impossible to simply sit and
be
, but she was getting used to it.

Horseshoes clicking against the
cobblestones out front sat her up in the chair.

Ty
. She snapped her book
shut and wrestled herself from the chair's plush depths.

Padding along the hall's cold
marble, she reached the foyer just as Morley opened the front door.

Her breath caught at seeing Ty, as
it always did. He still stopped her heart when she spied him in a crowd or when
they had been apart all day.

Water beaded in the black cape of
his wool greatcoat and dripped from the brim of his black top hat. She waited
for him to remove his gloves, then took his chilled hand.

His other palm pressed to her
belly, looking her over as though she might break. “How are my two darlings
faring this evening?”

Olivia started to answer, then
stifled a protracted yawn against the back of her hand. The exhaustion of early
pregnancy had yet to even out into a measured fatigue. Each afternoon had
become a challenge, fighting to keep her eyes open through dinner for Ty's
benefit. “We're well enough, under house arrest.”

“Incarceration, until it stops
snowing,” he agreed, leading them back down the hall.

“Not particularly knightly
behavior, Lord Burrell.”

Ty's eyebrows wiggled, and he
pointed to an empty lapel. “Well I'm not wearing my medal just now, you see, so
it doesn't apply.”

“Oh.” She nodded slowly. “Keep me
locked up for too long, and I'll not be held responsible for what happens to
you.”

He had all sorts of notions about
her condition. Foods with too much spice, tight stays, slippery walks, bouncing
carriages. Hot rooms. Cold rooms. With Kate's help, they had talked him out of
the boughs on most worries. New snowfall had made him intractable, so fiercely
adamant that Olivia, surprised by his swell of concern, had given in.

Ty glanced over his shoulder at
Morley as they passed from the hall. “A runner, from Grayfield's office?”

“Yes, sir. I'll get it for you.”

“No, Tyler,” she pleaded. “No
letters at the table. No treaties at coffee. Just for tonight.” If he wasn't
with Webb or the prime minister, he was with the regiment. Peacetime ironically
meant less of Ty to go around.

Ty held up a finger. “One. Webb has
had me at the sand table all day, and I have one thing to address.” He pecked
her cheek. “Then I am the lady's to command.”

He pulled out her chair at their
small rectangular dining table. It was so small that the white cloth had to be
doubled and the dishes crowded comically for a place in its center. It had been
a card table, in another life. They'd both grown tired of arranging themselves
at angles or distances around the hulking plank that had once stood in its
place.

“Hmm.” She leaned forward over one
silver-domed serving tray and inhaled.

Folding into his chair, Ty glanced
up, grinning. “What, checking for poison?”

Pursing her lips, she peeked
underneath the lid. “Just grateful that food smells appetizing, for a change.”

“Lord and saints be praised!” he
cried. “I can't bear any more of your complaining about boiled oats.”

Morley’s reappearance paused sharp
retort on her lips, then stole it completely. “What is that?”

Whatever it was he toted beneath a
black velvet arm, it was not what she’d expected. A brown paper square, nearly
two feet in both directions, it was considerably larger than a letter.

Ty claimed it from Morley’s white
gloves, then held it out to her. “I may be more excited by this than you. It
has been in the works some time.”

“What on earth is it?” she
repeated, resting one edge in her lap and letting it rest back against the
table.

“Open it,” Ty whispered. “See for
yourself.”

She plucked one end of the brown
twine, then laughed as Ty leaned in impatiently, cutting through string with
his small pen knife. Olivia folded back the paper an inch at a time.

Gold
. The first thing she
saw was wood carved into swirling fans, laid with gold gilt. It was a frame.
Self -control draining away, she grasped the paper's seam and tore.

Ty’s eyes were boring holes into
her; she could feel it, feel him waiting for some reaction, but she could only
stare. “How…” She traced a lock of hair, the arch of beautiful smiling lips.
Then she met Ty's eyes, hers brimming with tears. “How did you do this?”

“Lady Grayfield’s skill with a
brush receives all credit. I described the portrait from the estate until her
sketches were exact. Ethan was able to arrange…” Ty cleared his throat against
a fist, “The Duchess also lent some ideas, in gratitude for Bordeaux.”

She raked fingers at Ty, and he
filled them with his handkerchief. Olivia caught the dampness on her cheeks
with it, still stroking her mother's face. It was not a replica of the chateau
portrait, or the formal paintings owned by Uncle Edward, images of a familiar
woman who didn’t quite seat with her own recollection. Impossibly, it was her
mother as Olivia remembered her.

“Where would you like to hang it?”

Nowhere. Not yet. Sliding out from
her chair, she set it atop the mantle's white plaster where it could be
glimpsed without being in her line of sight. She wasn’t ready.

Ty got up behind her, wrapping his
arms around her waist. “We can send it to Portsmouth for safe keeping. Store it
in London until we return home.”

“Not yet.” She closed her eyes,
leaning into him and feeling his reassuring heartbeat at her back. “Not just
yet.” She pushed him away before she was ready, not willing to deprive Ty of a
hot dinner when her fickle appetite had left him with more than a few lukewarm
meals of late.

“Grayfield came to see me today.”
Ty pulled out her chair and offered his news in quick succession, as though
legs scraping over a wood floor would help drown it out.

She couldn't fight a scowl that
creased her face, both at Ty's news and the sudden betrayal of her stomach
against dinner. “What about?” Any time Ethan began poking, it was cause for
worry.

“Talleyrand is formally dismissed.
Fouche has been relieved of his post in Saxony.”

Pressing the heels of her hands to
her eyes, she warred to pick out any one emotion from the storm inside. Any
sense of joy or relief would be long in coming. First she would have to trust
that Fouche was really and truly gone.

“Not far enough,” she muttered.
Or dead enough
. She couldn't bring herself to say the words out loud.

Ty stopped cutting and held her
eyes. “He's going a little farther yet. His cartloads of blood money are being
moved to his estates in Trieste. Provisional government wants him gone by
week’s end.” He squeezed her hand, infusing some enthusiasm into her where they
touched. “This is our doing, Olivia. We accomplished this.”

“Out of government, and out of
France.” She dared the faintest smile. “We completed our mission, and in just
under a year.” Still irrationally annoyed by Ethan's interference in their
world of two, she speared a piece of chicken. “What did Grayfield want with
you, besides that news?” With Ethan it was never just one thing. The man was a
consummate juggler.

Ty shrugged, filling his plate. “He
wanted to know what we plan to do next.”

Of course he did, now that he had
discovered them. Discovered, she amended silently, but not dismissed.

“Not a thing!” The force of the
words surprised even her.

Ty froze with a bite halfway to his
lips. “For Whitehall, you mean.”

“At all.”

“Something,” he protested.

“
No
.” Nothing more than
enjoying each other.

“Egypt?”

She stuffed her mouth with a bite
of chicken, sliding a little relish onto her fork.

“The tombs,” he insisted, smacking
the tabletop. “Pyramids, Olivia!”

“Oof! Someone is feeling cheated
out of the Africa campaign.”

“The
Sphinx
, Olivia.”

Resting a hand on his, she
squeezed. “They're not going anywhere, Tyler.”

“Its nose is already gone,” he
muttered to his plate.

“Not going anywhere,” she repeated,
chuckling and pressing her belly, “and just now neither am I.”

His frown was dramatic. “Sounds
like a recipe for absolute mayhem.”

She arched a brow. “Meaning what?”

Ty pushed back his plate, tossing
his napkin along after. “An idle woman.” He shuddered.

“Who says I will be idle?” She
menaced him with her butter knife, laughing.

“Truly, Dimples. What will you do
with yourself?” He scooted back and rested his boot on the hearth. “Needle
work? Trying on hats?” He made a ridiculous arc with his hand. “Teaching a
small dog to jump over books?” Ty shook his head. “No. I cannot imagine it.”

Neither could she, and for a moment
laughter gripped her. “I don't know,” she mused, finally catching her breath.
“I thought perhaps we could have an adventure or two where nothing catches on
fire.”

Ty grinned and took her hand.
“Let's not be too hasty.”

EPILOGUE

The Paris of Olivie de LaValette's
youth is, like the girl herself, gone.

She would live to see another king
and two reincarnations of Napoleon before her death in 1871, and more upheaval
in her beloved country which would last until the dawn of the twentieth
century.

In 1848, Napoleon III began a
campaign to modernize Paris, a city paralyzed by revolution and neglect for
over half a century. He commissioned Charles Marville, photographer by trade,
to document the city as it stood before the improvements. Marville’s images are
all that remain of a Paris lost. His photographs of the Tuileries are a glimpse
through time, showing the grand palace before it was burned out and later demolished
to prevent inciting further hate.

Public squares were renamed, the
guillotine packed away, and misery-soaked streets paved over. Paris washed away
some of its stain, and though Olivia vowed never to speak well of any emperor
bearing the name Napoleon, she was as relieved as any modern, young artiste to
see the rotting bits gone. At last, her city thrived.

There was little time, however, to
absorb the changes, and even less to enjoy them. Sir Tyler and Lady Burrell
welcomed little Madeline and her brother Arthur Webb Burrell in quick
succession, turning three years in Paris into a whirlwind.

Egypt came next, in order to
mollify Ty and stop his grumbling. Tombs, the Sphinx, it was just a brief stay,
but with so much to explore, two years passed, and suddenly there was baby
Charlotte.

When they did finally settle in
London, the calling cards and invitations were endless. The first to be
answered was from Olivia’s half-brother Jules, who brought a portrait of their
father as a gift. It was hung in the quiet comfort of the blue parlor beside
the painting of her mother.

Madeline wed Lord William Webb in
1838, after months of both families chewing their nails that the stubborn pair
would never come around. On Kate’s clever suggestion, Ty forbade his daughter from
marrying a Webb. The engagement was almost immediate, and the marriage lasted
fifty years.

Arthur served in the Royal Navy,
remaining at sea when his commission was up. An adventurer and cartographer,
his acquaintances were surprised to find him spending time mapping the
hinterlands of Angola. His parents were
not
surprised to discover he’d
been secretly recruited by Portugal to spy while he was there. He quit the
assignment in 1855, persuaded by a Portuguese siren that they’d been too long
on land.

Charlotte, more like her mother
than either would admit, headed West, vowing that there was too much adventure
in life to be married and have babies. Her vow lasted until she crossed pistols
with a handsome Weaverville sheriff who convinced her to put down roots in his
beloved California. Eventually.

Ty and Olivia were thrilled to have
children at every corner of the world, satisfying their own thirst for
adventure. Now and then, when they stood still long enough, Grayfield would
appear and hint that perhaps Whitehall was the cure for their restlessness. Ty
and Olivia politely declined. Despite the unrest in France, those days were
done.

As for Ethan Grayfield’s hand in
matters, that is a story for another time...