Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (9 page)

“Oh, gin,” he muttered to the
silent room. “You seduce me and steal all my money.”

Wincing at the taste of his own
breath, he inhaled again and forced himself up the mattress with trembling
arms, coming to rest against the headboard. When he finally managed his eyes
open, he became aware of something wonderful: the dark blue linen curtains were
drawn tight, steeping the room in cool shadows against midday sun. The window
was open and a breeze fluttered the drapes and slipped beneath, its breath
fanning his cheek. A smell tickled his nose on the next gust. Stiff necked, he
turned his head incrementally to get a look at the side table. A plain blue and
white porcelain tray offered up a little cup and silver chocolate pot, steam
whispering out of the spout. One thick slice of coarse bread, toasted golden,
sat cut and buttered beside its counterparts. On the tray's edge perched a
little glass jar half full of water, beside a spoon whose bowl heaped with
white powder. Soda ash, for the headache. That, or Olivia was finally done with
him. He managed a smile.

Rolling over, he intended to put
the table in reach and then stopped, aching, out of steam and run aground on
the pillows.
Just a moment
. He just needed a few breaths in order to
rally. Giving up, he sank into the bedding.

Vanilla
. Olivia's perfume
washed over him, with a hint of the cream she used before bed. Honey or amber?
It didn't matter. His body was already tightening, heart hammering against an
anvil in his head. He slid arms up into the cool space between her cotton
pillow sham and the sheet, drawing himself deeper into her scent. Her lips were
firm for being so full; he remembered that surprise
very
well. When
they'd embraced, their bodies had fit together better than with any woman he'd
known before. Groaning, he thumbed a button on his breeches, body well ahead of
his brain.

“Tyler?”

He started at Olivia's voice
drifting through the door, and grabbed his burning side. If his thoughts had
summoned her, he wished that power away.

The door opened. He snapped his
eyes from the narrow shaft of light until Olivia had closed it again, then
faced her. Dammit all, couldn't she just
once
look plain? Particularly
now, when he was struggling to push temptation away. Simple oatmeal muslin
covered her wrist to ankle, golden tresses a tidy pile at the back of her head,
and still she was breathtaking.

She settled beside him on the bed
and picked up the jar, whisking in the soda ash. “Major Burrell, how are you
feeling today?”

He didn't miss a wry bent to her
words. “Predictably.”

“Mm. Start with this.” She pressed
the jar into his palm, fingers brushing his knuckles.

Uncomfortable aching. That
described him now, head to foot, and her touch was not helping. He knocked back
the liquid, hoping it would take the edge off.

“Here,” she winced, managing some
steaming chocolate and passing him the cup.

It didn't turn his guts; in fact,
it smelled delicious. Olivia, it seemed, was full of surprises. “Did you make
this?”

“I did.” She beamed, folding hands
in her lap. “And I believe I did it correctly. I don't know my way around a
kitchen, but I used chocolate to poison someone on an assignment.”

He froze, rim on his lips and
waited for her to laugh.

Silence.

She blinked, apparently waiting for
his opinion of her efforts. Hands clasped, eyes wide, she watched him. For
better or worse he'd have to take a sip.

Sweet, creamy and a touch bitter;
his stomach threatened to lurch, but something substantial and earthy about the
flavor settled him. “Well, thank God we're on the same side.”

She took the cup, settling it back
on the tray with a serene curve to her lips. He had expected her to offer
toast, ask if he needed anything. Instead she draped across his stomach without
warning, poking at last night's handiwork.

Frustrated tension knotted deeper in
his gut. Cupping her shoulder, he pushed her back upright without thinking.

“I haven't checked your stitches,”
she protested, leaning in again.

“I'm fine,” he barked, more roughly
than he'd intended.

“They look red,” she argued.
“You've been rubbing them against the quilt. Maybe wrap them up before you
dress?” She tried reaching over him again.

He gripped her wrist, swinging her
arm back against his chest. “I'm sorted out, truly. If I need help, you'll be
the first person I ask.”

“All right,” she grumbled, pulling
her arm away.

“Give me a moment? I'll get myself
together and be down directly.”

“Of course.” Standing, she smiled
and pointed at his forgotten plate. “Finish your toast before the soda gets
hold of you.”

Ducking his head, he smiled back.
“I am the lady's to command.”

“Hush.” The door closed on her
laughter.

Covering his face, Ty groaned into
his palms, scrubbing eyes with the heels of his hands. What was wrong with him
lately? The aftermath of Kate, the end of his affair with Georgiana; he was off
balance. That must be the explanation. Back on his feet and otherwise alone, he
and Olivia had been thrown together at an awkward time. A
good
time, he
amended. She kept him on his toes, asking nothing. If only she wasn't so damned
engaging, and beautiful, and...

He cut off the thought, too bruised
and cross for an exercise in futility. Working his way off of the mattress, he
planted unsteady feet on the rug, bracing a hand on the bed post until a wave
of bright spots passed. Dressing himself felt impossible. His valet and butler
would see an increase in their wages when he got home, and an acknowledgment of
just how indispensable they truly were.

He transferred water from an ivory
pitcher into a matching bowl atop the wash stand. That was the easy part,
standing and some minor lifting. Unfortunately, his case was in the bottom of
the wardrobe, and that meant
bending
. He regretted sending Olivia away.

Managing his black leather case up
onto the bed, Ty punctuated his efforts with a lot of promises muttered to
heaven. He dragged the wash stand closer, settling his mirror beside the bowl.
Shaving was not a task suited to darkness, but he was not opening the curtains
just yet. He scraped and swished the razor until the job was done, finishing
with a bracing splash of cold water to the face.

A pungent smack of spearmint and
tarragon churned his stomach, threatening to bring up the chocolate as he
dipped his toothbrush into the powder. He should have heeded Olivia's advice
and eaten the damn toast. It took a handful of slow, deep breaths to finish the
process.

When he was finally put back
together, Ty stood at the foot of the bed with hands on his hips, giving
himself a stern, silent lecture:
Get a hold of yourself. Pay attention to
your work. Don't allow Olivia Fletcher or any other woman to throw you off
balance.

‘
Any other woman.’ Was he
serious?
Ty snorted, grabbing his brown coat from the wardrobe.            
Mostly
Olivia Fletcher.

CHAPTER SIX

Olivia scrunched down into
Philipe's gray brocade armchair, extending her toes closer to the fire’s
glowing embers. The sky had been clear on their trip across Paris to the duke's
home, enough that she'd laughed at Ty's prediction for rain the next day. He'd
been just right enough to be smug about it when a sudden shower caught their
afternoon ride. She'd spurred from the wood in a rush to reach the stables, fat
drops stinging her face and saturating her wool riding habit. Clean towels and
dry clothes hadn't chased away a bone-deep chill, so she'd drawn up dangerously
close to the fireplace.

Across the drawing room, Ty
commanded a stool, while Philipe knocked against the maple top of his piano for
emphasis. They were arguing over composers, near as she could tell. Rode, a
violinist, and Bomtempo, a pianist. She hadn't caught why there was dissension
and, cozy in her spot, didn't care.

“Plenty of ladies are entertained
by my tap-tapping, major.” Philipe's rich voice rose, buoyed by wine, in
response to Ty's less-audible dig. “It's practically a siren song in comparison
to the screech of a cat being shut in a door.”

Ty puffed up. “You're serious?
Against the violin, instrument of the masters?”

“I'm not certain that's the phrase
I would have chosen.”

“It's a Guarneri!” protested Ty.

Over her shoulder, Olivia watched
Philipe run a hand along his piano's lacy music stand. “And this, thank God, is
not.”

Any moment they were going to start
swinging, and over what? Their ridiculous instruments. “Shh!” She laughed,
stifling a yawn into the back of her hand. “Get your fiddle, major. Then you
can play together and make peace.”

Grinning, Philipe raised his fist
in the air. “Never!”

Ty grudgingly followed suit. “Not a
chance. I only play when I am melancholy.” He threw up both hands. “How did I
end up on La Porte's side of this?”

Shrugging, Philipe tossed her a
wink. “Luck, I suppose.”

“Hah. Let's disagree over something
else.”

“Cards?” asked Philipe.

That cooled Ty’s outrage. “You know
me well.”

Foolishness.
Olivia shook
her head, glad to be left out. Getting up just long enough to turn her chair,
she placed herself, against her better judgment, in the sphere of activity.

She and Ty, it turned out, had both
known the Duc de la Porte for years, independently. Of course, Philipe had
never introduced them; he wasn't keen on her sharing the same level of banter
they enjoyed with anyone else.

She watched the men, squared off at
Philipe's card table. Equal in height, but that was where their similarities
ended, not that each one didn't boast certain attractions.

While Ty dealt the hand, Olivia
corrected herself. Height was not their only similarity. Both were
heart-stoppingly handsome. Where the major was fair and blond, Philipe was
darkly attractive. Skin brown like good bread against a crisp white collar and
cuffs, artfully tousled, silky black locks teasing his brow. His Portuguese
ancestors had obviously come to France too recently to be obscured by more
northern features.

A servant stepped in, making a pass
along the edges of the room. He drew shut each set of yellow silk drapes,
lighting candles that were set between. She watched his dance until it
concluded at a barrel-chested mahogany cabinet, where he produced a small,
silver tray and two glasses. He splashed brandy into both and delivered them to
Ty and Philipe's eager fingers. They rearranged their cards, everyone silent
until the man had gone.

She wasn't thrilled about leaving
her spot, but being passed over on the brandy would not stand. She got up,
earning a glance from Ty. “What are you about?”

“Correcting an error.”

Philipe's voice cautioned her from
behind. “After last fall, I'm not certain you should be imbibing anything
besides tea.”

Why would he mention it,
particularly in front of such dangerous company? She could hear Ty perk up in
his seat. “Last fall?”

“It was nothing,” she snapped, in
unison with Philipe. When Ty continued staring, she rolled her eyes. “I lost a
great deal of money, my dress, and nearly broke my ankle. No more than that
need be said.” A hot glance to Philipe enforced her words.

Ty made a sound, a curious sort of
grunt she knew well. He seemed to close the matter, but she knew better. He was
filing it away for later.

Philipe tossed down a card and
knocked, signaling the end of his turn. “After reading through Osipova's
letters and writing Grayfield, I have a suggestion. You aren't going to like
it.”

“Not liking something you and
Grayfield have concocted is hardly novel,” quipped Ty.

He was correct. Over the past month
their assignments had grown bolder, more dangerous. She didn't enjoy it either,
but liking or not liking had no bearing on whether they did their job.

Philipe ignored Ty’s remark and
studied his cards. “Intelligence says Talleyrand has been quite the scribe
these past two weeks, all manner of correspondence. Information in the letters
you retrieved from Osipova bears this out.”

Pushing the cork back into place
with a sense of dread, Olivia turned around. “And you want us to get his
letters. His
other
letters.”

Nodding, Philipe drained his glass.
“I think you must. I can invite him for cards or out into the country, but he's
not going incriminate himself there. If anything, he'll be extremely guarded so
far from his hunting grounds. There would be no observing to whom he writes,
who pays him visits.”

Bracing herself with a nip of
brandy, she mulled over his words, still not clear on Philipe's aim. “And we
are looking for what, precisely?”

“Our primary aim, obviously, is to
determine if Fouche is working against the Allies. But we should also discover
if Talleyrand is working against Fouche.”

“Or with him,” she finished,
finally understanding.

“Exactly. They're natural enemies
but have paired off before, in the interest of self-preservation.” Philipe
rubbed his hands together. “No matter which way the tide is turning,
Talleyrand's letters may inform our next move.”

Ty set his cards face down on the
table, rubbing a palm over his chin. “He uses a special courier for all of his
regular government correspondence, but he wouldn't do the same for anything
more clandestine. He doesn't trust anyone that much.”

“No.” Philipe shook his head. “I've
tried the usual pickpocket schemes. Street urchin stealing his purse. Gentleman
'bumping' in passing to check his coat. Even rifling his clothes at the whore
house. There's no doubt he has papers on him; he's too paranoid to let them out
of his sight, but my agents find nothing.”

Falling back into her chair, Olivia
took a long draw of her brandy and set her glass atop the hearth. “Instinct
tells me there's enough bad blood between him and Fouche that they'd never
again bail one another out. In fact, Talleyrand will be vigilant for anything
that could overthrow his rival. We should take it as a good sign that he's suddenly
so active.”

Philipe played his last card and
sat back. “Not to put too fine a point on things, but our friend Prince
Metternich says his Austrians are after the same information.”

She crossed her arms, bristling at
Philipe's caution. “I'm surprised he told you that much. And that you believed
it.”

That earned her a sharp look from
both men, but she didn't care. Metternich called himself a diplomat, but
everything he did was motivated only by Austria's interests. He employed an
army of spies, relying on censorship and repression at home. The prince was a
lighter hand than Fouche, but cut from similar cloth.

Obviously not expecting her
repentance, Philipe concluded his thought. “His people are on the same trail.
You'll have to be prompt and thorough.”

Ty scoffed. “Not a bit of
pressure.”

“There you have it,” said Philipe.
“This unfortunately falls to your lot rather than mine, but I'm here. Whatever
I can do, you have only to ask.”

Unlike so many people in France,
Philipe meant what he said. He'd twice led a regiment against Napoleon, had
financed the resistance for years, and had worked tirelessly as an agent of the
Allies.
All of that and handsome as sin.
She drained her glass and
sighed.

“What are you huffing about over
there, Dimples?” Ty demanded.

It was bad enough when he called
her that in private. In company, it was just outrageous. She glared, but it was
lost on Ty who was busy studying his hand.

“Why do I get the feeling,” she
drawled, hearing the brandy in her words, “that I'm going to have to wear
something ridiculous?”

*          *          *

Ty folded arms behind his head,
settling deeper into the pillows. His eyelids had been drooping when he'd
crawled between the sheets, but for at least an hour now he'd been wide awake.
Why? Philipe's beds, like everything else on the estate, were the height of
comfort. Mind at ease, body exhausted by a thorough afternoon ride, Ty
struggled to grasp why sleep eluded him. Turning his gaze to the window, he
stared out at the moon's blue glow just rising out of sight.

Knock. Knock knock.

The pattern was unmistakable, one
they had agreed on months ago. After a breath, the knob rattled and his door
brushed open.

“Tyler, are you awake?” Olivia
whispered into the darkness.

Heart thrumming, he slid up the
pillows, pulling the quilt over his bare chest. “I am.”

His words set her in motion,
sweeping into the room and around the foot of his bed. She flipped back the
quilt and bounced in before his mind could thaw enough to question what she was
doing.

He held his breath, wondering why
she’d come and hoping he was right.

Olivia leaned back against the
headboard, mirroring his posture, and exhaled.

Silence.

He stared at her, waiting.

She leaned her head, eyes closed.
Still nothing.

They were not at the safe house or
the hotel. She couldn't really be tucking in for the night. “Olivia, what are
you doing?” he finally whispered, body as strung up as his nerves.

Her eyes snapped open. “I couldn't
sleep, not a wink!”

He didn't admit to having the same
struggle. His being awake was
not
related to sleeping without her for
the first time in weeks. “We've had our arses handed to us with this
assignment. Bound to cost us some long nights.”

Sighing, she slouched farther down
against the pillows and closed her eyes again, entrenching. He guessed she wasn't
getting back up any time soon. “Things are certainly more tangled than when we
began,” she agreed. “Discredit Fouche; that was all.”

Their mission had been
straightforward. Of course, no plan survived first contact with the enemy.
Bringing down a man such as Joseph Fouche or even tarnishing his reputation
couldn't have been simple. In short order, they'd found themselves down a
rabbit hole and moving deeper.

“Circus,” he muttered, unthinking.

“Hmm?”

“Have you ever been to the circus?”
He settled deeper into his pillow, getting comfortable beside her. “My mother
used to dress us like common children and our governess would take us to see
the entertainments. There was a man who could manage eight colored balls in the
air. Looked like the simplest thing.”

“We should find him. He could give
us lessons just now.” Her legs slid restlessly under the blankets and she
sighed. “What bothers me most is that anyone would suggest 'if', that anyone
would trust him again.
If
Fouche is working against the king. Does he draw
breath?” She nodded. “Then he is working against the king.”

Ty believed to his soul that she
was right. “Look on the bright side, Dimples. Diplomats have to smile at one
another. Use nice words, good manners. No insults, no implications.” He tapped
knuckles against the warm skin of her hand. “We have the freedom to say and do
as we please. You and I know Joseph Fouche is a bastard of the lowest stripe.
We're going to prove it, too.”

A hand bumped him in reply. “This
is why I keep you around,” she murmured.

He chuckled, then listened to
silence pass around them for a few breaths while he contemplated Olivia’s
particular investment in their assignment. “Fouche is a greater evil to you
than to many others. Watching him go about his business, knowing in your bones
what he's done... I know you're frustrated, but hold fast a bit longer.”

Silence.

“Olivia?”

Soft, even breathing was his only
answer. Her head rolled onto her shoulder, but otherwise she was still.

His smile transformed into a yawn.
He slid down under the quilt, tired at last, and without daring to explore the
effect she had on him, fell sound asleep.