Gossamer Wing (20 page)

“Stop.”

“The curtains to the berth were closed and it was dark, so I leaned over to try to open them and felt . . . he was so still and cold. His arm, so cold under my hand. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I felt like we were in a coffin. I’d never seen a dead body before but I knew, even though I kept trying. I knew, I
knew
—”

“Charlotte, stop. Shh, shh. Stop now,” Dexter whispered, pulling her head into his chest. She resisted for a moment then relaxed, slipping her arms around him and clinging with all her might. “I didn’t mean to make you do this here, darling. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have for all the world. I didn’t know.”

“I’m going to cry, and I hate crying,” she explained into Dexter’s waistcoat.

He passed her a handkerchief then wrapped his arm around her again. “I’ll pretend not to notice, then. I’ll watch the fountain, and you just let me know when you’re finished.”

His humor and kindness broke the dam at last and Charlotte sobbed into his broad chest, no longer caring who saw, or that she was the one who had asked for no emotional entanglements.

She wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, her weeping and Dexter pretending not to notice. He stroked her back and occasionally pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and it finally registered with Charlotte that they were in a public park where such a maudlin display was absolutely out of the question.

Too late
. She didn’t want to raise her head when the sobs finally hitched to a halt. It was all too embarrassing, and she had a horrible suspicion she’d ruined Dexter’s nice burgundy moiré waistcoat. His handkerchief was irrecoverably sodden. She would have to remember to buy him some new ones.

Another kiss fell on her head, and the gentle stroking turned to a pat on the shoulder.

“Better?”

Dexter’s voice rumbled in his chest, enticing her to stay. Reluctantly, she nodded and straightened up, trying not to meet his eyes.

He took her chin between his fingers and lifted it, procuring a second, clean handkerchief from parts unknown and wiping her face with it almost as though she were a child. To her astonishment, Dexter’s cheeks bore evidence of tears as well.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry too,” she said.

“The wind caught the spray from the fountain and it wafted into my eyes,” he replied dryly. “I really am sorry, my love. I never dreamed it was so—”

“No, don’t apologize. I do feel better now. You were right. I needed a purge.”

Dexter sniffled, then looked displeased with himself for doing so. “All right, then. Thank heavens it worked and we didn’t have to resort to amputation after all.”

“That would have been tragic. The modiste I saw this morning called in a milliner in the middle of our sartorial orgy. So in addition to a great deal of clothing I’m expecting a number of very frivolous hats to arrive in a week or so. I’ll be needing my head for those.”

“Tragedy averted,” Dexter laughed. “You’re wonderful.”

She blinked a few times, not sure whether to reply or pretend she hadn’t heard him correctly. “Thank you,” she said at last.

“You’re welcome.” Dexter smiled, then looked away and changed the subject. “Does our newly identified villain have a name, by the way?”

Charlotte grimaced. “Jacques Martin. But as I said, they mostly call him Coeur de Fer. Iron Heart. I’ve no idea if it’s literally true. I suspect not. They don’t really make implants from iron, and he’d hardly be fit for spying with a mechanical heart. But the name still fits.”

“This keeps getting better and better.”

She laughed, Dexter’s flippant remark breaking the chill that had overtaken her. “There is a very small bright side.” She stood up and held a hand out, smiling at Dexter as he stood and laced his fingers through hers. She wondered at how easily they fit together, him so large and her so small. But there was a nearly audible click, a rightness in their joining, even when they did something as simple as holding hands. She pushed the notion down, forcing herself to focus on business.

“Even a minuscule bright side would be welcome about now,” he said.

“Now that he knows that we know, I suppose we can sweep the room again and destroy all the bugs.”

“Ah, true,” he concurred. “I’ll have to devise a way to check the chandeliers. Perhaps I can use one of the cable crawlers, and a tiny grappling hook. In the meantime, where would you like to dine, my lady?”

Anywhere you are
.

“I hadn’t given it any thought. Do you have a preference?”

Dexter pondered. “Someplace that serves simple, comfortable food I can pronounce, and where they demonstrate a healthy respect for the importance of decadent sweets after a meal.”

Charlotte gave a happy sigh, then had to pretend she was only talking about the dinner plans when she crooned, “Perfect.”

Fourteen

PARIS AND NANCY, FRANCE

MURCHESON’S MEN WERE
able to confirm Charlotte’s identification of Jacques Martin by the following afternoon, but there were still questions left unanswered about the precise nature of the relationship between Dubois, Coeur de Fer and the French intelligence agency.

“Obviously this means you can’t risk going back to the Palais Garnier,” Dexter said, to Charlotte’s disgruntlement. “He knows we’re here, he knows you’re interested in that building. We have to assume he knows who you are, your connection to Reginald. He’ll be on the lookout.”

“On the contrary, it means I have to get to the roof of the Opéra soon,
tonight
if possible,” Charlotte objected. “If Martin knows who I am, I’ve tipped our hand. We have to get to the documents before he finds his way back up there and ferrets them out for himself.”

“I’m afraid I have to agree with your husband, Lady Hardison. Now is the worst possible time to try for them. You led Martin straight to the roof. He’ll be waiting there to intercept you if you try again. If indeed the packet is still there at all, and he’s not merely concerned with deducing your role in all this,” Murcheson countered.

“No, I can’t believe that. I also can’t believe he revealed himself in that building by chance or whim. Those papers were important enough to kill Reginald over, even years after the war had ended,” Charlotte insisted. “And apparently somebody remains interested enough to have Reginald’s widow followed on general principle. Would they still be so interested if they’d already found the weapon plans? And if they haven’t found them, that means there’s still time to prevent it. I have to get there before Martin does.”

Dexter cleared his throat. “Charlotte, what’s the range of the
Gossamer Wing
?”

Charlotte blinked at the seeming non sequitur, then did some quick calculations in her head. “If there isn’t much headwind, I can get between four and five hundred miles out of her. The fuel payload has to be small, of course. Weight is always the primary consideration, so that does limit the range. Why?”

“It’s only a hundred seventy or eighty miles from Nancy back to Paris. An easy round trip without needing to refuel, as long as the weather holds clear.”

“But we’re supposed to be in Paris for several more days. I don’t think we can wait that long.”

“We could leave for Nancy tonight. We’re frivolous wealthy folk on our honeymoon, we can change our plans without warning if we like.”

She could tell that Dexter hadn’t wanted to suggest the idea, that he’d felt compelled to do it. Out of some sense of duty to the mission, probably. But he didn’t like the notion, it was clear from the look on his face. Still, he had proposed it, and it was probably the best plan available to them. After a moment or so, she nodded.

“Yes, it could work. If we go to Nancy now, right away, it will throw him off. He won’t be looking for me at the Palais Garnier, and he may even follow us there to keep track of us, putting off a search of his own. If he follows us to Nancy, and I can get away to launch the
Wing
from there without being seen, I’d be able to return here tomorrow night and retrieve the package quite easily by simply landing on the roof. It would only be a few days to the new moon, so not too much risk of being spotted en route. The main factor would be the length of the trip, given that it’s summer and the nights are short. I couldn’t make it there and back in a single night and be sure of enough darkness for cover. I’d have to stay in Paris and return the following night.”

Murcheson made a skeptical noise, but finally nodded. “I don’t see a better way around it, not within a reasonable time frame. Hardison needs this trip to Nancy for glass anyway. Not much of a honeymoon, as far as your cover goes, but I suppose we must treat it as an opportunity. I’ll arrange a safe place for you to hole up after you’ve retrieved the package, Lady Hardison.”

Murcheson’s Modern Wonderworks had a sizeable factory facility on the outskirts of Paris, more than large enough to successfully hide one small agent and one air balloon.

“There’s only one other concern,” Charlotte said, sighing sadly when the gentlemen both looked at her in curiosity. “When you grounded me, I’d hoped to avoid this, and I have to confess I was a little relieved because I hate to do it. But if I’m to be flying the
Gossamer Wing
at night, we’re going to need an awful lot of black dye.”

* * *

DEXTER STEPPED OVER
a closed trunk and neatly avoided an open one to make his way into the bedroom of the suite. Although their hotel in Nancy was picturesquely housed in a Renaissance-era building, renovated stylishly with every modern convenience, the suite was not all that large. Currently, the little sitting room was more than fully occupied by a plethora of trunks, a pair of frazzled assistant modistes and his wife.

He thought perhaps Charlotte was subsuming her irritation at the besmirchment of the
Gossamer Wing
in this mania for fashion. Surely nothing short of temporary insanity explained the extreme concentration, the alternating frowns and giddiness, the second language she seemed to be speaking with the two young women. They were full of words like
bolero
and
bustlette
, and the room seemed full to bursting with all the new garments and fabrics they’d brought.

They had managed to turn what could have been a suspiciously unromantic side jaunt to Nancy into a chance for Dexter to shine as an indulgent husband. When Charlotte couldn’t make her scheduled second fitting with the modistes in Paris, he’d simply paid the modistes to come to Nancy. Charlotte had made sure there was a certain amount of public fuss about all the trouble and expense. The ruse of their extravagant honeymoon was hardly jolted at all. The clothing gave Charlotte something to do while she waited, already a full day more than she’d expected, for the
Gossamer Wing
to be converted for night use. The dye and paint took longer than expected to dry, it seemed, and the wet silk was far too heavy. The wait was maddening.

“Dexter darling, don’t forget you agreed to walk with me to the Parc de la Pépinière this afternoon. I want to see the roses. And there’s supposed to be a charming pavilion.”

He turned in the doorway, but Charlotte had already focused her attention back on the short, plum-colored brocade jacket one of the junior modistes was helping her into. Similar jackets in scarlet and midnight blue were laid out on the settee, awaiting their turns. It was a fraction of what she’d ordered, but the job could be rushed only so much. Half a dozen items or so had been produced, the rest to be delivered upon the couple’s return to Paris.

“Of course, my sweet brioche,” he said softly, and was rewarded by a swift and adorably dimpled smile from his wife.

His wife. Looking at her here, engaged in such an activity, seeing her smile,
wife
was suddenly all he could see. Dexter tried to regain a sense of distance, to recall the agent with whom he was meant to have only a pretense of marriage. Charlotte the professional spy, the once and future Lady Moncrieffe.

Instead, his unhelpful mind offered up the image of Charlotte the seductress, naked in his lap with her lips still ruddy from a shockingly intimate exercise. And then, even worse in a way, he recalled the way she had looked that very morning, when he had awakened early and spent far too long watching her sleep. She had one hand curled under her cheek, and he couldn’t stop staring at her fingers—so very slender compared to his own—and the exquisite delicacy of the cheek pressed against them. Then she had opened her eyes and smiled at him, and he couldn’t even name the feeling that had nearly overwhelmed him in that moment.

It was becoming harder and harder for Dexter to convince himself that he was merely scratching an itch. He knew himself too well to sustain the lie, and subterfuge was not his nature. His reactions were not those of a man motivated by lust or even something as innocent as friendship.

They were the reactions of a man falling hopelessly in love with the woman he had married.

* * *

SCANDALOUS THOUGH THE
new fashion might be, Dexter decided he approved. Thoroughly.

Like many of the women they had seen strolling about since arriving in France, Charlotte was now clad in black breeches that left nothing to the imagination. The little red bolero jacket, in the finest Spanish style, was cut short enough to show off her tiny waist. Her midsection was made to appear even tinier with a wide satin sash that fit snugly in front and finished with a voluminous ruffled bow covering most of her rear end, with ribbons that trailed down almost to the back of her knees. The “bustlette,” Dexter assumed. Although he thought it faintly ridiculous, he had to allow that it at least served the purpose of hiding Charlotte’s remarkable derriere from public view.

Although her legs were more than enough to catch the eye of many a passing gentleman, he noticed. The snug black trousers disappeared into black riding boots, which were in turn gussied up with tall spatterdashes of some stiff, figured black and crimson fabric. Her hair was smoothed into a neat chignon beneath a small black top hat whose decorations of red and gold satin made it every bit as frivolous as she’d promised.

“I’m still not quite sure about this style of clothing. Are you preparing to fight a bull or ride to the hounds?”

Charlotte curled a hand around a lamppost and braced one booted foot at the base, swinging all the way around the pole and stopping when she faced him.

“Don’t you like it? It’s the only thing these days.”

“I certainly don’t dislike it,” Dexter admitted, letting his eyes wander blatantly downward to linger on her legs. “You wear it well.”

“I hope to start a trend when we return home. Trousers have been popular for ten years or so here in Europa, even in England, but it never caught on in the Dominions aside from riding breeches. We’re too stuffy and provincial back home, I suppose. We settled for those hideous split skirts instead.” She leaned back, hanging on to the pole for balance, and looked up at the whimsically gaudy gilded crown that topped the lamp. “Oh, I do love this city. I like how they’ve thrown all these gold swirls onto anything that stands still long enough.”

“Arabesques, I think they call them.”

It was true, the city of Nancy was delightfully ornamented, sporting gleaming gold statuary and colorful architectural fripperies in the most unexpected places. The park, once they located it, proved no less charming.

“It almost makes me wish I had a rose garden at Hardison House,” Dexter said as they wandered between the carefully cultivated rows of blooming shrubs. The Parc de la Pépinière had started as a nursery, and was still a noted horticultural garden. The plants were almost obscenely healthy, so verdant and lush in the early summer air that they looked too good to believe.

“It probably wouldn’t look this magnificent if you did have one,” Charlotte pointed out. “They take years to develop properly. But it is lovely to have fresh roses. Dexter, two of those trunks weren’t clothing. They were from Murcheson. His people finished dying and painting the
Gossamer Wing
. He had it delivered along with the clothes.”

Reality, cold and jarring, slapped Dexter back into the present, reminding him that he was no honeymooning lordling. He nodded stiffly and glanced around the nearly empty garden before answering. “I see.”

“Murcheson’s message said our friend has followed us to Nancy. The hotel seems clean, however, probably because the move was so sudden. He had his team make a sweep with some of your brilliant little bug detectors. We also have two men on surveillance duty outside the hotel. They say so far it seems our man is content just to keep watch, rather than making a move on the hotel itself.”

“Or perhaps he’s busy modifying his bugs to escape detection, before he bothers wasting any more of them.” Dexter couldn’t help but feel a moment’s smugness at having hindered Coeur de Fer at least that small amount. “So when must you go?”

She brushed a fingertip over a bobbing pale pink rose, and then bent to smell the blossom. A peacock screamed from somewhere in the park, and Dexter had to strain to catch Charlotte’s reply.

“Tonight.”

* * *

CHARLOTTE WOULDN’T HAVE
cared if Coeur de Fer had bugged every nook and cranny in the hotel suite. From the moment she’d read Murcheson’s terse, coded missive, she had barely been able to think of anything but that evening and being alone with Dexter.

This was her mission, it was the sort of assignment she had trained for, planned for, even looked forward to in some ways. Night or day, the
Gossamer Wing
was designed for just such an occasion, and it had been entrusted to Charlotte only on the understanding that she could use it to go where other agents couldn’t. What’s more, she was getting an unexpected second chance to prove her usefulness with the craft, after her early disappointment at being spotted over Le Havre. She couldn’t ignore the sense of rightness, of long-sought completion that followed when she thought of finishing this mission Reginald started all those years ago—not to mention preventing another war.