Leopard in Exile (10 page)

not here. No English ship openly sailed to a French port in these troubled times, but Spain was still

neutral, and many times Wessex had sailed to Spain as a preliminary to visiting France. Rutledge, it

seemed, had not—nor had any man answering his description left Dover in the past three days.

Wessex gazed about the bustling port with mounting exasperation.
He might be dead. In London, on

the road
...
there are a thousand ways for a man to let himself out of life. All I have is Warltawk's

word that Rutledge fled to the Continent
! But all his instincts told Wessex that Rutledge was alive, and

still somehow ahead of him, though nothing told him why the man had fled.

If I were Lord Rutledge, what would induce me to throw everything over and take a moonlight flit

to the City of Light?

Money, position, and devotion to Revolution Wessex considered and discarded. Rutledge had as much

of the first two as any man might reasonably want, and as for the third, he was no fool. The Goddess

Revolution devoured all her lovers, and France was no friend to the English aristocracy, even to one who

turned his coat to join her. The French reception of Lord Byron's notorious missives to the
Gazette
had

proved that much. No, Rutledge was not so foolish as to believe a welcome waited for him in France.

Yet still he went.

That left blackmail. Someone, somewhere, had leverage he had used to force Rutledge to this course.

Which was, Wessex reflected, a strong indication that Rutledge was not their mole—at least, not the one

who had doomed Andrew, Duke of Wessex, so many years before. There were few levers that would

hold good for twenty years.

Rutledge was not the traitor. He
knew
it.

But he needed proof .

He needed Rutledge.

The Duke of Wessex sat at a table in The Moon and Lantern, the largest (and only) inn in the village of

Talitho. It was a small fishing village like a hundred others in the fen country, but it had the added

distinction of being the primary embarkation point for agents which the White Tower wished to insert

directly into France—and if Wessex knew that, Rutledge certainly did. If Rutledge were going to France

clandestinely and directly, he would leave from here.

"Good evening, Capting." A grizzled old party—one of the local fisherfolk—joined him uninvited.

Wessex raised a languid hand to the tapster and indicated his guest. Mine host hurried over with a pewter

tankard—from the scent, it was the local beer heavily spiked with gin, a popular beverage—and set it

before the fisherman.

"They says you're wishful to take a sea voyage," the man continued.

And so he was. But on this particular occasion Wessex found himself without the passwords and tokens

that would see him safe to the Continent under the aegis of the White Tower. Improvisation was

indicated.

"Indeed. I have urgent business east of here." Reaching into his pocket, Wessex placed a small stack of

gold guineas upon the table.

The smuggler's eyes widened at the gleam of gold, and Wessex knew well what the man was thinking.

Where there was some gold there would be more, and a body weighted and slipped into the waters of

the Channel would not quickly return to give up its secrets to the local magistrate.

"It might be I knows someone who can accommodate you, Capting."

"I would, of course, be appropriately grateful," Wessex said, sliding the gold toward the man with the tip

of one slim finger. "And more grateful, could you provide me with certain information."

It was raining in Paris.

Illya Koscuisko gazed moodily out the window of the barracks. There was a rumor circulating that the

Garde
would be sent to Louisianne with the new Governor. Illya doubted Napoleon would send his

pampered show-regiment so far away, but
something
was certainly up. The
Garde
had been confined

to barracks except for duty and parade for the last three days, and Illya couldn't find out the reason.

He had urgent intelligence for England, and he couldn't get it out. He was impersonating a soldier, and the

fact that he was merely a spy wouldn't save him if he were caught off-post in civilian clothes. If he weren't

flogged to death, he'd be hanged.

Still, the matter was becoming urgent, as several previous attempts he had made to pass the information

had been peculiarly thwarted. And so in the last few hours Illya had arranged to lose spectacularly at

dice, with the result that he had taken Stefan's place on watch at the stables.

Any regiment that did not place a guard on its horseflesh would find it missing in short order, and the

matched greys of the
Garde Polonaise
were famous, so a strict watch was in order. A little laudanum in

a brandy flask took care of his fellow guard: when Janocek began to slump and mumble, Illya dragged

him inside and covered him tenderly with a saddle blanket. Sleeping on duty was a flogging

offense—even if he woke before Illya returned, Janocek wouldn't advertise his own negligence. If Illya

were lucky, he could get to Paris Station to send his report and make it back here before he was missed.

Quickly he unbuttoned his uniform jacket and turned it inside out. He left as much of his uniform behind

as he could, and covered the rest with a plain dark cloak. The hour was late and the weather raw. Both

factors worked in his favor. He walked quickly but did not run, a trick to avoid attention that he had

learned long ago, when he still hoped to win freedom for his homeland by himself.

But one man has little power in the world, unless he is a madman. Freedom is a thing forged of

alliances, not swords. England cares nothing for Continental possessions, and much for a balance

of power. If she wins, it is she who will draw the boundaries of the nations, and my people will be

free once more.

But if the Great Beast wins, there will be room for only one nation in Europe, and that is France

.…

A few minutes later Illya relaxed: it seemed certain now that at least he would not be caught on the way

to his destination, and if he should die afterward it would not matter as much. He walked faster, and

within half an hour he had reached the location he sought, a rowdy bistro in Montmarte called the Moulin

Rouge.

In English the name meant "Red Windmill," and at one time, before the city had surrounded it, perhaps

this structure had been one. Certainly it was shaped like a windmill. Its skeletal blades were silhouetted

against the sky, creaking faintly in the storm. Despite the inclement weather, business was brisk, with

many people coming and going. With a confidence he did not feel, Illya joined them.

The inside of the bistro was hot and dim, lit as it was by oil lamps high on the walls. Illya made his way

toward the stage, where a handful of ballet-rats, scantily costumed to represent the seasons, capered on

stage exchanging bawdy jokes with the crowd.

Illya pushed himself forward until he was pressed against the stage. Freeing his arm after some struggle,

he tossed a coin to the
jeune fille
dressed as Spring. She was a plump, brown-eyed brunette with a

saucy expression. Female agents were rare, but they did exist, and Paris Station was one of them. Illya

wondered what her story was, not that he'd ever know it.

She caught the coin expertly, glancing in his direction. Her face gave away nothing as he made the

recognition sign.

They'd made contact. Now all he had to do was wait.

Their rendezvous was established smoothly: no one thought anything of one of the Moulin Rouge's
filles

de joie
picking up a drunken patron and taking him away with her for a leisurely fleecing. Illya climbed

the steps to her shabby lodging feeling a certain distant relief. Whatever happened to him now, he had

delivered his information.

"Your name?" she asked him.

"Eagle," he answered, giving the only name she needed to know.

"You can call me Avril," she answered. "Avril" was the code-name for Paris Station: any operative

manning it would be called that.

She set her candlestick on the table, then closed the door behind him and locked it. Illya lit the lamp with

a spill as Avril closed the shutters and drew the curtains. The building had once been a grand
hôtel
for

the elite of the City of Light: now it was old and shabby. Avril did not draw attention to herself by living

beyond the means of a cabaret dancer.

Illya began pulling thin sheets of coding paper out of his tunic. In case of detection, water would reduce

the material to a pulpy unreadable mass. Paris Station would transfer the code groups to a more durable

medium before sending them.

"This needs to reach London immediately," he said. "It has a Gold Priority." Gold was for the most urgent

traffic a field agent could send: routine messages were sent as Copper or Bronze.

Avril looked at the pages and sighed faintly. "I won't be sleeping tonight—and neither will you. London

Station has put out a Most Urgent All Agents, and I suppose that includes you."

"My heavens," Illya said mildly. A "Most Urgent" required all agents—even those who had spent months

building cover identities—to drop what they were doing and respond. "Has Princess Stephanie

defected?"

Avril shot him a deadly look, scooping up the papers he'd brought and slipping them into a drawer. "No.

Some
Due d'Anglais
has run mad and he's over here. Apparently he's quite deadly and can pass for a

Frenchman as well. Anyone who sees him is to take him down before
le Pape Noir
does and ship him

back to Angleterre—dead or alive. Here's his description."

She brought out a sheet of paper and placed it before Illya, along with a tankard full of rough red wine.

He took a drink before he looked at the paper, and as a result he choked and sputtered, spraying the

paper and the table with red wine as Avril whisked his coding papers frantically out of the way.

The man the White Tower wanted—dead or alive—was the Duke of Wessex.

It was good to be back in Paris once more, Wessex reflected, even if he were here on a wholly

unauthorized mission with an unsuitable companion. He'd caught up with Rutledge in Talitho, not that

doing so had gained him anything.

Wessex had been right: it was a case of blackmail, and Warltawk had been its agent. He had passed a

message to Rutledge that Marie Celeste was in danger, but could be saved if Rutledge came to Paris and

offered himself as a hostage.

Wessex had not been able to discourage Rutledge from his single-minded determination to rescue his

child, and so had found himself with two choices: murder Rutledge on the spot, or accompany him to

France and hope to get all three of them out safely.

"We have to reach the convent!" Lord Rutledge insisted.

"Patience, my friend," Wessex murmured, putting a minatory hand upon his companion's arm. To the

casual observer, the two men were nothing more than casual
flaneurs
beside the Seine. "There are social

calls we must make before we call upon the good Sisters of the Sacred Heart. Each thing in its own

time."

Including, perhaps, their arrest. Rutledge was no trained field agent, and Wessex had not been briefed for

insertion in over a year. Alone on the Continent, without identity papers or most of his special equipment,

funds running low, the two of them could expect to give Talleyrand's Red Jacks a run for their sport, but

that was all. Imperial France was documents-mad, changing the papers and passes one needed to travel

or to reside in Paris with malignant whimsy. If they were challenged, they were doomed.

The only saving grace of the matter was that Rutledge spoke French with a Parisian accent, a relic of his

days manning Paris Station. That alone had kept them unmolested upon the road to Paris. But to reach

Paris was not to reach the Convent of the Sacred Heart twenty miles outside it. And Rutledge's daughter

Marie was there.

Years before, Rutledge had fled to England with Paris Station's vital documents, but the swift ferocity of

the Revolution had taken everyone by surprise. In order to get out, Rutledge had been forced to leave his

opera-dancer mistress and their young daughter behind. The mother had been executed as an
aristo
, but

Rutledge's influence had brought the child Marie Celeste to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, where she

had grown safely to maidenhood ignorant of her still-dangerous English connection.

" 'Good time?'" Rutledge said fiercely. "There
is
no time! Once the Jacks take her not even Grenville and

all the army will be able to get her out of Talleyrand's clutches!"

"In God's name, keep your voice down!" Wessex hissed. "How are we to proceed without knowing

what lies ahead of us? She may be dead, or taken already—it is four days since that message reached

you. Think, man!"

Rutledge rounded on him. "When I agreed to let you accompany me, you told me you had a plan to save

my Marie. If you do not, then
I
must bargain for her life with my own."

And I must kill you before you fall into Talleyrand's clutches. He will gut you like a deer and have

all you know in an instant.

Wessex repressed a sigh. "We must have travel documents and information to proceed. I think I know