Tender the Storm (14 page)

"A moderate," mused Rolfe. "Are you really a moderate, Monsieur Housard, or is that persuasion assumed like the role you are playing?"

Housard permitted himself a small smile. "I really am a moderate," he said.

"And how do you come to know so much of this secret society?"

"That's easily answered, my lord. One of my agents, who infiltrated the Paris ring, was able to pass on invaluable information before she was discovered."

"Discovered, you say? What happened to her?"

"She was silenced.
Permanently."

Rolfe's eyes flared, but he made no other comment. After a moment, Housard went on in the same conversational tone, "Before she died, Marie was able to give us, among other things, the names of
La Compagnie
¹
s agents who were either sent to, or recruited in, England. Unfortunately, those names were assumed, as you may understand, and have since been discarded."

As he considered his companion's words, Rolfe absently toyed with his glass. Finally, he observed, "The task of discovering their identities would seem monumental, Monsieur Housard."

"True, but for one thing.
Most of those agents have been set in place in the last month or so. Their scent is still warm and ought to be easily picked up. And should we run only one of two of them to earth, they will lead us to the rest of the pack." Housard leaned forward in his chair as if to give due emphasis to his words. "It is imperative that we discover them soon, my lord. It is not only French lives which are threatened, but English lives also. It is my considered opinion that before long there will be a rash of murder attempts against some very highly placed people in England."

Surprise etched Rolfe's features. "Are you saying that this society is a tool of Robespierre, himself?"

"By no means, my lord.
At least, not as far as we can determine."

Rolfe murmured encouragement, and before long, Housard embarked on his tale.
La Compagnie,
so he told Rolfe, was founded before the Revolution swept France, and on the loftiest principles. As is the way of things, in time, corruption set in, so much so that those who founded the society, most of whom had died heroically for their convictions, would no longer have recognized it in its present form. By degrees, idealism had shifted to fanaticism, and assassination became
La Compagnie's
tool of persuasion or of eliminating those who opposed its creed.

"It is at this point in
La Compagnie's
history, that we believe your brother was singled out for assassination," averred Housard. "But very soon after, there seemed to be no thread, neither rhyme nor reason is what I mean, to the selection of their victims, or at least, none that I was able to detect for some time."

When Housard fell silent for a moment, Rolfe interposed, "Yes, but what you have yet to explain is this, Monsieur Housard: what
is
the creed of the society?"

"Respecting the rank and file of its members, I should say that they are fanatically committed to the principles on which the Revolution was founded — you know, equality, liberty, fraternity. But more and more I am forced to the conclusion . . ."

"Yes?"

Housard shook his head. "It seems preposterous, I know, but everything leads me to believe that
La Compagnie
is now in the business of murdering people for profit, and its members have become the dupes of
Le Patron
or his cohorts."

"Le Patron?
I presume you are referring to the top man in the organization?"

"You presume correctly. It's the name he goes by within the society. I've been on his trail for some time past. Much good it has done me! He's careful. I'm no nearer to unmasking him than I ever was. Perhaps you shall have better luck in England." At the look of surprise which crossed Rolfe's face, Housard answered, "We know that
Le Patron
has come in person to oversee things here. But that's all we know."

At the end of ten minutes' conversation, Rolfe found himself beginning to subscribe to Housard's theory.
La Compagnie
had become the unwitting tool of some powerful figure or group bent on making a fortune by hiring out its assassins.

"And your assignment is to break their ring," said Housard at one point, "and with all speed."

Rolfe gazed at his companion curiously. "And what is to be your part in all this?" he asked.

Smiling, Housard answered, "You forget, my field of operations is France. It is to be hoped that by working together we shall smash
La Compagnie
on both sides of the Channel." He glanced at the clock on the mantel.
"If you have no other questions, my lord?"

"Just one.
Who in England will vouch for your character, Monsieur Housard, and I mean besides our mutual friend, Tinteniac?"

Housard's bushy eyebrows lifted. "Will your prime minister's recommendation satisfy you, my lord?"

Rolfe grinned. "In our line of business one can't be too careful. No offense meant, Monsieur
Housard
."

"None
taken,
my lord."

"Please. Call me Rivard."

It was Housard who had the last word. "I have no use for careless agents, Rivard. Be sure you do check out my credentials," and so saying, he rose to his feet, indicating that the interview was at an end.

Rolfe's expression was deliberately bland. What he was thinking was that his companion must be a very big fish in British Intelligence. A word came to him —
Delta.
It was the code name of the most elusive spy in France.
Delta.
He wondered if
Delta
and Housard
were
one and the same person.

On quitting the room, Rolfe practically ran down a young woman who stepped into his path. He said a few words of apology, flashed one of his engaging grins, and made to brush past her.

Zoë could scarcely take in that the man of her dreams was there in the flesh. Like a fish out of water, she stood panting, staring up at him. Her gaze lingered on every dear and well-remembered feature and slid over the broad shoulders molded to perfection in a dark frock coat. It registered in some corner of her mind that the deputy's taste ran to the simple and unadorned, and then she realized that he was turning away without recognizing her. He had given her his back before she had the presence of mind to call out his name.

It was Housard whose face first registered a comically surprised recognition. "The little flower!" he exclaimed.
"And all grown up too!"

Rolfe's smile faded as his eyes came to rest on the young woman before him. His brows drew into a straight line.
"Fleur?"

Zoë could sense his disappointment, and her confidence wavered. Inwardly, she chastised herself for expecting too much. It was foolish to have harbored
the secret hope that if ever the deputy saw her as she really was, he would be completely bowled over. One quick, comprehensive glance told her that, as a woman, she had made not the slightest impression upon him.

Before she could gather her wits, Housard smoothly interposed, "Child, what are you thinking of? Make your curtsies to the marquess of Rivard."

The lowered
voice, the significant glances, were
not lost on Zoë. She flushed, knowing that Deputy Rolfe's identity must never be revealed, and wondered at her colossal imprudence in voicing the name he had assumed in France. And then the full significance of the title Housard had given him struck her with full force.
The marquess of Rivard.
The man of her dreams was no deputy. Nor was he French. He was an English aristocrat.

"Rolfe is the name I prefer," said Rolfe quickly to cover the girl's acute embarrassment. "It's the name with which I was christened."

In a split second, everything became clear to Zoë. "Zoë is the name I prefer," she responded. "Zoë Devereux, my lord," and she bobbed him a curtsey.

"Zoë!
Ah, that explains the doll's name!"

Inwardly, Zoë groaned. The last thing she wanted was for the man of her dreams to be always thinking of her in connection with dolls. But the damage was done. To her great disappointment, Rolfe's ready smile and the manner which he soon adopted verged on the avuncular. It was pride which fixed a smile to Zoë's lips and kept her voice steady as she related the particulars of her present situation in reply to his polite spate of questions.

"And by the
new year
, I hope to find a position as a companion or governess with an English family." She had painted as optimistic a picture of her circumstances as was humanly possible. Anyone listening to her would never guess at the homesickness she suffered or the ache of longing for the family she had left behind.

"A governess?
A companion?"
Rolfe did not trouble to hide his incredulity. "Child, you should be in the schoolroom, learning your catechism and sewing samplers, and such like." His eyes roamed the mill of people who were standing about, admiring the Rembrandt and Titian paintings on the walls. "Where is your chaperone?" he asked abruptly.

Zoë's spine straightened. "I left my
escort
in the Great Drawing Room. Monsieur Lagrange is his name. Perhaps you know of him?" This last was addressed to Housard who had been watching the interesting byplay between his two companions.