Tender the Storm (33 page)

"Why are you so determined to net
Le Patron?"
struck in Rolfe at one point. "Why not simply pounce on his agents? Without a body, the brain is useless."

"Two reasons," replied Housard evenly. "In the first place, something is afoot, and your government does not wish to take any chances."

"Pshaw!" derided Rolfe.

Housard's bushy eyebrows lifted.

"If my government is backing a Royalist landing in France, then my government is an ass," exclaimed Rolfe.

"Quite," concurred Housard, eyes twinkling, "but you did not hear of this projected invasion from me. Kindly remember that, should you be asked."

"And the second reason?" demanded Rolfe.

"Oh, merely that I have a debt that must be repaid."

For some reason, Rolfe immediately thought of Housard's agent, the woman who had been murdered after infiltrating the society. "Marie," he murmured and Housard's eyes flashed. Rolfe did not notice. His thoughts had drifted to the young actress who had paid with her life for the help she had given him.

After
Betrand's
death, it had taken very little to persuade Amy Granger to tell them as much as she knew of her young protector's acquaintances. She had been terrified out of her mind and Rolfe had unashamedly played on that fear to obtain information, not supposing for a moment that the girl stood in any real danger. He still could not say with any certainty whether her death was by design or whether she had taken a bullet that was meant for him.

In that last week, he had grown careless.
La Compagnie
was smashed. Its agents were being hunted down. He should have foreseen that those same agents would exact retribution against their persecutors.

He was escorting the girl from the theatre when the attack came. They were gunned down.
The young actress—could she have been all of seventeen or eighteen?
— had died instantly.

Rolfe felt the bile rise in his throat and he choked it down. "I wish you well," he said, breaking the silence. "But I still don't see how any of this makes a lot of difference to my plans. Zoë is my wife. I have every intention of going after her."

"Unfortunately. . ." murmured Housard, and fell silent.

"Yes?"

Housard stifled a sigh. "There's no gentle way of breaking this to you. I'm very much afraid that your former wife is a suspected member of
La Compagnie."

Shock held Rolfe speechless. After a moment, his teeth ground together. "That is the most ridiculous thing I've heard in my life," he snarled. "And Zoë is not my
former
wife. English law does not recognize your French courts. Her divorce isn't worth the paper it's written on."

"Still, she has reverted to her maiden name. In point of fact, only her friends, the Lagranges, are aware that she was formerly —I beg your pardon — that she is a married lady."

Rolfe's brain had begun to function again. "What the hell do you mean — Zoë is a member of
La Compagnie?"
he roared.

"Suspected member," corrected Housard quietly. "She is not a big fish, I'll give you that. It's even possible that she does not know that she is involved. But you must see that your advent into the game at this point could only tip the balance in favor of
La Compagnie.
Should you abduct your wife, the others may run for cover. I regret that I cannot permit it."

"You must have some grounds for your suspicions!"

"She has a younger brother, Leon. At your request, I put my agents on to discovering what had become of him."

"Yes," said Rolfe cautiously. "His case seemed hopeless. And her sister's also."

"Leon Devereux is a member of
La Compagnie,
and one of its most ruthless assassins."

Rolfe's mind was reeling. With a visible effort, he brought himself under control. "That may be. But I'll wager my life that Zoë is no conspirator. Damn it all, I know my wife!"

Ignoring Rolfe's heated avowal, the Frenchman continued, "And two of her most constant escorts are also on the periphery of
La Compagnie.
Paul Varlet and Jean Tresier.
Do you know of them?"

"No," said Rolfe.

"They may be couriers —unsuspecting ones, that is, or nothing at all. It's too soon to say."

Rolfe straightened in his chair and gave his companion a long, level look. "You haven't said one thing to stop me going after my wife.
Quite the reverse."

Housard permitted himself a small smile. "It was not my intention to dissuade you from going after Zoë. I merely wanted to impress upon you that the game must be played my way or not at all. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," drawled Rolfe, inwardly seething. "But nothing will persuade me, Monsieur
Housard, that
you, yourself, believe one word of what you've been spouting.
Zoë a member of
La Compagnie?
It's preposterous and you know it!"

Housard laughed. "I don't believe it. Not for one minute, otherwise I should not permit you to enter France. Nevertheless, she is part of whatever is going on, and must remain in place until I give you the word to take her away. I must have your word on it, Rivard, before we go any further."

Rolfe closed his eyes. He was thinking that he had his own friends in France, men who would come to his aid if he gave them the nod. That he could remove Zoë from under Housard's nose wasn't entirely beyond the realms of possibility.

He opened his eyes and studied his companion. The man would make a formidable enemy, he decided. Aloud, he said, "I shall give you my word to play the game your way, Monsieur Housard, if you promise to release my wife into my keeping when the time comes, whether or not she is a member of
La Compagnie.*

"Agreed!" said Housard at once.
"My God, man!
You had me worried there for a moment! I was thinking that I shouldn't like you for an enemy."

Rolfe's tone was considerably warmer when he said, "I shall need a cover.
Any suggestions?"

"That has already been arranged."

A start of laughter was won from Rolfe. He shook his head. "Amazing," he said. "You are absolutely amazing, do you know? I'm all ears, Monsieur Housard."

"You are to pass yourself off as a diplomat attached to the Swedish Embassy," said Housard. "That is where I have set up my headquarters, by the way. The Swedish ambassador and his wife are in my confidence, to some extent. They won't ask any questions. I understand you know Madame de Stael quite well."

"Germaine and I were introduced when she was an exile here in England," answered Rolfe. He could foresee a number of problems. "Germaine is a known anti-revolutionary," he pointed out. "She is certain to be under surveillance."

"That has been resolved," answered Housard. "Oh?"

"We have a powerful ally in the Convention.
Deputy Tallien, to be precise.
La Compagnie
has made him a target. He's incensed. He'll do almost anything to crush them. He, privately, vouchsafes the progress of our investigation."

"Our
investigation?" drawled Rolfe, one eyebrow arching.

Housard laughed. "Look at it this way," he said. "We work well together. You know as much as anyone about
La Compagnie.
Naturally, I expect something in return for the promise I've made respecting Zoë."

"Naturally," agreed Rolfe with a small ironic smile. "But there is one problem." To Housard's questioning look, Rolfe answered, "I don't speak Swedish."

Housard dismissed this objection out of hand. "Neither does anyone else in France, not even Madame de Stael." Grinning, he went on, "Just try to look intelligent if anyone addresses you in a language you do not know."

Much later, when the Frenchman had taken his leave, Rolfe found himself a fresh glass and reverted to the decanter of brandy. His brain was chirping like a bloody cricket. He'd lived through the worst six months of his entire existence, he was thinking, and of those, the last few hours must surely be the nadir of all nadirs. Zoë had divorced him. She was a suspected member of
La Compagnie.
How the hell had everything gone so wrong, and just when he had come to believe that everything was going to be all right?

Without knowing what he was doing, he had made love to her. How aghast he had been when he had- come to his senses. She had been an innocent and he had taken her roughly, with a passion of which he had not even suspected he was capable. In the days which followed, his remorse had undergone a material change. In his dreams and in his waking hours, he had relived every minute of that blissful encounter. Surely he could not be mistaken? She had wanted him, responded to him, offered
herself
with shy abandon. The very thought had electrified him.

There was no thought, then, of banishing Zoë to the Abbey. When his assignment with Housard was over, he meant to court her, woo her, gentle her to his hand and initiate her, step by slow step into the glorious mysteries of love. God! Was ever a man so happy with his lot?

An assassin's bullet had changed everything. For weeks he had hovered in and out of consciousness. For months, he had made a slow recovery from the wound which had almost put a period to his existence. And where was Zoë?
he
had weakly demanded of everyone who had entered his sickroom. They had put him off with evasions until he could stand it no longer. Only when he had dressed himself and had come tottering down the stairs on shaky legs was his wife's perfidy finally revealed to him. Without a word to anyone, with the first wave of émigrés, she had returned to France.

The shock had restored him to health as nothing else could. He was demented with worry, petrified for her safety. It was to Tinteniac he had appealed for help. Who better could find her direction than this master spy? And Tinteniac, no doubt following
his
master's orders, had fobbed him off with more evasions, more delays, till Rolfe thought he would go mad with the uncertainty about Zoë. As a last resort, he had determined to go to France himself. He had said as much to Tinteniac and was impervious to every argument put forward to deflect him from his purpose. Hence, no doubt, Housard's sudden appearance on his doorstep that very evening.