Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (3 page)

Arching her breasts forward, she
beamed as though his presence was the fulfillment of her greatest desire. He
was one of the keenest marks she had ever worked, perceptive and paranoid. No
detail could be left to chance. Whom she knew and how she knew them, her
family's loyalties; they couldn't be too ambitious
or
too frivolous. One
contrary bit of information and he would make her and slit her throat before
she drew enough breath to scream. “Your grace.”

“Mademoiselle.” His voice was as
tight as his expression. Fouche snapped his hat and perched it on the shelf
above him without breaking their gaze.

Olivia extended her right arm in
response, palm face-up to display the broken-crown tattoo on her wrist.

Fouche recognized the mark. His
bony shoulders dropped, tension draining from his frame. He pressed skeletal
fingers into her hand, fixing her with a wolf's grin. “Mademoiselle, it is a
supreme pleasure.”

*          *          *

Five guineas was highway robbery.
The footman should have let him peer through the door's crack for
half
that sum. Who carried so much coin at a ball? And who employed such greedy
servants?

Ah well. It was a seller's market.
Ty made peace with his lighter pockets and adjusted an ear to better hear the
exchange between his two very different prey.

Diana's
ruse on the steps
had been coldly sobering, a reminder that from here on he would have to be more
vigilant, more thorough. He could allow her to do the dirty work, if he handled
things correctly. Claiming the letters from her was preferable to dealing with
Fouche and certainly more enjoyable. And if she botched the ruse, he could
always take his turn after her, with one less pair of hands to interfere.

So far she was doing an admirable
job of cultivating Fouche into low hanging fruit. The tattoo was a move of
sheer brilliance; that sort of dedication was the hallmark of a good spy. For
just a moment he gave in, indulging some admiration for his lovely adversary.

She was close to Fouche now,
playing on her beauty and the intimate lighting afforded by a single lamp. He
pressed an eye harder to the crack, to see her stroke Fouche's thin shoulder,
laugh throatily at something he murmured into her ear. None of it was seductive
in his estimation, nothing to rival the intrigued study he’d received in the
ballroom or her bald satisfaction at catching him in the upper hall. To a man
with a great deal of vanity, like the police minister, it must have been heady
attention.

“No,” she laughed in reply to
something Fouche had asked. “Marshal Davout.”

Fouche raked her over. “My old
friend is so thoughtful.”

Davout was Napoleon's most
unsinkable general. Fouche's acknowledgment of their renewed friendship
confirmed suspicions that the man was a turncoat. Again.

Long graceful fingers pinched at
Fouche's coat, just as they’d pinched at his own mask, and Ty held a breath as
he watched. “He sent me to welcome you properly,” she cooed, “and see that you
are satisfied in
every
fashion.”

Melodramatic, but Fouche responded
predictably by stroking a withered knuckle up her cheek. “I have no doubt you
are a…
talented
hostess.”

Her sweet vanilla musk clung to his
clothes, a reminder of what they'd shared upstairs. Had she made
him
the
same offer, they would not still be talking.

She was stripping off Fouche's coat
with all the ease of peeling an orange, the man never once thinking to resist.
She dropped it carelessly onto an empty peg. “Will you treat me to a waltz
before dinner? In my experience, it increases one’s appetite.”

Fouche licked his thin purple lips.
“I have arrived hungry.”

Her gasp when Fouche grabbed her
arms and hauled her to him might have been genuine, but she masked it with a
giggle and a sigh.

It took actual force of will,
watching Fouche slobber over her neck. This was her job, and she had probably
gone through the same charade a hundred times, but the idea of Fouche touching
her churned his stomach.

Ty was glad he'd found restraint a
few moments later. She did something with her arm he wished he could decode,
slipping a hand under one side of her target's waistcoat, up the back, and out
the armhole on the opposite side. And when her hand appeared again, it clutched
three sealed letters. He blinked, not trusting his eyes on first glance.
Perhaps he should check himself again, after their earlier encounter, to see
what might be missing.

Fouche buried his face in her
breasts, gathering fistfuls of red velvet with the uncouth eagerness of a rutting
hog. Ty rolled his eyes. A woman should be charmed, seduced. It disgusted but
didn't surprise him that Fouche lacked the skill for either one.

She could handle herself, he
reasoned, and he doubted she needed his help. Let her do whatever it was she did,
and he could claim the letters once they were out of Fouche's proximity.

Or he could interfere
. Spare
her and claim his prize double-quick.

At an undignified grunt from
Fouche, Ty groaned, knowing he was going to help her.

What was he doing? There was no
answer. He drew taut and rammed the door open with his shoulder. “Sarah! What
in bloody hell are you doing? Who is he?”

Fouche went rigid, turning in such
a hurry that his elbow nearly caught her in the face. He harpooned Ty with an
accusing finger. “Who are
you
?”

“I'm her goddamned husband, sir!”
There were few things more terrifying in close quarters than jealous husband.

Over Fouche's shoulder, Ty caught
her slip the letters into her bodice without missing a step.

The game was fun when she played
along. Not that they were on the same side, but there was no harm in make
believe.

Ty raised a fist at his lovely
goddess. “I told you last time I would throttle you publicly, and I mean to do
just that!” He lunged left around Fouche and she went right. Darting by, he
gave Fouche's shoulder two sharp pats. “Sorry, old hat! She's an incorrigible
light skirt.”

“Ooh!” The insult earned him a
glare, thrown over her shoulder so that she almost tripped on the coat rack.

On his second pass, Ty crooked an
arm, hooked Fouche's neck, and squeezed. It was a delicate balance, not
fracturing small bones or crushing the throat, applying just enough pressure to
slow the blood and bring collapse. After the barest resistance, Fouche's long
legs folded, and he crumpled with a meaty thud against the tile.

Panting, Ty rested one hand on his
knee, raking the other at her wide-eyed expression. “Come on, hand them over.”

“You cannot just leave him like
that!” she protested. “Someone is bound to see.”

Her voice was an instrument, rich and
musical. Soft, and surprisingly, very English.

Glancing left and right, he
snatched the first handy cloak, tossing it with a half-effort over the boney
heap. “There. Now give them to me.”

She tensed, sizing him up with slit
eyes and Ty knew he had made a grave mistake. In circling Fouche, he had
allowed her to gain the other side of the room. He raised a hand. “Don’t. I can
outrun you any day of the week.”

She hovered at the door. When he
pounced, she ran.

A primitive, instinctual part of
him registered the door's creak a breath before he reached it. He skidded to a
halt as it shuddered in the frame, just in time to miss catching a faceful of
wood. “Open, you bloody heap of kindling!” he grumbled. The knob was old and
loose; he cranked fully to the left and right before it finally unlatched.

Ty was sure of being right behind
her, but as he passed through the hallway and the entry to the outside steps,
there was no hint of her existence. His Roman goddess had vanished into thin
air.

*          *          *

She had to get clear of the
estate.

Olivia huddled in the carriage's
foot well, catching her breath. She'd chosen one close enough to the house that
she could climb in before the Fox caught up and far enough away that she could
gain a decent head start if he decided to search in earnest. She would have run
already, if she could be certain he wasn't right behind her. Without knowing
the grounds well enough to make an educated escape, tearing through dark woods
ahead of her sounded, at best, like a broken neck.
No
. Better to wait
him out concealed, making a move in her own time.

The game was just between the two
of them, but not for long. Even if they had not been heard by the guests, they
had been
seen
. Two people tearing after one another through a crowded
mansion merited some notice. Fouche would recover and realize in short order
that his letters were gone, and some helpful reveler would point out their
direction, giving her a whole new set of problems. Her own masquerade with the
Fox, and whatever protection it had afforded, was over.

Boots crunched the gravel three or
four carriages back, and they weren't stopping to check them. He was coming.
She wrestled with the carriage blanket, trying not to jostle the springs,
mounding the heavy stinking gray wool over herself.

She held her breath a little each
time she inhaled, working to slow her pace and keep quiet.

The footsteps grew closer, drawing
to an abrupt stop outside her carriage. She felt the cab tip down on the right
side, under his weight leaning in through the window.

“Chase is up. Come on out.” His
voice was deep and silky, inviting her to comply.

He was bluffing. There was no way
he could know for certain that she was in that particular carriage. Olivia
stayed quiet under the blanket, willing her limbs to complete stillness.

There were a few more steps. She
dared hope for a moment that she had fooled him. Then the cab bounced with a
light rhythm for a moment, and there was a tearing sound, like fabric ripping.

Whatever he was doing, she was
genuinely nervous. An oblique attack made it harder to prepare. She tensed,
preparing at last to flee.

The blanket snapped up without
warning, frigid night air biting at her damp skin. An arm poked in through the
small door, dangling a jagged strip of her crimson velvet hem.

His gaze fixed her, a triumphant
lift to his blond brows.
Blue eyes
. She could see that now, an
arms-length apart and not distracted by his mouth on hers.

“You left this outside the
carriage,” he informed her, words dripping with smugness.

Olivia groaned. She must have shut
it in the door in her hurry to climb in. Still tensed to bolt she sat up, but
his droll tone cut her hope off at the knees.

“Don't bother.” He shook the fabric
again. “I used the other half to secure the door behind you.”

His mouth formed an arrogant curve
on one side, and he raked his fingers at her. “Let's have them. All of them,
and no adders or poisoned blades. It's time I was on my way, unless you're up
for an encore.” His eyes fell meaningfully to her lips, and her face burned
against the cold. Damn his cockiness. And his good looks.

Sometimes it was important to know
when you should retreat, regroup, and he was blocking her only escape route.
She could claw and stab, but his stouter frame had her trapped in the cab's
small space. Fighting him would be a battle of attrition and probably a losing
effort. Surrender now was a kind of self-preservation allowing her to continue
the fight another day.

She knew him, knew his face. It was
too handsome and distinctive to blend into a crowd. She would see him again.
She
would
find him; she was very good at her work.

At least he had the decency to look
away while she peeled the sweat-dampened papers from her bodice. He plucked
them up regally with the arrogant self-assurance of a conqueror. There was some
retort brewing on his lips behind that infuriating grin, no doubt the quip of a
poor winner. When he opened his mouth, all that came out was the unmistakable
click-click
of a pistol being cocked.

The Fox's wide eyes said he had
heard it too; perhaps felt its cold barrel pressed to him.

Another voice reached her from
outside in the dark, filtered, but not enough to miss its razor edge. “I will
take those. Turn – slowly, major! No reason to rush and upset anybody.”

Major?
Olivia looked him up
and down from her place behind him, nearly laughing at the genius of his ruse.
He had been wearing his actual uniform.

“That's quite far enough. Letters,
please, and anything else of interest you may have.”

She tried to place the stranger's
voice, but it was still muffled. When her Fox, hands held up, turned and she
could see past him, it became clear why. Their newcomer was dressed for the
masquerade in a costume she must have seen on twenty other men. Anonymous black
silk, his face concealed and mouth wrapped with a heavy sash.

He took the letters, absorbing them
into the folds of his cloak. “I commend you both. This evening has been a
challenge from start to finish.”

Start to finish?
Who was he?

Waving his pistol with the ease of
a fan, he directed the Fox in beside her.

Olivia felt the heat of his body,
caught a hint of citrus she recalled from the hollow of his throat. She scooted
over, not meeting the major's eyes.

“I cannot have you summoning anyone
waiting inside, and I certainly do not need the likes of you two,” said the
stranger, waving the barrel between her and her companion, “nipping at my
heels.”

Their captor pulled down the shade
and shut the door with a final snap that gave her some relief. At least he
didn’t seem set on shooting them. There was a rustle, and then the night was
quiet.

Finally, she exchanged a glance
with the major, who only raised a brow.