Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (7 page)

“Completely outrageous.” Her smile
was sly. “But can you guess the gentleman? I forgot all about him over the
years, but he did not forget about me.”

Not a clue, Ty shook his head and
waited.

“Wealthy Mister Grayfield, of
Mayfair. Veteran of India and newly-minted gentleman.” She blushed at the
admission, deepening the color already staining her cheeks. “I was made to
apologize and ask for my handkerchief back. He was painfully amused the whole
time. He studied the initials, guessing the most horrible combinations of names
until I gave up and confessed who I was.”

Knowing Ethan as he did, Ty had no
trouble following her thread. “And then you truly
were
deep in his
pocket.”

Olivia groaned. “In the worst way.
When two years passed and my uncle still had no better hand on me, Grayfield
asked him to bring me to Whitehall. I'm not certain what Edward imagined his
fellow agent had in mind. I think he secretly hoped that marriage was in the
cards. Instead, Grayfield told my uncle that he believed I had certain talents.
With some discipline and a little polish, he thought I'd fare well in the family
trade.” She waved a wry hand around the room, sweeping their papers, codes, and
chemicals.

He looked her over, considering all
they had been through since meeting on the comte's estate. “He wasn't wrong.”

One side of her mouth quirked up.
“Uncle Edward was not so sure. First, he just looked shocked. Then he laughed,
genuinely
laughed
in Grayfield's face. They had been friends for some
time, so there were no hard feelings, but Edward wanted to know what discipline
Ethan could manage over me, which he had not.”

“And?”

Olivia picked at her apron. “And,
he didn't love me, not as Uncle Edward did. I could have run away a hundred
times and a hundred times Edward would have let me back in. With Grayfield, if
I disobeyed his instructions, disregarded even the color of gloves he'd told me
to wear, he sent me away. No yelling, no pleading. Just ‘Miss Fletcher, I wish
you a lovely afternoon’ and he would get back in his carriage and leave.”

“He forged a very effective
weapon,” assured Ty.

“He did, and wisely. After La Force,
it's what I was used to. He was a bridge between the brutality of prison and
the discipline of our profession, something I hadn't realized I needed. From
Ethan, I learned to trust and to respect my uncle's love, as silly as that may
sound.”

He leaned into her. “Not silly in
the least. The only people who'd loved you till that point had left you. Your
uncle must have seemed no different.”

She returned the pressure against
his shoulder. “No, at least not when I first came to live with him. I was never
as grateful as I should have been for him saving me. He called in so many
favors, along with the Duchess d'Angouleme.”

He whistled, surprised by the
information. The Duchess Therese was the only surviving child of Marie
Antoinette. A legendary, if tragic, figure, and influential. “A good friend to
have.”

“My father was indispensable to the
king, and my mother, despite being English, was a favorite of the queen. A
friend, and she doted on little Therese until I came along.”

“You knew Therese, even then?”

“I have no memory of it. I cannot
recall her friendship before we were all in England years later. She was like a
sister. My uncle would take me up to Hart House – they would hardly ever come
to London, obviously. The attention was too much. She is the last person alive
besides Uncle Edward who has stories of my mother.”

A strange bond, one he understood,
being a soldier. Death, grief, and loss; it was left to the survivors to band
together, comforting, even as they pushed one another forward. He sat beside her
in silence, struggling for something to say. There was nothing so momentous in
his past. Friends who had fallen in battle certainly, but that hardly felt the
same. Finally, he leaned down, picked up the bottle and, after a sound swig,
handed it back to her.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Attorney,” said Olivia.

Ty scrunched against the carriage's
squabs and pulled his top hat farther down over his eyes. “You said the last
one was an attorney.”
            “He was!”

“He was not.” He rolled his head
towards Olivia, who widened her eyes at his smug expression.

“He
was
.” Arms crossed, she
smirked. “I know of him.”

“Oh.”
Well I know a king.
Nobody liked a showoff.

Olivia doubled up laughing and went
back to watching Madame Osipova's
amors
coming and going through their
tiny carriage window. “I don't know him.”

“Traitor!” He dug two fingers into
the soft flesh above her hip and pinched until she yelped and slapped him away.

“It's not my fault you're so easily
taken in!” she said, rubbing her side. Smiling and panting, she fell back against
the brown leather seats. “It's a wonder you've survived in this line of work,
major
.”

“I've outlasted
your
efforts. That's good enough.” He settled farther back and stretched his boot
into the foot well, tapping at her shoe to provoke a smile. She was determined
to harass him today, and he was content to let her.

“Hmm.” Olivia gave him a last
dubious once-over and turned her attention back out the window. “She stays very
busy.”

He stifled a laugh at her earnest
observation. “You don't sound impressed by her work ethic.”

Olivia’s nose wrinkled. “I feel
exhausted for her. Readying yourself for company once an afternoon is trying.
Four or five times? And if you had to fully undress
every
time?” She
shuddered. “Like Sisyphus.”

The comparison strained his ribs.
“Is it simply the fuss that you object to, or something else?”

Her gaze was direct. “You mean the
sex?”

Her frankness caught him off guard,
though it shouldn't have, knowing Olivia. He nodded, chuckling more at himself
than at her. “Yes, I mean the sex.”

“Oh.” She waved a hand. “No, not
the act itself.”

“Then what?”

“I object to her doing, with
approval and in comparatively palatial settings, what other women must do in
the gutter, shunned. What is the difference? Because she has titled patrons,
nicer lodgings?”

“I'm not certain I follow.”

“Prostitutes on the average street
corner can't show their faces at the mercantile to buy a comb. Osipova draws a
crowd of hundreds every time she takes the stage. Both are whores, so what's
the difference? If one woman may do as she pleases with her body, so may
all
women.” She shrugged. “If she wishes to give a man the use of her body for
coin, and both parties leave satisfied...” Eyebrows lifted and she was silent.

He had no idea Olivia had any
opinions on the matter, let alone ones so decided, but Ty made a note to
explore the issue again sometime. She was correct, however; their target of the
moment enjoyed all sorts of benefits which her lower-class counterparts did
not.

Madame Alexandra Osipova, a pretty
golden-haired, doe-eyed Russian ballet dancer, had been Minister Talleyrand's
favorite mistress all winter. By his own accounts he believed their affair an
exclusive one. The man must never have passed along her street or he would
immediately have known better, by a string of rumpled, smiling men.
Talleyrand's ardor might overflow, but his purse did not. Osipova took
advantage of his power and influence, but she was shrewd enough to seek her
income elsewhere.

During three nights cleverly spent
as back-of-house maid at the opera, Olivia had learned that Osipova's star was
losing its shine. Talleyrand had trusted her with names and information,
sometimes his private correspondence, knowing she would funnel it back to her
Tsar while he stayed above suspicion. Correspondence of particular interest to
him and Olivia, because Talleyrand was Joseph Fouche's adversary.

If Osipova's sobbing collapse
backstage a few days earlier were to be believed, Talleyrand wished to clear
his things from her little confection of a townhouse and be on his way. Her
conspicuous flirtation with an Austrian prince had left a bad taste in her
lover's mouth.

She had put Talleyrand off, running
a campaign to change his mind with gifts and little notes, and bless her for
it. She'd given Olivia enough time to cast a mold of the lacy silver key on her
chatelaine before Talleyrand could collect his belongings.

He stared at Alexandra's yellow
door, considering something and how to ask it. Finally, he forged ahead,
curious for Olivia’s answer. “Would you ever do it, paramour to a wealthy man?”
He omitted 'men', as in Madame Osipova's case.

“No.” The word snapped between them
with the force of a steel trap. Then she held up her hand, softening. “An
affair, perhaps. Passionate, without care.” She shuddered. “Never as a business
arrangement. Can you imagine making love with the same attitude as shipping
grain?” Her laugh was musical. “And I could never bring myself to do it while
married.”

Annoyance crept in at the near
mention of John. Their banter cooled; he couldn't pin a better name to a
feeling so much like jealousy. He tried and failed to entirely cast it aside.
“I'm certain Talmadge will be relieved to hear it.”

To his surprise Olivia kept silent,
attention fixed outside. She must have heard him, and he wondered that her
usual retort.

He traced the curve of her
forehead, the slope of her nose to its tip. The path led into dangerous
territory. Familiar territory. He tried ignoring full lips, the cling of her
sky-blue velvet spencer jacket across her bosom. Olivia fell well outside of
his usual taste: older, widowed, independent financially and emotionally, and
never too invested to walk away with more than a handshake. His continued
preoccupation with her was unsettling. Imprudent too, as far as Whitehall was
concerned.

“Oh! There he goes.” She tapped a
finger below the glass, snapping him back to attention. “Not even time for a
cup of tea. My goodness.”

“How long do you think it should
take?” He threw up both hands at the lift of her brows. “Hastier than I would
have been. Much hastier, but perhaps his calling cards overfloweth.”

She rolled her eyes, looking away.
“Mmhm. We'll see about that; it's your turn.”

“For good luck?” He tapped a finger
to his cheek, already knowing the answer.

“Absolutely not.” Olivia shooed him
with a hand. “Besides, I'm not certain all the luck in France will help you in
there.”

“That, madam, is entirely dependent
on how quickly
you
work.”

Olivia shrugged, pretending to
examine her fingernails. “Perhaps I'll take my time.”

*          *          *

He hovered in the doorway, short of
an antechamber separating them from the bedroom, taking Alexandra in.

She was lovely, no denying that.
Too thin and too much of a boyish figure for his taste. That said, her face,
like her body, was long, boasting delicate features. Warm brown eyes and a
tumult of honey locks answered her pale skin and ivory gown.

Lovely, but what struck him first
was the smell.
Sweat
. Old, rancid, and sharp. Olivia's fears at
Osipova's demanding routine were immediately put to rest. The woman was
attractive, exclusive, and he guessed that made her shortcomings excusable,
like warm punch and stale sandwiches at a ball. Her day was obviously not spent
washing and dressing in clean clothes.

Setting his hat on the table inside
her front room, he poked out a small bouquet of violets. “Madame.”

Alexandra smiled, thanking him and
flashing a line of yellow teeth as she laid the gift on a low table between
their chairs. She drifted down onto the rose-print satin and swept a hand.
“Please, Lord Lennox.”

Perching on the edge of his spindly
chair, Ty made of show of letting his eyes rake over her.        Even under a
scant breeze from an open window, the room was stifling. An unpalatable mix
wafted from the adjacent bedchamber: unwashed bodies, cheap cologne, and
something repulsively musky. He tried breathing through his mouth with limited
success.

Leaning farther back, lifting her
bosom, she smiled. “What has brought you to call on me, Monsieur Lennox?”

“Henry.” Smiling, he reached out,
brushing knuckles over the back of her wrist. “When I arrived last week, your
name was everywhere, on everyone's lips. I thought, 'She cannot be such a
sensation.' So I went the opera, fixed on being your enemy.” He grinned,
sweeping his fingers farther toward her elbow and earning a laugh. “I was
nearly converted, only moments after the curtain lifted. 'She is comely
enough,' I said, 'but that is all.'” He stared past her for three breaths,
playing at thoughtful, and shrugged. “Then I heard your voice. A siren, an angel;
I had to make your acquaintance. I could not rest until we had spoken.”

Now she returned his touch, playing
her fingers between his. “And we have spoken. What shall we do now?”

Ty widened his eyes. “Converse,
delight one another? I'm not certain I follow.”

Alexandra slipped from her chair,
moving to stand before him. Small fingers cradled his jaw. “I'm quite certain
that you do.”

Ty leaned back in his chair,
preening.
This was far, far too easy
.

*          *          *

Olivia glanced to the ceiling, at
footsteps hammering out of time with giggling and screeching, and snorted in
disgust. Maybe she should bring up more feathers; the tickling seemed popular.

Servants.
She pressed
herself deeper into the darkened ground floor parlor of Alexandra's house,
until hushed voices reached the bottom of the steps and faded back through the
house.

When all was still, save the ruckus
overhead, she darted into the hall. Gaining the staircase a tread at a time,
she paused and listened again and again until she reached the first floor
landing. Now was the moment of truth. She would discover if her copy of the
floor plan, borrowed from the house next door, was accurate.

Resting one hand on the white wood
frame, Olivia grasped the knob and turned. It opened without a hitch, swinging
silently inward. Thank goodness, because Ty was the one proficient with lock
picks.

The guest chamber was large, a
canopy bed jutting out from the back wall. Its heavy, carved posts were draped
in enough thick blue fabric to make uniforms for an entire navy. There was
little else to speak of; a practical straight-legged side table, matching blue
curtains drawn to keep the room cool. It must have been Talleyrand's room, when
he visited Osipova. Nothing private would be kept in here, not that she'd
expected otherwise. Olivia passed it over in favor of Osipova’s chamber. The
two rooms adjoined, granting her access while Ty kept their target occupied in
the antechamber.

“Aggh!” From next door Ty let out a
feral cry. “Now I've caught you! But where shall I take you?”
            Hands clapped. “To bed, monsieur! To bed!”

“Soon,” he threatened, “but not
just yet.”

“You cannot be serious,” muttered
Olivia. Not that she gave Ty much thought, but it had crossed her mind,
unbidden of course, once or twice. Awash in his soap and cologne, the thoughts
were hard to ignore, lying beside him in the dark. Long, calloused fingers, his
hooded gaze; Ty would be a slow burn as a lover. No rushing, certainly no
schoolyard games.

Olivia shook her head, freeing her
thoughts, and peered around the wardrobe. There it was, a door into the
adjacent bedchamber. Once more, she prayed it was unlocked.

*          *          *

What was bloody well taking her
so long?
Ty listened for any hint of Olivia.

He winced, flinching from teeth
buried in his earlobe. Seduction for the purpose of turning a mark, gaining
trust and access, was simple. No one was in a hurry, both sides content to play
their parts and enjoy each other. Unfortunately, Alexandra was a business
woman, with no interest in preamble. A man in the bed cost her one who had yet
to pay, and if haste was any indication she had a good deal more work left
today.

Fingers kneaded the buckskin along
his thigh and she giggled. She was completing their transaction at a full
gallop, impatient with his stalling. He prayed Olivia fulfilled her task at the
same break-neck pace.

Alexandra fell back onto her sofa's
plush arm, dangling a foot until her pink silk slipper fell into his lap. Toes
worked inside the shoulder of his coat, sliding skirts up her hips until she
was completely exposed. He spared the barest glance for an angry rash painting
her thighs, aggravated by her earlier exertions, and swallowed.

Her big toe traced a line below his
lip. “Some ladies find it vulgar, a man using his mouth so. I cannot agree.”
She slid the ball of her foot down his shirt, pressing between his thighs. He
sucked in a helpless breath at his body's reaction.

Alexandra closed her eyes, smiling.
“I allow a man to pleasure me
any
way he likes.”

He preferred not to share a bed
with four other men. It wasn't just that she'd had other lovers; he had shared
liaisons with all sorts of women, on assignment and by choice. Beautiful women,
intelligent woman.
Experienced
women; a few who had never been in the
market for an exclusive affair, seeing him only when he was home on leave. Even
the aging marchioness with whom he'd spent a delightfully exhausting spring in
Rome had been captivating. At forty-five, over two decades his senior, Isabel
had shown signs of her years, but she wore the lines and softness gracefully,
underscored with dignity. And ability.

Alexandra, for all her beauty and
stage grace, had no dignity. Common prostitutes could hardly dream of the life
she led. A celebrated career, men quite literally willing to fight one another
to wed her. Wealth and influence, but no soap and water. She was steeped in
filth, willing to accept as well as offer the absolute minimum. Ty couldn't
bring himself to take advantage of a woman he suspected was fundamentally
broken inside. No affection, not even genuine emotion; all human interaction
was to use or be used.