by Baird Wells
Viridian
Viridian is a work of fiction.
Many of the characters and events in this book are invented.
Some other characters are real, and also dead, leaving little room for complaints.
Viridian copyright 2015
Cover art copyright J Caleb Design 2015
Story & copy editing by Carol Achterkirchen and Two Birds Ink
ISBN 978-0-9968957-0-5
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission is unlawful. Written permission can be obtained by emailing the author. [email protected]
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First Printing: December 2015
To anyone who ever drank something suspect out of love for someone else.
Similarly, to my husband; I switch our cups.
PROLOGUE
January 2nd, 1815 – Chateau de Amalfia, Paris Outskirts
Olivia mounted a wide marble staircase, canting left and right through a waterfall of guests in order to reach the first-floor ballroom. A red satin devil pinched her backside, the fourth such injury she’d suffered in half an hour, and chuckled behind a wave of his small wooden pitchfork.
Stopping and forcing those behind her to wait, she looked him over, squinting through his sheen blazing under bright candlelight. She sighed, shaking her head at his wide, expectant eyes. “Your spear is tiny,” she drawled and started up again, abandoning her attacker to a round of guffaws.
Fitting that the Duc de Amalfia had chosen to host a masquerade. His house was the gaudiest interpretation of a Corsican villa which she could imagine. It had been a typical Parisian mansion once, with plaster work like fine cake frosting, lacy railings and floral paper. Since taking up residence, Amalfia, however, could clearly not have enough red. Paint, paper, and silk drapes all in shades of scarlet and crimson were bound by an obscene yardage of gold braid and fringe. Heavy columns trapped it all in, their pediments too large and menacing for the elegant doorways they framed. It reminded her of a whorehouse, and a cheap one.
Music caught her ear over the crush, its strains drifting from the ballroom's double doors. A waltz, of course, as were all the dances tonight. In England the dance was still taboo, offering too much closeness, with only one or two permitted in a whole evening. Those rules were disregarded here; the waltz's immoral potential was too tempting to pass up.
Amalfia's guests weren't relying only on dancing to touch one another. A tigress in a painted mask and amber velvet ears pushed past Olivia in the doorway, giggling as a purple-frocked cardinal murmured into his wild pet's neck. Similar scenes played out all through the house, hands and lips and bodies daring together and darting away.
Olivia pressed her back against a column's cool white marble, watching through narrowed eyes as dancers weaved between each other. Unlike her fellow guests, she was not here to be entertained or to raise her social stock. She was here for opportunity. That meant straining out laughter and shrieking and the enthusiastic breathing from behind heavy drapes. Her purpose was to see the masquerade within the masquerade.
She leaned further, arching her back and straining her breasts against a low, red velvet neckline, watching to see who took notice. Her Roman goddess costume had the authenticity of a wooden shilling, but accuracy wasn't why she had chosen it. Standing apart from the countless bell-skirted Marie Antoinettes and the parti-colored harlequins, it earned her plenty of attention. It was practical too, slit from ankle to thigh, affording plenty of movement should the need arise. No swaddling petticoats or skirts to trip on when it was time to run. Her own blond curls suited the motif, caught up and out of her face beneath a ruby diadem she'd pinched months earlier from a Corsican princess. Olivia adjusted her sequined mask, tugging up its ribbon, and watched.
Sighing heavily for effect she tried to strike a balance: looking bored enough to want company, not eager enough to seek it out, and a touch sour at being there. Her targets were usually men who enjoyed the thrill of the chase, and tonight was no exception.
The Duc de Amalfia's country house was one of the last splendid residences not defiled by revolution or neglect. He was a turncoat by nature, harvesting all of Paris's best fruit while handing France piece by piece to her enemies. He was the sort of man who had betrayed nobles like her father.
She couldn't see his mansion the way other revelers did. They were teased by heady-scented roses from the hothouse, overflowing vases in every room. They pored over gilt-framed paintings of the old masters, gasps echoing down the gallery’s length. Dances were framed in by little towers of pastel confections and an infantry of green glass bottles, the best champagne. Guests found comfort on the plush velvet of lion-footed sofas or admired themselves in wall-length mirrors.
When she considered the house, her first impression was that it had a decent number of ground floor windows, important for coming and going unnoticed. The third and fourth steps of the servants' stairs creaked on two floors; not good for nighttime exploration. Only two of the guest rooms had trellises sturdy enough for climbing. Madeline Ellers, head of the kitchens, took heavy drink once the evening meal was served. The end of the world couldn't wake her from her hiding spot inside the buttery, leaving free rein of the downstairs after midnight.
Olivia shifted to get a better look at the room's far side. Her perspective on architecture and personal habits came with the territory. Espionage was not the darkly clandestine imagining of novelists. Spying was a lifetime of boredom, watching and waiting punctuated by mad dashes to outrun the enemy's hangman. Everything was an entrance route, an escape route, or a hiding place.
She would need all of those opportunities tonight. Joseph Fouche, Napoleon's ruthless police minister was a guest of Amalfia, and her target once again. Fouche was not a stupid man, certainly not careless. Speed and deception would be her most reliable tools.
A movement caught her eye, drifting smoothly inside a dark alcove behind the quartet, a sliver of shadow separating from itself with easy grace. It was tall and lean, fluid except for a predatory pause when he stopped, as she had, to watch the crowd.
What held her attention was that, unlike the other guests playing behind eye-ribbons or coal paint, his costume was truly concealing. A black velveteen tricorn ended where his inky silk mask took up the cause, all the way to his cheeks. From there, a high cravat finished the job credibly, exposing no more than the firm line of his mouth and a hint of strong jaw, leaving her curious for more.
He finished with a black satin coat, breeches and cape, reminding her of the devil in an opera she'd attended in London. When he melted away behind a column and did not materialize on the other side, she mused at the comparison.
He wasn't her target, but instinct and experience told her that he was up to something. There was no harm in discovering what that something was while she waited on Fouche. The stranger could be pocketing silver or slipping off to a tryst with another man's lady, and both were leverage, information. In her world information, was currency. Knowing a person's secrets could make even the unwilling an ally.
Licking her lips, Olivia straightened and gently rolled her shoulders, preparing to give chase.
* * *
Beautiful.
Tucking up into the shadows of an old iron gate, invisible between the wall and a hedgerow, Ty watched the mansion from his haunt deep in the garden. It was the oldest trick in the book. She'd caught his eye the moment she'd sauntere
d into the ballroom and that was what had stuck in his craw. She was too beautiful, too easily captivating. Not the slightest bit interested in activities which held the attention of others; that was a strong warning. Whoever had sent her must have entered the espionage business somewhere around breakfast if they thought him susceptible to such thin influence.
Not that her charms were lost on him. A woman his equal in height was not the least bit intimidating – quite the opposite. Tall women were an exotic diversion, rare among a crowd of petite figures. The idea of loosing her blond curls had his fingers itching inside his gloves. Lips so full and wry were historically his undoing.
Personally. Professionally she was no different than a pistol or a knife; just another weapon to be used against him.
Who had sent her? He ticked off a list of possibilities. The Austrians, he'd put good money on it. Their politics more tangled with Napoleon than any other nation, they were always hedging, reluctant, and ready to change sides. They were always grasping for leverage.
He crouched deeper in the shadows, biding time. He was beyond the reach of light from mansion’s high windows, outside borders for all but the most clandestine meetings.
She was following him.
A shiver of his sixth-sense raced up his spine. He'd caught her watching him, eyes lingering a half-second too long when he crossed towards the terrace. Her costume was fitting; perhaps she was Diana, goddess of the hunt. He chuckled.
He searched for movement, squinting deep into the shadows between statues and bare topiaries. It was a gamble, drawing her so far from the house and from his own assignment. She would have to choose between tailing him or positioning herself for their mutual target. No doubt they were here for the same purpose; he grinned, breath clouding into crisp night air. She was an enemy agent, he was certain, and she would be along soon.
He wasn't worried about missing his rendezvous with Fouche. Weeks of reconnaissance had revealed a gate, the one to his right. Last used long ago, before the grounds were improved, it conveniently led back to a lane by which his mark would reach the house. It had remained severely overgrown until two days ago, when a groundskeeper who bore him a striking resemblance had trimmed away the verge. All told, he could throw her off and double back in minutes, with plenty of time to strike.
Banging the snug crown of his tricorn, he frowned when it jarred against the back of his head. How had he managed to knock it on the wall? Ty glanced over his shoulder, surprised that his years of practice had failed him and he’d misjudged the distance. Awareness was everything in his line work. Opening a squeaky door, snapping an errant twig under a careless boot, or slightly over-extending his body could give away the best hiding places.
Bump bump.
His hat jostled again. He turned, staying crouched in shadow and pivoting slowly, then froze. Intuition, polished to a shine over a decade, whispered its warning.
Impossible as it seemed, he was not alone.
He rotated only the upper half of his body, though he had no idea why. Hesitation now would not make him less seen.
Over his left shoulder, he discovered a shoe. A shoe and then a foot were connected to a long, shapely leg that was bare from ankle to knee where a crimson skirt was bunched high, all forming a swinging pendulum extending from the wall above. One white sandal swung to and fro, child-like.
She was kicking him in the head.
He dared to meet her eyes. Winged blonde brows wiggled above her mask.
A scrape, the soft grip of velvet against grit atop the wall, communicated better than words that she was pouncing. Turning his back, Ty reached a hand over each shoulder, grabbing his Diana behind her knees at the same moment she launched down. Shooting fully to his feet, he lifted, dumping her clear over the wall.
“Ooff!”
He grinned, darting around the hedge and striking back for the house, satisfied she would not be climbing back up any time soon.
It was not so high. She would be fine.
Probably.
* * *
At least he hadn't killed her.
Olivia smacked furiously at the dirt and leaf litter clinging tenaciously to her costume, wincing at a pinch in her left shoulder, a pain she knew from experience would be a tender ache tomorrow. Her cheek throbbed and scrapes stung icily across both knees.
Bastard. He fought dirty. Not a gentleman at all.
Of course not. She frowned at her own ridiculous objections. He wasn't a gentleman; he was a rogue, same as she. They employed the same instruments: avoidance, reconnaissance, and, when those failed, an effort to neutralize one's enemy.
Was he Russian or Austrian? They were both high-stakes players when it came to espionage. The only difference, in her estimation, was the symbols on their flags.
What she was really angry about, Olivia admitted, was that she had been so certain of gaining the upper hand, and he had outfoxed her. And she let him, perching on the wall and nearly dying from laughter with every whack to his hat. So stupid. That smarted more than any of her nicks or bruises.
Cold sweat beaded under the heavy fabric of her dress. In her trade, overconfidence was a death sentence. Even if he had been a simple thief, a slinking lover, she should have kept her guard and assumed the worst. Instead he was a spy, and sharper than she had given him credit for. Olivia resolved to ignore her comparatively minor wounds and be grateful. He could have gutted her and left her body in the hedge; at least she was alive.
And, she was made.
Cursing under her breath, she fished for a watch chain pinned to her stays. It safeguarded a key she'd crafted for the garden-gate; a gate some unsuspecting groundskeeper had helpfully cleared a few days earlier.
She had been made, but so had he. She didn't need to be coy anymore, so the field was even. Olivia smiled; she preferred hand-to-hand combat over cloak and dagger anyhow.
Now the trick was finding which hole her Fox had dashed into and once there, she would have to subdue him. She needed to move quickly. Fouche could arrive any time after midnight, and that hour was fast approaching.
Architect. It felt silly calling Joseph Fouche by a shadow name, but it was fitting. He had been a secretive Freemason for decades, and that might have influenced Whitehall's choice. London's seat of intelligence rarely dealt in wit or puns, but they were known to be apt. Police Minister Fouche, a man so daunting that Napoleon had been too afraid to sack him in person, was viewed by her superiors as the architect of French policy and French misery. Having lost both her parents to the man, she shared Whitehall's opinion.
She skirted the garden, bypassing the terrace doors and slipping instead to an open window at the darkened end of a long porch.
To say Fouche had taken pleasure in the Reign of Terror was an over-simplification. He had found unimaginable ways to sate Madame Guillotine's appetite; anonymous leaflets, poorly fabricated conspiracies, even cold execution of his closest allies. As he stoked Madame's hunger, he increased her food supply, mounting each body like a stair on his climb to the peak. His influence was undeniable, as he had turned on, and been forgiven by Napoleon twice already.
Fouche declaring himself a friend of Britain for a third time was laughable. He was a wolf calling itself a door mouse after eating all the hens. For a political supporter of the Allies, Fouche seemed to believe he should be leading them. There were documents, letters Whitehall had assured her he would be bringing to the masquerade; hand-delivered evidence of his treachery they required for his dismissal and imprisonment.
She just had to be the one to claim them.
Olivia dug beneath her garter, fingers hunting for her flint and steel, neither one much bigger than a thumbnail and bound together with a small strip of flannel. Setting the cloth on a window sill, she felt a rare thrill at working with only the screen of a blue velvet curtain between her and two hundred guests drifting around the ballroom. It was nice to take pleasure in an assignment for a change.
Assuring herself there were no prying eyes p
resent, she banged the pieces together with a high tap-tap. Sparks showered the flannel, a little tail of smoke swirling where the fibers glowed orange. She blew, slowly and steadily, raising a tongue of flame that licked up the rag. One push of her finger and it met the curtain, struggled, then flared eagerly.
“How careless of that servant,” she chided softly, “leaving a candle so close to the drape.”
The first shrieks reached her before she had finished tucking away her tools, and she smiled.
* * *
Ty rolled his eyes. Crocked nobles might not realize that curtains did not spontaneously combust, but he wasn't fooled for a moment.
While guests fled down the staircase, hysterical over a now-smoldering pile of soggy velvet, he slipped up past them along the wall. He waited, calming his drumming heart, ears sifting through overwrought drama from the ballroom. Hearing nothing out in the hallway, he dared a glance and found the passage empty. A few dashing steps brought him to the first door. He slipped into an empty guest room, moonlight filling the space with nothing but silhouettes. Five steps to the foot of the bed; he counted them out and bent down, sliding a hand beneath its frame. His satchel lay stuffed under the right corner, waiting patiently to be retrieved.
Shrugging free of his coat and pants, Ty changed them out with a practiced efficiency learned over ten years with the British army. Red wool coat and gray trousers were everyday wear for him, standard uniform, but apparently not for the revelers. He had already spied half a regiment of overweight, middle-aged politicians stuffed into similar garments. Not that he was complaining; each decoy was welcomed.
He wadded hat and mask into his sack with the discarded clothes, shoving it all back under the bed in exchange for his boots. Refolding his silk scarf into a triangle, he tied it snug over his face like a highwayman.
