Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2)

by Baird Wells

Grinning, Philipe raised his fist in the air. “Never!”

  Ty grudgingly followed suit. “Not a chance. I only play when I am melancholy.” He threw up both hands. “How did I end up on La Porte's side of this?”

  Shrugging, Philipe tossed her a wink. “Luck, I suppose.”

  “Hah. Let's disagree over something else.”

  “Cards?” asked Philipe.

  That cooled Ty’s outrage. “You know me well.”

  Foolishness. Olivia shook her head, glad to be left out. Getting up just long enough to turn her chair, she placed herself, against her better judgment, in the sphere of activity.

  She and Ty, it turned out, had both known the Duc de la Porte for years, independently. Of course, Philipe had never introduced them; he wasn't keen on her sharing the same level of banter they enjoyed with anyone else.

  She watched the men, squared off at Philipe's card table. Equal in height, but that was where their similarities ended, not that each one didn't boast certain attractions.

  While Ty dealt the hand, Olivia corrected herself. Height was not their only similarity. Both were heart-stoppingly handsome. Where the major was fair and blond, Philipe was darkly attractive. Skin brown like good bread against a crisp white collar and cuffs, artfully tousled, silky black locks teasing his brow. His Portuguese ancestors had obviously come to France too recently to be obscured by more northern features.

  A servant stepped in, making a pass along the edges of the room. He drew shut each set of yellow silk drapes, lighting candles that were set between. She watched his dance until it concluded at a barrel-chested mahogany cabinet, where he produced a small, silver tray and two glasses. He splashed brandy into both and delivered them to Ty and Philipe's eager fingers. They rearranged their cards, everyone silent until the man had gone.

  She wasn't thrilled about leaving her spot, but being passed over on the brandy would not stand. She got up, earning a glance from Ty. “What are you about?”

  “Correcting an error.”

  Philipe's voice cautioned her from behind. “After last fall, I'm not certain you should be imbibing anything besides tea.”

  Why would he mention it, particularly in front of such dangerous company? She could hear Ty perk up in his seat. “Last fall?”

  “It was nothing,” she snapped, in unison with Philipe. When Ty continued staring, she rolled her eyes. “I lost a great deal of money, my dress, and nearly broke my ankle. No more than that need be said.” A hot glance to Philipe enforced her words.

  Ty made a sound, a curious sort of grunt she knew well. He seemed to close the matter, but she knew better. He was filing it away for later.

  Philipe tossed down a card and knocked, signaling the end of his turn. “After reading through Osipova's letters and writing Grayfield, I have a suggestion. You aren't going to like it.”

  “Not liking something you and Grayfield have concocted is hardly novel,” quipped Ty.

  He was correct. Over the past month their assignments had grown bolder, more dangerous. She didn't enjoy it either, but liking or not liking had no bearing on whether they did their job.

  Philipe ignored Ty’s remark and studied his cards. “Intelligence says Talleyrand has been quite the scribe these past two weeks, all manner of correspondence. Information in the letters you retrieved from Osipova bears this out.”

  Pushing the cork back into place with a sense of dread, Olivia turned around. “And you want us to get his letters. His other letters.”

  Nodding, Philipe drained his glass. “I think you must. I can invite him for cards or out into the country, but he's not going incriminate himself there. If anything, he'll be extremely guarded so far from his hunting grounds. There would be no observing to whom he writes, who pays him visits.”

  Bracing herself with a nip of brandy, she mulled over his words, still not clear on Philipe's aim. “And we are looking for what, precisely?”

  “Our primary aim, obviously, is to determine if Fouche is working against the Allies. But we should also discover if Talleyrand is working against Fouche.”

  “Or with him,” she finished, finally understanding.

  “Exactly. They're natural enemies but have paired off before, in the interest of self-preservation.” Philipe rubbed his hands together. “No matter which way the tide is turning, Talleyrand's letters may inform our next move.”

  Ty set his cards face down on the table, rubbing a palm over his chin. “He uses a special courier for all of his regular government correspondence, but he wouldn't do the same for anything more clandestine. He doesn't trust anyone that much.”

  “No.” Philipe shook his head. “I've tried the usual pickpocket schemes. Street urchin stealing his purse. Gentleman 'bumping' in passing to check his coat. Even rifling his clothes at the whore house. There's no doubt he has papers on him; he's too paranoid to let them out of his sight, but my agents find nothing.”

  Falling back into her chair, Olivia took a long draw of her brandy and set her glass atop the hearth. “Instinct tells me there's enough bad blood between him and Fouche that they'd never again bail one another out. In fact, Talleyrand will be vigilant for anything that could overthrow his rival. We should take it as a good sign that he's suddenly so active.”

  Philipe played his last card and sat back. “Not to put too fine a point on things, but our friend Prince Metternich says his Austrians are after the same information.”

  She crossed her arms, bristling at Philipe's caution. “I'm surprised he told you that much. And that you believed it.”

  That earned her a sharp look from both men, but she didn't care. Metternich called himself a diplomat, but everything he did was motivated only by Austria's interests. He employed an army of spies, relying on censorship and repression at home. The prince was a lighter hand than Fouche, but cut from similar cloth.

  Obviously not expecting her repentance, Philipe concluded his thought. “His people are on the same trail. You'll have to be prompt and thorough.”

  Ty scoffed. “Not a bit of pressure.”

  “There you have it,” said Philipe. “This unfortunately falls to your lot rather than mine, but I'm here. Whatever I can do, you have only to ask.”

  Unlike so many people in France, Philipe meant what he said. He'd twice led a regiment against Napoleon, had financed the resistance for years, and had worked tirelessly as an agent of the Allies. All of that and handsome as sin. She drained her glass and sighed.

  “What are you huffing about over there, Dimples?” Ty demanded.

  It was bad enough when he called her that in private. In company, it was just outrageous. She glared, but it was lost on Ty who was busy studying his hand.

  “Why do I get the feeling,” she drawled, hearing the brandy in her words, “that I'm going to have to wear something ridiculous?”

  * * *

  Ty folded arms behind his head, settling deeper into the pillows. His eyelids had been drooping when he'd crawled between the sheets, but for at least an hour now he'd been wide awake. Why? Philipe's beds, like everything else on the estate, were the height of comfort. Mind at ease, body exhausted by a thorough afternoon ride, Ty struggled to grasp why sleep eluded him. Turning his gaze to the window, he stared out at the moon's blue glow just rising out of sight.

  Knock. Knock knock.

  The pattern was unmistakable, one they had agreed on months ago. After a breath, the knob rattled and his door brushed open.

  “Tyler, are you awake?” Olivia whispered into the darkness.

  Heart thrumming, he slid up the pillows, pulling the quilt over his bare chest. “I am.”

  His words set her in motion, sweeping into the room and around the foot of his bed. She flipped back the quilt and bounced in before his mind could thaw enough to question what she was doing.

  He held his breath, wondering why she’d come and hoping he was right.

  Olivia leaned back against the headboard, mirroring his posture, and exhaled.

  Silence.


  He stared at her, waiting.

  She leaned her head, eyes closed. Still nothing.

  They were not at the safe house or the hotel. She couldn't really be tucking in for the night. “Olivia, what are you doing?” he finally whispered, body as strung up as his nerves.

  Her eyes snapped open. “I couldn't sleep, not a wink!”

  He didn't admit to having the same struggle. His being awake was not related to sleeping without her for the first time in weeks. “We've had our arses handed to us with this assignment. Bound to cost us some long nights.”

  Sighing, she slouched farther down against the pillows and closed her eyes again, entrenching. He guessed she wasn't getting back up any time soon. “Things are certainly more tangled than when we began,” she agreed. “Discredit Fouche; that was all.”

  Their mission had been straightforward. Of course, no plan survived first contact with the enemy. Bringing down a man such as Joseph Fouche or even tarnishing his reputation couldn't have been simple. In short order, they'd found themselves down a rabbit hole and moving deeper.

  “Circus,” he muttered, unthinking.

  “Hmm?”

  “Have you ever been to the circus?” He settled deeper into his pillow, getting comfortable beside her. “My mother used to dress us like common children and our governess would take us to see the entertainments. There was a man who could manage eight colored balls in the air. Looked like the simplest thing.”

  “We should find him. He could give us lessons just now.” Her legs slid restlessly under the blankets and she sighed. “What bothers me most is that anyone would suggest 'if', that anyone would trust him again. If Fouche is working against the king. Does he draw breath?” She nodded. “Then he is working against the king.”

  Ty believed to his soul that she was right. “Look on the bright side, Dimples. Diplomats have to smile at one another. Use nice words, good manners. No insults, no implications.” He tapped knuckles against the warm skin of her hand. “We have the freedom to say and do as we please. You and I know Joseph Fouche is a bastard of the lowest stripe. We're going to prove it, too.”

  A hand bumped him in reply. “This is why I keep you around,” she murmured.

  He chuckled, then listened to silence pass around them for a few breaths while he contemplated Olivia’s particular investment in their assignment. “Fouche is a greater evil to you than to many others. Watching him go about his business, knowing in your bones what he's done... I know you're frustrated, but hold fast a bit longer.”

  Silence.

  “Olivia?”

  Soft, even breathing was his only answer. Her head rolled onto her shoulder, but otherwise she was still.

  His smile transformed into a yawn. He slid down under the quilt, tired at last, and without daring to explore the effect she had on him, fell sound asleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Agent of Influence.

  Olivia skimmed the dossier once more and tossed it onto the breakfast table between her and Ty.

  Philipe reached out a slender finger to pull it close.

  Ty, face buried in the morning papers, slapped a hand onto the stack. “Whitehall business only, your grace.”

  Philipe, the least patient person she'd ever met where Ty's antics were concerned, continued on his path, pinning one edge and pulling against the weight of Ty's palm. “I am of Whitehall, monsieur.”

  “Allied support.” Ty bent the newspaper in half. “Not an agent.” He flicked the newspaper back up.

  She watched their exchange, resisting an urge to roll her eyes.

  Leaning forward, Philipe struck Ty's boot with a stout fist. “Get your foot off my table, major.”

  A polished black leather heel wiggled in provocation. “My foot is not on your table.”

  Philipe's dark brow raised and he prepared to return fire. This could go on all day.

  Enough. Clattering cup against saucer, Olivia grabbed the stack of papers, pulling it in front of her and out of their reach. “Pay attention, agents and non-agents.” She waved the top sheet at two sets of wide eyes. “Agent of Influence. The very one racing us for Talleyrand's correspondence.”

  Two hands snapped for the paper. She drew back, holding them higher and trying not to laugh. The top sheet was nothing more than Grayfield's signature approving the dossier's release.

  “Countess Elena Breunig,” she started. “Daughter of an Austrian watch maker. Married a French count, widowed by a French count ten months in. Wealthy, political, witty.”

  Philipe was already nodding. “I know the one. Beautiful. Plays the harp like an angel. Her salon is very exclusive.”

  “And her opinions very Austrian, if one carefully considers their roots.” She was the absolute definition of an agent of influence. Even when they worked directly for a handler, it was nearly impossible to connect the agent to their country of origin. Some clever person at Whitehall, more educated about such things, had been weighing Breunig's opinions, unraveling, determining who most benefited from the outcomes she pressed. Elena didn't wear disguises or travel under false papers. She used her beauty and connections to influence the hands of powerful men. Austria stood to gain or lose a great deal depending on how France was divided up and what terms it was willing to give. Breunig, as the Austrian emperor's informant, would act for the most desirable ends.

  Finishing a bite of egg, Philipe leaned in, squinting through morning sunlight at the papers still on the table. “I can very well see her in that role. Though I'm not certain what makes you believe she's your competition this time around.”

  She had rearranged the facts all morning, distilling a novel's worth of information into a few drops. “Follow with me. The congress is sitting now in Vienna, where Breunig was visiting only a fortnight ago. Prussia wants Saxony, Russia wants Poland. Her native Austria wishes for them to have neither.” She gathered the rest of the dossier into a pile and set it back in the center near the coffee pot.

  Ty thumbed the pages, handing each one off to Philipe as he finished reading. “Everyone wants their own piece of Europe when this is all over, but nobody can agree on how to cut the cake.”

  She circled something with her finger, bringing it to Ty's attention. “Talleyrand has signed a secret agreement with Austria and Britain, against Russia and the Prussians should they get their way. We know that thanks to the letters we claimed from Fouche in January.” She downed the last of her tea.

  A smile drew across Ty's lips. “And Austria is here now to insure that their investment in Talleyrand was worthy.”

  She nodded.

  “Not only that,” added Philippe. “Talleyrand, self-interest aside, has made himself indispensable to the Austrians. If Fouche supplants him, negotiations change. Austria loses their man on the inside. They’ll play him against Fouche for as long as possible.”

  “What does that give us?” Ty, in military fashion claimed a spoon, a cup and its saucer, arranging them on the table. “Talleyrand as France,” he waved the spoon, “over here, with Britain and Austria.” He hid the spoon behind the cup and saucer. “Except no one knows he's dealing with them.” A sugar bowl and cream pitcher came next, set far apart. He tapped the bowl. “No one cares about Prussia getting Saxony. They can sod off.” He held up a butter knife and placed it beside the pitcher. “Neither Fouche nor Talleyrand wants anything to do with Russia, but Fouche would give them Poland to meet his own ends.”

  She watched his porcelain battle map unfold, amused and impressed. “He would, which is why Austria is paying Talleyrand so handsomely to prevent it. And so arrives Breunig. She invites some grand figures to tea, asks a few questions. Puts her ear to the floorboards.” She leaned back into the plush blue damask. “We can look through the other dossiers but I believe this is our best course for now.”

  Ty ducked his head. “I defer to the lady, as ever.”

  “That will do major,” she chided, nonetheless warmed by his praise.

  Their glance stretched on, until Phili
pe cleared his throat. “I will tell you what I know of her habits.”

  His offer surprised her. “You know something of her routine?”

  Philipe rotated his plate slowly with both index fingers, nodding, biting the inside of his cheek. “Something, yes.”

  Understanding dawned on her. “Ah.” There was a beautiful woman involved; of course he knew something.

  Ty leaned out, spearing a chunk of ham with his fork. “He means they were lovers, Dimples.”

  Philipe's napkin caught Ty's chest with a sharp pop. “There is a lady present, Major Burrell.”

  “Who, Olivia?” Ty's eyes widened, the effect too comical for her to be offended. “Have you ever witnessed her stub a toe? She could teach the British fleet a few things.”

  Olivia turned down her eyes, hands folded, doing her best to look ashamed. “My delicate female character is impressionable. I'm hardly a match for Major Burrell's influence.”

  Shaking his head, Philipe scooted out from the table and stood up. He wagged a finger between her and Ty. “You two deserve one another.”

  “How cruel,” she shot back.

  “Unaccountable,” accused Ty.

  “I'm sure. Up with you both. Let's go somewhere more private and I'll tell you what I know.”

  * * *

  “I thought you said private,” Ty grumbled, swatting a cyclone of gnats away from his face. “This is practically barbaric.” He hated insects, of any variety. They were the stuff of biblical plagues. If he'd known in advance that Philipe intended to make them sit in the orangery, he would have burned it to the ground first.

  “It smells divine,” protested Olivia, drawing a deep breath of tart lime and orange leaves.

  “It's India, all over again.” No matter how good it smelled, no matter how lovely she was in the sunlight.

  Philipe pinched a brown leaf from one of the newly matured plants. “You may go back inside, major. I find the prospect of conversing alone with Miss Fletcher perfectly agreeable.”

  “This will do,” he muttered, ignoring Philipe's provocation.