by Baird Wells
“I'm not putting you in bed, you lit bastard,” he declared, leaving John on his side on the rug near the firebox. Making certain John was out cold, he scanned the room carefully. John had not been there long, not long enough to have a stash in the floor or the wall boards. He checked the lining of several coats in a trunk, and even pried at the lining of the trunk itself, but to no avail. Just as he stood and was about to give up, Ty spotted a pair of ratty leather boots poking out from beneath the dust ruffle. No one would ever steal them, let alone wear them. Certainly not John who prided himself on a smart appearance.
Bending down, he grabbed the right one, turning it over and tapping the heel with his finger. Hollow. Producing a small knife from the sheath inside his waistband, Ty pried up the heel's wooden cap until it revealed a curled bit of paper.
Ty pulled out the bundle, folded into an impossibly small stack, and opened it up. As hoped, they were John's traveling papers, embossed with his French alias. Stuffing them into his coat and replaced the boot.
Tomorrow, news of Napoleon would spread through Paris like wildfire. Without papers declaring him as French, John Talmadge would be just a British subject, and all of His Majesty's citizens were about to be called home. John would be livid, but it was a kindness. The further from Olivia, the less John could torment himself and the sooner he could get over being such a miserable drunkard.
He toed John's limp form on the way by, giving his shoulder a pat with his shoe. “Good luck, old bloke.”
Slipping out into the darkened hall, Ty shut the door quietly on John's snoring.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Madame Trouville sliced a thin hand between them. “Absolutely not. Dinner is served in the dining room. The dining room, Major Burrell!” She patted urgently at her silvery bun, as though his request had threatened both her physical and mental fortitude.
Ty imagined that the casual observer would think he had asked for madame to move the dining room, and not simply to bring dinner up to Olivia.
The house they had settled on as their Paris residence was located centrally between the police ministry and their handler's unassuming offices. Unfortunately, due to a 'misunderstanding,' which had culminated with payment being stolen and the crew foreman’s throat being cut, the house was nowhere near ready. Instead, they were guests of Villa Trouville, an inn catering exclusively to upper-class clientele. Even so, its proprietress was not about to pamper every whim of her well-to-do occupants.
Madame Trouville ran her establishment exactly like she ran herself; lean, well-kempt and with starched, military efficiency. He might have worried just then that he had met the only woman in France he could not charm. As with all aspects of his work, though, he had performed thorough reconnaissance.
“Come now, Hermine.” He tugged one of her apron ties. “Perhaps a Belgian chocolatier can persuade you?” He knew it would before he'd asked the question. A chamber maid he'd made eyes at the day before had admitted her employer's weakness with delightful ease. He held out the pink and brown paper box for Hermine's inspection, her severe brows relaxing ever so slightly. “And, of course, I would be in your debt...” he offered.
“Hush!” Hermine snatched the little parcel, looking sour at her own weakness, and Ty knew he'd won.
“I suppose, but just this once!” She poked up a finger. “You do not breathe a word to my other guests. This is not a flophouse, a brothel. My girls do not scurry from room to room.”
He bowed low, mostly to hide a smile. “I am your most humble servant, ma belle.”
For the first time, Madame Trouville smiled, her blush deepening, and she swatted at him with a tea towel. “You! Out with you, Major Burrell.”
Chuckling, he ducked her next blow, sliding out the door and onto the stairs.
Olivia had refused to leave her room since the previous day. Not precisely refused, he amended. It was more that she had lain in her bed and not gotten up.
Not that she'd missed a great deal. Word of Napoleon's march had broken over the city like a wave. True to form, Parisians had born the ill tidings grim-faced and resigned.
It was guaranteed income, for his part. When he was done spying for Whitehall in Paris, it would be back to the field with His Majesty's army. That would mean no more Olivia. He explored the thought more than he'd allowed himself all day, resisting a pressure behind his ribs.
He also felt a touch guilty. If John had seen her with anyone else, he would have had little reason to question Olivia's conduct. She might have convinced him she was acting with propriety, and they would have patched things up. His reputation had done her no favors.
Should John and Olivia smooth things over? It wasn't his place to ask, but Ty still wondered. Two people in love enough to become engaged, and neither one knew the truth about the other. It hardly seemed the basis for a lasting marriage, but he was certainly no expert. His liaisons were with women who sought no declarations of love, and bore no ill will when their affair reached its natural conclusion.
How long since the last time that had happened? He struggled for a moment to recall the last lady with whom he had been involved. Not with Georgiana; that had been a miss. Before that, he could hardly remember, grasping only that the encounters at some point had no longer satisfied him.
What had changed? He mounted the next step, struggling to answer his own question.
* * *
He rapped on the door.
Silence.
Ty turned the knob slowly, door grating in its frame.
“I don't recall asking you in.” Her voice was barely audible, words mumbled into her pillows.
“I did not hear you say not to come in.” His rebuttal earned a sigh.
Olivia sprawled belly down on the mattress in semi-darkness, buried under more covers than were necessary, arms folded beneath her cheek and curls tumbling unbrushed across the pillows.
Ignoring that she was in nothing but a shift, he moved to the window, tugging at the wide sash to draw back the curtains. The rusty glow of a sunset spilled in through the panes, setting the room aglow and lighting her hair aflame.
Olivia groaned, squinting against the light, and turned her face away. “Is it dinner time?”
“Nearly.”
She was quiet a moment. Then, softly, “I don't want to see anyone.”
He settled on the edge of the bed, brushing her arm through soft linen. “I've arranged for dinner to be brought up.”
She turned back, peeking at him through golden strands. She wasn't exactly smiling, but he could see thanks in her eyes. Ty held out a small bouquet he'd concealed behind his back, laying it on the pillow when she didn't reach to take it.
“You know I hate flowers.”
He did know. At least, he knew she often claimed as much. Judging by her wistful expression sometimes when they passed a flower cart, Ty questioned her assertion. He wondered if it was some association more than the flowers themselves. “That is very ungrateful,” he teased, tapping the bouquet. “Do you know how hard I had to work at this time of year to find these? I was forced to pilfer from no less than three very fine yards.”
Olivia scowled, and then to his great delight it broke, and she laughed. “You got them from the hothouse.”
“I did. And I like you so much that I paid for them.”
Reaching out, she raked them close with slender fingers and inhaled the blossoms. “Mmm.” She sighed, closing her eyes.
He smoothed golden waves from her cheek, studying her face. “How are you?”
“No complaints. A little more tired than usual today. I thought perhaps a bit more sleep would keep me sharp for the night ahead.”
He pretended to squint at her. “Obviously you did not get enough.”
“Meaning what?”
“You must be exhausted, because you cannot think me stupid enough to believe that. Care to tell me the truth now?”
Her face crumpled, eyes falling shut. “I hurt. My heart hurts.”
“Of co
urse it does. Made worse because no one is really to blame for it. Not you, or John.”
Finally, she met his eyes. “I've been thinking about something you said. You were right; my engagement to John was selfish. I took what he offered, knowing that I couldn't return it.”
Laughing, Ty got up and slipped off his coat, tossing it onto the foot of the bed. If only she knew the truth behind her friction with John; if only he could tell her. “Only people bitter over love can be rational about it, Dimples.”
He lay down on top of the quilt and scooted close to her, feeling a need to comfort. She turned without warning, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her face to his chest. His heart broke for her, the same feelings still so recent for him, even if the wound had closed. Ty pondered that his time with Olivia had done the most to patch him up. “I'm sorry. Cold comfort, I know, but this misery will pass.”
“I'm not sad,” she murmured into his shirt.
He couldn't have heard her correctly. Her breath whispering against his neck stole his thoughts. He rolled away, for some sanity, and tried to look down at her face. “What?”
“I'm not sad. At least, not about John. Isn't that horrible? That is what's making me upset.”
“What do you mean?”
Olivia rolled back onto her pillow, blinking up at the ceiling. “I feel relief. Gratitude that it's over and done. Shame at both of those things and shame that I didn't have the guts to call it off months ago.”
He was so confused. This was why his affairs were simple and mutual. “You've been sulking for two days because you do not love John?”
She pressed hands to her eyes. “No, I don't believe I do. I thought I did. We were comfortable. He asked little of me. There were weeks at a time when I saw not a hair of his head. When I would travel to France or off on some assignment, he never got anxious. It was comfortable,” she repeated, “And that was all.”
Understanding at last, he pulled her back against him. Anyone who had observed Olivia for a single hour knew that comfortable could hardly satisfy her. She needed a man to match wits and wills, someone to antagonize her into letting off steam before she boiled over. Everything he knew from experience that John was not. He pitied John's not deserving her, while envying the man who did.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Olivia peered outside the carriage, watching the street pass by and marveled again that not being in love with someone could sting so much. She'd had some time to lick her wounds, but not long. Two days, precisely, before the out-of-city post going in to DuFresne's office increased, while the outflow decreased. She surmised whoever he was expecting was close now, concerned with keeping him apprised of their progress, while he was required to do nothing but monitor and be prepared. There had been a courier to his house late the previous night, one to Fouche's, and then nothing. The letters dried up, signaling in her experience the proximity of DuFresne's mystery woman. Not truly a mystery by her estimation, but she'd been proved wrong before.
She studied Ty across the carriage, his head tipped back against the seat, hat discarded beside him. He'd been her unflagging bright spot the last three days, cheering, teasing, and cajoling until she was too amused or annoyed to dwell on thoughts of John.
Taking in his civilian clothes, gray trousers, and a smart black greatcoat with more buttons than three of her gowns, she tried to conceive of a Major Burrell. She'd seen him in his uniform, of course, but that was hardly the same thing as actually seeing the man at work. A studious, disciplined Ty was a curious thing. Not that she couldn't believe it; Grayfield had made no bones regarding the major's prowess on the field. Ty had plenty of skills which hinted at his abilities as a soldier, but she wondered at a life so different from the one they led now.
“Major Burrell.” She tested it out loud, surprised when his head lifted slowly rather than snapping up.
“Hmm?”
“I just wished to say it. Ty, Tyler. Tyler Burrell, Henry Lennox. I wanted to try that one, too.”
His head fell back, eyes closed, with a smile playing at his lips. “So you should. That's truly who I am, Dimples.”
“A soldier?”
“A soldier,” he agreed.
“By choice?”
He sat up, grinning. “Of course! Look at my family. A bastard can be anything: a drunkard, a syphilitic, God forbid a politician. All sorts of avenues I could have chosen.”
“So not much of a choice at all.”
“I suppose I could have sat idle, enjoying a meaningless title on a crumbling estate, too deep in the pockets to light the fireplaces.”
“Still safer than India,” she teased.
“But India had beautiful women and malaria, both of which swayed my decision.”
“And plenty of gold to be made, which did not?”
“It played a part,” he admitted, prodding her with a boot. “In any matter, the army's the only place I've ever truly felt at home. My family adores my medals, detests my income, and despises my parentage. No one in my regiment gives a damn. As long as I give sound orders, take pains for their welfare, and don't withhold the grog, my men like me fine.”
“And General Webb,” she recalled, the name standing out from so many of Ty's stories.
“A brother,” he nodded, and Olivia noted he did not amend it to 'like a brother'. “The only man I can slug this morning and get crocked with this evening, and no hard feelings in between.”
“Sounds...” Olivia shook her head, “complicated.”
“It's not.” He was staring at her now, all but a hint of his smile faded away. “Not nearly as complicated as some matters.”
“Meaning?” She thought she grasped his meaning just fine, but Ty had brought them to the edge of uncomfortable territory.
He shrugged, breaking the tension, and the moment passed. “Meaning Webb and I get on fine.”
A yawn creased her face for a countless time since setting out, sparing her from redirecting their conversation. “I either need to turn in early or wake up late. Doing just the opposite is wearing a thin spot.” She pressed fingers to gritty eyes, feeling out of sorts.
Ty nodded, stifling his own yawn as the carriage rumbled to a stop. “We need to observe more people like us and fewer like them.” He cocked a head toward the door. “Bureaucrats are guilty of all sorts of terrible things, bad hours being the worst.”
Snorting, she leaned forward, trying to see past him out the small window. “We can wait there.” She tapped a finger to the glass, pointing out a public house across the street where coaches were trading out frothing horses. “We'll have a vantage point from behind the crowd and our target.”
Craning his neck, Ty worked for a glimpse up and down the street. “Are you certain this is her coach stop?”
“The last letter came from a village to the east. If she comes in by the east gates, and DuFresne travels a concealing but not inconvenient distance –”
Ty's waving hand cut her off. “God woman, you put Archimedes to shame. Yes or no will suffice.”
Snorting, she smacked his arm. “Get out then, and stop complaining.”
Ty darted out ahead, helping navigate the teeming avenue. While he slipped inside the public house, Olivia fit herself into the last remaining seat on one of its benches, smoothing her brown homespun coat to avoid eye contact with a leering man beside her. Her coat and calico dress were poor, hinting at domestic employment, and he boasted just enough buttons and pockets to suggest a somewhat better station in life. Better, and superior, judging by the way he leaned back ogling her, one arm stretched out along the bench. “What's your name?”
“Marvalle.”
“Ooh!” He stroked a thick, brown side burn. “Formal.” He scooted closer, undeterred.
Ty reappeared from inside, paper under his arm. She widened eyes, cocked her head ever so slightly at her new acquaintance.
Smirking, Ty strolled passed, leaned against a porch post and unfolded his paper.
Ass. She would remember t
his, the next time there was an Osipova, the next time he begged for an intervention.
“Awfully quiet, aren't you Miss Marvalle?”
She squinted at the crowd in front of them, stiffening to keep him at a distance without crowding the poor old woman on her right. “I'm waiting for someone.”
“Maurice Naire.”
“What?” She snapped to face him, taken aback.
Grinning, he smoothed a lapel. “That's who you're waiting for.”
“Perhaps it is.” Cocking her head, she smiled. Fishing in her reticule, she produced a pencil and a scrap of paper, scrawling an address and folding it up. Then she pressed it into his sweaty palm. “My rooms are upstairs. Have an ale, wait for me in the front room. As soon as I've seen my aunt home,” she leaned into him against an odor of beef and tobacco, “I'll be along.”
His eyes darted below her waist. “You clean?”
Beggars really could be choosy. “For a few months now,” she whispered, winking.
Naire was on his feet with haste enough to jar the bench. “How long?”
“Half an hour, no more than that.”
He tipped his hat, backing away and jostling several pedestrians. “Madam, I shall await you anxiously.”
“Mmhm.” Nodding, she giggled, sweeping him away with a flick of her fingers. Not until he was lost in a sea of people did she risk a glare at Ty, who was trying – and failing – to keep one eye on her and one on his paper. She narrowed her eyes further, earning a helpless shrug. Laying a finger at her throat, she pulled it in a slow line, then rearranged herself to put Ty from her line of sight.
They didn't have to wait long. Fortunate, because she could have nodded off right there on the bench had the coach had been any longer in coming.
DuFresne must have been watching from somewhere nearby. From thin air, he appeared beside the coach moments after it drew to a halt, timed to perfectly to be coincidence. Olivia worried for a moment that he had seen them arrive together, but he paid no more attention to her and Ty than he did anyone else milling around the stop.
