Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2)

by Baird Wells

  Two well-dressed gentlemen climbed down, and then a young, plainly dressed woman who could have been a wife or sister. When they were clear, Dufresne positioned himself before the door and extended a thin hand inside. What he retrieved was not what she had expected, and she dared a look at Ty to catch his expression.

  For all her secrecy in getting to Paris, the baroness wasn't hiding her arrival. A giant, green silk calash hid her face, the bonnet high and deep enough to resemble a small carriage canopy. She was clad in a matching gown, shawl and gloves, identity hidden even as she drew every eye along the street.

  His back was to her, preventing her seeing his expression, but Olivia wondered how DuFresne was receiving the attention his charge garnered from every quarter. He was not a man who enjoyed the public eye. Olivia imagined she could already sense friction between DuFresne and the newcomer.

  Actually witnessing the baroness's arrival was the quickest bit of their entire morning. DuFresne pressed a hand to her glossy sage back, ushering her around the coach, past the public house and out of sight.

  Ty folded his paper, striding confidently back across the street. That was her cue. She stood, weaved between a tight-knit crowd of onlookers, and made her way along the sidewalk for a few blocks. They were in a rougher neighborhood, and another woman might have been intimidated by the area and the locals. These were her people in a sense, where she and Ty came for information, or to hire a pair of hands dirtier than their own. Feeling at home, she exchanged 'good morning' with a handful of strangers passing the shops, and with Long Nel who was up and looking for customers earlier than usual.

  Their coach drew up at an alley just ahead of her, and Olivia climbed in, not waiting for Ty or their driver. She whacked Ty's shoulder with her purse, earning a cackle. “Don't dawdle; Naire is waiting.”

  “Ass,” she muttered again, wrestling against a moth-eaten seat. “I cannot believe you didn't help me.”

  “Help you?” He flipped off his hat, tousling his hair. “Help him. I was afraid you'd gut the man. Where did you send him, really?”

  “Madam Martine's. He seemed to be in need of her services. Am I clean.”

  She crossed her arms, and Ty laughed again. “Very ungentlemanly of him.”

  “Hm.”

  “So,” he swatted at her knee then sat back, “is this the baroness your friend warned you of?”

  “I think it must be. Fouche will get her letters of introduction in order to circulate her in the best society, but they have to want to meet her in the first place. Her appearance today says she knows how to accomplish that, skillfully. Everyone will be whispering, speculating, having no notion of her identity and dying to learn more.”

  Ty nodded slowly, looking pleased with her assessment. “I know someone who figures amongst the very best society in Paris, and what lady could possibly refuse an invitation from the Duc de la Porte?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  If the revolution had been a cautionary tale, at least some of France had failed to learn its lesson. Calling la Porte’s estate grand would be thin praise. A garden just coming into bloom was held in check by the Seine sparkling past under a nearly full moon; this was the breathtaking view from the ballroom. Not that the view from any other room was less eye-catching, every one having been opened to their wild mob. Cards and gambling in one parlor, where the money flowed as freely as champagne in another. Another featured pink cakes mounded with red berries, chocolate truffles in crystal sugar, and enough diamonds present on those partaking to bankrupt a treasury. All was absolute luxury, glittering excess. Ty couldn't help feeling that the nobility had come full circle since the days of the Terror. La Porte's fete tonight would have put a smile on Marie Antoinette's rouged lips.

  It served its purpose. Philipe had adopted a role in order to attract certain people, elicit certain behaviors to see how the currents flowed. It helped that the La Porte estate was one of the last in France not confiscated or entirely bankrupt. A clever stash of Portuguese gold kept Philipe's extravagant machine humming along. He brought the wealthy and political all to one place to be observed, overheard.

  Ty rested a shoulder against the mantle in the first floor parlor, half observing the room and half using the opportunity to watch Olivia. He was too hot from the champagne, an unseasonably warm night, and the coals toasting his backside, but it was the best vantage point in the room to accomplish his goals.

  Conversation hummed, even in the hall outside and laughter was raucous at the tamest of moments. Giggles and screams rang up and down the staircases, leather soles smacking against marble, giving chase. He wondered if guests drank to enjoy themselves or to tolerate the circus around them. Mulling it over, he drained his port and discarded his glass atop the mantle.

  If she shared his discomfort, Olivia wasn't showing it, perched on the edge of a sofa beside Philipe. Her dress was a froth of cream silk and gold embroidery, sleeves gathered up and bodice plunging down, flattering her long arms and a bosom teased by a cascade of garnets and diamonds.

  She was on her second round of cards with Philipe, who didn't seem to realize that the sofa had two cushions, instead occupying the middle and forcing Olivia to sit close. Well, not forcing exactly. That implied an unwillingness which Olivia wasn't showing.

  Philipe whispered something that made her laugh. She pressed her cards to her chest, falling back into the cushions and displacing a fountain of ostrich plumes in her hair. A deep pink stain to her cheeks could have been blamed on champagne, except Ty knew she observed his same rules regarding drinking. He wondered at its cause; Philipe ran a finger up her arm.

  Ty jerked away from the fireplace, flexing his hand. He and Olivia were supposed to be lovers after all. He didn't appreciate any man, even La Porte, taking liberties. Waiting until he caught her eye, Ty circled, weaving between flirting couples and preening young bucks setting their sights on potential prey. He stared at Olivia with a challenge, daring her to warn him away. Her smile was slight, playing just at the corners of her mouth, but her eyes followed without blinking. He caught the tension in her shoulders, a quick rise and fall to her chest.

  They tracked one another until he was behind her, and she was forced to return her attention to her cards. Olivia's turn had come, and she studied her hand. He stalked the sofa, watched her palm the dice and rattle them with a flick of her wrist. This was his moment. Ty braced his hands on the sofa's gilt wood trim, leaning in and brushing his lips against her shoulder. They were lovers, after all.

  Olivia's gasp was sharp. Her dice struck the table's edge, bounced, and clattered haphazardly between the feet of some nearby guests. He froze at the path of her knuckles, tracing his jaw. Olivia was his partner, exempt from and likely immune to his forms of seduction. That hadn't stopped him from wondering on occasion at potential success.

  “You cost me the hand,” she breathed.

  Curious, he traced a path to her ear. “Judging by your cards, I've saved you some coin,” he whispered.

  Philipe smirked and turned his attention back to his own cards. “Your lady plays for entertainment, not coin. And it seems she'll have neither from you.”

  If he didn't know better, he would guess Philipe was jealous. He appreciated the feeling. Running his fingers down Olivia's bare arm, he plucked the cards from her fingers, tossing them onto the sofa. They were drawing all sorts of attention now. Perfect. “A dance then, to amuse her?”

  Olivia's head fell back into his shoulder, eyes closed. She was good at pretending, too good in moments like these. “If that is the most you're prepared to offer, it will have to do.”

  “It is.” He tugged her up from her seat, leading her around the couch in half a spin. “For now.” They were suddenly playing a dangerous game. Fraternizing was forbidden between agents, but that wasn't deterring him; if anything it heightened the tension. Ty bit his tongue against more innuendo, all the while watching Olivia for the hint of a genuine invitation. Her silence made him question if she was feeling th
e same.

  He tucked her arm into his, guiding them out into the hall. Either the room was too hot or the port too strong. Maybe he hadn't eaten enough. Touching Olivia was having a completely overblown effect. Charming and seducing women was part of an assignment now and then. Sometimes it was just for leisure. Learning not to lose his head over it was a skill on which Ty prided himself.

  Steeped in these thoughts, he was unprepared when Olivia checked him with her shoulder, forcing them into an alcove against a closed door. Her arms laced around his neck, lips raking his jaw. Frozen, he forgot to do anything for a moment, even breathe.

  Her breath fanned his ear. “Feeling possessive this evening, major?”

  Registering footsteps from down the hall, he snatched her wrists, turning them, trapping her between his body and the door. “If Philipe enjoys touching you so much, perhaps he should play the role of lover.”

  Olivia raised her chin in what he swore was a challenge. “Philipe doesn't wish to play the role.”

  The information provoked him, and Ty felt something slip. Pinning Olivia's arms above her head against the door, he made short work fitting their lips together. It was exactly as he remembered. Better. Her tongue was sweet with champagne, perfume dizzying, drifting up with the heat between their bodies. She arched, tearing free a groan which surprised him.

  Shuffling paused over his shoulder, then gasps and giggles passed by, whispering down the hall. He broke away, catching his breath and letting go of Olivia's arms.

  Her lips parted with soft pants, and her eyes dropped to his mouth; the gesture was unmistakable. Leaning halfway into the space between their bodies, he waited for her to meet him. If she gave the slightest invitation...

  Olivia pressed fingers to her lips, her cheeks. “We've laid enough groundwork. Oettlinger is here somewhere; we should keep looking.”

  No, a voice protested. They should slip into the room behind them and throw down the lock. Distance had cooled the rush of blood pounding at his temples, and Ty argued with himself more rationally. She's your partner. John's absence from the equation was still new, and his own romantic dealings tangled.

  But that didn't change the fit of his palm against her waist, the way her whisper ran like a hand over his body. He drew a breath and stepped away, hating himself for the distance. “Ballroom?”

  “Mm.” Slouched back against the door, she looked no more eager to go than he felt. “We'll find her eventually.”

  “Eventually,” he repeated, brushing her wrist, testing silken skin to see if it held the same power over him. “So there's no need to go running down there just yet...”

  Olivia snorted, straightening and working to tidy the feathers in her curls. “We can't take our roles too seriously.”

  He ran a finger across her throat, tracing the line of her necklace. “I am nothing but serious where a beautiful woman is concerned.”

  Laughing, she snatched his hand, pulling him along behind. “That's enough. Save your theatrics for our mark.”

  Ty groaned, letting her tug him behind, still convinced that leaving the privacy of their alcove was a mistake.

  * * *

  Observing the crowd, Olivia reminded herself that it was called a 'ballroom' and not a 'dance room.’ Thank goodness, because no one present seemed interested in dancing. Champagne glasses turned upside down over eager lips, tipping out every last drop before being relinquished to a harried servant. Two men in matching brown velvet suits sandwiched a plump woman, performing their own gypsy rendition of a waltz. A handsome young man in a good yardage of claret silk chased two pretty girls around the room's perimeter, his shouts and their shrieks swallowed up by the quartet and the laughter of other revelers. The trio barreled into one lady, then upended a helpless card table and a silver dessert tray before setting course for the terrace doors, to the relief of everyone.

  Ty elbowed her, pointing in their wake. “Think we can find one more lady to join us?”

  She stifled a laugh behind her hand. “Doubtful odds, finding a woman who wants to outrun you.”

  “Thrill of the chase, Dimples.”

  Breaking their gaze, she pointedly ignored his remark. Swollen lips were frustration enough, tempting her to dwell longer than was wise on their kiss upstairs.

  A cherubic man, stocky and boyish, shuffled from one seated guest to the next with his top hat outstretched. Grateful for a distraction, she grabbed Ty's sleeve. “Look! Garter gathering.”

  Ty frowned at her, at the scene before them, and then at her again. “What?”

  “Garter gathering. Have you never played it?”

  “What?” he repeated, looking equally dubious.

  She sighed. How had Ty of all people missed out on such a thing? “Each gentleman puts one of his lady's garters in the hat,” she explained. “Then all the men draw one, and have to find the woman to whom it belongs.”

  One brow raised and Ty smiled, rubbing his chin a bit too thoughtfully. “And then?”

  She stomped her foot, pretending impatience. “Have you no imagination? They dance, converse. Obviously the less faithful engage in other activities.”

  Ty looked her up and down, making her face burn. “How does the gentleman get his lady's garter in the first place?”

  It was her turn to smile. “That is entirely his concern.” She expected that to conclude the conversation, realizing too late that she should have known better. Ty's head swiveled, looking for something. Without warning strong hands gripped her beneath the arms, hefting her onto a table behind them.

  Shrieking, she grasped the edge of the tabletop, trying to balance and praying the whole thing didn't collapse. “What are you doing!”

  Fingers wrapped her ankle, and Ty pulled her leg to his side. A hand slipped under her hem, skimming her calf until it reached the bend of her knee. He tugged her garter's tail, magician's fingers slipping it free of its buckle in two quick movements. An electric thrill coursed through her at his light touch.

  A moment later he dangled the blue and gold embroidery in front of her, grinning. “I’ve found my ticket to play the game.” His expression was smug, and he was entirely too adept at the maneuver he'd just used.

  “You're not actually going to participate.” Of course, he was. This was Ty.

  He dangled the garter higher, backing away a step, then two. “After missing out for all these years? It seems I've been attending the wrong sorts of parties.”

  Fighting a laugh, she snatched hopelessly at the ribbon, nearly toppling herself and the table. “There's no guarantee you'll pull mine from the hat,” she warned.

  Ty threw a glance at her over his shoulder. “Perhaps I don't mean to.”

  A sharp retort died on her tongue as he sauntered off toward a woman she didn't recognize. Reclined deep into a massive arm chair, she had one delicate foot suspended in midair so that a man with the top hat, kneeling before her, could remove her garter. Her cheeks flushed a shade nearly as deep as her ocean of beautiful auburn hair. Fine teeth bit into a lower lip that was full, nearing seductive. Olivia had no doubt they had at last discovered Thalia, the Baroness d'Oettlinger. She conducted herself with the same theatrics and grace as the woman at the coach stop.

  Ty thought so too, judging by his trajectory. After dropping her garter into the black silk hat, he leaned over the woman, fingers brushing the sleeve of her emerald silk gown. Whatever he said earned a gasp followed by a coy smile. Thalia turned, giving Ty her full attention, and an exchange passed between them. Olivia could see the woman's face, how her smile turned up at one side, blue eyes brightening at Ty's whispered suggestion. She nodded, and with a glance around them pressed something into his palm. Ty's hand went into his jacket, her attention turned back to her companion, and he immediately turned and met Olivia's eyes from across the room. He wiggled his brows, patted his breast pocket, and moved a few paces from the baroness while the man with the hat finished taking up his collection.

  The gatherer caught everyone's attentio
n with a sharp whistle, raking a hand through the garters, tumbling them at random. Men rushed forward, elbowing, chortling, and grabbing for their prize. Olivia pressed both hands over her mouth at the ridiculous sight. It reminded her of cows wandering about ready to mate. Garters dangling overhead, the men milled around, eyes darting in every direction for a woman to claim her accessory. Olivia wondered how many ladies would see their pursuer and quickly decide that they'd rather continue their evening one garter short.

  In the midst of the giggling chaos, Ty strode forward for his turn. The movement was quick, fluid. She could only spot it because she knew him, knew his tells. He snapped his right arm, curled fingers into his sleeve, and thrust his hand into the hat. What he pulled out had, of course, already been in his possession: the baroness' other garter, claimed by way of Ty's usual charm. He made a ridiculous show of searching the room, intentionally looking past the baroness two or three times before she leaped up and grabbed his arm. Olivia couldn't hear his words, but she could read his lips.

  'Yours? No! This belongs to you? Impossible. I could never be so fortunate.' The last bit she embellished. Ty's mouth had formed a lot of words, and she just imagined the sort of syrupy nonsense he usually spouted. And, as usual, it was working. He poked the garter into his breast pocket, hanging out for all to see, and took the woman's slender hand.

  “It seems the major has found his mark.” Philipe appeared at her side, tipping a nod toward Ty.

  “This is his area of expertise,” she admitted, trying to keep a strange bitterness from creeping into her voice.

  “I must admit, it's impressive watching the man work. He must be quite the beau in London.”

  “He doesn't want for admirers, if that's what you mean.” She didn't like the way the words tasted, especially not after the kiss they'd shared upstairs. In fact, she didn't like how close Ty was standing to the baroness, or the way he swiped a lock of hair behind her ear.