by Baird Wells
“Contemplative.” He stretched a hand, inviting her across the small space.
Thalia's grip was gentle. That surprised him. She was such a force of nature, he had expected grasping, nipping, rough seduction. She fit herself into a small space between his hip and the cab, facing him and knee to knee. Still he braced for the usual trappings: bawdy language, fingers on his trousers before his hat was off.
She started at his collar, just her fingertips hovering against his coat. On to his shoulders, grasping his lapel. Fingers tugging the fabric, thumbs skimming down his shirt, waistcoat. There she stopped. It wasn't at all what he'd expected.
He had to do something. That was part of the role he now played. There was no denying that what she was doing felt good as her nails dug into the hair above his ear. Good, and wrong.
As she progressed, he experienced a hesitation he'd never felt while on assignment, and certainly never with a beautiful woman. He didn't want to touch her. He didn't want to proceed at all. For days, he'd found himself putting her off, using every trick in his arsenal to divert her, knowing in the back of his mind that it couldn't last forever.
And as much as he tried to deny it, his new-found reluctance had a name: Olivia. He felt no hesitation with her. He could kiss her if he had to. Hell, he could kiss her if he didn't have to. Like Thalia, Olivia was part of an assignment. What was the difference?
Finally, he settled for running a knuckle along Thalia's cheek. Eyes closed, her head tipped up. Her invitation was unmistakable. Once again, he hesitated. He had to get hold of himself. Thalia was an intelligent woman, and it wouldn't take long for her to become suspicious.
Olivia would laugh at him, perhaps make a joke about him taking a blow for king and country. The idea relaxed him, and he cradled Thalia's neck. He closed his eyes and Olivia was in his mind immediately, as it seemed she always was, of late. As Thalia's lips found his, he imagined Olivia at the Comte's estate, the taste of wine and violets between her full lips, her velvet gown gripping his clothes with the same insistence as her hands. Thalia's lips were thinner, less gentle, and her fingers were long but thicker than Olivia's and not as elegant. If he kept his eyes shut, it was close enough that he could imagine Olivia with him in the carriage. It was close enough to get the job done.
So why did it feel like a betrayal?
The carriage shuddered, breaking him from his reverie. They had arrived at Thalia's house. Their driver barked a command, reins jingled and the carriage slowed.
Ty pulled away, opened his eyes and caught Thalia's heavy-lidded smile. He raised one hand, brushing her knuckles to his lips. “This is where I leave you, madam.”
He needed to get inside, and she would invite him. He couldn't be too eager, though, and risk showing his hand.
“I've enjoyed an enchanting evening, Lord Lennox.” She started to rise, then caught his cheek and kissed him again. “I hate that it's come to an end.”
Ty adopted a face of mock regret. “I fear it must. People will talk.”
Thalia was still close to him, and her words came low and breathless. “People already talk, monsieur, yet we enjoy no benefit.”
“That seems terribly unfair.”
Somehow she was closer. He could feel every word she spoke on his lips. “A situation to be rectified.”
He made himself take her hand, pulling back slightly and sweeping an arm at the door. “And so we shall.”
* * *
Olivia sat stiff-backed before her high oak secretary, the tension up her back worsened by laces pulled too tightly for her to lean forward. She stared at the rough brown sheet of foolscap and it stared back. It was innocent enough, but she knew better. It was threatening her, daring her to stab a quill into the inkwell and stab Ty in the back.
Tell him, a voice begged. Just tell him.
The whisper set her emotions to boiling, and she dipped her nib to shut them up. She had turned over an ache in her heart a thousand times, plotted out the right words, amputated sentences into a poor imitation of her feelings over and over, but her confession wouldn’t come. She'd buried all of her feelings for Ty in a vault, deep beneath layers of terrible things. Loneliness, self-loathing, and a desperation to take what Ty could offer rather than nothing at all. She'd buried them and they were never coming out. Revolution, La Force, her work had all taught her to suffer without expecting result. Suffer and endure in greater and greater measure. She had recognized, at last, that misery would quite literally kill her before she could ever force a confession to Ty. Even at the risk of tearing them apart. Shame burned her face at the realization that she was as fundamentally broken inside as she’d accused Madame Osipova of being.
Face stiff, she tapped the quill's point, violating the paper's clean, innocent space.
Ethan,
With Major Burrell's active surveillance of the baroness, I no longer see that my role in our assignment is necessary. In fact, it is a liability. Friction between myself and Tyler has moved irretrievably into animosity. We are unfit partners and he no longer depends upon my judgment. We cannot work together.
We are compromised. I am compromised, and as the major must continue on with Philipe's help, it seems a mistake that I should remain around either one. Making Philipe my partner is not a viable option. Recall me to England, please. Reassign or dismiss me. I wish to leave Paris at the first opportunity. Send me, or I will go.
She creased the page, covering her lies from view, hot tears streaming harder with each fold of the paper. Tipping her head side to side, she pressed eyes into her sleeves, trying not to wet the ink. Walking it to the entry hall, she placed the envelope into a hollowed out space behind a small door not much bigger than the letter itself. Concealed from the outside by an old lamp, all sensitive correspondence was picked up there. She set it inside, and then she stared. It could be plucked back. Taken and burned. She could always write Ethan again later, if she changed her mind.
Except that she couldn't. Heart aching, eyes aching, she would never have the fortitude to write another such letter. Chest straining, she slammed shut the compartment and slid down a wall at her back. Cradling her knees for any sort of comfort, she buried her face in her arms and sobbed, Ty's face in her mind refusing to be banished.
* * *
He closed the door behind Thalia, turning a small silver key in its lock. She perched on a small red velvet settee at the foot of her bed, darting eyes watching his every move, a cat ready to pounce. He held up the green glass bottle. “Champagne, ma belle.” He smacked the cork soundly against the mantle and it launched free with a satisfying pop, sweet liquid spilling out over his fingers.
Thalia's lips turned down in a pretty pout. “Non. It gives me a terrible headache.”
He slid the stemware onto a little marble-topped console table by the door. “You must. To celebrate our acquaintance.” Filling both glasses, he turned back and held one aloft. “One mouthful only, for me. This will be a memorable occasion, after all.” Closing the distance between them, he placed a glass in her outstretched fingers.
Her look was demure, full of feigned innocence. “And why is that?”
“When a man and woman who have burned so completely for one another finally consummate their desire, can it be otherwise?”
Thalia's breath came faster. He saw it in the way her breasts rose and fell harder against her neckline, threatening to spill free. She raised the rim to her lips, downing the champagne in a single gulp and holding out her glass. “Again.”
He took it, replacing it on the table, and clucked his tongue. “No. Not yet. I do not want a headache to spoil our fun.” Slipping from his jacket, he tossed it over the arm of the settee.
Thalia stood, smoothing the front of his shirt, flicking fingers at the knots of his cravat until it came undone and slipped to the floor. Her movements managed be quick, almost efficient, while still incredibly sensual. She was very good at this. Her fingers pinched his shirt tail, and she tugged it free of his waistband, slipping it over his head w
ith ease earned by years of practice. Dragging nails over his chest, she smiled. “You are no stranger to physical exertion.”
“The boxing ring holds a certain appeal,” he admitted.
“I detest violence, and yet I approve. An athletic man has a great deal of stamina, in my experience.”
“You have no idea.” Circling hands around her waist, Ty pressed her back down onto the sofa, kneeling at her feet. He hooked one black silk slipper with a finger, tugging it from her foot. Thalia fell back onto the cushions, draping arms out along each side, watching him with a half-lidded gaze.
Raising her leg higher, he draped it over a shoulder. She gasped when his teeth grabbed the hem of her stocking, her heel biting into his back. Ty worked at the undergarment slowly, content with taking his time.
He traced his path in reverse, laying kisses up her thigh and hating that it wasn’t horrible. Her skin was smooth, perfumed with soap and a hint of some exotic flower. When he reached her inner thigh, he dug teeth into her soft flesh, catching her staccato panting and a drowsy curve to her moan. “It’s time we retire to the bed,” he instructed, running fingers beneath her bunched skirts.
Slow breathing and then a gentle snore.
Standing up, Ty dropped Thalia's limp leg with an unceremonious thud. He gave her credit; she'd lasted longer than most of the targets he'd used his sleeping concoction on over the years. He had made it through both slippers and one whole stocking and had paid excessive attention to the opposite knee before Kate's powder had taken effect.
One of the many reasons he'd grown to love Kate over the years was that she didn't ask unnecessary questions. He'd gone to her early on with some silly excuse about playing a prank on an officer with whom he played cards. She'd raised an eyebrow when he'd expressed a desire for a powder that could put someone to sleep but not alter the flavor of whatever they were drinking. No more explanation, and she’d not challenged him. Three years on and he had another weapon in the art of espionage, not to mention a friend who likely puzzled over the odd things he and his fellow officers did to each other.
Thalia had been suspicious, procuring the glasses from the pantry herself, carrying them as far as the bedchamber. Everyone always expected it to be in the glass. He smiled at his own ingenuity, tipping the bottle until a little vial floated out into his palm. They expected it in the glass, but never in the bottle. Olivia had taught him that and how to remedy the problem.
When she'd asked for a second round hard on the heels of the first, he was prepared to knock the bottle over to keep Thalia from killing herself if she'd insisted. She was dangerous, but they needed her alive. Fortunately, she had graciously taken no for an answer.
He leaned her forward on the sofa, unlacing the back of her gown and wrestling it off. One knot of red curls came free in the effort. Even better. He mussed the other side until it was held halfway up by a last few tenacious pins.
Crouching, he tossed her over his shoulder and skirted the bed. With one hand he tossed the bedding, and with the other he yanked sharply on her petticoat, tearing one of its flounces halfway off.
Satisfied, he dumped Thalia on the mattress and began unbuttoning his pants. Kicking them off, he undid the drawstring on his small clothes, dropping them to the floor. He poked them halfway under the bed with his foot, but not so far that an attentive maid could miss them.
Grabbing their glasses and the bottle, he ducked behind a Venetian screen in the corner of the room to empty the contents into a chamber pot.
It was perfect that champagne gave her headaches. That would mask a similar effect from the laudanum and nightshade. Surveying his handiwork and feeling satisfied, Ty wriggled back into his trousers, and went to work searching the room.
* * *
The passing of time since posting her letter to Ethan had been torture. She had checked the box every hour thereafter, resting fingers on the knob and then snapping it open as though something poisonous might lunge out. Still, she had been surprised when on the fourth or fifth confrontation, the box had turned up empty.
Up to that moment, she'd been able to take it back. She could have walked to the drop point and taken the horrible letter back, ripping it to shreds and absolving herself of the shame. Sick tension in her belly had churned up into her throat at finding it gone. Guilt hung in a cloud around her, and Olivia had scurried for bed, certain that Ty would arrive home any moment. She couldn't look him in the eye, not now. Tomorrow, when she'd had time to dig a little hole for her betrayal, to cover it over and pretend, she could face him.
Just not tonight.
And then, he didn't come. Minutes ticked by that turned to hours, counted out at a grating pace by the hall clock. What was he doing, what could be taking so long? Olivia squeezed her eyes shut, pushing away the obvious answer.
As was true with her and Ty, not all of his exchanges with the baroness were purely an act. That was espionage: mixing just enough truth into the fiction to make things believable. He'd been willing to go as far as necessary with Osipova, with other women who were probably less alluring than Thalia. The churning in her stomach roiled to an outright surge and she wanted to be sick, to cry and scream it all out and then to stand outside Oettlinger's ugly little mansion and break out every window with rocks.
Sitting up, she pressed hands to her eyes. Disgust at thoughts of Ty and the baroness were mitigated by a cold relief. Her impulses were dangerous, unprofessional. She'd done the right thing, asking to be recalled.
Slipping from the bed, she crept along the hall and down the stairs, fearful of being caught on her errand. Why? She wasn't eighteen and there was no Uncle Edward to rail over her sneaking gin or riding astride in the park. If Ty came in now, he would question her. He was too keen when he caught her in her cups, prodding til he got his answer about why and what was the matter.
Not tonight, she gloated, unlocking the tantalus and palming the vodka. If Ty wasn't home now, there'd be no getting so much as her name out of her when he did arrive.
Olivia gathered her necessities: a tumbler, a stack of handkerchiefs, and a tin of mint lozenges that would sooth her stomach come morning. Arranging them on the bedside table, she pulled the curtains tight, lit a candle, and crawled beneath the quilt once more.
When she uncorked the vodka, its stopper practically jumped into her hand. It was meant to be; she'd made the right choice. One dram then another, she tossed them back, wincing and priming the pump. That would dull the ache quickly, and from there she could take her time. It was late and she was exhausted in every way. Olivia had expected the vodka to numb her, take away enough of the edge for her to sleep. Instead she was agitated, thoughts an angry jumble tangling more with each passing moment. Rational ideas blurred at their edges, melting like wax and mingling with much less rational ones. On her next mouthful, reason bowed out, allowing her to form all sorts of now-plausible ideas. That Ty had played with her just as he had Osipova, Thalia and the rest. Of course, that wasn't true. They had shared too many private moments for his attention to be an act.
Don't be so hasty, insisted the vodka.
What then? she wondered, but the liquor had no answer. Just an unintelligible mob roar insisting that she should stay angry, that she was right for leaving Tyler, and offering no clear reason why.
She was glad to be done with Ty. Yes, in fact it felt liberating. No more frustrated touching, awkward exchanges, arguments. How much time had she wasted on an ever-more-convoluted scheme to catch Talleyrand, Fouche? Forget what the Allies wanted, what value he had as a prisoner. She could get the job done with a pen knife and a patient hiding spot beneath the man's bed.
Abandoning her glass, she took a long draw from the bottle. Let Ty keep at his fool's errand, and Whitehall too for that matter. She would spend every waking moment until Napoleon's arrival looking for her parents as she should have been doing all along.
At the idea of her parents a dam broke, and she reached for the first handkerchief atop her stack. Bones. She ha
d spent her entire life aside from Whitehall looking for bones, bloody scraps of clothes. Once they were found, what then? Would she sit with her macabre heap, suddenly fulfilled and happy?
No. She swigged deep on the bottle again. She would be just as sodding miserable as she was now. Nothing would bring her parents back. Nothing could kill Fouche or stop Napoleon. Nothing could make Ty come home and put his arms around her. Grabbing his pillow, she hurled it across the room, landing it half inside the cold fireplace. She didn't need them. She didn't need any of them.
With a last swig, she fell back against the bed and let the room spin.
It wasn't rational, or even wise, but she would go on alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ty rested his head in his hands, elbows braced atop the dining table in a bid to keep him from hammering his head against it. He thought they had already covered his night with Thalia. It certainly felt that way, Olivia spending their little time together this morning at the safe house criticizing his every decision. When he had thought himself free and tried to steer them onto a more genial course, she'd taken them right back to the baroness. Uncharacteristically, he noted she had yet to ask if he’d found anything during his reconnaissance. She’d also yet to brush her hair, a portentous sign.
“But she'll remember nothing, if what you say is true,” Olivia protested.
“Nothingness. Her memory will paint itself. We drank champagne, I kissed her knees. She awoke with temples throbbing, clothes torn, room in shambles and a bite mark below her décolletage. All of which tally up to an amazing night of passion.”
Olivia snorted.
He would have been delighted by her casual response, but there was a sharp, sarcastic edge to the sound that was uncharacteristic. His annoyance began to simmer. “What is prickling at you this morning?”
Here it came. He could see it in the lift of her brows, a feigned wideness to her eyes. A single-word curse dreaded by men everywhere: “Nothing.”
