Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2)

by Baird Wells

  At least he wouldn't have to do it alone; Olivia was waiting in Paris. If anyone could ease the throbbing in his chest, tell him how to tear his best friend’s heart in two with compassion, she could. She could hold him together.

  Matthew...Ty shook his head, as afraid of losing Webb now as he had ever been on the battlefield.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Paris - July 20th, 1815

  Olivia shifted in her chair, fighting an urge to pace the long hall of the Hotel de Ville. Only the white plaster of the Roman arches down its length brightened the massive room. Curtains were drawn against a bank of high windows, ivory silk shutting out the prying eyes of the curious mobs craning from the street to the see kings and ministers negotiating inside. Swags of crystal ropes hung from chandeliers like dusty spider webs, gold gilt glowed dully, and frescos on the vaulted ceiling above were no more than blotches of indistinct color under the deep shadows. She shifted again and shivered, as much against her nerves as the room’s chill.

  Negotiations had lasted nearly a week, but she couldn’t bear to accompany Ty every day. On days like today she came late, sitting in silence until he was finished and they could walk home together. De Ville’s chilled, empty silence stirred memories. It’s fine parquetry floor was too much like the Tuileries, its mirrors too much like Versailles, its existence just as blood-soaked and abandoned. Sitting in the haunted quiet allowed too many moments of her own terror to slip in. Some days, she had retreated to the relative peace of her bedchamber to recover, not coming out unless Ty coaxed her.

  Even then she’d made him promise not to discuss the meetings, even when curiosity pounded her temples and tore in her chest. Fouche had paused at the gates long enough to shake hands with the Duke of Wellington before composing his lists. His supporters, his compatriots, anyone he could recall who had joined Napoleon to fight against the king. His king, he had insisted, pointedly ignoring anyone who pointed out the disparity of his claim. Smartly marching bands of his hand-picked police already scoured the city, eager to purge the disloyal. It had been named The White Terror, and more than that she didn’t care to know. Living through it once had been enough.

  The Allies had been shut away all morning, working to restore some sense of order to Paris first, too daunted by the greater prospect of France. Talks had begun with settling the terms for Napoleon’s abdication and second exile. To her disappointment, they had chosen not to execute him. How did it taste, she wondered, for him to sit across from Fouche and Talleyrand while they had a hand in humbling him? To be sold by your former compatriots, exchanged for land and position?

  By the sound of the raised voices and scooting chairs through the wall behind her, Olivia guessed she’d have her answer soon enough.

  Fouche strode from the meeting room like a conquering hero. Olivia stiffened in her seat to the left of the door, praying silently he would pass from the foyer without noticing her. When he tensed at the far doorway, she swore he had heard her thoughts, must have felt her presence behind him. Black wool. Olivia has no idea why her mind latched onto that particular detail. Of course his suit was wool, despite stifling summer heat. It was practical, lasting longer than fine linen, keeping fires unlit longer in the winter. Practical, and in keeping with his penny-pinching efficiency, even at the cost of his own suffering. It was not an old suit, she realized, her eyes fixed on his back. His clothes were crisp and new, of the most fashionable cut. Fouche thought he was moving up in the world, and clearly he’d dressed for the part.

  He turned slowly, a wolfish smile spreading as he took her in from head to toe. Then he bowed a little. “Mademoiselle.”

  She fixed her eyes over his shoulder, refusing to answer. Fouche moved closer, one slow step at a time. Pressing as far back in her chair as she could manage, Olivia prayed fervently for Ty, or anyone else, to come from the library.

  When he was only a breath away, Fouche reached out and took her hand, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply on her perfume. His smile widened, and he opened his eyes again. “I remember you. My lovely hostess at the comte's estate.” He turned her arm over, searching for a tattoo that had long since washed away. To his credit he looked amused at having been duped.

  She stared, paralyzed. She’d dealt with any number of vile people in her time as a spy, done things which would make a decent person flinch. Face to face with the architect of so much of her life’s misery, without Whitehall behind her, she felt scarcely able to move.

  Her father bleeding, begging for the mob to spare a woman.

  “I can see you better now, without your mask, Miss Fletcher. Fletcher from your grandfather, if I recall. Your uncle is Lord Portsmouth, no?”

  Her mother, screaming and screaming, and then nothing but cheers.

  Olivia chopped through the memories, renouncing their power, at least with her enemy an arm’s-length away. She nodded, not the slightest bit surprised that he recalled her name. Fouche, the clerk of Hell.

  “LaValette,” he muttered. “I know you well, mademoiselle. A wise man never forgets a pair of eyes that hold a desire to see him bleed.” Fouche released her from his cool grasp and stepped back, examining her more carefully. “You were a troublesome girl. I wondered even then if I had made a mistake, letting you go.”

  She found her voice and thanked years of training in subterfuge for the fact that it came out clearer, stronger than she felt. “I suppose that depends on whom you ask.”

  “Your father.” His head drooped with theatrical sadness. “He was a true son of France. At least in his soul, if not his ideas. Led astray, seduced by his English whore.”

  She ground teeth into the flesh of her cheek, determined not to show a hint of the ache radiating through her chest.

  “Brazen!” he snapped. “She denounced the free people of France, refusing to swear her allegiance to the true emperor.” Fouche flicked his hand. “And so I told them, 'Take Madame away.’ How was I to know the mob would be so hungry for blood?”

  “How were you to know?” She mimicked his words, mocking him. A man who had filled the Paris sewers with so much blood that the smell had generated a petition of complaint from the citizens. She did not believe for a moment that he ever acted without foreseeing the consequences. Olivia inhaled against tears strangling her throat.

  “Jules ran after her like a madman.” Fouche clucked his tongue, head shaking. “He could have stayed with you. That is, if he had truly loved you.”

  Cocking her head, Olivia laughed in spite of herself at the absurdity. “You would simply have set him free, allowed him to go? Allowed me to go?”

  “Of course! He would have seen reason, eventually. That son of his, however...” His fists clenched, knuckles going white. “A puppy of the Royalists to this day.”

  She had never met her half-brother Jules, named for their father. A French ambassador now, he was a single room away. Olivia wondered absently that she could feel no real connection to him. Perhaps it was simply that all they had in common was misery.

  Sneering, Fouche raked a glance over her. “I should have given you to Talleyrand. He could have molded you into a tempting diversion. Fortunate for you that meddling uncle of yours paroled you so quickly.” His posture relaxed a little. “I am told you have come to Paris more than once, looking for your parents.” He swirled a finger in the air. “The dressmaker who had to clean their headless carcasses off of her stoop, perhaps, would have some idea where they are.”

  On her feet before she could catch herself, Olivia came almost nose to nose with the monster, who smiled triumphantly. The eight months she spent locked in the bowels of La Force were a nightmare she could never escape. And to feel without a doubt that Fouche had knowledge of her parents, information he relished withholding...

  He was trying to goad her, and she didn’t care. Rage painted everything red. The knife in her garter pressed insistently at her thigh. It could be done in a moment, the blade whispered. She would be blocks away before anyone found him. Grasping her sk
irts, she began to raise her hem.

  “Do you never wonder at your being born on the eve of revolution, Olivie?” Fouche pulled a sympathetic face against his insult. “Perhaps it was an ill omen.”

  It was her turn to smile. “Perhaps it was a sign. Perhaps all who live during such times are meant to bring the sword.” Her sudden change was obviously giving him pause. For the first time, Fouche drew back a step, eyeing her with a sideways glance.

  Releasing her skirts, she abandoned the idea of her knife for the moment. There was still one sound blow that she could level at her nemesis. She fiddled with her thumbnail a moment, letting the tension play on his nerves. “Speaking of old acquaintances, was your Madame d'Oettlinger able to say her goodbyes to the emperor, before he was exiled? I know how very faithfully she served him.”

  Fouche flinched at his lover's name. Olivia saw the curiosity, the trepidation eating him, but his pride would never allow him to ask.

  It was all right. He didn't have to.

  “Has the lady paid you a call recently? No?” She paused a moment, as if thoughtful. “Perhaps she is waiting for you somewhere. Say, the undercroft of a barn in the Verriere wood? But you must go to her, monsieur.” Olivia shook her head very slowly, holding up both her hands before his gaunt face. “She cannot possibly come to you.”

  She had only a breath to study him, to feel satisfaction at the waver in Fouche's expression before he turned on his heel. Blood sung in her veins, heart and temples pounding with a bloodthirsty satisfaction which would only be surpassed at seeing Fouche deposed, or dead. For just a breath, she had stabbed at the beast’s heart. For her parents and herself, Olivia enjoyed a moment of victory.

  Bonaparte came next. He was fitted in a green uniform, its silk and medals standing in defiance of his defeat. When had she seen him last? A year at least, being goaded onto a ship for Elba. There was a perverse pleasure in the idea of seeing his back for a second time.

  She had the satisfaction of looking down at him, though not by much, certainly not as much as British papers enjoyed suggesting. He had been a little handsome once, mostly owing to his bearing, but also a sweep of dark hair and his perceptive gray eyes. She could recall a time when he’d been a fit horseman, and not the paunchy, balding troll before her now.

  He passed her by at first, then stopped and turned back. His head cocked, slitted eyes looking her up and down. “Olivie?”

  He’d come to it too quickly. Someone must have given her away; an ill-timed remark from Wellington or Ty to Prince Metternich, or between other diplomats. Haddon, perhaps. They might whisper and speak in riddles, but Napoleon’s ears were attuned for any scrap of information, mind primed to decipher. Pride would never let him admit he hadn’t guessed her identity on his own.

  She wondered that he condescended to notice, and nodded. “Oui.”

  He tucked a hand into the seam between two buttons of his waistcoat, nodding. “You have your mother's face. And your father's arrogance.”

  She met his eyes, unblinking. “And my people's hatred of you.”

  If he felt the insult, he didn't acknowledge it. Instead, he seemed to work through some problem, why she was here now and what she had been doing before. Then his face relaxed at the answer. “It was you that my agent took into the Verriere wood.”

  Rage welled up, filling her chest, straining at her ribs till they ached. “And it was I who came back.”

  He chuckled a little. “Your father gone. Your uncle, both your brothers émigrés.” He looked her over again. “And here you still stand,” he said, making a short bow. “The only man in your family.”

  His words were a high sign of respect, but she would die before acknowledging it. “With the help of your dog Fouche, that is true.”

  A fire seemed to enter his eyes a moment. “The blood on my hands was necessary. The enemies of Republic had to be culled.” This was why he was so dangerous. He believed in his words.

  “You seemed rather frightened of the Duc de la Porte. Was he an enemy of France?” she mocked.

  For the first time, Napoleon's expression went flat, a pond on a still day. “No. Merely clipping a thread from my sleeve.”

  She reached deep inside her reticule, producing Thalia's skinny auburn braid, the only memento she had allowed herself from her ordeal in the Verriere. Dangling it before Napoleon, she smiled. “I have also clipped a thread.”

  Olivia had the satisfaction of watching his lip curl, stare blackening before he shrugged. “The spy is inherently a traitor.”

  She allowed the barest smile for Fouche's beloved phrase. “He would know. How many times has he betrayed you now; three, four?” Stepping back, she raised a fist. “Vive l'empereur.” She relished his retreat, shoving between the Duke of Wellington and Talleyrand, obviously tired of their verbal sparring match. He didn’t cow, didn’t waver as Fouche had, and though she hated Napoleon with near-equal fervor, she could respect him a bit more.

  Talleyrand bustled along behind, but Wellington stayed put, his tall figure a bookend to Ty, both looming over beady-eyed Prince Metternich.

  The Duke observed his old adversary’s retreat. “That is the second sound beating he's taken in a month,” he quipped, crossing his arms and looking pleased. With her or with himself, Olivia could hardly guess.

  Concern pulled Ty’s face into a frown, and she wished they were alone, just to share an embrace. “Say all you needed to?”

  “No.” Olivia shook her head. “No, I did not. But if the trade is that I never have to see him again, then I can be at peace.”

  Metternich took her arm, guiding them toward the hall. “Where Napoleon is going, Miss Fletcher, I can promise that you won't.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Ty stepped into the study, blinking, eyes adjusting out of the afternoon sun. “Grayfield.”

  “Major.” Ethan commanded his overflowing desk with straight-backed authority, appearing no more overwhelmed than if it had been entirely bare.

  Slouching onto a frail, gilded, yellow silk sofa, Ty patted a hand over its square Empire construction and frowned. “I preferred the blue couch.”

  “As did I. Occupying French infantry used it as kindling. Now I'm stuck with this...” Ethan jabbed wildly with a pencil, “abomination.”

  Feeling tacit permission in Grayfield's distaste, Ty raised a leg and rested his boot on the opposite cushion. “What do you need?”

  “This is about what you need, actually.”

  “How's that?”

  “Did you go to Webb about the section office to circumvent me, major?”

  “No.” He sat up straight, planting both feet on the rug. “I went to Webb because he had more power and influence in Paris than any other man until Wellington's arrival.”

  Ethan relaxed into his chair, looking satisfied. “Obviously, he handed off the errand to me now that he's been called home and –”

  “I'm aware of the shape he's in just now.”

  “What you're asking for falls under the auspices of the Quinze-Vingts section offices.” Grayfield emphasized the name and offered nothing more.

  If Grayfield could play a hand, so could he. “I don’t recall asking for anything in my letter except to inventory them.”

  “Perhaps I know you better than you know yourself. Or perhaps your motives are just that transparent.”

  Ty shrugged. “When will they be cleared?”

  Leaning even farther, Ethan crossed his arms. “Inventory of the section offices is our lowest priority, to put it bluntly.”

  Ty crossed his arms in counter-argument. “I thought we just established that I am not asking for an inventory.”

  “Have peace, major. With Webb's groundwork, I've called in a favor or two. You may enter the building on provisional government authority, examine, and then return the contents of one carton.”

  Ty got to his feet, in no mood for bureaucracy. “When?”

  With one finger, Ethan slid a rusted iron skeleton key to the edge of his
desk. “Now, as I perceive you will not wait.”

  He offered Ethan a grateful nod. “You perceive correctly.” Snatching the key, he stuffed it into his pocket and spun on his heel, unwilling to waste another moment.

  “Tyler.”

  Ethan's use of his given name, how it hung through the space between them, paused Ty's hand on the door and turned him back.

  “I have seen the 1804 record in the ledger. If your intention is to make Olivia a part of your inquiries, then as a friend, I strongly encourage you to include her when this portion is done.”

  “I understand.” He nodded and met Ethan's eyes. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  Ty blew dust from the record’s black canvas cover, years of build-up clinging tenaciously and refusing to be displaced, willing only to change to a lighter film of gray. He rested it atop the battered clerk’s counter and for a moment did nothing more than rest a palm against its face. He had never particularly shared Olivia’s belief in symbols or omens, but raising the cover stiffened his fingers with dread. He pried it back, opening Pandora’s box, and with flicks of his finger he passed through months of suffering in a single breath.

  When he reached an especially long entry, he stopped.

  Section Office Ledger - April 18th 1804

  “The woman was brought from La Force out into the street, where a mob had grown throughout the day's course. Rather than be sated by earlier bloodshed, they were thirstier than ever. When she was tossed out, the crowd called her every horrible insult, surging and circling. One of the men, a cobbler by trade, grew bold and struck her from behind, throwing her cap clear off. She stumbled and they dragged her up. The duc rushed forward in her defense, screaming, and was immediately impaled by instruments of the mob.