Racing with the Wind (Agents of the Crown)

by Regan Walker

  Casting her a leering glance, he drew close. “He will be along ma petite. Do not worry.”

  The door opened and a well-dressed, dark-haired man in his late thirties entered. He smiled when he saw her.

  “Bon, you’ve come.”

  Looking around, she drew him aside and whispered, “Maurice, I think it would be best if we have a smaller group.”

  Maurice took off his coat and his gaze followed hers. The crowded room had once again grown quiet. “Perhaps you are right,” he whispered after a moment. “There are too many here.”

  Theresa was content only after Maurice summoned Franz and instructed him to let all but a handful go. “Franz can tell the others of our decisions—those who are essential to our plans.”

  Franz agreed before Maurice spoke. “Oui, d’accord.” He turned and went about gruffly clearing the room. There were protests and affirmations of loyalty, but all who were told to leave eventually did. Theresa felt better. It was safer to deal with only a few.

  * * *

  Hugh sank into a soft chair and accepted the brandy Martin handed him, and his friend slid into the chair across from him. It had been a long day, and the night held a damp chill, even in the parlor of the house that was home to Britain’s agents in France.

  “You have something for me?” Hugh was anxious for information.

  “Well, it’s not what I’d hoped for, but it moves us along I think. We believe the Napoleon sympathizers may be planning an attack to try and demonstrate the ailing king is weak. That would, of course, be a prelude to bringing back their emperor.”

  Hugh considered. “That could fit in with the Prussians storing French military uniforms for more than two hundred men. They obviously mean to use them, and they have never been friends of Louis. Do we have any idea of the timing?”

  “No, my man was thrown out with most of the crowd before the details were revealed, but it must be soon.”

  “Germaine tells me General Kleist is planning to leave in a few weeks, as are many others. That may indicate a deadline for whatever they are planning. They’ll want diplomats carrying this news back to the allied leadership.”

  Martin nodded. “There’s another interesting development, too. A young woman is involved. My man thought she might be Austrian.”

  Hugh blinked. “There is a young Austrian woman at court. Theresa Koller, half sister to the Austrian general.”

  “I have heard of General Koller,” Martin replied, “though I have not heard of a sister. But I don’t travel in your circles.”

  Hugh suddenly remembered more. “Her mother is cousin to Napoleon’s mistress, Countess Marie Walewska, the mother of Napoleon’s son Alexandre.” How could he have forgotten?

  “Countess Walewska. The one who visited Napoleon during his first exile on Elba,” Martin noted.

  “The very one.”

  It had been a passionate affair of the heart for Napoleon. Though she had resisted the emperor at first, the pressure from Polish leaders overcame her objections and the countess succumbed to the man who could control Poland’s fate. The blue-eyed blonde became his mistress, and the affair burned hot for years, becoming something of a scandal. Hugh stared into the distance thinking about this strange turn of events.

  Martin frowned. “That family connection might be enough to give the Austrian girl sympathy for Napoleon, perhaps even an inclination to join those seeking his return. The countess would want her lover back in power if for no other reason than for the sake of her son. If this Austrian woman we observed is truly the Theresa Koller you speak of, her involvement makes things more difficult.”

  Hugh agreed. “So, they have someone on the inside of the Palace. Someone no one suspects. She can make use of whatever information she hears from her brother.”

  Martin shook his head. “That is all we need, another player on an already crowded stage.”

  Hugh wondered what Mary would say if he suggested her choice of friends was not the most ideal.

  Chapter 21

  Mary’s uncle returned as expected the very next day. She was happy to learn he was not immediately opposed to Joseph Decazes’s invitation of theater and dinner that evening, especially when reminded that many guests of the French court took in the opera. He agreed things were different in Paris and that she was not under the same restrictions as in London. And whatever plots he might be involved in, the vicomte’s intentions toward her retained all appearance of being honorable.

  She did not tell her uncle about the incident at the gallery, nor that the vicomte had been wounded. Nor did Mary tell him of her findings at the warehouse. She worried that if she did, he would withdraw his permission.

  For dinner Mary selected a sapphire silk gown with black beading at the neckline. A black velvet cloak provided a dramatic counterpart to her white gloves and golden tresses, which she wore up at her crown—perfect for a night on the town in Paris.

  Dinner at La Tour d’Argent was an experience Mary would not soon forget. The atmosphere was one of elegance and lively conversation, mostly in French, but she could hear some English and German, and even some Russian as well. Many of the allies frequented the restaurant, and it was even said that royalty had dined there. Her uncle’s butler told her that men had even fought duels over certain tables.

  Decazes was watching her with a new, curious expression. She wondered at its source, especially as he was more quiet than usual, his blue eyes giving no hint of what he was thinking. There was certainly a keen intelligence there, however.

  “You seem quite pensive this evening,” she teased.

  “I suppose I am,” he replied. “Do you like the mutton?”

  Mary was just putting another bite into her mouth, and she briefly noted that her appetite did not suffer in the presence of the vicomte. She supposed her loss of appetite with only one man—Hugh—was another indication that her feelings for the British lord were more than she had acknowledged. “It’s splendid. The béchamel sauce is unusual, very delicious, and this place is livelier than any restaurant in London, at least the ones I’ve been in. Hearing so many different languages, it is a bit like King Louis’s own court.”

  “I am pleased you find it to your liking,” Decazes replied. He took her hand and kissed her fingers, and his eyes gazed intently into hers. “You see, Lady Mary, life in Paris can be most enjoyable.”

  “I have become quite fond of all things French, good sir, and Paris is central to that.”

  “I hope I am one of those things of which you are quite fond,” the vicomte sallied.

  She didn’t respond but just smiled, realizing that she would indeed miss Joseph Decazes when she and her uncle returned to London. The vicomte was a man whose company she truly enjoyed, assuming he was not involved in some underhanded plotting, which she reminded herself every day was indeed a possibility. But either way, her mind, her heart and her body wanted Hugh Redgrave. She couldn’t deny it any longer.

  What a predicament, to be in love with a rake. Not only that, he was a bossy rake who would likely take her virtue and then tell her how to deal with her broken heart.

  She determined not to let her sad thoughts take away from a wonderful dinner, though, and perhaps one of her last evenings with a handsome and considerate Frenchman whose company she enjoyed. Decazes was taking her to see a popular burlesque opera, Bombastes Furioso, written by the Englishman William Barnes Rhodes. How thoughtful of him to seek out an opera written by one of her own countrymen. Reaching for her wine, she took a sip of the dark red liquid and smiled at the vicomte. He smiled back, a charming and wonderful expression.

  “I have heard this opera is very entertaining,” he said later as he helped her into the carriage. “We still have some time before we are due at the theater. Since we are close to the cathedral, I was wondering if you would mind if we made a brief stop. I must convey an invitation to Father Verbert.”

  “Not at all,” said Mary. “I love the cathedral, and I would welcome any chance to visit the
good father again.”

  It was dark when they left the restaurant, and though clear, the night was cold. Glad for the warmth, Mary drew her velvet cloak around her after the vicomte draped it over her shoulders. Was it her imagination, or had his hands lingered on her shoulders?

  It was a very short trip across the now familiar bridge to the Ile de la Cite and Notre Dame. The air inside the immense stone cathedral was cold, so she kept her cloak on as they walked down the central aisle. They were nearly to the main altar when Father Verbert appeared from the side. His greeting was warm, as it had been on her first visit.

  “Good evening, Lady Mary. I’m so glad Joseph brought you back. But surely this is unusual given the hour.”

  Decazes answered for her. “Father, we are here only for me to convey an invitation for you to join my family one evening next week.”

  And it was indeed that simple. The vicomte and Father Verbert concluded their brief conversation, agreeing on a time with little hesitation. Father Verbert invited them to linger and enjoy the cathedral if they could spare the time, though he himself would bid them au revoir.

  “Thank you, Father,” Decazes replied. “You are most kind, but needs must it will be a short visit. We are on our way to the theater.”

  Father Verbert left them, heading toward the back, and the pair strolled slowly toward the front door, stopping occasionally to look at the statues to the side of the central nave. They took their time and pondered different pieces. Mary had just begun to admire a painting when she felt Decazes move from her side. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him approach the same statue where he’d left the note before. Very quickly he slid a paper into the same crevice. Just as quickly, she turned back to study the painting.

  “It’s a touching scene of the Virgin and Child, is it not?” the vicomte remarked, moving to stand close behind her. “A favorite of mine, in fact.”

  “Is it? I think it is beautiful.”

  Decazes walked a few paces away, seeming to study a sculpture. It took him closer to the cathedral entrance, and at the same moment Mary heard the sounds of others entering the cathedral. Turning, she saw a group of three men. They stood near the door whispering. The vicomte moved farther from her and toward the trio.

  It would be close, but Mary thought she might be able to retrieve the paper without attention being drawn to her. She backed slowly toward the statue and reached for the hidden paper…then she tried to still her heart as she hurried to join the vicomte.

  “We should be going so we are not late,” he said, suddenly serious as he turned from the sculpture before which he stood. The three men at the front of the cathedral were leaving.

  “Of course.” Mary took his offered arm and walked with him to the entrance.

  They had just stepped outside the cathedral when Mary saw a plain carriage waiting in front, and she was instantly aware it was not the vicomte’s. The conveyance was black as night, the curtains drawn over the windows, and it bore no crest, no markings.

  Decazes did not move, just stood giving the carriage a questioning look. Mary turned and saw a man in common clothes come up behind the vicomte. The man raised a pistol and slammed the butt down on the back of Decazes’s head. Mary screamed as her companion sagged to the ground.

  “Grab the woman!” shouted the man to two others who had suddenly appeared on either side of her. Mary knew just enough German to understand. She gasped as one of the two men grabbed her, opened the door of the waiting carriage and roughly shoved her onto its dirty floor. The smell repelled her senses as she struggled to rise.

  The man climbed in behind her and pulled her up onto the seat. The one who had hit Decazes picked him up and shoved him onto the floor of the carriage. Mary started to reach for the opposite door, but another ruffian climbed in and formed a barrier to her escape. A moment later, the man who had hit the vicomte shouted “Gehen Sie!” from outside the carriage, and the vehicle sped off at his command.

  “Who are you, and why are you doing this?” Mary demanded in French, looking anxiously for signs of life from the unconscious vicomte lying in the shadows at her feet.

  “Shut up, wench,” the man on her right replied in French. “The question is, who are you and why did you take the missive?”

  Horrified he had seen her, she did not answer. The two men flanking her were the ones who had spoken to the vicomte at the gallery, she suddenly realized. The vicomte knows them.

  “What are you going to do with us?” she asked.

  “That is none of your concern.” The man’s eyes raked her and then settled on the gap in her cloak that revealed the tops of her breasts. “But I am certain we can find something to do with you until then, eh, Anton?”

  The man sitting on her other side surveyed her body and agreed with a nod of his head. Then he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a length of black cloth, tying it over her eyes. She felt him grab her hands and tie another cloth around her wrists. At least he had left them in front of her.

  “Where are you taking us?” Mary asked desperately. But she was to have no answer. They traveled on in silence; the only sounds were the wheels of the carriage and the horses’ hooves hitting the ground. Decazes did not stir.

  Less than an hour later, the carriage slowed to a stop. Mary could hear nothing but the horses moving in their harnesses and a dog barking somewhere in the night. The sound of footsteps on stone captured her attention, then the carriage door opened and she felt cold air rush into the small space. The man on her right side moved. She could hear him climb from the carriage, as a man outside asked in German, “Franz, what happened? Did she take the message?”

  “Ach, yes, the bitch betrayed him. What a fool he was to trust a woman.”

  Another voice spoke. “Do you have them?”

  The man called Anton sitting beside her rose and left the carriage. Someone began to drag Decazes’s body out, tugging on her skirts as his body slid past.

  Franz spoke again. “Here’s the Frenchman. The woman is still inside.”

  Rough hands pulled her from the carriage. She stumbled, nearly falling as she tried in vain to keep her balance without her hands free to hold on to anything. The damp air was chill and caused her to shiver.

  Still blindfolded, she was pushed into some kind of building. The warmth of the room immediately brought her senses awake; she could hear a fire crackling and smelled food permeating the air. Perhaps they’d just finished dinner? She stumbled on the rug beneath her feet as she was pulled forward. One of the men mumbled an oath under his breath, grabbed her and tore off her blindfold.

  “Enough! You can walk on your own.”

  Once her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw she was in a large house. She wondered whose and where it was. Crystal sconces and dark polished furniture in the entryway indicated a person of means, so it did not belong to Franz or Anton, whose coarse attire and speech did not speak of wealth. The carpets were fine Persians, with ornate red, blue and tan designs. The floors were of polished dark wood.

  Two other men walked in from the next room. One of them wore a cap and a red scarf around his neck with a gray woolen coat and brown trousers. The dress was French, but he too was Prussian; of that, she was certain. The second was dressed in similar fashion, but she thought his clothes were perhaps newer, finer.

  Franz turned to the newcomers. “Get the Frenchman.”

  The vicomte was carried into the house and unceremoniously dumped at Mary’s feet, then her captors began to speak in German, discussing what had happened at the cathedral. As she watched them, a door to the hall opened and a woman stepped through.

  “Theresa!” Mary exclaimed in French. “What are you doing here?”

  The young woman sighed. “You have stumbled into something that is none of your affair, Lady Mary. I feared your meddling when I saw you watching Decazes at the gallery. I am sorry for it, because you have now become a problem. We cannot have you in the middle of this. Our work is too important.”

>   Mary was in shock. She’d been kidnapped, the vicomte was unconscious at her feet and now Theresa Koller was somehow involved. “Theresa, how could you be a part of such treachery? Your brother is an officer!”

  “My brother is a fool—and he is only my half brother. He has no respect for the emperor.” She turned and began to instruct the men in German. “Franz, I must leave. Maurice won’t be home until tomorrow. It is most unfortunate this occurred tonight. You will have to handle the situation. Find out how the general wants to deal with them. Guard them well until you hear from him.” Then she left without a backward glance.

  Mary was just thinking it was likely not a good sign she had been allowed to see their faces and hear their names when Franz grabbed her and informed Anton in German, “I’m taking her upstairs. I’ll come back to help you with the Frenchman in a bit.” He pulled her by her elbow past the entry to a set of wide stairs leading up. She tried to climb as he prodded her forward, but with her hands bound she stumbled and fell backward onto him.

  Franz set her back onto her feet. “Stupid Englishwoman, with all these skirts.” He untied her hands, though, allowing her to lift her skirts to climb the stairs.

  Once upstairs, he shoved her down a hallway and into a large room. It appeared to be a study with a desk and chairs. One wall was lined with books. A low fire burned in the fireplace. She was glad there was no bed.

  Roughly Franz retied her hands behind her back and silently deposited her in a chair at the center of the room. He then found a rope lying in a corner and secured her. It was painful having her hands tied tightly behind her, but she knew her discomfort was unimportant to him so she said nothing.

  When he left, she examined the room for weapons. There was the fire poker, but it was too far away even if her hands had been free. She saw no knives or pistols. A large-paned glass window was set between two cases of books. The tapestry curtains were drawn.

  Soon Franz was back with Anton; the two carried the still unconscious vicomte between them. Without a word they dumped him on the rug and tied his feet and hands. Then they began to discuss her in German. She supposed they did not know she understood, as she had intentionally spoken to them only in French. She tried not to react to what they said.