by Diana Quincy
“Despite your average appearance, you possess a certain—je ne sais quoi—fierceness.” He spoke as if he assessed a mare at Tatersall’s, London’s premier purveyor of horseflesh for gentlemen of means. “On the surface you are a lady, but it is the hint of wildness beneath that makes a man want to mount you and bring you into submission.”
She swallowed down her distaste. “You mentioned a proposition,” she prompted politely.
“I propose an exchange of sorts.” He took a hearty bite of buttered eggs. “I give you the girl and you secure the information I desire.”
She frowned, at first not comprehending his meaning. “The girl?” Her heart started to race. “Do you speak of Susanna? Have you found my daughter?”
He chewed on a small, flat sausage. “Yes.”
“Where is she?” She gripped his thick forearm, cautious joy kindling in her heart. “When can I see her?”
It had been four months since she’d learned the miraculous news that the child lived. She’d always believed Susanna had perished at birth, but Moineau―a longtime friend of her late husband’s—had come to her shortly after her release with news the girl had been stolen at birth. Elle didn’t know precisely what Moineau’s connections were, but the Frenchman was known to have an admirable network of informants at all levels of Paris society.
The revelation illuminated just how defective she was. Any decent mother would have intuited that her child was alive. She obviously lacked the most basic maternal instincts. Nothing else could explain why she’d failed Susanna so miserably, allowing her to spend her entire young life with strangers, people who might be mistreating her at this very moment.
She might not be much of a mother, but Elle was determined to put things to rights as much as she could. She’d cultivated a friendship with Duret, believing his vast resources as a powerful police ministry official could help find her daughter. And now it seemed her calculation had been a wise one.
“I do, in fact, know where the girl is.” His fork scraped against his plate. “But before you see her, you must deliver something of value to me.”
“Done.” She knew he’d never give her anything free of obligation. “You have only to name it.”
“I expect you to use your unique appeal to identify and seduce a foreign operative who is of high interest to the French republic.”
She blinked and sat back in her chair. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, but I am,” he said easily. “Very much so. We have information that the British have planted one of their best agents among us. We have long sought to unmask the elusive spymaster known as Le Rasoir.”
“The Razor?” She shook her head, incredulous. “A rather cryptic sobriquet, don’t you think?”
“An accurate one, regrettably. His operations are conducted with perfect precision. From our understanding, Le Rasoir has never lost a fellow agent on a mission, and no innocents have been sacrificed in his quest to accomplish his goals. Yet he is lethal when challenged and has bested many of our agents with nothing but his bare hands.”
“So he only murders fellow spies?” she said. “Such a paragon.”
“We’ve narrowed the suspect down to a gentleman who has recently come to Paris. You will entertain him with the purpose of unveiling him as Le Rasoir.” He sipped his coffee. “You are to become his mistress, earn his trust, learn what his current mission is, and report back to me.”
She couldn’t believe he was serious. “Even if I were to agree, how could I possibly know anything about unmasking a spy?”
He shrugged. “Tempt him into your bed without delay. The male of the species is most accommodating once their lust has been satisfied.”
“It’s a preposterous plan.” The words were cool, even as panic drummed in her chest. What would become of Susanna if she failed to do Duret’s bidding? “I know nothing of intrigue and, according to you, even your best men cannot find this Razor person you seek.”
“But you are not a man.” A smug expression settled over his face. “Men have a weakness for alluring women, and you are more enchanting than most.”
“I am not that alluring,” she said tartly.
“Do not underestimate your charms.” He took a big gulp of coffee. “Besides, an agent of the Crown will find it easier to share confidences with the daughter of one of England’s most revered statesmen.”
Dread shivered down her spine. They’d selected her to entrap the Razor due to her high-ranking family. But would a man known for his slyness relax his guard solely because of her conection to the upper reaches of power in England? Surely, her friendly acquaintance with Duret would put any English representative worth his salt on his guard.
“Even if I were to consider such a tawdry endeavor, how can I be assured you have found my daughter?” But as she asked, she knew he had. It fit with what Moineau had revealed—that her baby had been spirited away by someone at the highest levels of government.
“I did not exactly find her,” Duret said.
“I don’t take your meaning.”
“What I mean to say, cheri, is that I didn’t find her because I’ve had her all along.”
She inhaled her shock. “How is that possible?”
“As soon as you birthed the babe, she was delivered into the hands of one of my factors.”
“For what purpose?” Disbelief rippled through her. All these months—all these years—Duret had been the one holding her daughter? “Why would you steal my child from me?”
“I surmised the granddaughter of the great Marquess of Aldridge could one day be of great use to us, a valuable bargaining chip to extract a favor from a nobleman who is privy to all of England’s secrets.” His eyes gleamed. “Aldridge’s devotion to his family is well known. As a loving grandfather, he could be expected to bend to Napoléon’s will in exchange for his granddaughter’s freedom.”
She exhaled as the meaning of his words sank in. “You thought to use my child to make my father a traitor to his own country.”
“Exactament.” He motioned for his man to bring him more coffee. “However, there has been a slight change in plans. Instead of the grandfather, the child’s mother will help orchestrate Le Rasoir’s demise.”
She forced air into her frozen lungs, watching blindly as Jean Paul came forward to refill his master’s cup. The Razor was obviously an asset to England, and she was being asked to facilitate his ruin. “You expect me to whore myself and conspire against my country in exchange for my child?”
“Yes indeed.” He wiped the plate with his toast, soaking up the last bits of juice. “You take my meaning perfectly.”
“Where has my daughter been all this time?” Her heart ached at the thought of the little girl she’d never met left to the mercy of strangers. “What have you done with her?”
He tossed the final remnant of toast into his mouth and licked his fingers. “She is with a genteel family in the country, where she has been well looked after.”
As the shock wore off, fury and outrage began to take root. She clasped her hands together in her lap, resisting the urge to launch herself at him and gouge his eyes out. “And if I refuse?”
“Do you know how much pretty little virgins sell for in the House of Venus?”
She shot him a horrified look. Duret was capable of this, and worse.
“More even than your admirer paid for the pleasure of your company last evening.” He pushed the now-empty plate away from him and reclined back in his chair with his coffee. “Your little Susanna is how old now? Almost six, n’est-ce pas? Reports are that she is a very pretty and precocious child. The price for her innocence would be very high indeed.”
“Surely even you aren’t capable of doing something so awful.”
“I wouldn’t even think of it.” He sipped from his hot drink. “But for some men, such a thing is to their taste, and there are establishments that are known to cater to their desires.”
She thought of the vile bawd’s house frequented by D
uret. The idea that children could be one of the peculiar sexual tastes Sophie had referred to prompted bile to rise through her stomach and into her throat. She reached for her water glass with trembling hands and brought it to her lips, swallowing the cool liquid slowly to settle her nausea.
“Your daughter’s future is entirely in your hands now.” He quieted for a moment, concentrating as he tugged hard on each of his fingers, methodically cracking his knuckles one at a time, the popping sounds punctuating the silence. “Should you fail in your duty to France, you would be the one subjecting the child to so dire a fate.”
Rage pulsed in her veins, and the impulse to cause him grievous injury gripped her. She ran a light finger over the innocent-looking knife she’d used to spread jam on her toast, tracing the handle’s ornate rococo style pattern. The polished silver was cool to the touch, the shiny blades almost pristine, except for the traces of jam and crumbs. She wondered how far she would have to ram it into his eye to reach his brain. Was it even possible? “So my choice is either to become a whore or allow you to make one of my child.”
“Exactement.”
She tried to think rationally. The idea of spying against England, the home she loved, was unthinkable. But she was a mother before all else—if a woman who’d never held her child in her arms could be considered a true mother. Her throat constricted, and the familiar blanket of guilt and self-loathing for having failed her daughter settled over her. Duret might pretend to be giving her an option, but Elle had no choice in the matter.
She turned to him. “Who is this gentleman you wish for me to seduce secrets from? How would I make myself known to him without arousing suspicion?”
He chuckled. “That is the beauty of it, my dear. You already know him quite well.”
A sense of foreboding shivered up her spine. “I do?”
“Absolument! It is Monsieur Naismith, and you will do whatever is required to learn his secrets. All for the greater glory of France.”
Chapter 4
“Will Naismith?” It was so absurd, laughter burst from her chest. “A secret agent?”
His salt-and-pepper brows lifted. “Your mission amuses you?”
“It’s your supposition that Mr. Naismith could be a spy that I find entertaining.”
Sipping his coffee, he regarded her with the glassy stare that belied his irritation. “Granted, there is much we still don’t know, however—”
“I would say there is a great deal you have no knowledge of if you think Will Naismith, of all people, is a spy.” She laughed again, even though doing so would further aggravate his distemper. She couldn’t help herself; the very idea was too ridiculous.
When Will had visited them in Dorset long ago on school breaks, his nose had always been buried in one book or another, and her brother, Cosmo, had endlessly teased his scholarly friend for his complete lack of interest in athletic pursuits; he’d practically had to drag Will away from his studies to go riding or carousing. “The gentleman you speak of is a scholar who pursues one useless old coin after another.”
“Naismith is a clerk at the Home Office in London. While in Paris, he spends a great deal of time with Lucian Verney, who is attached to the embassy here.”
“Mr. Verney?” She recalled the dignified, dark-haired gentleman who’d been with Will and Monsieur D’Aubigne last night. “You suspect him as well?”
“Given their situations, both men would have access to important information. Perhaps there is an official connection between Verney and Le Rasoir. It is for you to discover.”
Elle had no idea what Verney did at the embassy, but she’d met many clerks in her time, primarily through her father’s work in the House of Lords. Most of them were lackluster types best suited to taking copious notes and following orders. “Mr. Naismith is just a clerk. I cannot imagine a clerk having access to important information. Especially not Will. The very idea is laughable.”
“Enough!” Duret’s fleshy palm slammed down hard on the wooden tabletop, which shuddered under the assault. “Do you accept my conditions?”
“Yes.” What else could she do? Susanna needed her, and she wouldn’t abandon her daughter again. Besides, Le Rasoir sounded like a man who could fend for himself. It was laughable to suggest she posed any sort of viable threat to an elusive English spy. “However, I won’t agree to be made a whore. I shall befriend Mr. Naismith and endeavor to obtain the information you seek.” Hopefully, that would be enough. She needed to bide her time until Moineau resurfaced with news of Susanna’s exact whereabouts.
“Just remember that failure is not an option.” Duret leaned forward, his beady gaze sending a blast of cold air straight to her bones. “If you must lift your skirts and spread your legs to save your daughter from doing the same, I expect you to reveal the true spymaster, and I expect you to make quick work of it.”
—
“Nothing,” said Lucian Verney. “Silent as the grave.”
Will, Lucian, and Henri strolled through Luxembourg Gardens, which had once been home to a French king’s widow. Of all the palaces in Paris, few compared to Luxembourg in magnificence. With its dome and pavilions, the ornate palace designed in the Florentine style provided a spectacular backdrop as they ambled past neatly laid-out trees, vases, and statues.
“What of the servants?” Will asked. Those who lived below stairs were normally excellent sources of information about the masters who resided above.
“Madame Laurent’s servants are remarkably loyal,” Lucian said. “Not a word from them about her comings and goings.” Will surveyed the area, scanning the path ahead, which was lined with orange trees that infused the air with a citrusy scent. He couldn’t shake the sense of being watched, but he saw nothing amiss, just other Parisians enjoying the garden’s delights.
“Madame Laurent?” Henri asked, a burning cheroot dangling between his fingers. “You have an interest in her comings and goings?”
“She is a close associate of Duret’s,” Will said mildly, looking over his shoulder. He couldn’t shake the sensation they were being followed. “As such, she is of interest.”
Skepticism hummed from Henri’s throat, although he nodded and exhaled, engulfing himself in a fog of smoke. “Bien sûr.”
They turned onto a path that led to a fruit garden. There were several varieties of pear and apple trees, the crisp-sweet scent taking Will back to the orchard at Langtry where a precocious twelve-year-old Elle had fallen out of a tree and first declared her intention to marry him.
Ignoring the lingering ache in his gut, he waved away the silvery plume of smoke Henri exhaled in his direction. “Do be kind enough to blow in the opposite direction. What a filthy habit.”
“It gives me pleasure.” Henri’s moist lips sucked on the cheroot. “Not, perhaps, in the same way Madame Laurent gives you pleasure, but a man must take his enjoyment where he can.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Will forced himself not to stiffen. “Lady Elinor is a long-ago acquaintance and nothing more. My interest in her is solely professional in nature.”
“I see.” Cynicism lined Henri’s craggy face. “And what is it you would like to know?”
“I merely wish to observe her.” To determine how involved she was with Duret. “She could be an asset.”
“Ah.” Henri exhaled circles of smoke into the air. “The plot grows more intriguing by the moment.”
“What kind of asset?” Lucian asked.
Henri smirked. “An asset between the bedclothes, no doubt. First, Madame Laurent entrances Duret and now our cold fish of a friend has fallen victim to her considerable charms.”
“Watch your tongue, Henri.” He said the words coolly, but the warning was clear. “You’re speaking of a lady.”
Henri chuckled, undeterred. “Up until now, I thought the only women who could raise your temperature were the dead ones found on cold metal coins.”
“The only febrile thing here is your imagination, D’Aubigne.” He tilted his head ba
ck, allowing his gaze to float upward over the treetops in a practiced show of disinterest. “Madame Laurent has Duret’s ear. If she is not working for the French, then she might prove useful to us.”
Henri tossed his cheroot away. “This evening you will find Madame Laurent at Frascati’s.”
Lucian exhaled his shock. “Surely not!”
Will’s curious gaze bounced between the two men. “What is Frascati’s?”
“It’s a gaming hell,” Lucian exclaimed in a huff of outrage. “No lady of character would frequent such an establishment.”
“Nonsense. Frascati’s is most respectable for those seeking an evening of pleasure.” Henri adopted the tone of a kindly uncle explaining the ways of the world to an innocent. “It is the only establishment of its kind that ladies can enter freely without fear of a stain on their reputation.”
“How can you be certain that she will be in attendance?” Will asked.
Henri shrugged and plucked a golden apple from a low-hanging branch. “Madame Laurent and her set attend every Tuesday evening. I have my methods of learning such things.”
Will didn’t doubt it. Henri’s vast resources were the reason the Crown compensated him so handsomely for information. “Do we need an invitation?”
Henri buffed the apple with the striped blue waistcoat straining across the generous prow of his belly. “Everyone is welcome, provided they pay the entrance fee of three livres.”
“Well, that’s it, then,” Will said. “This evening we try our hand at roulette.”
“Our sojourn should prove most amusing.” Henri bit into the apple with a loud crunch, chewing the crisp flesh with obvious appreciation. “Especially with such succulent fruit there as temptation.”
—
A few minutes earlier, Elle was walking through Luxembourg Gardens contemplating the impossible task Duret had set for her.
She couldn’t imagine erudite Will as a lethally competent spymaster. Although the gentleman she’d fallen in love with as a girl did have a quiet strength to him, she couldn’t envision Will killing anyone, especially not with his bare hands. The very idea was preposterous.
