by Win Hollows
That sort of fervor had been exactly what the Hand of Charlemagne had been looking for, and they had fed off that fire in her for many years.
When Elorie was finally able to leave with her sister, their mother insisted the upstairs maid, Tamara, went with them as a companion, in addition to the driver and footman who would accompany them. Elorie’s nostrils had flared in protest, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it, as it was a reasonable assumption that they would have chaperonage of some kind.
As they walked along a path just above the muddy banks of the river, Elorie realized the gap between herself and her sister would not be easily closed. Though it was a cheerfully sunny day with nary a cloud in the sky, the weather’s mood did not penetrate the sisters’ forced conversation.
Tamara followed them at a discreet pace, and Elorie liked the young maid more because of it, for this wasn’t going well at all.
Every question Elorie asked was met with a one-word answer or a nod. Elorie worried her bottom lip as she wrapped her walking shawl around her more tightly, wondering what would bring her sister out from behind the walls she’d erected in her absence.
“Do you still enjoy maths?” Elorie asked, looking down at the blonde head that wasn’t too much shorter than her own.
Celise nodded, keeping her gaze at her feet as they walked.
Right. Yes-or-no questions probably weren’t the best.
“And what about cats? Whatever happened to Sherlock, your gray tabby?”
At this, Celise looked up and squinted into the sun. “He died.”
Perfect.
“I’m so sorry. Have you had another cat since? Would you like another?” She put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. Perhaps she could breach Celise’s defenses with her love of cats.
“I…” She paused, glancing at Elorie.
Elorie smiled and nodded in encouragement.
“I would like to have a cat again, but Mother does not. She says they shed everywhere.”
A bubble of hope rose in Elorie, and she laughed. “Well, she’s not wrong, but that doesn’t mean you have to listen to her.”
Celise frowned and looked back down at her shoes.
“Celise…” Elorie stopped walking and turned to her sister. She took both of Celise’s shoulders in her hands. “You don’t have to listen to everything she says, you know. You don’t have to do everything she says either. I made that mistake a long time ago, and…”
Celise’s hazel eyes blinked back at her. “And you were gone for four years.”
Elorie was silent for a moment, watching the curiosity in her sister’s eyes that looked much like their mother’s. She dropped her hands from Celise’s shoulders. “Yes.”
“Where were you?” her sister asked bluntly.
Elorie swallowed as she turned away, and they began to walk again. “I will tell you someday. I promise.”
Silence dropped again, like a curtain over a very short-lived show.
Elorie watched as other couples and families strolled along the same wide path, all clearly in much happier moods than she and her sister. All of London rejoiced when the shy sun came out in rainy spring, after all.
All right, it was time to play her last card. “Would you like to meet someone?” she asked Celise.
The younger Crescenfort daughter shook her head. “No, thank you.”
Elorie rolled her eyes and sighed, veering off the path to a nearby bench. “You’ll like him, truly.” She sat on the bench and waited until Celise had seated herself as well. She then pulled a sleeping Porthos out of her dress’s special pocket and rubbed his belly to wake him.
Celise gasped.
Porthos opened his round eyes and looked up at Elorie and then at Celise. He cocked his head, obviously trying to figure out who Celise was and deciding if this person who looked much like his owner met with his approval. He chirped, and Celise jumped, causing Porthos to scamper up Elorie’s sleeve to her shoulder.
“It’s all right,” Elorie said, as much to human as to monkey.
“Wh-what is that?” Celise reached forward and then put her hand down in her lap quickly.
“This is Porthos, and he is a pygmy marmoset monkey.”
Fascinated, Celise’s gaze followed the monkey’s movements.
“Would you like to hold him?” Elorie offered.
“I… Yes,” she blurted, her hands fidgeting in her lap.
Elorie bit back a smile. She handed Celise a piece of dried apple from her other pocket. “Here, offer this to him, and he’ll love you forever.”
Celise held out the palm of her hand and slowly brought it closer to where Porthos sat on her shoulder. Porthos looked at Elorie in question. Elorie nodded to him, and he climbed carefully onto Celise’s hand to grasp the apple treat.
The tiny monkey munched happily as Celise cupped him with both hands and brought him down close to her chest. “Is this all right?” Celise asked, looking up at Elorie.
“Yes, he likes being held close like that, but don’t be surprised if he tries to climb up your arm to explore you.”
Celise giggled as she watched Porthos eat.
Elorie watched Celise interact with the marmoset, and then felt her focus shift as she reached in her pocket again. When she had last dug into it for the dried apple, she had felt a small slip of paper stuffed down in the bottom. She had only worn this dress once, last night, since her other walking dresses would not be ready until the day after tomorrow.
Celise was thoroughly engrossed in letting Porthos crawl up to the crook of her elbow as Elorie unfolded the tiny piece of foolscap.
Only a few words were written on it, and they caused a hot and cold sweat to break out on her skin as she realized what they meant.
243 Whistlethorn Road.
Thursday, seven o’clock
Max.
He must have slipped it into her pocket sometime last night. Heaven knew he’d had plenty of chances while she’d been concentrating on the man’s lips instead of his nimble fingers.
Which meant he had already decided he wanted to see her again before they’d met at the gazebo.
Elorie felt a familiar giddiness swell in her chest, but she cleared her throat and stuffed the note back into her pocket to think over later.
Right now, Celise was here, and she needed all of Elorie’s attention that had been nonexistent for the past four years. A smile grew on Elorie’s face as she saw her sister’s demeanor changing before her eyes, the vivacious little girl she’d once been showing through as Porthos weaseled his way into her heart.
Perhaps she would have a sister again by the time this was all over. Elorie needed someone on her side, anyone at all, even if it was only a thirteen-year-old and a monkey. Someone to talk to, share secrets with, laugh about the silly small things of life. No one had been on her side since before she could remember.
In fact, no one had ever been on her side at all.
****
Max had been summoned.
He hated being summoned, but it was the nature of what he had chosen to become. Sometimes he wished he did not answer to anyone, to just be the Earl of Eydris without all the rest.
Yet he really didn’t. Most of being an earl was monotonous estate responsibilities, parliamentary duties, and socializing. It was why so many of the peerage landed themselves into trouble, the lordlings sowing their wild oats with women and drink, and the women gossiping and scheming behind their fans. The immense pressure of their station combined with boredom was a recipe for discontent, and he was glad he hadn’t fallen prey to many of the vices his peers had over the years.
All the same, he did not appreciate being called into the Home Office to offer a verbal report of his progress in locating the Damarek. He had been quite thorough in his written report and had rarely been made to explain himself further.
When the head of the Division of Foreign Affairs finally called him into his well-appointed office, Max strolled in with a small smile, as if it had been h
is choice to come all along. In reality, it was, as his title outranked the other man’s by leagues, but he didn’t like to use it like a pompous arse if he didn’t need to.
“Lord Eydris, thank you for coming. Please,” he said, indicating a seat in front of his large oak desk. Blake Cunningham was as sharp as they came, and Max had no doubt the man knew things about the goings-on of kingdoms that would make Queen Victoria blush. He was a tall man with perfectly average features, but because of that, his deceptively ambiguous demeanor was somehow as intriguing as if he’d been wearing a crown. He had dark-blue eyes and straight brown hair that he cropped close to his head. Max had heard the ladies found him quite appealing, despite his rather humble beginnings, and as Cunningham was only a few years older than himself, he had to respect the man’s colossally good use of what he’d been given in life.
Cunningham held out a cigar for Max, which he took gladly. Max had always found the aroma and slow pull of smoke relaxing as an occasional ritual. Cunningham snipped the end off for him and lit it silently.
The respect was mutual, Max knew, as Cunningham had brought Max in on many matters over the years that he knew would not have been entrusted to someone they thought wouldn’t be able to get the job done. His title opened doors that others could not, yes, but more than that, they knew he was loyal and did whatever it took without creating international incidents. Discretion was a quality the Home Office valued more than almost anything else, and many operatives had found themselves forced out for their lack of it.
Max had never had that problem, having been taught from a young age as a peer that one did not air the family’s dirty laundry in public. Reputation was everything among the aristocracy, and if they smelled blood in the water, a family’s investments, social engagements, and marriage prospects suddenly dried up like an over-tapped well in the desert. As Max understood these things, he had rarely failed in securing a favorable outcome for the Crown while ensuring the public or the wrong people were blissfully unaware.
If it weren’t for the Viper, his record would have been perfect.
“I wanted to clarify a few things with you regarding your current endeavor.” The inflection in Cunningham’s voice was normal, and yet it was obvious to Max that every word was purposefully modulated.
“Of course. What is it you’d like to know?” Max matched the other man’s tone, and it drew a smile from Cunningham as he sat down in his own chair across the desk. The Director knew when he was on even footing with another man, and Max suspected he enjoyed their interactions, as Cunningham’s intelligence was so rarely met with a similar capacity.
I should introduce him to Asher, Max thought wryly.
“Your report covered the pertinent details, as usual, but there seems to be a gap in information about a French operative we’ve dealt with before. I believe she calls herself the Viper. In your previous missive, you had mentioned she had followed you to Cairdygyn Hold and got her hands on the hold’s Account Records, but you did not explain how.” Cunningham studied Max’s face as he spoke, but Max was much too careful to let any expression show. He went on. “And although you explained why you feel she and her partner no longer warrant concern in obtaining the artifact, I am wondering why it is that you feel no need to mention her, or her absence, in any subsequent reports. She has been a major player in the success or failure of this mission, and yet you have not kept track of her whereabouts or elucidated to this office any further attempts made on your part to be sure of your convictions.”
Although he knew his face gave nothing away, Max was panicking just a little bit inside. He had not mentioned her because he knew she was right here in merry old London, but he didn’t want the Home Office to pursue her. Whatever game she was playing in the ton would be abandoned, and she would flee, most likely to a place where he’d never find her again.
This was what came of entanglements. He felt … well, entangled.
“I understand your concern, as I too have wondered where our old friend might be. But as I said in the March twenty-sixth report, there is no way for her to have pursued the same leads I possess. She stole the account records from my coach after the monk decided to leave it unattended, but there was nothing useful in it any longer. I do not know where she went after the monk and I left Scotland, but I can assure you, she does not have any information that would result in the acquisition of the Damarek. I will attempt to be more forthcoming in future field reports.”
Cunningham did not react at all to his response, as if it was exactly what he expected. “So you have not seen her at all since Cairdygyn Hold?”
Max held the other man’s stare “No.”
A brief flash of Elorie’s golden hair shining in the moonlight as he tipped her head back to kiss her bare neck bombarded his present reality, and Max had to force the traitorous thought away.
The director nodded slowly. “I must tell you, we have received word from a source in France that the operative calling herself the Viper is dead.”
Max’s heart thudded to a stop and then started again. He took another pull on his cigar and maintained his façade as he replied. “Really? That is a relief. Makes things easier for me.”
Cunningham crossed his arms and kept his eyes on Max. “Yes, I imagine it does. Her real name was Elorie Lavoie, as you know.”
Max was beginning to get the feeling that he had been called here not to explain anything, but to be pinned to the wall and dissected. “Why feel the need to call me in if you already knew she was dead?”
The cigar Cunningham held glowed brighter as he took a drag on it and blew out a stream of sweet smoke through his nostrils, making him look for a brief moment like the devil incarnate come to torture him for the fun of it. “I wanted to be sure the French didn’t have anything with which to continue her pursuit of the artifact.”
Max almost snorted. Almost. “I see. Well, I believe we’ll both sleep easier tonight with the knowledge that Elorie Lavoie is no longer among the living.” He rose from his seat and stamped out his cigar on the metal plate in the corner of Cunningham’s desk.
The director rose as well.
“I assume I have permission to continue pursuing my lead here in England as intended?” Max raised a brow.
Cunningham shuffled some papers together in front of him without looking down. “By all means.” He paused and then ground his own cigar onto the gold plate. “But tell me, Eydris, how much interaction did you have with Elorie Lavoie over the years? I know she was involved in several of the same missions you were and made things difficult at times. Did you ever have physical contact with her at any point?”
Why was he asking him this? What could it matter now?
Max narrowed his eyes. “Are you asking me if I’ve ever had to engage her in close combat during the course of a mission?”
The other man didn’t answer immediately. “Something like that.”
Max’s mind whirred.
Losif. Perhaps the monk had actually seen the kiss between himself and the French spy and had reported it to Cunningham. After all, the monk’s allegiance was to his Order and the safety of the Damarek.
“I have been in close quarters with her out of necessity a few times, but I have never done her physical harm, nor she I.”
Cunningham smiled again, but his eyes were flinty. “I find your answers intriguing, and I appreciate the skill it takes to play your cards close to the vest, as it were. However, you didn’t fully answer the question.”
“I find your inquiries just as intriguing, seeing as how we are discussing a dead woman with no relevance to current affairs any longer. So you can understand my reticence in elaborating on something nonexistent, as my loyalties have never been in question before.”
Cunningham inclined his head. “I’ll concede that. This mission is a delicate one, as you are aware, and I must question everything if we are to attempt an avoidance of what I fear may become outright war as this problem escalates. War between countries like France and Russ
ia will not allow us to sit on the fringes and watch. It will mean many lives lost, and the spilling of English blood. I do not take such things lightly, so I make no apologies for questions which answers could affect the outcome of our nation.”
Max nodded. “I agree, and you know that I have always been willing to do whatever is necessary in service to England. That has not changed.”
Cunningham pinched the bridge of his nose and scrunched his eyes for a moment before meeting Max’s again. “I know that. Truly I do.”
Max frowned. “Then what—”
The director waved the unfinished question away. “That’s all for now, Lord Eydris. Please give my regards to the Countess.”
Blinking, Max raised his brows. No one would dare dismiss a peer of the realm as Cunningham had just done, but Max just shook his head and sighed. “’Til next time, Director.”
Cunningham nodded, and Max kept his movements free of the sudden unease he felt as he knew the man watched him turn and walk from the office.
Chapter Eight
It was six-fifteen.
Elorie looked at the clock in Raquel Tierney’s tea room for the sixteenth time, still unsure what she would do.
All four ladies sat around a central tea table that had been custom-made for the ducal residence. The room was cozy and richly decorated in lilacs and purples, as it was not the main drawing room, but Raquel’s personal tea room in her suites at Scythemore Manor.
Tea had been served with a selection of smoked salmon sandwiches, cakes, and an assortment of French cheeses and brioche that made Elorie’s mouth water. Her mother had stopped importing cheeses at the same time they’d had to let their French chef go, and Elorie had felt deprived ever since. She was prone to despairing over the bland English food since she’d returned, but at least the Duke of Scythemore had not had cause to skimp on good cuisine.
“Ask Lilah!” Raquel exclaimed, jolting Elorie from her thoughts about cheese. Raquel turned to Elorie to explain. “Delilah is on the board of a charity for unclaimed animals, so perhaps she knows if other species besides rats are capable of harboring sickness like Asher claims.”
