A Spy who Abandoned the Game
A Double-Agent who barely Escaped Capture
A Cryptographer better with Puzzles than with People
The Spy-Hunter who wants Revenge
The Dangers for Spies
Prologue ~ 1810 July ~ London
The door opened. Eugenie remained as she was,
staring through the rain-drenched window at the garden. If she were to die
here, the only place in the world where she had expected safety after six years
of hiding, then so be it. She had wearied of running.
A footstep, then the door closed. More footsteps,
quickly muffled by the flat-weave carpet covering the wax-sheened floor.
Had she been in Paris, pretending to be Madame de
la Croix, she would have greeted the incomer with a glittering smile and
effusive chatter. Had she been in Brussels or Dusseldorf or Groningen, she
would have surreptitiously drawn her little pistol then waited to see if the
intruder were a thief or a murderer. Yet she was in London, at Sir Roger
Nazenby’s residence in exclusive Mayfair, and she took neither of those
actions.
He stopped several steps away. Was he innately
wary? Or had caution come after years as England’s great spycatcher? Eugenie
had given the barest name to the servant. She had almost expected to be refused
entrance. Yet the bruiser serving as doorman had admitted her without question.
Apparently, mysterious visitors often came to Sir Roger’s door. And the
mantilla and voluminous cloak that shielded her identity had not twitched a single
of his whiskers.
The silence grew heavy before Nazenby spoke. “Madam, you
wished to speak with me?”
Either the servant hadn’t conveyed her name or the
great English spycatcher would not use it until he confirmed her identity
himself.
“I do.” Turning from the window, Eugenie lifted
the black mantilla from her hair. As it dropped, she felt naked, but his gasp
of recognition eased the first of her many worries. The black lace had
disguised her from Groningen to here. “Good afternoon, Sir Roger.”
“Madame de la Croix. We thought you lost to us.”
“I nearly was. And I am she no longer. Please to
remember that.”
Nazenby was much as she remembered him: a slim
man, well-dressed in the height of English fashion. His striped waistcoat and
bright yellow ascot drew attention from his features. His legendary sartorial
elegance disguised his lethality better than her lacy veil and heavy cloak
disguised her identity. Hiding her appearance, though, kept her alive.
“Come, sit down.” He gestured with a pale-skinned
hand. “Would you care for wine?”
“Cognac, if you have it.”
That request startled the great man. After a
hesitation, he did not deny her the stronger liquor usually reserved for men. She
crossed to the marble-wrapped hearth, empty of fuel in London’s summer. Throwing
open her cloak, she took the closer seat and eyed the great spycatcher.
He had not greatly changed in nine years: more
grey hairs peppered his hair, but his back remained stiff and straight. A few
more lines on his face, but nothing that marred his elegance. Eugenie had timed
her arrival to intercept him before preparation for any evening’s entertainment. He looked
almost the same as he had upon their first meeting in Paris, only a few months
after she’d ventured to the capitol to locate her missing brother. Her
masquerade as the wife of Louis Langlais de la Croix had temporarily fooled
even the keen-witted Nazenby.
Her own mirror revealed how much she herself had
changed. Six years of deprivation had sucked the fat silkiness from her flesh. She
had no silver yet, but weary hollows darkened her skin. In Paris, she had
attired beautifully, as befitted the rich widow of M’sieur de la Croix. When she fled, she had dressed to hide. Everything
that remained to her, including her dull green traveling gown, was travel-worn
and out of fashion.
Nazenby handed her a snifter. She glanced up as
she accepted it and caught his narrowed eyes. “Counting the changes, Sir
Roger?”
“I do apologize.”
She shrugged. “Do not. I myself have counted each
one. As I count your changes.”
A smile flickered out at her honesty, then he gave
her an unexpected compliment. “You speak English with only a slight accent
now.”
She watched the cognac swirl in the glass. “That
is not the greatest change.”
“No, it is not. I must say, your name was not one
that I ever expected to hear.” He leaned back on his upholstered chair, but
remained stiff. “You were reported arrested. Executed within the week. How did
you escape?”
“And you wonder who died in my place?” she added softly. Her
lashes lifted. Yes, she watched him
closely, that was his chief question. Not
how I escaped, but who was sacrificed to enable my escape? “Here is a name
for your dossier: Annette DesChamps. My cousin from Saumer died. The
authorities did not realize their mistake. She must have screamed of their
mistake, but why would they believe any prisoner who matched the description of
the woman they needed to arrest? Annette and I did look much alike.”
“How did she fall into their trap?”
“Whoever in my household betrayed me did not know
that she had arrived late the night before.”
“You were ... fortunate.”
Eugenie’s eyelids flared. “I still am. I still
bear the guilt of her death. Do not think, Sir Roger, that I am blithe and
carefree. Her death by the greatest of misfortunes aided my escape. She remains
on my conscience.”
He did not pursue a dialogue about Annette. He
sipped his cognac then asked again, “How did you escape?”
Eugenie had known she must reveal much to the
Englishman before he would help her. “Madame de la Croix would have fled west
or north. I went to Metz, to an old friend of Louis, a man unknown to his
associates in Paris.”
He followed what she had buried in the list of
places. “Louis told you of Abbé Villiers?”
“The abbé helped me travel to Brussels.”
“You risked his life. He is a great contact for
us.”
“Never fear that I was in a foolish headlong
flight.”
“You should not have risked him. Louis Langley
would have taught you that.”
“I took great care, Sir Roger. I approached him in
the church confessional. I took only information from him. We were never seen
together. This is the training of Louis, to protect this back door from France.
Was the abbé taken up?”
“He was not.”
“Alors,” the word escaped with her relief. “I
am reassured, as you doubtless are. Poulaine would have been a dog after his
bone, snatching anyone up since his two objects escaped him, myself and
Delaney.”
“How do you know Delaney escaped?”
“I encountered an associate of his in Dusseldorf. Only
he used Delaney’s other alias, Jean Louis Jettere.”
“So, Paris to Metz, and Metz to Brussels.” He
sipped his cognac again. His crossed leg swung, the buckle on his polished shoe
flashing in the dreary daylight. “From Brussels to Dusseldorf, I must presume,
since you encountered one of Delaney’s contacts there. And then to where,
Madam?”
“Groningen.”
“An unusual choice.”
“The very reason I chose it. But it is not easy to
sell jewels for their worth in that city.” Remembering the dark streets where
she had hidden while she slaved at work, she shivered. She sipped the cognac in
her turn, and it warmed her core. “Earning the money for my passage from
Groningen to Dover took much time. You English have many smugglers plying the
waters of the Channel. They care not at all whom they ferry to their home
shores as long as one pays the exorbitant price.”
“You are recently arrived in England?”
“Very recently. I come to you first.”
“You wish me to give you Delaney’s identity?”
“Delaney? No. I do not wish to know it. Such
knowledge is dangerous, for me, for him. Poulaine will still be on the hunt. Six
years will not have slackened his pursuit. He is a man who does not forget.”
“He thinks you dead.”
“Do not make the mistake that others have with
Didier Poulaine, Sir Roger. He never, never forgets an enemy. He will end his
hunt only when he has found his prey or when he dies.”
“He thinks you are dead.”
Eugenie continued to shake her head. “Poulaine
would have known the mistake of Annette’s arrest as soon as he returned to
Paris. He is a man who would not care that he sacrificed her. For this reason
alone I have never returned to France.”
“You must miss your home,” he said blandly.
She narrowed her eyes then quickly smoothed away
the revealing expression. “France has not been my home for many years. I am no Bonapartiste. Louis told you that.”
“He never explained the reason you married him. I
know before his death that you ran his messages and ferreted out information. That
was the only reason I consented to Ken—Keiran Delaney’s association with you.”
He thought her a traitor to Louis’ ideals and work
in Paris. After six years and her life in jeopardy, he still thought she had
sold Delaney out to the French spymaster Poulaine. “I am no traitor to Louis. I was
not the reason that Poulaine identified us as spies.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed, and her frustration
increased. “I will want to talk with you more on that matter.”
“I do not support the current French regime. Louis
told you this.”
“I admit that Louis never fully explained the
reason you hated Boney.”
Eugenie’s hand shook. She set the snifter on a
side table, but she knew Nazenby had spotted that betraying tremor. “Napoleon
killed all the men of my family, Sir Roger. My older brother was one of the
sick at Acre that Napoleon poisoned before his retreat. His consul exiled my
father to French Guiana. Papa did not survive the voyage. My younger brother
was abandoned, alone in Paris, when my father was arrested. He must have been
murdered or left to die. That is a better ending than others that I have imagined.
Rainier was only eight, Sir Roger, and recovering from an illness when my
father was arrested.” After ten years, her anger still burned like acid. “When
I reached Paris, the concierge of Papa’s hotel could only tell me that Rainier
had disappeared the night Papa was arrested. He had only eight years. Eight.” She
dashed away angry tears.
“You were not much older, were you? Louis told me
you were twenty when he married you. That was a lie, wasn’t it?”
“He believed the age I told him.”
“How old?”
“What does it matter?” Sudden weariness slumped
her shoulders. The sips of cognac had lost their bracing effect, and she
shivered with a soul-deep chill. “I had five and ten years. But Louis, he did
not consummate the marriage. He told you this. I heard him.”
“He did. Do you think your vehement hatred of
Napoleon is born of your youth? Many countries make mistakes.”
“Oui, c’est
vrai. But Napoleon is power-mad and manipulative. I warned Louis of this. I
warned him that Napoleon wanted all of Europe. Has that not come true? England
remains the only hope to stop him, so I throw my lot in with you.”
Her tirade affected him not at all. “Throw your
lot in with us? You picked up some gambling cant in your travels, didn’t you?”
“I learned the most of it from your Keiran Delaney.
He was as reckless as a gambler at the tables, with his jeu parti.”
Nazenby set aside his snifter. “What do you want, Mdm.
de la Croix?”
“I have said: I am no longer she. She was a mask
for a time and a place. I have been many names in the past six years. I would
return to being myself.”
Resting his elbows on the chair arms, he templed
his fingers. “And who is that?”
“Ah no, Sir Roger. To return to myself, I must be
assured of safety. Louis warned me about you. Once you have a spy, you never
release him. But I will not spy for you. I cannot any longer. Not in Paris. Not
anywhere that Bonaparte controls. The world has narrowed for me.”
“I repeat: what do you want?”
“Louis left me money in your English bank—unless
you consider his coin belongs to your government.”
“Louis funded his own mission, Madame. That
enabled him to ignore my advice.”
Eugenie lifted one eyebrow, for Sir Roger had
advised Louis to distance himself from the young Française who pretended to be his wife. She did not task him with
that, though. “And the Langley family?” she asked, revealing that she knew de
la Croix was an assumed name.
Sir Roger dropped his hands. He continued to swing
one elegantly hosed leg. “He had no heirs. His money was his own. If he
bequeathed it to you, it remains yours, even after nine years.”
His words tallied with what Louis had told her in
the days before his body failed. “You ask what I want? I wish a place, a place
to live much retired.”
“You are still young. You are as beautiful and
elegant as ever, Madame. Finding another protector would not be difficult. I
can introduce you—.”
“Non. Sacre bleu, you misunderstand. I will not live in London. I wish a petite maison in the country. Mon famille, we had a farm before my
father involved himself in the politics of the Republic. I wish such a place to
find.”
“My home is in London, not the country.”
“Tiens,
again you misunderstand. Is this with deliberation? I do not involve you, Sir
Roger. I tell you. I will find my little house. You need not lift a finger.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Me, I know you, the great spycatcher of England. It
is a hunt for you. I come here this day, for very soon you will hear of a
French widow residing in England. You will suspect her. You keep a finger tracking
all the émigrés, this you must do. If you hear of such a Française, with such-and-such a name,
you would send one of your people to investigate. And you would speculate on my
intentions. So I tell you now, whether you believe me or not.
“I do not return to the spy game and work against
you, Sir Roger. I am no Bonapartiste. You never
trusted me, not as Louis and Delaney did. I come here and tell you all this.
You will continue to doubt me; it is your way. Louis told me this. Mais si, you will know where I live, for
I will write to you a letter for that purpose.” Eugenie leaned back and took a
deep breath. She gave him her wide guileless eyes and knew he would still doubt.
“I will do all this with your consent.”
Nazenby leaned forward. “Why do you need my
consent? You have no connection to me. You never worked for the British
government. Your plan is in motion.”
“It is not a plan, not as Louis and Delaney would
make the plans to get the information you wanted. I wish only to live a quiet
life in your English countryside. Me, I am practical, for the great Sir Roger
Nazenby would be very suspicious if I did not apprise you of this beforehand. Would
you not?”
“I find myself suspicious because you inform me of
your plans.”
Eugenie dipped her head and picked up the brandy
snifter. “This is as it should be. I played a double game in Paris, did I not? You
would be a fool to trust me now. You will keep a watch upon me. I wish you to
do so.”
His mouth twitched. “A useless watch when you know
my man is there.”
“Whether I know or not, I will always anticipate
that he is. Always.”
“You are as suspicious as I am.”
She sipped the cognac. “It is how I stayed alive,
Sir Roger. Not all in my household did. My innocent cousin suffered and died. And
I never could discover if Delaney knew I had escaped.”
“You wish to be re-united with him?”
“Non!”
“He reported you dead. He saw you executed.”
“The fool! He should not have returned to Paris.”
“Should I inform Ken-Keiran Delaney that you
survived and are in England?”
“To what purpose? To weigh him down with guilt? No.
He could not save Annette. He should not have tried to save me.”
“Will you seek him out?”
She laughed, brief and humorless. “We were not
lovers. Poulaine thought we were. Did you think that as well, Sir Roger?”
“He gave the impression of a man enamored of you. If
you expect to find him, he’s not the man you will remember. He’s hardened. He’s
earned a reputation as a rake and a gamester, and he deserves it.”
“I do not wish to find him. I do not seek that old
life. It is gone, as cold as my mother and my father, my brothers and my cousin
Annette, all in the grave. That life is over. Not to be forgotten, but also not
to be re-lived.” She set aside the scarcely sipped cognac and lifted the
mantilla over her head as she rose.
Ever the gentleman, Nazenby rose as well. “You
have a direction for me?”
“No.” She smiled. A little of her natural humor,
repressed throughout this interview, peeked through. “For I did not know if my
plan could continue. I do live on your graces, Sir Roger.”
“A quiet country life.” He shook his head. “You
will find that dull after your adventures.”
Eugenie laughed. “I will find it very far from
dull.”
Chapter 1 ~ Monday, 24 February 1812
Little Houghton, Yorkshire
Eugenie caught the hands of the little boy and
spun him round and round until she staggered. Laughing, they both fell onto the
rain-damp ground.
An older boy plopped down beside her. “I like it
here best, Mrs. DesChamps.”
“Because I do not give you the chores and make you
study your lessons, yes? Escape, it is necessary, Matthew. It does not always
last as long as we want, though.” Two
years, not nearly long enough, and Eugenie prayed that her little sanctuary
would continue to last.
A shadow fell over them. A frisson of alarm running
over her, Eugenie blinked, but the person blocking the sunlight was only
Matthew’s sister Melly Ratcliffe.
“You’ll get damp on the ground. It was hard frost
this morning and frost on the morrow. Up with you three.”
“See?” she said to the boys. “Responsibilities
crowd at us.” But she stood and brushed over her backside. Her skirt was damp. “Hot
tea, Melly?”
“Piping hot.” The young woman smiled. “With
scones,” she directed at the boys. They yelped and ran for the house. “Scones
are only for boys who wash their hands and faces,” she called after them.
Without turning around, Matthew waved at his
sister. He said something to the smaller boy, and their speed to the house
picked up.
Melly laughed and linked her arm with Eugenie. “Mention
food, and boys lose all manners. You have charmed another one, Eugenie.”
“What? Little Robert? How is this? Does no one
else spin him in the air? I do not believe it. And he likes scones more than he
likes me. Both of them do. Men will always want food over women.”
“You are no romantic.”
She chuckled. “Me, I am practical.”
They reached the garden gate that the boys had
left open. Eugenie tsked and let Melly precede her. She shut it firmly
then turned and realized that the younger woman was not only waiting, but she
looked determined about something.
“You have news, I think.”
“How do you do that, Jenny? Sometimes I think you
are a witch. I know you are. Yes, I have news. He’s coming.”
“He is? Your Mr. Kennit? Has he written? Melly, my
sweet friend, you will be married before Pentecost, if not before.”
“My father will not want us to marry so soon. He
will think it ill-advised.”
“Then you and your Mr. Kennit must convince him
otherwise. You must enlist your mother and your great-aunt. When does he arrive?
What will you wear? Come, we have plans to make. I do not like this fashion of
damp petticoats. I will succumb to a catarrh and miss Mr. Kennit’s arrival.”
Melly glanced at her back. “It’s not just your
petticoats that are damp.” Giggling, they entered the house.
Watching her friend and the two boys consume hot
tea and scones and the little savory tarts, Eugenie realized that she would
soon lose her friend to this Mr. Kennit with his farm in Wales and a house in
London. She did not want her to marry, but she knew Melly considered herself in
love with Tobias Kennit. If the Rev. Ratcliffe approved of his daughter’s
choice, what right did she, an outsider hiding in Little Houghton, have to
interfere in the marriage? And her interference would be for selfish reasons. No,
she would say nothing.
She would miss Melly. The young woman and her
brother brought laughter to Eugenie’s petite
maison nearly on a daily basis. Such brightness kept the shadows of the
past at bay.
She did not know that soon those shadows would
step once more into the light.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Monday, 24 February 1812 ~ London
Tobias Kennit saw Sir Roger Nazenby enter the
Straights’ main gaming room. The man looked neither left nor right but headed
immediately for the card tables where Toby sat.
He ground his teeth. The old spycatcher obviously
had tracked him here. What game does Sir Roger hope to lure me into?
Nazenby had the grace to move among the tables.
Only those who watched closely would realize his focus was Kennit. He waited to
approach the table until the last trick was tallied. As his partner
congratulated Toby and they gathered up their winnings, Nazenby separated from
the onlookers and closed the distance.
“A well-played game,” he offered.
Toby didn’t look up. His partner grinned. “We did trounce them.” Distracted by a friend waving from across the room, he excused himself and moved off.
Nazenby took another step closer. “I am gratified
to find you returned to London.”
He looked up then, his eyes narrowed. “A flying
visit. I’m on my way north.”
“To propose to your vicar’s daughter?”
Toby knew that the old spycatcher still kept a map
pin to mark all his spies, active or not, but he hadn’t realized his personal map
pin had remained so up-to-date. He’d been out of the spy game for eight years,
since the debacle that ended in the execution of his remaining ally in Paris. “When
will you release me, Sir Roger? When will you burn that file on me?”
The man smiled. He nodded to a gentleman nearby,
surveyed the gaming room, then began moving with Toby. “I thought I had let one
person go, but I find two strings still attached. Your vicar’s daughter lives
in Little Houghton, doesn’t she?”
“Not once I convince her father that I am worthy
of her.”
“Hence the weeks at your home in Wales,
determining your assets and restoring your manor to a glory that your bride
will find acceptable.”
Toby scowled. He didn’t care who saw his
displeasure with Nazenby. “What bush are you beating around? I won’t delay my
journey for you. I quit working for you in `04.”
“Yes. I remember that tirade very well. I have my carriage.
I can return you to your pied à terre
or take you on to your next evening’s entertainment.”
He wanted to glare and protest that he wasn’t
ready to leave Straights, but he’d decided a half-hour ago that he was bored
with the level of competition. He missed Gordon Musgrove. He missed pitting his
wits against Josette Sourantine. He missed Melly outwitting him at a simple
game of Speculation. All three of them were better opponents than the men he’d
played against tonight.
“Home for me,” he said. Since he knew Nazenby
wouldn’t talk in a public place, he added, “I’m grateful for the offer of the
carriage ride. It may be late February, but it’s blasted cold.”
The porter held their coats. Toby shrugged into
his greatcoat while a footman assisted the older man with his. Then they
entered the frigid night and strode down the street to the waiting carriage. The
restless horses jingled their harness. Their breaths fogged in the cold air. The
two men settled in the carriage. Nazenby knocked on the roof with his cane, and
it rolled forward smoothly.
A streetlamp flashed its light into the carriage,
illuminating a frown on the older man’s face. Toby didn’t like that look. The
old spycatcher would try to manipulate him into a simple little assignment then
the next one and then a third, and before he knew how, he would find himself
back on the continent.
He crossed his arms over his chest and braced
against the sway of the carriage. “It’s been eight years, Nazenby, yet here you
come. Again. My answer is the same. I won’t work for you.”
“I do not ask you to throw your lot back into the
spy game, Kennit. As someone once told me, the spying world narrowed for you
when you were nearly arrested in Paris.” He paused, and another streetlamp
revealed his frown. “I want—I need two things. Rumors are circulating that more
French agents have entered England, looking for particular agents of ours who
were once active in France. I wish to warn you of that.”
“Is this related to that Sourantine woman?”
“No, we arrested her puppetmaster, Robert LeBrun. He’s
traveled on to a hotter place. Claude Thierry remains imprisoned. I wished to
have him shipped to Calais in the middle of the night. And for him to have a
very rough crossing. That is not yet to be.”
“Could another spymaster have taken control here in London? Josette—Lady Hargreaves will be in danger if he did.”
“I warned Hargreaves to have a special care for
his wife. A new spymaster is always a danger. Most of Thierry’s agents are
known to us now, and we can keep a constant watch. That makes them useless to
the French.”
“Useless in London, not in York or Scotland or
Ireland.”
Nazenby lifted his upper lip. “No known agent has
entered those places. Not yet.”
Toby supposed the spycatcher didn’t need his
advice. The carriage started around a turn, and he braced against it. He
thought of that spidery web that LeBrun and Thierry had controlled. The removal
of those two and the death in a carriage accident of one of their chief agents
had crippled the web of French spies in London and south England. Toby knew,
from his own experience, that a crippled web could be revived. He’d helped
Louis Langley revive the English web in Paris. He had never learned who
remained after he fled and Louis’ French wife was executed. Asking about active
agents put them in danger. Toby had barely escaped arrest and execution. He
wouldn’t jeopardize anyone who remained in the spying game, a dangerous game,
like Roulette, which he refused to play.
“And the rest of the French agents? How many of
those did LeBrun sacrifice?”
“Not as many as I had hoped for. Whoever replaced
him, however, came into a crippled operation.”
“Or has crawled so deeply under rocks that you
didn’t even to think to look for them. But that doesn’t concern me.”
“It could concern you.”
He shook his head before realizing that Nazenby
wouldn’t see it. The carriage had turned down a dark street, and the clouds
blocked any moonshine. “No,” he said sturdily. “It will not concern me. I’ll
keep an eye out for a murderous agent. You said two things. What is the
second?”
“We have a cryptographer. His ciphers secure our
communications to and from our various entities around the world. He lives in
Little Houghton.”
Toby grimaced. “Convenient for you.”
“Very convenient. A few of the rumors have touched
upon locating this man.”
“Murder?”
“Kidnapping.”
“Are they fools? A forced decryption of a cipher
can be no more accurate than forced information.”
“They seek more than decryption. Without his
creation of new ciphers, the French would soon break all of our codes. Last
Spring they tried a trap sweetened with a lovely lady. He enjoyed her
attentions, but he kept careful guard on his work and his methods.”
“Wise man.”
“A very wise man. He clued me in to what was
happening and mentioned it had happened the year before. Only then did we
realize that a couple of men in the cipher department had fallen into the
sticky trap. He also opened up several lines of enquiry that bore fruit. We are
fortunate that the French did not identify him as the master that he is. He
kept his true level of work hidden, and LeBrun never stumbled onto the truth.”
“So they caught him, but he slipped off their hook
long before they knew what a monster salmon they’d caught.”
“Exactly. We have other cryptographers, but none
with his talent. Taking this man away from us would cripple our efforts against
Bonaparte.”
“Murder is still their best alternative.”
“Their second choice. What we have says, Find
him. Take him. And we don’t want to lose him.” The carriage swayed as it
turned. A streetlamp flashed its light into the carriage. Nazenby looked grim.
“You can put him into protective custody,” Toby
offered.
The old spycatcher grunted. “We tried that after
the sweet spider’s attempt. He refused to work at all until we released him. Our
compromise was that he complete his work outside London with the knowledge that
he would be under constant watch.”
“How many on him?”
“Two of our best in his house, another in the
village. And your contact—who will reveal himself at the appropriate time. You
must connect with our cryptographer. I warn you: he may be obsteperous at
first.”
Toby had to grin. “This man and I could be friends.
So, when I arrive in Little Houghton, what do you want me to do? Warn him?”
“I do not know if a warning will do any good. I have
little personal acquaintance with him. He’s in the military secrets branch. If
a warning would alert him to defend himself, then that might be sufficient. If
he is like the rest of that department, he won’t know how to defend himself.”
“Warn and protect.”
“Watch and protect,” Sir Roger clarified. The
carriage halted. “Warn him only when you think it necessary.”
“How will I determine when it is necessary?”
“You were in the game. You know.” He rapped on the
roof. The carriage swayed as a page jumped down to open the door and drop the
step.
Toby gripped the door, holding it shut until he
was ready to end this conversation. “You realize that I’ll be distracted with
my concerns. Please tell me you have someone else watching for French spies.”
“Someone else—yes. You may recognize them, but
that person may not offer any help.”
“Look, Nazenby—.”
“I will have another agent available in a
fortnight. And the man has his own guards.”
That sounded better. He released the door. As it
opened, he asked, “Who is this great cryptographer?”
“Colonel Sir Charles Audley. Enjoy your visit to
Little Houghton, Kennit.”
Toby gave a derisive laugh.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Friday, 28 February 1812, Yorkshire
Charles Audley perched the pence-nez he didn’t
need on the end of his long nose.
He wished he’d never started this disguise as a
bookish scholar who occasionally availed himself of the country pursuits of
riding and shooting. He especially wished it when Eugenie DesChamps brought her
joie de vivre into a room and yet
seemed to ignore him out of all the others there.
He was the only bachelor; she, a young widow. The
matchmakers had eyed them wistfully when he arrived in Little Houghton last
fall. Intent on decrypting the newest French cipher, he had made the mistake of
being too distracted the first three times they met. By the fourth, he had
solved the problem, but her luminous eyes no longer settled on him.
She was a dark French beauty. If she hadn’t
already been settled in Little Houghton, he might have deemed her another sweet
spider sent to steal his secrets and methods. The two men stationed in his
manor had asked discreetly about her: a widow of an English gentleman, she had settled in the village
two years before. He didn’t think the French would have such a long view,
especially as they had learned of his work last winter, a full year after
Eugenie DesChamps moved into his home village.
Since he had lifted his head out of that tricksy
cipher, he had had opportunity to study his neighbors. None received as much of
his attention as she did. Living in a small cottage, she employed only a maid
and a man of all work. He heard she painted. Soft feminine watercolors, he’d
guessed. After that fourth meeting, he twice tried to engage her in
conversation. She hadn’t snubbed him, but her short answers revealed she wanted
to be elsewhere.
While he rapidly concluded that he wanted to be
nowhere else except by her side.
He sighed and swirled the wine in his goblet and
watched the Frenchwoman laugh with her friend Miss Ratcliffe. They spoke of the
younger woman’s return from London. Rumors of impending nuptials had surrounded
the vicar’s daughter. He hoped she would look for additional love matches to
promote. She had caught him watching Madame DesChamps several times. Thus far,
she had done nothing. He should use the plaguey matchmakers from his wild oats
days.
What was the matter with young women these days? Didn’t
they want their friends as happy as they were?
He would have to make the move soon before other
bachelors and widowers decided Madame DesChamps would make a cozy addition to
their nests. How did no one scoop her up before I came to Little Houghton?
Ryland Cable, host of this evening, walked over to
him. “You’ve been looking at her since October. You need wings on those feet, Audley.”
He groaned. “Am I so obvious that even you have
noticed?
“Even me. I’m not blind. Although I didn’t see it
until my wife pointed it out at last Sunday’s service. She said you needed a
push. I came to give it.”
“Tonight? No. She’s talking to Miss Ratcliffe.”
“She always talks to Melly Ratcliffe. If you go
over there and Melly doesn’t back off, I’ll fetch her off myself. Now go, man.”
Charles drained his wine and set the glass on the
table. He lifted his chin over the stiffly starched points of his collar. He
rolled his shoulders.
Cable clapped a hand on his back. “Go on now.”
He felt the eyes on him as he crossed the room. Miss
Ratcliffe saw him coming and murmured to Mdm. DesChamps. The widow’s back
stiffened. Then she said something that elicited a giggle from her friend. By
then, Charles had reached them. He thought about going on past the two
women—but he had wasted his opportunities last October and November because
he’d been too abstracted with his work to notice anything not under his nose. Even
the cook had learned to place a plate in front of him to get him to eat.
He took the necessary sidestep and stopped at her
right elbow, so close that she could jab him if he insulted her. As he likely
would. His foot had been known to insert itself into his mouth.
Miss Ratcliffe dipped an abbreviated curtsey. With
a murmur she faded away.
And he stood side by side with Mdm. DesChamps,
both of them with their backs to the watching room.
“Madame DesChamps, how are you this evening?”
“I find it cold. And you, Colonel Audley?”
She had trouble with the military rank,
pronouncing all the vowels, but he didn’t feel sure enough of himself to
correct her. “I am fine.” More words failed him. He knew he should ask
something. What? Maybe a compliment. Her golden gown did wonders for her.
Not many women could carry off such a color. He liked the way the gown fit her
body, especially her ... chest. He probably shouldn’t mention that. No, Charles old chap, stay away from all
talk about her gown.
The shoulder nearest him gave a tiny hitch. “Fine.
This is one English word that I find fascinating. You English say it whether
you are in good spirits or have the megrims. That is the word, n’est ce-pas, megrims? And fine? The
weather, it is fine. The road from London, it is fine. The
vicar’s sermon—.”
“Not fine,” he leaped in. “Perhaps this
week’s text should have been a New Testament verse on Love thy Neighbor.”
She half-turned, and Charles matched her, careful
not to overstep that slight turn. “Or a parable,” she countered. “The Parable
of the Prodigal Son, a man who wasted his opportunities. That would have been
my choice.”
This woman had a sharp dagger to point at him. He started to enjoy this conversation. “Perhaps not the profligate prodigal. Something from the Sermon on the Mount. Blessed are the Peacemakers or Faith as Strong as a Mustard Seed. Faith that Moves Mountains,” he added, his brain tossing up sermon titles.
“Faith that Moves Mountains?” She turned fully
toward him and lifted her gaze. “I am accounted tall for a woman, but vraiment, I am not so big as a mountain.”
She looked down her form, luscious in the golden silk with its white lace
squaring the neckline.
“No, not you, personally. Your stubbornness—.”
“And now I am stubborn.”
He removed the pence-nez. “I have stuck my foot in
my mouth.”
She gave a ripple of laughter. “I find that a
delightful image, Col. Audley. Your idioms are sometimes incomprehensible, but
I understand that one very well.”
Honesty appeared to work quite well. As long as he
stayed away from her gown. “I have stuck my foot in my mouth since our first
meeting, Mdm. DesChamps. I had a tricksome problem that consumed me, and when I
looked up from it, you had flitted away.”
“Non, non,
Colonel. You cannot call me a mountain and then say that I flitted away. No
mountain can flit.”
“Both feet,” he said morosely.
She laughed. She must have taken pity on him, for
she patted his arm then left her hand resting on the black superfine of his
coat. “Come, we must find a subject that does not leave you with both feet in
the mouth. For example, I must always wonder the reason you say Mdm. DesChamps
when others merely say Mrs. Deschamps.” She gave the different
pronunciations without hesitation. “Have you a reason to remind yourself that I
am French?”
She hid her cleverness with charm. Two displays of
intelligence in less than a minute. That snared him as completely as her beauty
did. Now, how to keep her by his side? In
with both feet, he reminded himself. “I thought—I hoped using the French
pronunciation would bring home back to you. You must miss France. When did you
come over?”
She withdrew a little, slipping her hand from his
arm. “I became no longer a Frenchwoman with the Revolution, Colonel. England is
my home now. I would ask that you no longer remind me of the lost past, as far
from me as the ancien regime is from
the rule of France.”
“Forgive me. I do keep blundering about. Perhaps
we should talk of things not personal. This landscape, for example. It is a new
addition to Mr. Cable’s collection. I like it.”
Her chuckle was muted but real, and his heart
leapt at the sound. “You like it? As do I. Tell me what you like most about
it.”
Eager to remove a foot from his mouth, Charles
scrambled for an answer. “The smooth undulation of the land while turbulent
clouds cover the sky. The colors of the heather juxtaposed against the range of
stormy greys. That single opening of the clouds, sending a shaft of light onto
that tree. I’ve seen that happen on the moors. And I know this place, just not
that lone tree. I’ve walked across that upland many times. There’s no trees,
not a stand, not even one.”
“The artist’s insertion. Do you think the tree is
a needless addition?”
He wondered at that question, then he began to
suspect the artist’s identity. “Not needless. Gives us a focus, doesn’t it? With
the light shining on it.”
“Then you think it necessary?”
“I like how the tree limbs are bending to the wind.
Not giving up, taking another way. We have to do that in life. Not give up, not
give in. Find another way.”
Over the top of her wine glass she gave him an
approving smile. “Has Col. Charles Audley had to find another way? I thought
him one of the privileged.”
He could drown in those dark eyes. He forced
himself to look at the landscape. “I’ve had to find another way more times than
I can count on both hands. I’m not so privileged, Madame. I’ve been that tree,
storms over me, alone in the world.” He glanced at her. Her gaze was lifted to
the painting, but she seemed to look far beyond this room, perhaps even this
England. How many times had she had to find another way? “Do you know the
artist? I would pay well for a landscape of this quality.”
Her attention came back to him. “Truly? I might be
able to arrange a meeting between you and the painter.”
He wanted to draw her out, so he tempted her to
reveal her secret with “Give the fellow his due. Call him the artist he is.”
“And if he is a she?”
“I’ll still call her an artist. That scrawl in the
bottom right, that’s you?” He stepped up to the mantel and lifted his pence-nez
to read. “E. DesChamps. Definitely you.” As he came back, he noticed the many
gazes turned to watch them. He tucked the spectacles in his vest pocket and
hoped she did not think him old because he’d used them.
Eugenie did not remark on the pence-nez, and she
seemed unconcerned with the room behind them. “You are not shocked that I mess
with the oils when I should be managing a household. Many men would be.”
“I’ve seen your household. I’d be surprised if you
ever need more than a girl and a handyman. You’re too talented with the oils to
give up painting.”
“I am gratified that you are not shocked. And I bask
in your praise.”
“That painting deserves praise. You deserve praise
for coming out with it.”
Eugenie shook her head. “It is hard to judge one’s
own work. I have a certain satisfaction when I complete a piece, you
understand, but how will others judge my work? They offer compliments, but are
they truthful?”
“You have other canvasses?”
“Very few here. I have sent a few small canvasses
to a gallery in London. The owner does not wish the patrons to know the artist
is a mere female.”
“Thus, the signature E. DesChamps. Does
your gallery owner know you’re female?”
“He does. It was his decision to keep my gender
unknown.”
“I hope you’re making a pretty pile of guineas
with him.”
“Not quite a pile, but enough to supplement my
wants as well as my needs. Mr. Faulkner, he wishes me to give him a large
landscape such as this one, but Mr. Cable demanded this one as soon as he saw
it.”
Jealousy raised its ugly head. “When did Cable see
it?”
“When his wife and he came to pick up the small
oils of their children. Those hang in the entrance hall. Did you see them?”
He remembered the light-gilded oval portraits
hanging at the foot of the staircase. They had attracted his eye, but he had
given them only a passing glance. “A different style.”
“Children should be soft and fresh. Were I skilled
at watercolors I would have attempted that medium. Instead, I contended with a
light palette and a lighter hand. I must confess, I do enjoy the starker,
heavier landscapes. Children’s portraits are my bread and butter, though.”
He had lifted his gaze back to the painting. “What
did you call it? Don’t artists name their works?”
“Un Reve de Paix.”
“Dream of Peace,” he translated softly. He
could not remember what painting had previously hung above the mantel. Maybe a
stuffy ancestor. “Yes. All the storminess of the clouds, but there, a shaft of
sunlight on that patch of green tree. A bit of blue in the swirls of heavy
greys. I like that title.” He looked at her as he gave the compliment and saw a
pleased smile curving her mouth.
“M’sieur Cable did not like it. Nor did his
wife. They call it Storm over the Moor.”
“Your title is better.”
That pleased her, for her hand returned to his arm.
“You are not just being polite, Col. Audley?”
“Have you not seen multiple evidences of my lack
of diplomacy, Mdm. DesChamps?”
She chuckled. “True. Very true.”
He was winning this battle, even after insertion
of both feet. Honesty served him well with this woman. How can I find a way to increase our time together? “Have you
always painted?”
“Circumstances forced me to abandon it for a few
years. Never the sketching. That was sometimes a little money-maker. I have
made a tidy little sum with the portraits, especially General Reinholt’s wife,
but I do not like the portraits.”
Her accent thickened a little when she talked
rapidly, as she did recounting the first oils she attempted after moving here.
When she slowed down, he had his next question
ready. “Where do you paint? This,” he motioned to Un Reve de Paix, “was not done in the plein aire.”
“No. The sketch was. Several sketches actually,
before it all came together. I do paint where I have a view of the moor. I
converted the sitting room into my studio. When you visit me, Col. Audley, do
not raise your English nose at taking tea in the little room that should be the
dining room.”
“Am I invited for tea?”
“But, of course. We will have little tarts both
savory and sweet. I am also good with pastry, but my cook, she is a genius with
the fillings.”
Charles began to breathe a little easier. He had
not wanted to push too fast, too hard, especially since he had barely recovered
the ground he had lost. Yet he wanted a relationship not dependent on Sunday
sermons and dinner parties hosted by their neighbors. A visit over tea sounded
a good start.
“And after we have tea and you have shown me your
studio, I would commission a landscape from you, Mdm. DesChamps. A painting of the
moors behind Ridings, with the spring sun greening the fields and the high
moors untamed behind cultivated fields. Or better yet, the moors from my study
window.” If she sketched while he worked in his study—or if he could convince
her to work at Ridings, he would have the uninterrupted time to court her.
Eugenie gave him quite a different look. He might
call that gleam in her eye mercenary. “You may not want a landscape when you
hear what I will charge.”
With a recklessness not like him, he said, “I want
that painting by you, no matter the expense.”
Her long lashes flickered. “Non, you must not say that. You make me wish to be greedy. The
autumn and Noël cost more than I had anticipated. When will you come to tea? Tuesday?
Thursday?”
He wanted to say tomorrow, but he took the hint
that she might not be ready for visitors on Monday. Nor did he want to seem
over-eager, just eager enough. “Will Wednesday suit you? I have a prior
commitment on Tuesday.”
“Wednesday it is.” She presented her silk-gloved
hand, as if they were striking a business deal.
He took it, wishing he palmed her flesh rather
than white silk that matched her gown’s trimmings. And he held her hand longer
than necessary for a business deal. “Am I now invited into the realm of
friendship?”
An eyebrow lifted. “Are we not all friends in
Little Houghton?”
“Then I may call you Eugenie when we need not be
formal? As we must be here.”
“Many here call me Jenny.”
“Eugenie is too pretty to be reduced to that.”
She blushed, surprising him. She had faced off
with him, accepted his blunders, heard his compliments of her art, but a
compliment to her name brought pleased color to her cheeks. “I like that you
give it the French pronunciation. Yes, you have leave to call me by my true
name, if I may call you—.” She paused, letting him give her his name.
“Charles,” he quickly supplied. When she repeated
it, softening the ch, every part of him tightened.
Chapter 2 ~ Friday, 28 February
1812
London
Didier Poulaine waited although he did not like to
wait. He hid his impatience with the skill of many years. He knew when to
tighten the strangling knot and when to release it. He knew when to slip the
dagger in. He knew when to sit back and let the world stream by. After years in
the business, he knew the world would offer up the proper opportunity.
This opportunity, for example. An opportunity that
he had thought missed. On a mission to capture the master cryptographer for the
English, he heard a name that he had not heard for eight years. Keiran
Delaney. A pretend Irishman who had masqueraded as the French officer Jean
Louis Jettere. The Anglais Delaney
had slipped the noose in `04 along with another double agent. Two operatives
who escaped him. Over the years, Poulaine made doubly sure no others escaped.
Delaney’s name had dropped in connection with
finding another Military Secrets informant.
The information had slipped through the stream and
found him. Here, in London, he would finally have his chance. To hold a slender
dagger to the man’s neck, to feel and smell the terror engendered by the prick
of that steel blade—that would appease his long unslaked anger.
It could be a trick. Poulaine knew that. A ruse to
draw out more French agents for capture. Jacques Saultsein had warned him
before Poulaine shipped across the Channel. The English spycatcher was on an
active hunt for French agents. They had lost several well-placed spies and
their best informant. Finding a replacement who had direct White Hall access
would be difficult—which was one reason this Anglais could be a trap.
Poulaine hadn’t acted on the information. He
waited. Confirmation was needed. Who better to find it for him than Saultsein, the
new French spymaster in London? He had ventured to the address given to him. Then
he set up a watch, to see who entered the new spymaster’s house. Caution meant
life.
When the soft rain started, he’d left his post
watching the house and entered this gallery. He did not think he’d been spotted.
He wasn’t certain who waited for him there. His informant offered no
particulars, only that contact was possible. The suave courier had known
nothing of his replacement except this address. Poulaine would wait and watch
before he contacted the man. Two days were not so long when measured against
eight years.
And in waiting he’d again heard Delaney’s name, spoken
by two men swilling beer in a pub. Foolish men. He had tracked one of them back
to his lodgings. If nothing came of his meeting with the new spymaster, he
would visit that man. In the deeps of the night, no one would hear muffled
screams.
He smiled to himself.
A carriage rumbled past. He looked out the window,
but the carriage did not halt at the house he watched.
“Sir.” An effete young man, willowy rather than
sturdy English oak, approached him. “May I help you, sir? Has that painting
attracted your attention?”
Poulaine stared down his long nose at the
assistant then looked at the painting before him.
“One of our exclusive artists. This is Wild
Moor,” the assistant said.
“This is typically English.”
“Yes, sir. The Yorkshire moors. I myself have never
ventured to those hinterlands. Do I detect a French accent, sir?”
“I was born in France,” he allowed.
“You fled the Revolution, Monsieur?” He butchered
the appellation although he seemed proud to know the French word. “We do have a
few paintings of French scenes. One might strike your eye.”
The gallery’s assistant pointed out a
light-capturing oil of the Pantheon atop Sainte-Genevieve hill. A heavy oil
drew the lines of Notre Dame’s two towers rising above the cathedral’s roof. A
sketch of the Louvre’s colonnade. A few street scenes. Poulaine liked none of
them, but he followed the assistant to create the illusion of interest in art.
Then they came to a larger canvas of the French
countryside.
Poulaine stopped. The sky above the farm had the brilliant
blue it achieved only in October. Two figures had met in the golden wheat field.
Bent stalks of grain revealed the path each had taken to meet. A meandering
line of cedars marked the river. On the horizon were the clustered houses of a
village, dominated by the Romanesque tower of a church.
“Ah, monsieur, you have a good eye. This is the
same artist who painted Wild Moor, the canvas by the window that had
your attention. This is definitely France.”
Poulaine remembered that day. He remembered the
blood on him after that meeting. And he remembered who had stood behind him on
the hill.
For eight years he had looked for her. She had to
be punished. She had turned against him after that day. She had not had the
horror of staring at his bloody hands, but she must have watched. By no sign
had she revealed that she saw him murder Etienne Foucault. She had chattered
with ease all the way back to Paris. But she turned cool then icy.
He leaned closer to the painting but could not
decipher the scrawled artist’s name. “Who is the painter?”
The assistant did not have to look. “E. DesChamps.”
DesChamps. Not de la Croix. But it had to be her. Or
she had to have some connection to the artist.
The frail young man rattled on. “You will see the
date is 1811. We received this canvas only a month ago. The artist was
reluctant to part with it, but Mr. Rainsford was quite determined. He informed
me that he demanded this canvas for the gallery. I see it has quite captured
your interest.”
“I like the style. And the light, that is very
reminiscent of my childhood visits to the country. Peut-etre, is it that you have another canvas by this E.
Deschamps?”
“No, only Wild Moor. DesChamps is brilliant with
these small canvases. The interesting perspective! The quality of detail! I
admit to you that we have difficulty keeping them in the gallery. I suspect Wild
Moor will not last the month.”
“But this one lingers. You said it arrived a month
ago.”
“That is correct. It is a larger canvas for this
artist, which triples the price.”
“I want it. And any other scene of France by E.
DesChamps.”
“Of course, monsieur. We currently have no such
other canvas by DesChamps, but we have a fine watercolor of Avignon—.”
“No. It is this DesChamps I am interested in. What
information can you give me?” He almost added about her, but he didn’t
want the assistant to think he knew anything. Is it Eugenie de la Croix, styling herself as E. DesChamps?
“I know very little personally, monsieur.”
“Your Mr. Rainsford. May I speak with him?”
“He is in the Lake District. I expect him to
return by the end of next week. If you have a card—.”
“No card. I will return next Friday.”
“And will you wish this canvas, monsieur?”
“I will take it with me. Wrap it well.” He
produced his wallet and paid the amount the assistant named. Then he glanced
back toward the window. “The Wild Moor. I am not certain that I will
purchase that canvas, but it intrigues me. Would you place a retainder
on it for me. That is perhaps not the word.”
“I think you may mean a retainer, a note that will
hold the painting for you. Mr. Rainsford frowns upon that practice, monsieur.”
“I do understand. Should another person wish to
purchase the painting, you would be able to dissuade them, is it not so? For a
small remuneration.”
The young man’s eyes gleamed. “Exactly so,
monsieur. You name? And your residence? I will have the canvas sent—.”
Poulaine dropped several guineas into the
assistant’s hand. “I will take it with me. My name is Chevalier. Honoré de
Chevalier.” He lied easily, from long practice, and the assistant never
doubted him. He returned to the window to wait on the canvas.
Eugenie de la Croix, once his fascination, had
become his enemy from the day of the wheat field scene she had painted. He had
needed months to gather the evidence to convict her of spying for England and
against her homeland. And when he moved to arrest the little spy-ring that
circled around her, she had somehow evaded arrest.
DesChamps. E. DesChamps. Why did that name seem
familiar?
His men had arrested the wrong woman. Poulaine had
wasted days on the heels of his other quarry, the pretend Delaney. When he
returned to Paris, his men reported their successful arrest. The error had not
been discovered until he visited the Bastille.
His men had proudly displayed their captive. Swollen
and mottled contusions had covered the woman’s face and body. When he’d entered
the cell, she remained collapsed on the filthy stones of her cell. He had
snatched her hair and prepared to gloat over Madame Eugenie de la Croix. But
something told him the captive was not the woman he needed to destroy. The
coloring was right, hair and skin and eyes, what could be seen of them. She did
not respond to his questions, to his shouts. She merely flinched when he slapped
her. His men claimed that she had to be Mdm. de la Croix. He’d had his doubts.
Poulaine let the execution go forward then sought
out the de la Croix house servants. Only from the upstairs maid did he learn
that the cousin of Mdm. de la Croix had arrived late on the evening before the
arrest. Another round of interviews with the servants uncovered little more. They
knew only that she was called Annette and had arrived from Saumer.
To Saumer he had gone, but he could find no
information about a Mdm. de la Croix.
“Monsieur.” The gallery assistant irritated with
his interruptions. “Your canvas. I wrapped it in paper and then oilcloth to
protect it from the rain.”
“Merci. You
say the gallery owner—zut alors! I
have forgotten his name,” he lied.
“Rainsford. Geoffrey Rainsford. He returns on the
sixth.”
“Bon, tres
bon. I will return the next day to discuss this artist with him.”
He lifted the canvas and left the shop. Excitement
raced in his veins, trembled in his muscles. Perhaps it was that Eugenie had
shared her most vivid memory with an artist, someone from France, and he had
painted it for her—only to have it refused. She would not want a scene of
murder hanging in her home. Poulaine would track the artist, and the artist
would give him Eugenie.
He needed to read the dossier he kept on the de la
Croix woman and her associates, that Jean Louis Jettere who was the Irishman
Delaney. He had regretted not going with the soldiers to her residence, but he’d
been after a bigger fish: the English agent.
Annette of Saumer. And now this artist E. DesChamps,
who replicated on canvas that red day in October, the sun bright while the wind
chilled. Somewhere he would find a connection to Eugenie de la Croix, and then
he would have her. He would find her, and then he would kill her.
He would draw the knife across her throat himself.
But first he had a master cryptographer and a
pretend Irishman to find.
LINKS!
The Predator Thirsts for his Prey
Once the toast of Paris, Eugenie DesChamps lives in
a bucolic English village, paints landscapes, and flirts with Charles Audley, a
secretive cryptographer for the British government.
