Into Death

Into Death
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Coming Soon! 2nd novella in the Miss Beale Writes series: The Bride in Ghostly White. A touch of gothic, a touch of mystery.
In the Sketching Stage ~ Miss Beale Writes 3: The Captive in Green. A touch of gothic, a touch of mystery
Current Focus ~ Audiobooks from The Write Focus podcast. Published this year: Discovering Characters and Discovering Your Plot; Coming SOON: Defeat Writer's Block

Thursday, August 1, 2024

The Dangers for Spies / Prologue and first 2 Chapters

 


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.

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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.

 Eight years ago Eugenie courted danger by stealing Napoleon’s battle plans for English spies. When a French spymaster discovered her double game, she barely escaped with her life.

 Now that same French spymaster has stolen into England. His mission is to capture the cryptographer Charles Audley. Discovering the double agent who eluded him sweetens his assignment.

 A thirst for revenge drives the twisty romantic suspense of The Dangers for Spies, book 5 in the Hearts in Hazard series.



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