Chapter Eleven
“ W hat activities have you planned for the afternoon,” asked Lynsley the next morning at breakfast.
“Shopping for bonnets with Madame Levalier and Madame Benoit,” replied Valencia. “With what you give me to spend on fripperies, His Majesty could fit out a four-deck ship of the line.”
“You will look far more elegant sailing down the streets of Paris,” murmured Lynsley.
She blew out her cheeks. “It seems like such a waste of blunt. Not to speak of chip straw and ribbon.”
“It is a small sacrifice to make, considering the stakes.”
“I did not mean to whine,” she replied. “I am simply unused to being so . . . frivolous. Especially after all you have spent already.”
He regarded her with a hooded gaze.
Inscrutable as always, she thought. How unfair. No man should be graced with such lovely, gold-tipped lashes.
“You don’t care for fine clothing and costly jewels?” murmured Lynsley after a moment. “I thought perhaps you had softened your objections to such feminine pleasures.”
“I’ve little use for such things in my line of work,” she replied somewhat sharply.
“Consider the indulgences as part of the job.”
“I would rather be designing a way to penetrate Rochambert’s residence than the trimmings for a poke brim bonnet,” she muttered.
The marquess pushed back his plate and rose. “The Romany tribes have a saying—revenge is a dish best served cold.”
“I’ve waited ten years,” she said softly.
His jaw hardened. “Let me remind you again that this mission is not a personal vendetta, Valencia. If you cannot remain dispassionate?—“
“Damn it, I know what my duty is.” She, too, rose. “Have you any cause for complaint?”
“No, but I expect you to curb your impulsive tendencies while we are here in Paris,” he said, suddenly raising his voice. “I’ll not have you compromise my work.”
Surprise rendered her mute for a moment.
“Word that we quarrel in private will be useful to out charade,” he whispered.
Of course, she thought. Lynsley never lost his temper enough to miss an opportunity to further their chance of success.
It did not require much skill at acting to slap her serviette down upon the table and stalk from the room.
Valencia was still fuming as her carriage drew to a halt in front of Madame Fournier’s chic little shop. But as she stepped down to the pavement, she smoothed her scowl into a smile. She would show him that she could match his stoic self-control, she vowed.
“Madame Daggett, how delightful that you could join us!” Madame Levalier looked up from a rainbow assortment of ribbons as the door opened. “Come, you must help me choose a band to match these sweet little cherries.” She waved a thick cluster of artificial fruit. “Pierre is being such a tease, the naughty man . . .”
Through the display of satin cabbage roses, Valencia caught sight of Rochambert.
“He is pressing me to pick chartreuse,” continued Madame Levalier. “But I fear the color is de trop. What is your opinion?”
Valencia moved to her side. “You must show me the other choices.”
Madame Levalier fanned a handful of colorful snippets across the countertop. “ Voila ! I simply can’t decide!”
To Valencia, they all looked far too garish, but she took her time, pretending to give the matter serious consideration. “I vow, it is a difficult decision,” she finally murmured. “But seeing as Monsieur Rochambert recommends the chartreuse, I think we must trust his eye.”
“ Merci , madame .” Rochambert flashed her a wink. “Are you always so agreeable?”
Her fingers stroked over the curls of satin. “I believe in yielding to one who possesses an expertise in a subject, be it art, or fashion, or . . .” She deliberately let her words trail off.
A speculative gleam flickered through the fringe of his golden lashes. “Or anything that requires a certain specialized skill, madame?” Whispers of velvet and lace stirred as he glided through the draped display of fabrics.
“Within reason,” she replied slowly.
“Ah. I should like to hear the American definition of the word.”
However, a call from Mme. Benoit diverted any further flirtation. “La, Pierre, you must come here and settle the debate on which style of brim is most becoming. And do you prefer this shade of amaranthus to azure blue?”
Rochambert turned, but not before flashing Valencia another heavy-lidded look.
Valencia repressed a shudder. The man was as seductive as a snake. There was something flat and reptilian about his eyes . . . but perhaps she was merely allowing her imagination to take flight. As Lynsley warned, she must stay focused on the mission and not let personal feelings color her judgment.
“Do let me show you the selection of bonnet shapes.” Mme. Levalier took her arm and led her to another counter. “Mademoiselle. Cosette is the most renowned mantua maker in all of Paris, and I’m sure you will find a number of designs to your liking.”
For the next quarter hour, Valencia poked through the piles of straw and felt, feigning an interest in all the variations of size, shape and styling. Why ladies made such a fuss over the dratted things was beyond her. She loved the feel of the sun and wind on her face, and the tug of the wind at her hair. Hats were a cursed nuisance, a confining constriction. However, she covered up her indifference by oohing and ahhing over the bunch, then selected the simplest one she could find.
“If I may be so bold, Madame Daggett, allow me to suggest these ribbons to go along with the chip straw bonnet you’ve chosen.” Rochambert suddenly reappeared through the scrim of gauze and netting hanging across the aisle. “The pale peach color will look divine with your raven hair.”
“How kind.” She nodded to the salesgirl. “Please add the final trimmings as the gentleman suggests.”
“Speaking of peaches,” he went on in a silky murmur. ”Have you sampled the ice cream from the stalls on the boulevard des Italiennes?”
“No, I have not yet had the pleasure.”
“They are a treat you should not miss.” Rochambert offered his arm. “It is only a short stroll from here.”
Valencia hesitated a fraction. “Won’t the others think me rude to run off?”
He leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice even more. “Do you really care?”
Her hand slid lightly into the crook of his sleeve. “I trust you won’t lead me too far astray.”
“Oh, as to that, I make no promises, madame. You see, I’m not really a gentleman.” The door shut behind them, setting off a tinkling of bells. “Does that frighten you?”
“Not particularly. You see, I am not really a lady.”
A bark of laughter sounded. “You intrigue me, Madame Daggett. Tell me a little about yourself.”
“As I mentioned before, my grandparents were Spanish and owned properties in the Caribbean islands. My mother lived on a sugar plantation in Hispanola. She married a prosperous trader from Charleston, in the American Carolinas, which is where I grew up.” Valencia gave a mock shiver. “And now I live in New England.”
“I have heard that Boston is quite a civilized city,” he said.
“I could not say, seeing as we so rarely have a chance to visit it.” She made sure that her pique was pronounced. “New Haven is a very dull place, whose only claim to fame is a college that attracts a rather dour, serious-minded set of young men as students.”
Rochambert flashed a sympathetic smile. “It does sound quite dull.” They paused by one of the street stalls while he purchased a dish of ice cream flavored with strawberries.
She shrugged. “Thomas has money. And he is ambitious. I don’t plan on being stuck in such a provincial place forever.”
“Indeed not.” He gave a wave. “See, you are here in Paris. A city that is most definitely not provincial.”
“The gaiety, the glamour.” She gave a sigh. “It will not be easy to return to America when this is over.”
“Who knows what the future may bring?”
“How very pragmatic, Monsieur Rochambert.” Valencia licked a bit of the ice cream from her spoon. “So you are suggesting that we eat, drink and be merry today?”
“In these troubled times, it seems a wise philosophy to embrace,” he said softly.
“And, mayhap, a dangerous one,” she replied.
He, too, paused to taste the frozen confection. “Danger adds a certain spice to life. A steady diet of bland and boring fare is unpalatable for those who crave variety.” Rochambert’s gaze dropped and lingered overlong on her limping step. “You do not appear to be a lady who is afraid to take a risk, Madame Daggett.”
Valencia took care to keep her voice noncommittal. “Perhaps my riding accident has soured me on the idea of acting impulsively.”
“Perhaps. But in my experience, people who are by nature adventurous rarely change, even if they suffer a stumble or two.”
“Dear me, Monsieur Rochambert. Put that way, you seem to mean that some of us never learn from our mistakes.”
“ Au contraire, madame. Let us just say that some of us understand that risks make the reward even sweeter.”
“La, there you two are!” Her skirts kicking up a swirl of dust, Madame Benoit cut across the graveled walkway and hurried to catch up. “How very naughty of you to stray so far. Marie-Claire and I feared we had been quite abandoned.”
“We were just turning back,” said Rochambert smoothly. “Madame Daggett was curious to see the cafes.” To her he murmured, “Next time, you must allow me to take you to the Café Tortoni, which is a great favorite with the haute monde .”
Madame Benoit accepted the explanation without further chiding, but her smile remained somewhat sulky. Maneuvering with military precision, she forced Rochambert to offer his other arm.
“I should like to stop for a moment at Madame Moullier’s shop and order a pair of gloves to match my new bonnet. Do escort me there, Pierre, so that I may have your opinion on what color of kidskin would best compliment this ribbon.” She batted her lashes, along with a scrap of cerise silk. “La, I am sure that Madame Daggett won’t mind returning the corniche and spoons to the ice cream vendor.”
“Not at all,” said Valencia.
Flashing a triumphant look, Madame Benoit drew Rochambert into a rapidfire discussion on the latest trends in fashion.
Valencia was happy to fall back a few steps, glad for the opportunity to make a more careful study of her adversary.
Pierre Rochambert. She had seen him often enough in her nightmares, but now was a chance to observe him in the flesh. He moved with a predator’s grace, light on his feet and with an air of alertness about him, despite the smiles and superficial chatter. Such vigilance was second nature for one trained in the shadowy skills of their profession.
They were so alike. And yet so different.
The hitch in her gait was testimony to how ruthless he was with a blade. She did not begrudge the fact that he had tried to take her life. Those were the rules of the sordid game they both played.
Kill or be killed.
No, the truly chilling thing about the night of his attack was her certainty that Rochambert had deliberately tried to cripple her. He had meant to take his time in dispatching her. That fleeting flash of a death’s head smile, cruel as curved steel, had betrayed just how much he had been looking forward to watching her suffer.
If not for the sudden appearance of the shore patrol, he would have taken great pleasure in making her death a slow and painful one.
Valencia gave an inward shudder. Not out of fear but out of loathing. She had killed several enemy agents, but always quickly, cleanly, and with a pang of remorse. She did it out of duty. He did it out of devilish delight. Thinking back over the long, bloodstained list of his victims, she decided this was one time when she would not hesitate for an instant to strike a mortal blow.
But first she must spot a weakness.
Every man had one. It was merely a matter of watching and waiting long enough to discern it.
Dropping back a discreet distance, she made a few more mental notes about his height, his reach, the length of his stride. The tiny details often divulged a telling flaw.
Her eyes suddenly narrowed.
The muscles flexed beneath his finely tailored clothing, and yet there was a hint of fleshiness softening the line of his shoulders. Rich food, fine wines, seductive strumpets—Rochambert was allowing himself to savor the decadent pleasures of Paris in between assignments. Was his edge just a touch duller, his reactions a fraction slower? No doubt he was supremely confident that no danger could reach him here, in the heart of the Empire.
A grave miscalculation on his part.
Gathering her skirts, Valencia veered off to rejoin Madame Levalier. She had learned through bitter experience that the most dangerous attacks came at unexpected times, and from unexpected angles. An agent who grew lax, even for an instant, did so at his—or her—own peril.
This time, she vowed, it would be her opponent who suffered the consequences.
As one of the assistant secretaries droned on about spice production in Martinique, Lynsley found his mind wandering from the tropics to the faubourg St. Germaine. Thankfully, he had the knack of appearing an attentive listener down to a fine art. Furrowed brow, thinned lips and steepled hands—they bespoke an intensity that few ever questioned.
This morning, however, he had no need to feign a frown or a tightness of his mouth. Though the first encounter with Rochambert had gone well, Lynsley was not ready to concede that his misgivings might have been exaggerated. True, Valencia had followed his orders with exquisite precision, wielding her looks and her flirtations with consummate skill. But Rochambert had not won his ruthless reputation on rakish charm alone.
The first skirmish might be hers, but the war was far from over.
The idea of Valencia crossing swords with the French assassin made his fingers twitch. It wasn’t often that he was moved to contemplate murder with his bare hands.
“Do you agree, Monsieur Daggett?” asked Mersault.
Lynsley exhaled slowly, another useful trick he had learned over the years. “I will, of course, have to consider the matter more carefully, and review my own documents.”
“Of course,” said Levalier smoothly. “No need to rush a decision.”
“Actually, my government prefers that I get this business wrapped up as soon as possible,” said Lynsley.
“It would be a shame to deprive Madame Daggett of a lengthy stay in Paris when she appears to be enjoying all the city has to offer,” observed Mersault.
“My wife understands that in my line of work, duty must take precedent over pleasure.”
The two Frenchman exchanged patronizing looks. No doubt wondering how a man could be so pitifully blind to human nature.
Ever the diplomat, Levalier made a polite murmur in response, then rose, signaling to the scribes and clerks that the formal meeting was over. “Did Madame enjoy the theatre and supper?”
“Very much,” allowed Lynsley, as the subordinates gathered up their papers and left the room. “And she was thrilled by your wife’s kind invitation to go shopping today with the ladies.” He took the liberty of substituting his own adjective, seeing as Valencia’s choice of words was unrepeatable in polite company.
“I am glad to hear it,” replied the minister. “We must make sure that we introduce her to all the splendors that Paris has to offer. Even if it is a short stay, I should like it to be a memorable one for her.”
“Indeed,” murmured Mersault with a small smile.
Lynsley inclined his head. “How kind.”
“Indeed, with that in mind, I have taken the liberty of arranging an excursion to the gardens of Malmaison for the day after the morrow,” went on Lavalier. “Madame Daggett mentioned her interest in flowers, so I am sure she will find the grounds of great interest, even at this time of year. They are quite famous, especially for the variety of roses, and although our former empress is not in residence right now, the hothouses are filled with all manner of exotic specimens.”
Valencia wielding a garden trowel? Lynsley repressed a snort of laughter. “Thank you. We shall be delighted to be part of your party. I am sure my wife will be in alt over the opportunity.”
“Excellent. It’s but a short drive from the city. We plan on leaving in the morning. That way, our group can tour the grounds, enjoy a picnic in one of the outdoor pavilions and return before dusk.”
Lynsley flicked a mote of dust from his sleeve. “Is it to be a large group?”
“No more than a dozen or so,” replied Levalier. “Though I may have difficulty limiting your wife’s admirers to a manageable number. There are a great many gentlemen eager to make her acquaintance.”
“Most of the guests will be people you have already met,” offered Mersault. “Rochambert has already accepted, along with Captain Gillemot from the Home Guard.”
“At least we gentlemen will have something more interesting than roses to discuss,” said Lynsley.
“I shall endeavor to ensure that neither you nor your wife are bored,” replied Levalier.
He and Mersault excused themselves and left together. Lynsley waited for a moment, then took his own leave, choosing a roundabout way to the main entrance in order to survey the layout of the building. It was always wise to know the ins and outs of a place. One never knew . . .
The rapidfire tattoo of steps upon the marble tiles brought him to an abrupt halt.
“Monsieur Daggett.”
Lynsley recognized the voice behind him as that of Georges Auberville. So far, the assistant Minister of Maritime Affairs had contributed little to the trade discussions, though surprisingly he had spoken up once or twice in favor of concessions to the Americans.
“I fear you have taken the wrong turn,” continued Auberville after pausing to catch his breath. “This is a more direct way to the street.”
“Confounded corridors,” muttered Lynsley, squinting through his spectacles at the long expanse of smooth white stone. “They all look alike?”
“Yes. Especially if you do not know the twists and turns.”
A cryptic message? The minister seemed a little nervous, but perhaps he was reading more into man’s mannerisms than was merited.
“Thank you for keeping me from going astray,” said Lynsley. “Next time I shall bring a compass to keep me on course.”
“This way, monsieur.” Auberville backtracked past the copyroom and took a sharp left.
Lynsley’s senses went on full alert. This route, he knew from a previous reconnaissance, was even more convoluted than the one he had chosen. However, for the moment, he followed along in silence, curious to know where all this was leading.
After descending a short flight of stairs, and turning again down what looked to be a deserted stretch of storage rooms, Auberville finally spoke up again. “Forgive the detour, Monsieur Daggett, but I feel it is my duty to warn you.”
“Yes?” murmured Lynsley. He kept his voice neutral, though he was inwardly cursing. The last thing he needed was to become tangled in yet another knot of political intrigue. Were there factions within the Ministry? He would have to play this very carefully.
“It is a rather delicate matter.” Auberville cleared his throat in some embarrassment. “Concerning your wife.”
“Pray, do go on,” he said evenly.
“Pierre Rochambert appears to have taken an interest in the lady. Have a care—he is a dangerous man.”
“Rakes abound on both sides of the Atlantic,” replied Lynsley. “It is not the first time a man has made eyes at my wife.”
“You do not understand, Monsieur Daggett. Rochambert is a rake, yes. But more than that, he is . . . ruthless.” Auberville’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The rumors would make your hair stand on end. If I were you I would steer far clear of his social circle. He is not a man to be trifled with.”
“Nor am I,” said Lynsley slowly. “In building a shipping business, I have encountered a good many cutthroats and rapscallions. I’m not intimidated by men like Rochambert.”
“Ah, but you should be. The fellow is a devil, but he has friends in very high places.”
“I see.” Lynsley considered the information. “Might I ask why you felt compelled to tell me this?”
The other man squared his shoulders. “I consider myself a gentleman, monsieur, and have a certain code of honor,” he said with a sniff. “Rochambert thinks himself above the rules—any rules, be they legal or moral. I think it only fair that you know what you are up against.”
“A sporting chance, as the English would say?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Auberville.
“I believe that your meaning needs no translation,” answered Lynsley slowly.
“ Bon . Then I will lead you back to the foyer.” The minister resumed walking.
“Thank you,” murmured Lynsley, falling in step beside him.
Auberville replied by picking up his pace. The echo of the sharp, staccato clicks echoed through the corridor. They did not speak again until the minister stopped short in shadows of an archway and gestured for the marquess to turn right up ahead.
“From here, you are on your own, monsieur.”