Chapter Nineteen
S teel slashed through the sunlight dappling the Sword Courtyard of Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies, the swift thrusts and parries punctuated by the sharp ring of blade against blade.
“Well done,” called the fencing instructor as he stepped back and signaled the end to the bout. “Next time, work on keeping your wrist a touch firmer on your ripostes, bella . But your footwork is vastly improved.”
He cut a last flourish with his saber and pointed at the group of students standing close to the chalked circle. “I trust that the rest of you paid close attention to the techniques we demonstrated today. Tomorrow, I shall expect you all to match Verona’s prowess.” Cocking his hip, he flashed a grin. “Anyone needing private instruction may come to my quarters this evening. I shall be happy to show off the fine points of wielding a blade.”
The student known as Verona made a rude noise.
“I heard that, signorina .” Marco Moretti della Ghirardelli waggled his weapon. “Have a care that I don’t hand out a demerit.”
She stuck out her tongue, then turned and stripped off her padded doublet. “Rather a black mark on my record than your lecherous hands on my person, Mr. della Ghiradelli,” she retorted with a saucy smile.
He laughed and shooed the group of girls on their way. “Hurry, or you will be late for Ballistics.”
“The training is coming along nicely, Marco,” murmured Mrs. Merlin as she watched the students file off to their next class.
“ Si .” He wiped his brow. “She is good—damn good.”
The headmistress nodded. “Yes, she is almost ready.” A feathery sigh escaped her lips. “Another few weeks . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Marco cocked an inquiring brow. “You have a mission in mind for her, signora ?”
“Not anymore. Lord Lynsley decided it could not wait.”
He frowned. “But none of the students has been sent on assignment.”
“No.” A long pause. “He went himself.”
The fencing master muttered a rather colorful oath in Italian. “If His Lordship considered that the Merlins were not up for the job, he could have turned to me.”
“The perils were prodigious,” replied Mrs. Merlin. “And the stakes extraordinarily high.” The wrinkles around her eyes deepened. “He did not wish to ask anyone else to face the dangers.”
Marco swore again. “ Porca miseria , he should not be risking his life in the field. The action ought to be left to someone like me, who is half his age.”
“Don’t let him hear you so.” The headmistress allowed a faint smile. “The marquess does not consider himself quite past his prime.”
“True,” admitted Marco. “During our weekly training sessions, I am hard-pressed to best his skills with a saber or foil.” He pulled a face. “And in the saddle, we run neck and neck.”
There was a sliver of silence, broken only by the tapping of the fencing instructor’s blade against his boot.
“Where is he?” Marco finally asked. “Somewhere on the Eastern front, trying to intercept the Emperor’s retreat from Russia?”
“No, he’s gone straight to the lion’s den, as it were.” Mrs. Merlin watched the sun playing hide and seek with scudding clouds for a moment before adding, “The City of Light—Paris.”
“Paris!” Marco’s dismay took on an even sharper edge. “What the devil is he after?”
Despite his outward air of cocksure swagger, Marco was a trusted member of the Merlins. The headmistress did not hesitate in giving a terse explanation of the mission.
“Let us hope that things are now going as planned,” she added. “The trip got off to a stormy start.”
“How so?” asked Marco.
“The marquess’s sloop went down in a gale while crossing the Channel,” she replied. “But by some miracle he survived and washed up ashore on the isle of Sark. From there, he somehow managed passage to Normandy. Last word I had, he had made it to Paris.”
“How the devil does he plan to get close to Rochambert?” demanded Marco.
“By masquerading as an American consul for commerce.” Her mouth curled up slightly at the corners. “The real envoy is apparently enjoying a prolonged stay in countryside of Normandy, courtesy of the marquess’s network of operatives in that area.”
“Any trouble so far?”
Mrs. Merlin lifted her shoulders in response. “As you know, communication is very dangerous from the heart of the enemy capital. His last message said only that he had arrived without incident, and we are not to expect further word.”
Marco shifted his sword from hand to hand. “I suppose we must be satisfied with that.”
Mrs. Merlin sighed. “I am no more happy about it than you are, Marco. However, we really have no choice but to trust that Lord Lynsley has not lost his edge.”
“ S i,” he muttered.
But there was a mutinous gleam in his eye as he turned to put away his weapons.
Valencia dropped her gaze from the looking glass and fussed with the folds of her dress, pleating the textured silk to knife-edged precision. Perhaps she should have chosen the emerald jouquille instead . . .
With a silent oath, she quickly untangled her fingers from the sash. Hell, she mustn’t act like a nervous schoolgirl, about to face a difficult test. Lynsley was no longer her superior, he was her?—
No. She must not think of him as that either. They were compatriots, allies in a formidable mission that demanded every ounce of their expertise. What had happened last night was perhaps inevitable when a man and a woman were thrown together in a powderkeg situation. Two strong-willed individuals rubbing together were bound to set off sparks.
Her mouth quirked. They were certainly old enough to act maturely about the matter. The marquess was not about to get down on bended knee and offer to do the honorable thing. Their profession had no conventional rules.
No future, save for surviving the moment.
That she had been in love with him for half of her life was a passion that had no place in their world. It must be locked back in the deepest recesses of her heart, so as not to interfere with the assignment. She must not make it difficult for Lynsley to order her into danger.
Her own schedule for the day presented little threat, mused Valencia as she entered the breakfast room. She was slated to attend an afternoon tea given by Madame Levalier, where the only weapons were likely to be teaspoons and butter knives. The boredom would be sharp, she thought wryly, but it was important to go through the motions of being a proper diplomatic wife.
“ Bonjour , madame.” One of the footmen offered a folded note along with her morning coffee. “Monsieur left this for you.”
“Thank you,” she replied. Tactful Thomas. Allowing the initial awkwardness to dissipate over the day was precisely the sort of thing he would think of.
Swallowing a sigh, Valencia opened the paper. She rather envied the fact that he could release any pent-up tension in the spins and sweat of his early morning exercises. For an instant, she was tempted to order a horse saddled and join him in the secluded spot, clearing the lingering languor from her limbs with the clash of steel.
But the crackle of foolscap quickly chased any such madcap desires from her head as she read over the note.
Bloody hell. What the devil was he up to?
Lynsley checked through the document folder once more, then tied the strings tight. That should whet Rochambert’s appetite, he thought grimly. Enough so to turn his jaws away from Valencia?
Not for long. But even before last night, he had determined that it was time to make a move. They could not continue this charade indefinitely.
He finished his coffee and angled his chair for a better view of the boulevard. Would Rochambert take the bait? The Frenchman might have spent the night at the brothel, or still be languishing in some other den of sin. In which case, he would have to find time later in the day to slip away from his ministry meetings.
“ Voila .” The street urchin darted around the café tables and came to a halt in front of Lynsley. “I have your answer, monsieur. The man will see you.”
“ Merci .” The marquess placed a coin in the boy’s grimy palm. Taking up his walking stick and case, he then paid his bill and proceeded up the street at a leisurely pace.
Would gaining access to Rochambert’s private quarters help in the hunt for his objective? It was hard to say, but he had decided the change in tactics was worth the try. The prospect of winning more kudos from Napoleon might be as strong a lure for the Frenchman as the lust for Valencia’s body.
To that end, Lynsley had gathered a few choice samples from Tobias Daggett’s government documents. The chance to acquire American secrets should be compelling, especially ones concerning its intentions of Western expansion. All of Europe knew that Napoleon was very concerned about the vast territories bordering Mexico, now that Spain was under his thumb.
It was, mused Lynsley, a dirty trick to play on Mr. Madison. However, the American president was a clever man. He and his Congress had shown themselves able to defend the young republic against outside forces . . .
The front door of the mansion opened and a liveried footman escorted him up the stairs.
Rochambert was waiting in his private study, clad in a brocade dressing gown and tasseled Turkish slippers. Raising a glass of brandy in salute, he asked, “A drink, Monsieur Daggett?”
Lynsley shook his head. “I am here for business, not pleasure,” he growled.
“Do you never relax? I noticed that you did not linger long at the Palaise Royal last night, either,” purred the Frenchman. He made a tssskking sound. “You Americans are far too serious. Or perhaps you find pleasure enough in the marriage bed.” A lazy wink. “I must say, Madame Daggett is certainly a tasty-looking morsel.”
He ignored the provocation. “I assume you read my note. Is your Emperor hungry for a look at what I have to offer?”
“That depends, Monsieur.” Rochambert sat on the edge of his desk and appeared to be thinking it over. “Very well, I shall have a look.”
Lynsley made a surreptitious survey of the surroundings as he untied his case and withdrew a sample document. “If you wish to know the innermost thoughts of the president and his cabinet, it is all here. But it will cost you.” He named a high price. “The information is accurate, and can’t be gotten anywhere else. So it should be worth a great deal to your Emperor.”
Rochambert studied document for several long moments. “Naturally, I have a few questions.” Looking up, the Frenchman was quick with a number of probing queries.
Smiling inwardly, Lynsley answered them all smoothly. As a master of interrogation techniques, he had anticipated every angle and had rehearsed the perfect replies.
Pursing his lips, Rochambert read over the document one last time, then set it down. He named a figure considerably less than the price demanded.
Lynsley made a counter offer.
Without replying, the Frenchman walked across the room and opened a wall safe. Though muffled by soft leather, the chink of gold was audible as he sorted through its interior.
In the moments that Rochambert had his back turned, the marquess flicked a look around the room, making mental note of places where a valuable object might be hidden. However, his instincts told him the thing he sought was kept somewhere else.
“A down payment,” said Rochambert as he returned and tossed down a purse. “I’ll buy the rest when I see them, assuming they are of the same quality.”
“Be assured that they are,” said Lynsley.
“I will let you know when and where to bring them.”
The marquess knew the haughty reply was a dismissal and turned away with further words. But as he reached the doorway, Rochambert added, “By the by, how is your wife feeling? Does she often take a tumble ?”
The sneering sexual innuendo was crudely done. Still, Lynsley felt a welling of rage rise in his throat. However, he masked his emotions with a chill smile as he looked back at the Frenchman. “She is quite recovered, thank you. I have warned her again about the danger of not watching her step on unfamiliar ground. I believe she won’t make the mistake again.”
“And yet, some woman have trouble reining in their impulses.” Rochambert spun his letter opener between his palms. “Madame Daggett appears to be a woman who can’t resist a challenge.”
Their gazes clashed, a silent shiver of steel against steel.
Lynsley didn’t flinch. “Be assured, Rochambert. Certain things in my possession are available to the highest bidder. And certain things are not for sale at any price. Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite, monsieur.” The Frenchman lifted his glass of brandy to his lips, a malicious gleam lighting his eye. “However, if something is offered for free . . .”
The marquess left Rochambert’s taunt to trail off in a soft laugh.
He who laughs last . . . The Frenchman’s hubris could be turned against him, of that Lynsley was sure. And that moment couldn’t come too soon.
Valencia chuffed a sigh of relief as she climbed into the carriage. As she had feared, the afternoon had been a tedious bore. However, the time had not been wasted. Sumptuous cakes and confections had been served, and yet several of the ladies had been more hungry for gossip than sugar and buttercream. Between dainty bites they had asked probing questions about her and Lynsley—the discord had, of course, been noticed—and so she had been able to hint that the relationship was not all sweetness and spice. The whispers of strife would no doubt reach Rochambert’s ears quickly . . .
“And then be turned to our advantage,” Valencia murmured aloud. Flexing her shoulders, she leaned back against the squabs. Waiting was becoming more and more difficult. “I am trained for action, not sitting around swathed in silks and satins.”
Hurrying up the townhouse stairs, she inquired whether Lynsley had returned, and was quickly directed to the main parlor by the nervous-looking footman.
A bad sign, thought Valencia. The premonition was quickly confirmed by the marquess.
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” said Lynsley in a low voice. He motioned her to join him by the windows overlooking the street, where the noise from the traffic would help hide their voices from any prying ears. Their private servants were already standing by his side, looking grim-faced.
“I was just explaining that we had an unsettling incident happen here earlier this afternoon while Perkins and I were out running some errands for His Lordship,” said Bailin. “Our steward went down to the wine cellar, and somehow the door snapped shut and tripped the lock, trapping him for nearly an hour before his absence was noticed.
Perkins gave a huff of skepticism. “And during that time, your bedchambers were searched. The other servants claim they were all engaged in various tasks and did not see any intruders.”
“Aye,” muttered Bailin. “My questions were met with Gallic shrugs. No one saw anything, or so they claim”
“Has the break-in been reported to the authorities?” asked Lynsley.
“Aye, sir. An inspector came by, but he spent most of his time interrogating me,” answered his valet.
“I think we all know this is no random street crime,” said Valencia slowly. “Though whether they are suspicious of us, or simply want to see what American secrets they can steal is uncertain.”
The marquess stared out the window. “The longer we play at this charade, the more dangerous it becomes. We must make a move.”
“And soon,” added Valencia.
He nodded, his brow furrowing in thought as he contemplated the play of gold-flecked light on the limestone sill. “I shall have to think on what it should be.”
“As to that,” she said quickly. “I have an idea.”
His gaze swung around—reluctantly, or so it seemed to her. “I have a feeling that I’m not going to like it.”
“Probably not. But we all know that emotion can never be allowed to interfere with the planning a mission.”
A tiny muscle twitched as Lynsley tightened his jaw.
“Rochambert is hungry to get me into his bed. I think I should feed myself to his lust.”
“And then?” asked Lynsley tersely.
“I shall either drug his wine or cut his throat, and then search his private quarters. I’ve heard whispers among the other ladies that he banishes his servants to the attics when he has a female guest. Apparently he has a taste for rough play.”
“Absolutely not.” The marquess’s voice was no louder than a whisper but it carried an unmistakable note of command. “I’ve begun a game of my own with our quarry, tempting him with American secrets.” He explained about offering to sell the captured documents. “That’s where I was this morning. He’ll want more, and soon. I have a feeling what we want is in the library, and once I have a chance to reconnoiter a bit more?—”
“But you just said yourself that Rochambert will set the time and place for your next meeting. There is no guarantee when it will be arranged, or whether it will be at his mansion.”
Silence.
“However, we do know that he will be at home the day after tomorrow—and that we will be dancing and dining in his elegant residence.” Rochambert was hosting a fancy soiree, and they were among the invited guests. “It presents a perfect opportunity.”
“You can’t simply waltz into his arms,” said Lynsley. “To have any chance of success, a plan would have to be choreographed down to the last little intricate step.”
Valencia didn’t bat an eye. “I assumed you would have it no other way.” A discreet nod dismissed Bailin and Perkins. “So, here is what I have in mind . . .”
A half hour later they were still in a verbal duel.
“There are too many unknowns,” insisted Lynsley.
“A Merlin is trained to improvise,” she countered. “Damnation, we shouldn’t be fighting over this, Thomas. How many times have you reminded me that we must be dispassionate about making our decisions? It’s our duty to do what is best for the mission.”
“To hell with duty,” he growled. “I cannot in good conscience let you try something so dangerous.”
“If the roles were reversed, would you allow me to offer such an argument?”
His stone sphinx face betrayed a crack. “It’s . . . different.”
“Why?” pressed Valencia, allowing him no quarter. “If you say it is because I am a female, I swear, I shall slice off your . . . tongue.”
A grudging laugh cut the tension between them. “God forbid. As head of the Merlins, I know better than to challenge your skill with a blade or bullets.” Lynsley’s twitching lips stilled. “Nonetheless, I must ask that you abide by your promise to follow my orders.”
She shook her head. “Not when your sense of noblesse oblige is putting the mission in jeopardy. It is because of me that you are compromising your decisions. Guilt is coloring your judgment.”
“You are fighting dirty,” he whispered after a long moment.
“That is what Merlins are trained to do. Those are the principles that you taught us to believe in—sometimes it is necessary to sacrifice personal feelings for the higher good.”
He turned to stare out up at the thickening clouds. Silhouetted against the storm grey hue, his profile was pale as carved marble. She had never seen him look so bleak. “I don’t need my words thrown back in my face.”
“Oh, but I think you do.” Valencia hated herself for doing this. She knew how much he was hurting inside. “The mission, Thomas. That is why both of us are here.”
“ If —I repeat, if —I agree to this plan, you must in turn promise to let me work out the details and agree to abide by my instructions.”
“Yes, sir ,” she quipped.
He didn’t smile. “I’m deadly serious, Valencia.”
“So am I, Thomas. And together we will bury Rochambert in the deepest pit in Hell, where he belongs.”