“Flattering, but not, I think, the whole story.” He was up to something; of that Jane had no doubt. “Just what is the Queen worth to you, Nicolas?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking the same of you?” It was a duel without swords. “To place yourself within my power . . .”
“Within the terms of our agreement,” Jane reminded him.
“Ah, yes.” Nicolas leaned back in his chair, his glass of wine dangling between his fingers. “Our agreement.”
“An agreement which has held good for longer than most treaties,” Jane reminded him, feeling, for the first time, a frisson of unease. She knew that cat-with-the-cream look of old. It did not bode well.
“Two years?” Nicolas’s fingers brushed hers, just at the tips. “They have been two good years, have they not?”
Jane wasn’t sure she would call them “good,” precisely. They had certainly been educational.
“Two and a half years,” she said crisply. Two and a half years since she had met Nicolas, since she had struck off on her own, since they had, of necessity, brokered their odd entente. “I trust the agreement still holds?”
“But of course.” She mistrusted Nicolas the most when he was his most accommodating. “In all of its particulars.”
Jane narrowed her eyes. “We engage not to interfere with one another on neutral soil.”
It had seemed the most expedient solution. She was barred from France, Nicolas from England. But outside of those bounds, they afforded each other the mutual courtesy due to fellow professionals.
“On neutral soil,” Nicolas agreed, holding his glass to the light to admire the rich red of the wine. Gently, he said, “But Portugal is now French soil, my love.”
“Tell that to the Regency Council,” Jane said, leaning sideways along the divan in the pose popularized by Madame Recamier.
Nicolas looked at her with a peculiar glint in his hazel eyes. “I imagine,” he said, “that General Junot is telling them something to that effect even now.”
Jane abandoned her languid pose. “Really, Nicolas, you can’t be serious.” She swung her legs down to the floor, yanking her skirts with them. “We operated as allies in Italy. By that sort of argument, Italy was far closer to being French soil than Portugal. You haven’t even got around to conquering the entire country yet.”
“In Italy,” said Nicolas quietly, “you had not yet fled from me.”
His eyes held hers, for once devoid of merriment.
“My work in Venice was done,” Jane prevaricated. “I was needed elsewhere.”
“Did you stop to think that I might need you?” His voice was light, but there was something beneath it that wasn’t light at all. He set his cup down on a small table. “You may understand why I might be somewhat reluctant to let you go.”
Jane set her glass next to his. Straightening very slowly, she said, “Would you have me against my will?”
“Would you be so unwilling?”
He was in breach of their agreement, but even so, Jane felt a slight twinge of guilt. She had played with his emotions. Not intentionally, perhaps, but she had used him all the same.
Striving for a middle ground, she said, “I shouldn’t enjoy being taken back to Paris in chains.”
Nicolas smiled a little grimly. “The only chains in which I wish to drape you are ropes of pearls and strings of rubies.”
Jane lifted Nicolas’s glass from the table. “A golden chain is still a tether.” She looked at him regretfully over the rim of the glass. “I’ve told you before. I have no desire to be the toast of any court.”
Nicolas took the other glass, holding it aloft. She had done her work well. There was no sign of the drug in it. The powder had dissolved completely. “Not even that of His Royal Majesty, King Louis the Eighteenth?”
Jane looked at him sharply.
“Oh, yes,” said Nicolas, enjoying the effect. He set the glass down on the table, undrunk. “There have been negotiations.”
This might merely be a ploy. Or it might not. “Can he offer you better than Bonaparte?”
“Bonaparte gave me my father’s title, but not his lands.” Nicolas’s face was carved into harsh lines, his knuckles white on the arms of his chair. “I want it all. Every hectare of ground, every painting, every candlestick. And if there’s any sort of hell, I want him to look up and see me enjoying everything that was his.”
Jane had known Nicolas long and well enough to know that he referred to the Comte de Brillac, his supposed father, the man who had acknowledged him publicly, to save his own reputation, and alternately neglected and abused him in private.
She knew only pieces of the story, those pieces that Nicolas had allowed her to know. Jane suspected that in this, the truth was probably grimmer than he had permitted her to see. He wasn’t a man who liked to expose his weaknesses.
From everything Jane had heard, the old comte had been a brute and a bully. It had galled him no end, apparently, to see his older sons, his own sons, received at court without enthusiasm, while the cuckoo in his nest had been feted at court and welcomed at every salon.
The comtesse had been dead by the time revolution had broken out—some said by her husband’s hand. The comte and his two older sons had gone to the guillotine, wrenched out of hiding, denounced by an anonymous source.
Nicolas had maintained a good pretense of grief. He had come to England with the other émigrés, feigning filial sorrow well enough to fool even the heir to the French throne. He had quickly become an intimate of the French court in exile at Hartwell House in Buckinghamshire, playing cards with the Duc de Berry, all the while weaving his web of agents and informers.
The court at Hartwell House had been particularly miffed when news of Nicolas’s duplicity had come out.
“You have lied to King Louis before,” Jane pointed out. “Why should he welcome you now?”
“His Majesty,” said Nicolas, “said much the same thing. He seems to believe he needs an earnest of my good intentions. A gesture that will render me persona non grata at the Palace of Saint-Cloud.”
He lifted the drugged glass of wine, turning it this way and that.
Jane watched him closely, revolving these new possibilities. There was no denying that Nicolas was an accomplished liar. But one thing she could trust in him: his self-interest. His allegiance to the revolutionary regime had always been driven more by revenge than conviction.
Nicolas, not Jack, was the real opportunist, for sale to the highest bidder.
Nicolas was also, Jane thought practically, a snob. He might sneer at his father, but when it came down to it, what he wanted—what he had always wanted—was to be feted by the very same society his father had attempted to deny him.
“An irrevocable gesture,” said Jane. “Such as, perhaps, stealing a queen?”
Nicolas smiled at her, the roguish glint back in his eye. “Check and mate.”
He lifted the glass to his lips to drink.
“Wait.” Jane stilled him with a hand on his wrist.
Hoping she was doing the right thing, Jane removed the glass from his hand and set it firmly down on the table.
“I have a proposition to put to you.”
“Words that warm the farthest reaches of my heart.” The honeyed words lacked conviction. It was cupidity rather than Cupid driving her former lover now. “What terms?”
“I have reinforcements waiting on Berlengas.” There was no harm in telling Nicolas as much; he must know that the English held the island. “Write the orders. Have the Queen delivered there.”
“Who are these reinforcements?” Nicolas’s pose was relaxed, but his eyes betrayed him.
Revealing any information was always a gamble. Perhaps, Jane realized, Jack had been right when he accused her of gambling. She preferred to think of it as weighing the probabilities, but what was that but another
name for a game of chance?
Jane looked the Gardener in the eye. “Lord Richard Selwick. And his crew.”
“Ah.” Nicolas sat back in his chair. “You interest me, strangely.”
“I had thought I might.”
It wasn’t just that Lord Richard had the influence to press Nicolas’s case with King Louis. Nicolas had his own private history with the Selwick family.
He tapped his fingers lightly against the arm of the chair. The sigil of Brillac glittered in the candlelight. “But it was not Lord Richard Selwick with you at the abbey, was it?”
There was no mistaking the blade beneath the velvet of the Gardener’s voice.
Jane raised a brow, keeping her voice lightly amused. “You are well-informed. As always.”
“Where you are concerned, I leave no stone unturned. Who was he?” They weren’t playing anymore. The game had turned serious.
Jane leaned back against the divan, feigning an ease she didn’t feel. She ought, she thought grimly, to have let him drink the drugged wine. Working with Nicolas was always much more dangerous than working against him, perhaps because it was never entirely clear where the one left off and the other began.
“Do you tell me the names of all of your agents?” Her pearl earbobs swayed, heavy and rich, as she leaned forward. “Such as, for example, your man at the abbey?”
“Ah.” Nicolas sat back, propping one ankle against the opposite knee. “But he wasn’t my man.”
“Whose then?” Jane took another gamble. “I assume Mr. Samson isn’t his real name.”
“His real name is Rene Desgoules.” Nicolas rose abruptly from his chair, pacing towards the narrow slit of a window. He left the glass of wine behind him.
Jane rose, too, moving behind the divan, resting her hands on the gilded rail. “Why tell me that?”
Unless, of course, it wasn’t true. A falsehood designed to create the impression of honesty. What was a name, more or less?
Nicolas looked back over his shoulder. There was a fraught pause, as the candles guttered in their silver holders and a seagull cawed outside the window. “I told you. He’s not my man.”
Jane wouldn’t have believed him under any circumstances. It became ever more difficult to do so when the door crashed open and the man himself appeared in the doorway. He tripped over Nicolas’s walking stick and, kicking it aside, stalked into the room.
“I had to hear it from the guards downstairs,” he complained in rapid French flavored with the distinctive accent of Marseilles. “Why didn’t you tell me you had her?”
He might no longer be Mr. Samson, merchant, but the tone of grievance was the same.
“As you may have noticed, Desgoules,” said Nicolas calmly, “the lady and I were having a private conversation.”
“Lady?” Desgoules spat eloquently. “Put her in chains and have done with it.”
Nicolas’s face froze into an expression of aristocratic hauteur. “She is my captive, Desgoules, not yours.”
“I speak not for myself,” said Desgoules, drawing himself up, “but for Fouché.”
The captive in question moved quietly towards the door. Desgoules used his foot to kick it shut, oak crashing against stone.
As the reverberations died away, Jane raised the swordstick she had scooped up from the floor, the point sharp against Desgoules’ throat.
“‘Every hectare of ground, every painting, every candlestick’?” she quoted, without turning to Nicolas.
“You are a rather valuable commodity,” said Nicolas apologetically. “Wouldn’t you rather I benefit than this creature?”
“Shoot her! Why don’t you shoot her?” Desgoules was quivering with impatience, but not quite brave enough to make a grab for the swordstick. “You’re taking too many chances. You always take too many chances.”
“Not this time,” said Nicolas, and there was a curious note to his voice. Out of the corner of her eye, Jane could see the glint of silver. Nicolas’s pistol, elaborately chased, a masterpiece of art.
But still deadly.
“Drop the pistol,” said Jane levelly, “or I shall run Monsieur Desgoules through.”
“Will you?” said Nicolas reproachfully. “Will you truly?”
Beads of sweat stood out on Desgoules’ forehead. His eyes darted sideways, making him look more than ever like a rat in a trap. “Take the shot, man! Take the shot!”
Nicolas let out a light sigh. “If you insist,” he said, and pulled the trigger.
Chapter Twenty-four
The acrid scent of powder filled the air.
Jane jerked sideways, out of the way, but she needn’t have worried. Desgoules’ mouth opened in a silent expression of shock. His hands went to the hole in his chest before he dropped, heavily, to his knees, and from there, facedown on the floor at Jane’s feet.
Jane froze, the swordstick clenched in her numb hand. “You shot him.”
“Did you think I was going to shoot you?” Calmly Nicolas set down his pistol, waggling his fingers in a bowl of rose-scented water to remove any nasty traces of powder. “I told you. He wasn’t my man.”
The blood throbbed in Jane’s temples. “No. He was Fouché’s man.” The pieces clicked into place. “You wanted me to kill him for you, didn’t you?”
Nicolas shrugged, dabbing his hands dry on a piece of linen embroidered with the arms of Brillac. “It would have been convenient—although it did seem unlikely.”
If pushed . . . if cornered. . . . Jane had never killed, in self-defense or otherwise, but she knew that someday the necessity might arise. And it would haunt her.
Nicolas knew that, too. “Two birds with one stone,” Jane said tightly. “Eliminate your enemy and—”
“And?” Nicolas prompted, looking far too amused for a man with a corpse at the threshold of his room.
And win a point in the game between them. Prove to her that she wasn’t as virtuous as she had thought. Streak blood on her hands. Render her vulnerable.
How had she ever fancied herself in love with Nicolas?
Jane found herself desperately wishing she had Jack there with her, a strong presence at her back.
Rapidly, she said, “Fouché suspected you, didn’t he? He sent Desgoules with you to make sure you didn’t abscond with the Queen.”
Nicolas spread his hands wide in a gesture of graceful assent. “And now there is no obstacle to our departure.” Catching sight of the narrowing of Jane’s eyes, he added quietly, “He was not a very nice man, Desgoules. He would have done far worse to you without blinking an eye.”
Jane’s eyes dropped to Desgoules’ fallen form. Somberly, she said, “Don’t pretend this was on my behalf.”
“But wasn’t it?” Nicolas raised a brow. “Why would I betray my Emperor but for the chance of your hand?”
It was, as far as Jane could tell, still entirely unclear who was betraying whom. “You forget,” she said, “the small matter of a thousand hectares, a dozen Fragonard paintings, and a very old grievance.”
“Ah, yes,” said Nicolas, the corner of his mouth twisting up in a grin that had little humor to it. “That as well.”
There was the sound of heavy footfalls approaching the door.
Before Jane could say anything else, Nicolas leaned his head out the door and shouted, “Guards! Guards! We have an enemy in our midst!”
An ensign skidded, breathless, to a stop outside the door. His eyes widened as he saw the man crumpled on the floor, the slow stain of blood seeping out beneath him.
Bonaparte was calling up young soldiers now, more and more soldiers to fill his endless armies. This soldier looked no more than sixteen, and his complexion turned a delicate shade of chartreuse as he stared at what was most likely his first dead body.
It took him a moment to find his voice. “Monsieur . . . Monsieur Desgoules—
”
“Was a traitor,” said Nicolas, with well-feigned woe. “I caught him in the act of ransacking my dispatches. He has been suborned by the English. When I accused him of his perfidy, he attacked my fiancée, holding my own sword to her throat.”
The ensign stared with wide eyes at Jane and the sword cane in her hands. Jane tried to look like someone unaccustomed to handling a blade.
Nicolas put a comforting arm around the younger man’s shoulders. Pushing him towards the door, he said rapidly, “My position here has been compromised. Have a carriage prepared and my royal guest fetched from the next chamber. It is necessary that I take her to a place of safety at once.”
The young soldier blinked. “But . . . General Thomières. Surely I should . . .”
Nicolas looked at him sternly. “Do you want to be responsible for a valuable prize falling into the hands of the English? Quickly now! There’s no time to be lost. I have it on good authority that the Pink Carnation is on his way here even now. Yes, the Carnation,” he said, as the young soldier paled. “You understand the seriousness of the situation? Question everybody. Trust nobody. And fetch me a swift carriage and a good bottle of claret.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” The soldier scurried off, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the Carnation wasn’t behind him.
“Trust nobody,” said Jane, watching Nicolas as he seated himself at his writing desk, penning something in a quick, elegant hand. “Excellent advice.”
“He won’t take it.” Nicolas dusted sand across the paper, then held it up to inspect it before dripping red wax on the folds and pressing it with his seal. “A note for Thomières. The Queen is being transferred to a safe place pending voyage to France.”
The sword cane was still in Jane’s hand. She touched the blade to the sealed note. “Give me one reason why I should trust you.”
Nicolas smiled winningly. “Because my heart is at your feet?”
It wasn’t his heart at her feet, but a murdered operative. That, in its own way, was better assurance. Fouché wouldn’t take the death of one of his picked men lightly. The tale of subornation might fool a young soldier; it might even fool Thomières. But it wouldn’t pass muster with Napoleon’s spymaster.