Jacques Leblanc is making plans to kill you. That is what you face, if you escape. Waiting for you also are your French masters. Robert tells me you no longer wish to serve Fouché. Is that correct?”
“I would rather not.” Her voice was a dry rustle of sound, not much louder than the fire.
“Is this ideological? Or is it because Fouché is so lacking in imagination he will require you to work as a courtesan?”
She did not answer. One does not explain one’s motives to one’s captors.
Galba shifted his weight in the chair as if he had become uncomfortable. The boy brought him coffee in a demitasse so small it disappeared in his hand. They waited while Galba drank. He took his time, as if he delayed to seek words. “I do not fault your mother’s choice. She was a great patriot. But that path is not for everyone. It is not for you.”
“No.”
“Besides your French masters and what awaits you beyond the front door of this house, you have a final alternative. The British Service.”
“We’re not as final as all that.” Adrian slipped onto the couch beside her. “Cub, I owe you my life four or five times. I pay that kind of debt. I won’t let Galba do anything horrible to you.”
“I saved you only twice, I think. And yes, you will let him do things entirely horrible to me,
She faced Galba. Grey’s hold tightened upon her, perhaps because of what she had said, perhaps because he felt the change in her. For she was angry now, instead of wholly abashed with fear. “You speak of choices. Why do you tease me with what I would do if I were free? There is a game children play here—button, button, who has the button? The English have the button. What will you do with it?”
She thought Galba was pleased. He preferred it when she was not afraid.
He finished his coffee and set down his cup. “I propose an exchange. What I require is the knowledge stored in your brain. What I offer is a way out of the trap you are in.”
She said nothing, waiting.
“Give the Albion plans to England. I will spread the mantle of my protection between you and Fouché. I will crush Leblanc. I have the power to do this. I will give you a new name and a home, anonymous and safe, where no one can pursue you.” Piercing blue eyes fixed on her face. “Give me the plans, and you will be free of the weight of the thousands of deaths that are coming with this invasion. Whatever happens, it will no longer be your responsibility.”
It was as if Galba lifted the lid to her soul. It chilled her to know she could be tempted with a few well- chosen words. She wished to be free of this heavy choice so very much. Almost, she wished to close her eyes to the damage England could do to her country with those plans, and give them away and be rid of them. Galba saw that cowardice in her, and she was shamed.
“This is an equitable bargain, Annique. Will you accept it?”
Doyle and the others looked elsewhere, pretending to be concerned with their coffee or a spot on the wall. The fire crackled in the fireplace. She had glanced into that chimney earlier. It was guarded halfway up by crossed iron bars set in the bricks. Every mouse hole in this house was closed. There was no way out.
They would free her from this terrible choice. They were so wise and cunning. They knew precisely what to offer.
She folded her hands into her lap and looked at him, straight. “Monsieur Galba, I do not wish to be questioned by any of the men who haunt your doorstep. I do not wish to return to Fouché, who is not a gentle master. But I will go to Paris and whore for him as my mother did, before I will turn traitor for a fat, white, sly old English spy like you.”
Adrian gave a crack of laughter and was up, striding to the window. On the other side of the room the woman Maggie smothered a giggle. Grey found a new hold upon her shoulder. A firm one.
The flowers woven into the rug were of a sort she did not recognize or which perhaps did not exist. She considered those flowers closely, since there was nothing and no one in that room she felt like seeing at that moment.
“A French patriot,” Galba said. “The very essence of irrationality. At least we are clear where we stand.” When she risked a glance upward, it was extraordinarily difficult to read his face. He might even have been amused. Cats probably were amused when the mouse squeaked at them and struggled.
“The conversation becomes predictable from this point. Giles…” The boy was stacking cups on the silver tray. He, too, laughed and was impudent enough he made no attempt to hide it. “Giles, take Mademoiselle—No. We will stop this Frenchified nonsense and give her thoughts a better direction. Take Miss Annique and introduce her to Tiny as a guest. Then put her in Grey’s bedroom and leave her.”
Grey pulled her upright, helping her to stand, taking care of her.
Galba stood. “Good night. We will talk again. We have much to discuss.”
They knew she held the Albion plans. They intended to take them from her. Under all the cordiality, that was what had been said. It was best to establish this reality between them.
“Good night, Monsieur Galba.” She curtsied, as a girl of good family would, to an old man. “We will hold all the discussions you wish. But I shall not eat or drink while I am in this house. You have only a short time to set about subverting me.”
Twenty-eight
“AN IMPRESSIVE WOMAN,” PAXTON SAID WHEN the door closed behind her. “I congratulate you on bringing her out of France.”
“Maybe Fouché planted her on us to drive Grey insane.” Adrian was still chuckling.
“Could be,” Doyle said. “She’s that good, we’d never know.”
“I’d know.” Damn, but he was proud of her.
“If you know her so well, tell me how we pushed her into this stupidity.” Adrian pushed the curtains closed, lapping them so there wasn’t even a strip of light out onto the side yard. He was dead serious again when he faced them, and angry. “She’s the one I should be hauling out of second-floor windows tonight. She’s wrong, you see.” He shot a look at Galba. “I’m not going to let you do ‘entirely horrible’ things to her.”
“Nobody’s going to hurt the girl, unless Tiny takes a bite out of her on the way upstairs.” Doyle raised an eyebrow at Galba. “Did you expect that to work? Against a political idealist the age of that child?”
“I had hoped to establish an extended dialogue and prevent exactly the sort of bravura performance we just enjoyed. Unfortunately, she had this farce planned before I even spoke to her.”
“You think it’s a bluff?” Doyle asked. “I don’t.”
Galba glanced in Grey’s direction. “Robert?”
“Not a bluff.”
“Adrian?”
“Not a bluff. In fact, she’s calling ours.” Adrian jerked a thumb. “Grey’s.”
Galba nodded. “That is my own opinion. I called it bravura, but it is, in fact, admirably rational. She will not eat. It’s the only conceivable weapon left her. I assume she will not even take water.”
“No water. Nothing.” He closed his eyes, going over the conversation, trying to remember when he’d felt her resolve harden. “She was planning it when she refused the coffee. She made the decision when she heard your offer. For a minute, she wanted to say yes. She’s not going to let herself surrender that easily.”
“So she has given us less than two days to persuade her by reasoned argument or demonstrate we are villains,” Galba said. “Captive and with no weapons, she has wrested control of the situation from our hands. Admirable.”
Doyle sprawled in the big chair next to the fire with his feet up on the firedogs. Maggie was on the low ottoman, leaning against his knee, companionably close. She stirred and sat up. “Are you saying that girl means to starve herself to death if you don’t let her go?”
