The Spymaster's Lady

will spare Grey his trouble, if he agrees. I will deliver you to Fouché, to make an example of. He will relieve his spleen by separating you from your head. You permit, Monsieur Grey?”

Grey’s voice was quiet into her ear. “Annique, Leblanc is yours. Shall I hang him for you? Or you can kill him with your own hands, if that’s what you need. Anything you want.”

The thought of laying hands upon Leblanc to kill him made her sick. She shook her head quickly.

Grey said to Soulier, “Take him. Get him out of here. We need to talk. Alone.”

Soulier waved impatiently. “Yves, put him…I do not know. I do not keep a cage for such rats in my house. Put him somewhere and watch him. The pantry. All of you go. Yes, all. Do not let him escape.”

Leblanc was dragged from the room, leaving threats behind him like the trail of a snail, departing.

Thirty-eight

WITH LEBLANC GONE, THE ROOM WAS ODDLY quiet. She rested within Grey’s arms, her cheek pressed against his sleeve. Truly, love plucked away all one’s common sense. She was tempted to cling to him and feed off the strength of him and feel safe. She had not known such temptations existed until she met him.

When she pushed herself free, Grey let her go with one instant of hesitation that said he did not want to.

“Soulier must be told the truth of what I have done,” she said, which was warning enough, for an astute man like Grey, that she was about to lie in a serious fashion.

This was the last throw of her game. This was what she had planned through her days at Meeks Street, lying by Grey’s side, playing chess with Galba, teaching Hawker to juggle knives. If she lied well enough, she would end the threat of invasion, yet lay no advantage into the hands of the British.

Soulier sat, urbane and well-tailored, framed by the chair with its high tapestry back. He might have been a courtier of the old king, receiving an ambassador at Versailles.

She must make him look upon her, not Grey. Grey was unprepared and might make some small revelations upon his face. “I did not speak of the Albion plans in front of the others. I knew you would not wish me to.”

“Then do not speak of them now.” Soulier was testy with her.

“I must.” She stood square in front of him. She had stood thus many times, reporting or receiving orders. “You have guessed most of it. The Albion plans are ashes. Vauban burned them in the fireplace of the inn that night, rather than give them to Leblanc.”

“You have said enough.”

“He gave them to me first, to memorize.”

Soulier conveyed the need for discretion with an angry, emphatic shake of his head.

“The British know about my memory. I have spent days at Meeks Street copying out the plans, page by page.” She made a picture of that in her mind, so vivid and exact it did not even feel like a lie. “They have them now.”

It was done. France would not invade. England was safe. Now she must face what would come to her.

Soulier stared at his hands that rested, one upon the other, on the pommel of his cane. “You did this for Vauban.”

“He asked it of me. In Bruges.”

“Then he has condemned you to death.” Soulier leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Even I cannot save you.”

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. There is a difference between knowing one will die and hearing the sentence pronounced. “I have accepted the consequences of my actions. I delayed leaving for England for a long time, hoping Napoleon would turn aside from this invasion, and the plans would come to nothing, but it did not happen. I did not wish to die, you understand. And I was injured and made blind.” Her mouth felt dry. “Which complicated matters. Leblanc has been a complexity, as well.”

“Annique,” Soulier said gently.

“Yes?”

“Be silent. I am thinking.” He opened his eyes to frown at her. “And do not stand there like a loaf of bread. This room is disordered beyond belief by the men you brought here to fight over you. Do something useful.” He closed his eyes again.

That was comforting. Perhaps Soulier would think of a way to save her from Fouché. It was not impossible.

Grey was saying nothing, for which she was grateful. He knew, better than anyone else, that the Albion plans were not in British hands. For the moment, he played her game.

She set the small table upright and put the silver tray upon it and knelt to gather shattered glass from the lamp chimney into the palm of her hand. Such mundane activities. Spying is a life of boring, ordinary tasks, performed while death scratches at the window. She had been seven when Soulier told her that.

Matters did not go so badly. Leblanc had not shot her, after all. The oil lamp that fell from this table had not set itself afire to burn her to death. She had told a convincing lie to Soulier, who was a master in detecting lies. Soulier had not yet been compelled to kill her. And she had, perhaps, prevented the invasion of England. Altogether, she had much to congratulate herself upon.

Soulier opened his eyes. “You did not give the Albion plans to the British Service.”

Her stomach dropped like a stone. She had not been believed, after all. Diable. “Soulier, I have—”

“Do not chatter. It is Leblanc who just sold the plans to the British.”

“Leblanc?”

“Exact. I am in a state of shock. Monsieur Grey is even now informing me of Leblanc’s guilt. He does this in a pique of revenge, for Leblanc’s culpability in the matter of gold and murder at Bruges, which he has just discovered.”

She did not glance at Grey, who was doubtless being impenetrable. “I see.”

“You, my child, were never in Bruges. You were somewhere else entirely. Dijon perhaps.”

“That is a dull town. I am delighted to have been there.” She put broken crockery upon the silver tray. “It is convenient of Leblanc to be so guilty.”

“Is it not? He will deny everything and tangle himself in a dozen lies and not be believed. Fouché delights in simplicities. We shall fasten one more crime upon this salaud, who has committed so many. He can only die once, unfortunately. And you, child, will not pay for Vauban’s folly.”

“It is not—”

“You have sufficient folly of your own to pay for,” Soulier said sharply. “Which I must now deal with.”

Grey’s footfalls as he stepped forward had become the tread of a fighter, balanced and light. Tension, fierce and invisible, twisted in the air. “Then you deal with me.”

“You saved her life tonight, Monsieur Grey, when my men failed me. I am in your debt. But she is safe now, with her own people. You must leave her to us.”

Grey said, “This isn’t negotiable.”

“She is mine, monsieur. And I will not give her up.” Soulier hesitated, then laid his cane aside, slanted against the arm of his chair. “But I am wise enough not to challenge you directly. Come. Sit. Let us discuss this like civilized men.”

Grey picked an overturned gilt chair and set it upright so it confronted Soulier. He sat, and he pulled her to stand next to him, his arm around her. “Talk.”

“Eh bien. We shall be blunt, as you English prefer.” Soulier leaned toward him. “You have achieved the Albion plans. That must content you. As you care for my little one, I ask you to leave her with me and go. Make your farewell as tender as you wish, but part from her quickly. It is the kindest way.”

“I’m not letting you have her.”

“Do you know so little of me? Do you fear I will do revenge upon her? We French take into account the human frailties. For a woman such as Annique, we will forgive a great many frailties.”

“I don’t give a damn what you forgive.”