might extract the information he wanted and then silence a French spy who knew many awkward secrets. She knelt in the iron grip of his hands, covered with sweat from fighting, but inside she was as cold as January.
“Finished?” Grey asked.
She could only nod.
“I’m glad you two finally settled that.” Adrian was upon the other seat. His voice was feeble but perfectly full of laughter. “You keep banging into me.”
“It’s settled,” Grey said, “except she’s going to bite me if I let go.”
Her terror diminished with those words, for the attitude of Grey was not that of a man about to do murder, and the boy Adrian was entirely lighthearted, which only a monster would be if she were to die in the environs of Paris at the hands of these English.
“I should have left you to rot with Leblanc,” she said. “I wish I had.”
“It’s a little late to wish that, mademoiselle,” Grey said.
“I beg to differ. It is never too late. I will probably wish it for the rest of my life. What is your intention to do with me?”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Annique.”
Yes, he would. Did he imagine she was stupid? “I have saved your life. This is no fit repayment, what you do to me.”
“You’re right. It isn’t.” Then there was some silence in which he did not at all amplify his response.
There is a transition to be made in the mind. To admit one is beaten. She admitted defeat most privately to herself and felt weakness and despair flow throughout her muscles. Grey, who held her pinned most effectively, would feel it also. He relaxed his hold somewhat. She muttered, “It was said by Socrates that no evil can befall the good, either in life or after death. I am not so sure of this as I once was. What do you want from me?”
“Your company. For a time.” There was deep satisfaction in his voice.
“How long will you keep me?”
“Until I let you go.”
“Oh, but you are witty, monsieur. Forgive me if I do not laugh. I am not in good humor tonight.” She let her cheek lie against the seat, against the cool leather, unutterably exhausted and beaten. Fox Cub they called her, her friends and her enemies in the little world of spying. No fox’s trick would free her this time. Nonetheless, she tried one last time to pretend to be stupider than she was. “You waste your time with me. I am the small agent, the quiet mouse in the wall, the messenger. I hold no secrets of interest to the English.”
And thus she pretended to know not a thimbleful about Albion plans or the invasion of England or what had happened all those months ago in Bruges, or much else either. She did not expect to fool him.
“Is that so?” He did not sound very interested.
“Most certainly. You have heard Leblanc say otherwise, but he is a fool.” When he said nothing, she clarified, “He speaks of the Albion plans, of which I know not the least morsel. Leblanc makes the old quarrel, you understand. He has hated Vauban since the days of the Revolution, when they were both young and ambitious agents, and my mother also. She is dead now, which frustrates him utterly, so he invents plots that never were. He destroys the daughter because he cannot have the mother. It is small-minded of him.”
“You, of course, are innocent.”
“It pleases you to be ironic. It is not that I am innocent. I am only innocent of these particular matters. That is the truth, English.”
“Your truth has more layers than an onion. We’ll see what happens when we will peel off a few of those layers.”
She did not like the sound of that.
The English did not believe her. He would hold on to her like grim death, no matter what convincing lies she told. Soon, the questioning would begin.
She was tired beyond measure of these stupid and intransigent plans, which kept trying to cause her death and had no resting place anywhere. They were the most sharp of two-edged swords, those plans: deadly to the land of England if they remained hidden, perilous to France if given to the English. It was foolish beyond measure that Napoleon should have ordered them made and she was entirely disgusted with the whole business.
The driver hitched the horses, backing them with a shuffle of hooves, harnessing them with jingling reins. That was no trivial job for one man, alone, in the dark of night. But Grey would not descend to help him. He stayed where he was, holding her arm behind her back in that clever way that did not hurt and did not allow her to move. It was like being constrained by a stone statue or some other object impervious to argument.
He said, “Let’s put an end to this. Are you tired of crouching on the floor, Mademoiselle Villiers?”
“Extremely, Monsieur Grey.”
“Then I suggest we make an agreement. You will promise to sit quietly and stop kicking me. I will let you sit up and give you something to eat and drink. Do you agree?”
So. They would begin thus. She recognized the first of many little compromises he would force upon her. Each “yes” made the next one easier until, as he hoped, it would seem wholly natural to do exactly as he told her in all things.
“Leblanc uses such methods,” she said. “You would make me accept this kidnapping in return for a few ounces of water. It is profoundly discouraging how similar spies are everywhere.”
“Very philosophic. Do I have your agreement?”
“I make you no agreements. It is indifferent to me whether I sit on the seat or lie tied on the floor, unless the carriage is infested with fleas, which is of course a possibility. The question of water will resolve itself, I think, in another day.”
The driver could be heard, walking a circuit of the coach, kicking stones away from the wheels. The carriage rocked as he climbed up to the box. They lurched forward, up the hill, past the ditch that marked the old gate, jouncing on ruts in the Rue des Orphelines, clattering on the cobbles of the Rue Bérenger. They turned right. West. Toward England.
Toward Soulier, who was posted to London, serving the Secret Police and France. Soulier, who would give her sanctuary from Leblanc. With Soulier’s protection, she might even live long enough to deal with the Albion plans. These men were taking her ever so swiftly in the direction she wished to go. Of a certainty, there was an evil, humorous angel in charge of her own particular heavens.
“I wonder whether I should call your bluff.” Grey’s hands tightened. “Shall we—”
From the other side of the carriage, Adrian spoke, “For the gods’ sake, Grey, leave the girl be.”
“It’s not your teeth she’s trying to kick in.”
“I was not aiming for your teeth, monsieur,” she said.
“No, you weren’t, were you?”
“So entertaining.” Adrian’s voice was a satiric croak. “Why don’t we torture her later…when she’s stronger. So much more fun.”
“Hell.” Grey hoisted her to the seat. She was free to turn away from him and huddle in a corner.
“Harmony is restored.” The boy Adrian adjusted himself on the seat with creakings of leather and the swish of cloth.
“Easy for you to talk. You’re not the one she’s planning to emasculate,” Grey said sourly.
“That’s the entertainment…I was talking about.”
“You should save your chivalry. You don’t know her. This is a beautiful little snake.”
“But I do know her, by reputation, at least. The Fox Cub and I are old rivals…from the days in Italy. We snakes have to…stick together.”
She knew then who this Adrian must be, though he had used a different name in Italy. Such stories were told of him. Certainly she had fallen among deadly company this night.
Grey did not leave her to digest this new information in silence. He leaned across and brushed her hair back, settling it around her ear, uncovering her face, nudging her chin up. The outside lanterns would reveal her completely. She kept her eyes shut.
Adrian must have been looking her over, too. “She’s afraid of you, if that’s what you wanted. It comes and it goes. She’s afraid now.”
“I want her afraid. I want her too afraid to give me any trouble. Annique, just how afraid of me are you?”
