Hawker.
She jerked in surprise and opened her eyes. A drop, only, of her coffee spilled and fell upon the table.
Hawker stood beside her, casually inspecting the café and all within it. He laid his cane down, slantwise. It was elegantly black with a silver head, in the shape of a skull, which grinned in her direction, pleased with Hawker’s little triumph.
She would not be flustered. She had known Hawker would track her down and confront her. He had simply been very quick about it. The letter of Monsieur Millian mentioned the Palais Royale, where he had overheard the plotters. It was entirely predictable she would come here.
She hated to be predictable. “Go away. We should not be seen together.”
He did not leave. “And we never do anything we’re not supposed to.” As if fastidious, he inspected the chair, then lifted it and placed it just so. He settled himself, arranging his coat, lifting the fabric of his trousers to let it lie easily. A raised index finger signaled the waiter.
Anyone passing saw friends, meeting by chance at the Café Foy.
She said, “I suppose you are angry with me,” and did not look at him
“Why the hell should I be angry? I wake up and you’ve left me a damn letter saying you’re tired of me. Fine. Just fine.” The civilized veneer of Monsieur Adrian Hawkhurst was sometimes very thin indeed.
She said, “I did not say I was tired of you.”
“The hell you didn’t.”
“I said we will no longer be lovers.”
“You didn’t say it. You wrote me a buggering letter.”
She had seen Hawker truly angry only three times. He became incalculable and menacing when he was angry.
He did not dismay her in the least. “It was a gracefully written letter and took me considerable time to compose. We have been foolish. Now we will cease to be foolish.”
“Oh, right. We’re going to embrace good sense, you and me. We’re going to be prudent. Fuck that.”
“There is no need to be crude.”
Silence fell because the waiter was hurrying in Hawker’s direction to be attentive. This was the same waiter who had been leisurely in attending to her. Now, he chose to bestir himself.
She waited. Hawker ordered coffee and a carafe of water, taking his time. Maddeningly, taking his time. He saw there were pastries. Fresh? They had been made today? The waiter was quite sure? Then he would have one of those. They discussed apple and plum, to settle at last on apple.
The waiter went away. She fumed at Hawker for a time, but silently, and watched him from under her lashes. She drank coffee. Hawker ignored her. At last she said, “I am not tired of you.”
“Well, then. That makes it all right.”
“We are no longer the young fools to indulge ourselves in this way.”
Deep voiced, slowly, he said, “I like indulging you.”
Old memories swept in. Nights of generosity shared. The dark of hidden beds. Days side by side in fields and woods, lying, watching the clouds whirl by overhead, talking and touching.
She curled her hands where they rested in her lap and a pang of emotion struck through her. She desired him unreasonably and completely, at this moment, in this inconvenient place. She remembered his body with an intimacy deep as the memory of her own.
She could not help herself. She lifted her eyes to him.
He was dark and vital, every feature finely chiseled, and all of them unreadable.
She had seen him in rags so often, or in the clothes of a laborer or dockworker, it was almost disconcerting to see him dressed respectably. As always, he was perfect in his role. He wore rich gray of several shades. The sober waistcoat carried a thin silver thread. The glint of silver was the small jarring note, almost flirting with vulgarity, which made the disguise human and fallible and utterly believable.
All the world would observe what he wanted them to see—a handsome young fop of the town, lounging at ease, his legs stretched out. Only she saw the iron of his muscle and knew that he carried three, or possibly four, knives. Knew that his pretty walking stick was lead-weighted and heavy as a cudgel.
No one here, except her, saw that he was angry.
The waiter returned to place coffee and apple tart, water and a glass before Hawker, who accepted this service with nonchalance and waved him away, his role today being that of a dandy of means and taste. Arrogance came naturally to Hawker.
He set his fork into the crust of the tart and gave it a taste. Approved. Wiped his lips delicately. Put the napkin on the table. “It’s been five years, I guess. Since that first time.”
“Almost exactly.” She could have told him to the day. She could have told him how many times they had met since then, and where. She suspected he too knew every minute they had stolen to spend together.
He put sugar in his coffee. “Five years. After five years, I fall asleep in your bed and when I wake up, you’ve ended it. No warning.”
“I do not prolong the inevitable.”
“You’re a practical woman.”
“I did what was needed. Quickly. Cleanly. We make a break with our past mistakes. It does not mean there is no fondness between us. It does not mean we cannot meet and talk like rational people. Only one thing has changed.” She took a deep breath. “We are no longer lovers.”
“And you couldn’t say that to my face?”
“There was no reason.” She turned her coffee cup so the handle was exactly to the side. So the spoon in the saucer was aligned just so. “There is nothing to discuss.”
“We’re discussing it now.” He said that pleasantly.
“And I find nothing to say.” She was not afraid of his anger, which she had encountered before, in full force. He was cold and deadly and he lied routinely, for the Game of Spies, for fun, for profit. She trusted him more than any man she had ever encountered.
In the quiet of the morning, the great expanse of the Palais Royale held only a few dozen loungers and saunterers. The tables of Café Foy were mostly empty under the calm of the stone columns and the huge trees. Men played checkers at one. At another, three soldiers of the garde engaged in a game of cards. An old woman poured coffee into her saucer and set it down for the tiny yappy dog at her feet. Solitary men read newspapers under the clear and blue autumn sky.
“It’s always been your right to end it,” he said. “Always the woman’s prerogative. Ten words would do it. I just thought you’d face me, when the time came.”
“Perhaps . . . I have been cowardly.”
“Well, yes. Stripping down to the bare and quivering skin of it, you have been.” Hawker’s bite of sarcasm.
Bold brown sparrows hopped about the ground between the tables, picking up crumbs. She watched them. “There is a long tradition of such letters, you know. They place a necessary distance. They do not release words one will regret later. It is easy to say too much in such cases.”
“You got discretion down to a fine art. Why, Owl? Why now?”
She told him. She owed him much more than such a simple explanation. “I have been advanced in the Police Secrète. I have men and women working for me now. I cannot behave foolishly anymore.”
“I’ll have to congratulate you on your promotion, won’t I?”
“It is a small one, as these things go. A cadre of twelve.” He thought she had weighed him against advancement in her profession and discarded him as nothing. It was not true. She set him aside because one day she might no longer choose her work over him.
That was why they must end this intimacy between them. Not because it was foolish—though it was. Not because it was dangerous and close to treason. Because they had come to mean too much to each other.
She had hurt him. She had not meant to do that. She had not known she could. “I was wrong to dismiss you, coldly, in a letter. I ask you to forgive me.”
“I will eventually.”
“You are all that is kind.”
“I should let you stew awhile, first.”
