Chapter 2
Nate paid the driver to set them down in a neighborhood near the Porte Saint-Denis. It was not far from there through several twisting alleyways to the back entrance to L’Orchidée. Before helping the woman down from the fiacre, he returned her bonnet, directing her to flip down the veil.
“Do nothing to bring undue attention upon us,” he warned. “Keep your face covered.” He gripped her upper arm as he helped her down, the other hand at the small of her back to steer her forward.
“I cannot see to walk.” It was not a complaint; her voice held too much resignation and weariness.
“Nor will you see where we go. The street is wet. Watch your feet so you do not misstep. I will direct you.”
She stumbled, swaying slightly.
“You are still unwell,” he observed. “Can you walk?”
“I will manage if you give me a moment.” Except she was clearly unsteady on her feet.
He firmed his grip on her. “When did you last eat? And drink?”
“This morning. An apple in the market and some wine. A bowl of coffee, later.”
Not enough to sustain a person for a day, let alone in the elements. “A meal,” he specified. “When did you last eat a full meal?”
A weary pause. “I am unsure.” Her voice was thin.
She’d had enough coin in her purse to eat. Naught but a shade, so she’d called herself.
“Have you so little care for yourself?” He neither knew her nor trusted her. Why was he angry?
She stepped hesitantly forward. “I believe I can walk now.” She looked at him, or at least he thought she did behind the veil. “I give you my word I will not run.” She made a sound that might have been a laugh, had there been air behind it. “Even could I, I’d not make it far. But I will not try.”
He maintained his grip on her arm. “I am ensuring you do not fall again.”
Keeping a wary eye out for other people on the streets, her coat and valise tucked under one arm, he guided her through the shadows until they reached the ruelle behind rue Sainte-Apolline and then took up position behind her, a hand still at the small of her back.
“You will unlock the gate,” he directed, passing the key over her shoulder. Her hand visibly trembled as she fitted the key in—exhaustion more than fear. She was too worn down for true fear to take purchase; he’d seen it before often enough, beginning with his days in the Rifles.
Rain gently tapped rooftops and ruelle, filling the dark along with the gurgle of water disgorged from L’Orchidée’s gargoyle waterspouts.
édouard, one of Amélie’s men, was posted near the back entrance, a formless shape in the darkness.
A few twists of Nate’s hands conveyed that the gate needed locking. édouard slid silently past.
Nate directed the widow up the interior stairs to the garret room above L’Orchidée.
Once inside, he gestured her towards the wooden settle.
She sank onto it, working at her bonnet’s ties.
Her cap had become unpinned; her hair, damp from the rain, flowed heavy and loose down her shoulders, black in the light of a single oil lamp.
She laid the cap aside and gathered her hair in one fist to coil at the base of her head, weariness writ in every movement.
It was chilly tonight in the garret, all the more so in their rain-damp condition. He debated briefly before handing over the greatcoat, empty now of knife and purse. Her glance might have been gratitude as she drew the coat around her shoulders.
He secured the remainder of her belongings in a drawer, pocketing the key, and turned a chair opposite her, straddling it. Arms crossed along the back, he studied her in the flickering light.
She was run ragged by fatigue. The pallor of her face was evident even in the dim room.
She was too thin for her frame in the way of deprivation, her cheekbones in sharp relief on her oval face.
The exhaustion etched around her mouth and in the hollows beneath her eyes made it hard to guess her age with certainty.
Near my own age, maybe. Not above thirty.
She wasn’t a classic beauty, but even exhausted, frightened, and ill, there was something indefinably arresting about her. The man in him appreciated it; the agent in him would be ten kinds of unwise to dwell on it.
Concealing herself beneath the veil of a widow in simple working-class clothing was prudent.
There were many widows on the Continent after the wars, and she might pass unnoticed by most persons, going about her furtive business.
It was perhaps her misfortune that he had taken notice of her before she left English soil.
Despite her secrecy and the knives tucked on her person, she did not comport herself like an experienced operative. Fear or something like it was driving her hard, unless he missed his guess, fear that predated their encounter.
She needs food. He had little need to keep food in these rooms but rose to prepare a plate with what he had on hand: the end of a staling loaf of bread, torn quickly into chunks, and some bits of hard sausage.
Her eyes tracked his movements, but she remained passive as he set the plate on the floor between their seats.
His motivation was not entirely altruistic; kindness could garner cooperation faster than intimidation.
Next, a tumbler of wine for each of them, more water to dilute hers than his. She accepted it with slight hesitation but took a sip as he resumed his position on the chair.
Time to see what answers you’ll give me tonight. “To where were you travelling after the église Saint-Eustache?”
She pressed her fingers to her eyelids as though her head pained her. “To seek lodging on rue Cadran.”
“There is no one awaiting you there?”
“As I said before, there is no one waiting anywhere.”
A duplicitous person might say that when even as she spoke, confederates were searching out her location. A person with little concern for her own safety might be telling the truth.
“You are unconcerned that I know you are alone.”
“You imply, I think, that I ought to be alarmed.” Her gaze was direct, the striking blue color he’d noticed by daylight in Dover muted in the dim light.
“Would I gain some extra degree of safety by claiming to have an army at my back? When you already have control of me? What do you hope to gain by intimidating me, M. Blackmore?”
Her French was Parisian, grammatically flawless, but in it he marked the traces of some other accent. There was a lilt on some words, an unexpectedly guttural inflection on others. What was it?
“Perhaps I find it curious that you trust me with the information.”
“I have little reason to believe you trustworthy in the slightest,” she said drily, “but the end result is the same.” She shrugged one shoulder.
“I am here, where I do not choose to be, with no means of changing it. Painfully aware, after this past hour, of my current physical limitations. I gain no advantage by claiming otherwise.”
“Are you not afraid?”
“You asked me that once already. It cannot matter to you whether I am.”
It shouldn’t. He changed tactics. “You knew me as Lieutenant Blackmore.”
“Knew you as? Is it a secret, then? Not well-kept, if so. Your companion in the public room in Dover hailed you as Lieutenant Blackmore. You’ve the bearing of a career officer even were you nameless.”
Not Grady’s mistake, greeting Nate by name. He wasn’t an agent. He’d served under Nate on the Peninsula; now, he was a valuable source of information and more than happy to cooperate when his access to information at the London Docks was of use.
No, the mistake is mine. I should have been more cautious. Generally, meetings in public places attracted less scrutiny than those that had the appearance of secrecy, but not this time.
“Were you sent to follow me?”
“By whom? To where?” A slight frown marred her forehead. “Here? You’ve asked more than once if I’m alone or who is expecting me.”
He waited.
“No!” She struck the settle’s edge with the flat of her hand.
“I did not know of your existence until Dover, nor had I any intention of listening to your conversation there. I was in the public room at the Gull’s Wing.
You chose the adjacent table, if you’ll recall; I was already seated.
I caught your greetings to one another. A few phrases beyond that.
I found it curious when you boarded the packet as Mr. Beaumont—again, not information I sought of my own accord.
I was waiting my own turn to board as the harbormaster hailed you.
” She took a deep breath. “Is it surprising I would find it curious?”
He was considering her accent along with her words. He’d been in France enough during these three years past to discern some of the subtle differences between various accents. “Do you always remember the names of strangers?”
“Before your voices dropped, I heard the name Compton, and it was that which caused me to commit to memory your name, Lieutenant Blackmore.”
Not a native of France despite her fluency. “So your interest is with Compton?”
Her gaze was no less penetrating than his. “Is yours?”
Rather than answer, he asked in Flemish, “Are you perhaps from Wallonia? Or Flanders?”
Her face registered no surprise at either the change in topic or its content. “Non.” A hesitation and she added, still in French, “I did live in Brussels and Antwerp for some months.”
He considered the implications of her understanding both query and subtext but not responding in Flemish. “Was this during the Hundred Days?”
He’d asked the last in English; she answered likewise. “During and after.”
“Are you a widow in truth?”
Her mouth tightened. “My husband died at Waterloo.”
“You followed your husband to the Continent?”
“His regiment travelled to Ghent by way of Ostend after Bonaparte’s return. I was one of the wives allowed along by lottery.”
Scotland. The burr in her voice revealed her origins.
“You remained in Flanders after your husband’s death?”
“Assisting with the wounded, yes.”
“Who was your husband?”