Chapter 18 #3
Small ways . . . That did not feel small. Someday, far from here and a long time from now, she would need to consider it. But it was not what mattered, not right now. Not with danger to herself, to Nathaniel, to Lucy—
If Thérèse was Lucy, Lucy too was surviving.
She must think of that now, only of that.
Aiding Nathaniel in making connections with Compton and Dubois regardless, but also—oh, merciful God above, she hoped—garnering the chance to bring Lucy home.
It was more than she’d allowed herself to truly believe might happen, even as she’d made her plans, taken the packet from Dover, travelled from Calais to Paris, haunted Les Moineaux for a glimpse of Compton.
No matter what Amélie said, she could picture no other choice for herself. Backing out? No. No one would fault her, but she wouldn’t do it. If Thérèse was at Le Repaire tonight, she must be there too.
She had lived with so much. She could not live with regret, if she did not do all that she could.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I suppose I have chosen to survive. I will continue to do so, God willing. And I will go to Le Repaire tonight.”
Amélie nodded. “I will send to Nathaniel a note telling him this is what you have decided, to go tonight to Le Repaire. And I will arrange a word for Chrysanthème as well. Afterwards we will choose for you another dress.” She smiled.
“Our dresses, they may be disguises, and our bodies weapons when we choose, oui?”
Yes.
She was committed. This was her second choice.
The engagement tonight at Le Repaire exponentially increased the likelihood that harm might befall Isobel if she attended. It was also the best opportunity Nate had had thus far to infiltrate Compton’s and Dubois’s network.
It was also one of the more fraught situations in which he’d found himself in the course of his work, with so many unknowns and multiple dangerous individuals—and he was bringing a civilian into it. Not only a civilian, but the woman who had shared his bed the past two nights.
He’d lost objectivity, weighing risks against the possible gain of having Isobel present, after what had passed between them privately in his rooms.
Beaumont’s rooms, he acerbically amended himself. Although behind closed doors it had very much been Nate Blackmore.
He could analyze the situation rationally .
. . but aye, he’d lost his objectivity when it came to decision-making.
If he hadn’t become involved with Isobel, he would be assessing her presence solely on whether it was wise given Thérèse might be Lucy Muir.
Dubois had strongly hinted he suspected that connection.
In addition, it was clear Dubois mistrusted that he was who he represented himself as, as Beaumont, and might well be setting a trap in the form of tonight’s meeting.
What did Dubois gain, intentionally tipping his hand that way?
Would Isobel be able to keep it from her face if Thérèse was her sister?
Certainly she would try, but when the entire reason she’d come to France was to seek out her sister, how could she not betray some emotion?
And there was Miss Muir’s own reaction to consider.
Isobel was at least prepared for the possibility.
Her sister was not. Walking into a meeting with both women present—if it was Miss Muir—was akin to bringing a burning spill into a room full of powder kegs.
It was possible no spark would strike danger.
Conversely, it might blow the entire operation to high heaven.
Had there been more time, had not the meeting been tonight, he could have learned more about Baron Cuvelier’s mistress, perhaps find a means of observing her.
Unless her appearance was greatly altered in some way, he was confident he’d recognize Miss Muir.
He’d studied her miniature, but moreover he’d been in Isobel’s close company for several days, whose eyes Lucy shared.
Isobel’s presence was not explicitly required for the sake of determining if Thérèse was indeed Miss Muir.
He could make excuses for Isobel’s absence tonight, although certainly it wouldn’t allay any of Dubois’s suspicions. Would likely increase them, in fact.
On the other hand, if Isobel was not there, he was a stranger to Miss Muir.
Even assuming he could somehow signal to her that he was not her foe, if the situation turned ugly tonight—a definite possibility—and it became the only opportunity to remove her, Miss Muir would have no reason whatsoever to trust him.
Even with Isobel present, she might not, given who he was meant to be.
If Miss Muir had been unwillingly dropped into the middle of this mess, as opposed to working cooperatively with Compton, she was not only a British civilian but valuable to the Foreign Office. A cynical thought but also inarguable truth.
So many latent dangers tonight. They might well be walking into a trap. However, if their actions in the salle écarlate had convinced Dubois that he was truly the sort of man he claimed to be, that Isobel was what she claimed to be, not bringing her along might create new suspicions.
Bloody hell. He was entirely responsible for every single one of his own uncertainties. Personal involvement with Isobel was a complication and unwise, and he’d done it anyway. Would do it again.
He had, in truth, barely fought to maintain his responsibilities as an agent and instead given in entirely to his desires as a man.
If he was now in a logistical quandary, he had only himself to blame for it.
And the devil of it was, he still couldn’t find it in himself to regret it.
Last night had been one of the most satisfying sexual encounters of his life.
No, he could say categorically that it was the most satisfying.
Not that he was any great lothario, but he’d never before lost his head sufficiently to finish in a partner.
Twice.
Christ, he’d been half hard all day, remembering it. Get your mind straight, Blackmore.
Tonight a few of his own men, Santiago Pereira and Kieran Quinn, would be nearby and watchful in case of trouble at Le Repaire. Baudelaire was equally invested in matters pertaining to Dubois; he’d have men nearby. And there was Chrysanthème on the inside.
Today had brought a revelation about Baron Alphonse Cuvelier’s possible involvement, at least. The baron was a wealthy man and of great use to Dubois and Compton for that reason, if no other.
Meeting with Baudelaire, he broached his concerns about Isobel’s attendance. And was brutally honest about why, despite his discomfort. He needed someone more objective to weigh in.
Baudelaire’s smirk was friendly. “At least it is no longer fiction, that you are lovers. One less deception on which you must concentrate yourself.”
“True enough.”
Baudelaire sat back, dropping some of his lazy good humor.
“Do you trust in yourself, that you can keep her safe? Have you the capacity once you enter Le Repaire to remain focused despite her presence, to pursue with great attention your objectives? If the answer to either of these questions is no, then you must not risk her. But if the answers are both yes, then I think you must leave the decision to her.”
Baudelaire’s advice was not misplaced. Although he was uneasy with his answers to those questions, ultimately he did trust himself. But she was also desperate to find her sister. Was he using that—using her—taking her back to Le Repaire? He put that question to Baudelaire as well.
“You have not coerced her yet, I do not think?”
“Aside from the first night, bringing her to the garret, no.” He hadn’t pushed her into anything. He’d even tried, somewhat, to talk her out of going to Le Repaire early on.
Early on being relative. It was less than a week ago.
“From my few encounters with Isobel, she does not to me seem at all a woman who will do or not do something only to please another. If she wishes to go tonight, for her own reasons or for yours, you must leave that to her. For even if it was something you could persuade her into, I do not think it is a thing you could persuade her out of.”
That was true. A truth he’d needed to hear from someone else.
“So long as you are with yourself honest,” Baudelaire added.
“You are aware of these entanglements you have created. I do not say I have never made a similar one.” Baudelaire’s face, briefly, was softer than he’d had ever seen it.
And then the mask of carefully crafted joie de vivre was firmly back in place as Baudelaire continued, “But I do not think this is reason to pull back now. We will make our efforts, both of us, to cover every possible angle in this business. Oui?”
“Aye.”
More objective heads than his had endorsed Isobel’s presence; he would trust their judgment given his own was somewhat frayed. As for the rest, he still trusted in his abilities. That, at least, was not something he questioned.
It was apparent as soon as he arrived at L’Orchidée that Isobel’s decision was also made. Her gown was the sort of dress a woman wore purely for a masculine gaze, revealing enough of her figure to invite a man to imagine the rest.
Much as he wanted to aid Isobel with regard to Miss Muir, his highest obligation tonight must be his own work.
Not at the sacrifice of anyone’s life; he would act if necessary even at the expense of his cover.
But otherwise his utmost priority must be infiltrating Compton’s operations. At all other costs.
He disliked what it said of him that he felt discomfort at the last. Self-doubt was not a thing that had ever plagued him before.