Chapter 20
“The driver is one of Baudelaire’s men.” Nate doubted Isobel had noticed the driver was the same as had conveyed them to Le Repaire earlier.
He kept his voice low. “Our conversation may nonetheless not be entirely private.” He trusted Baudelaire, but when circles widened to men he’d not vetted himself, he still exercised caution.
“I understand.” Isobel rested the back of her head against the seat, eyes closed.
Somehow they’d made it through the evening unscathed. Or they’d been allowed to leave, at any rate.
He had little choice but to remain involved, but her involvement must needs be finished. The risks for her were now far too great to allow her a continued part. For Miss Muir’s sake as well.
“If you’d rather not be alone in my rooms, I will see you conveyed safely to L’Orchidée first, but I’ve work yet to do tonight.”
“Your rooms will do.” Her voice was little more than breath, as if she hadn’t strength to put sound into it. The dark cab concealed her face.
“I cannot know how long I’ll be gone. Most of the night, likely. You’d be alone for much of it.”
“Your rooms,” she repeated. “Congenial as Amélie is, I’ve no wish to see her just now.” Her delivery was sharp, words brittle at the edges. She sighed, her tone softening. “That is, I am not fit for company right now. Beyond whatever discussion we have once we reach your rooms.”
“Aye.” Better for appearances anyway, for one more night, if Dubois or others had eyes on the rooms of Nathaniel Beaumont. After tomorrow he wanted her relocated to L’Orchidée to ensure her safety. Amélie and her men could be entrusted as such.
They did not speak for the remainder of the ride. When they disembarked, he had a few quiet words with the driver—some verbal messages to deliver. He directed Jean-Francois, half asleep in the courtyard, to L’Orchidée with another.
“You will be safe here without me for a few hours tonight,” he said to Isobel once they were in his rooms. Monroe, one of his men, would remain nearby.
She shivered. “I have faith in you,” she said softly.
She sat down jerkily, as if her limbs had lost the ability to move smoothly.
“He knows, Dubois does. Maybe that I am Lucy’s sister, maybe that I’m some other relative.
That my presence was not coincidence tonight.
” Her hands were shaking, although she’d laid them neatly on her lap.
It had cost her to keep that hidden in Le Repaire.
He wished— Well, he wished he had leisure to stay, to hold her till she slept and ensure she was not alone if nightmares came.
But there was too much to do, quickly, before the entire house of cards came tumbling down.
It was here, that critical moment when an operation begins destabilizing from the base, threatening to take everyone and everything down with it at any moment.
Both intellect and instinct told him that.
He couldn’t do what he wanted, only what he must.
She looked up at him. “She has information to give you. About Compton. The others too. Information of value. She . . .” She swallowed visibly.
“. . . Lucy does. She cannot— She is watched. Everywhere, she says. She will be at the Théatre de la Ga?té in two nights. The performance has several acts. Cuvelier drinks, and she may be able to get away during one of the intermissions. If you can arrange it, she will look for someone with our mother’s ring.
” She worked it off her finger, clasping it briefly against her lips before handing it to him.
“I’ve told her that whoever presents it, she can— She can—” She was rapidly losing the battle for composure, breath ripped from her in jagged slices.
The work be damned for just a moment. He knelt, taking her in his arms. She pressed her cheek against his chest.
She didn’t weep, gasping as she fought for air. Her fingers dug painfully into his ribs, but he held her tight. That discomfort was nothing against the enormity of what she was grappling with. Eventually her breath eased, still ragged but not so raw.
“She will come home with me,” she said quietly into his neck once she could speak again.
“I still do not know if she entered this situation willingly, but she will come home if she can be removed. She will tell you everything she knows. Can it be done?” She pulled back enough to search his face.
“Can you bring her to me, so that I may take her home?”
“Two days . . .” Did they have that long? Even had they, could something feasible be arranged in only two days? But time was running short regardless. Two days might prove a luxury. “I will assuredly discuss it with others. I cannot promise—”
“I know. You cannot promise me anything. I must be content that you will try.”
He wanted to be able to promise her, God knew, but he couldn’t.
“I must not expect too much,” she continued. “I must not—”
“Even if we cannot arrange something for Tuesday night, it does not mean we will give up.” That much he could promise her.
“Then you must go to your work.” Her arms slipped from around his neck. “It is of a piece, anyway, bringing her away so that she might tell you what she knows of this affair with Compton.”
“Aye.” But he’d have done it anyway.
For Isobel.
By morning the beginnings of a plan were coalescing. Tomorrow Quinn, Pereira, and some others would discuss logistics further in a tavern well removed from the public eye.
Today, actually; it was just before first light when he returned to his rooms. His own part in daytime surveillance of Compton and Dubois was over since he must act entirely as Beaumont going forward.
Isobel didn’t stir when he entered the rooms nor as he neared the bed. She slept deeply, expression troubled. Had she had more nightmares? It was little wonder if she had.
It was very early yet. He would take her to Amélie soon enough, but it could wait a little longer. He could use a few hours’ sleep first.
He debated briefly with himself before undressing down to his trousers and climbing into bed beside her. She curled into his body, murmuring a few indistinct words without fully waking.
“Aye, love, I’m here.” He gathered her into his arms and closed his eyes.
He allowed himself a few hours of light sleep. Another awake, thinking, with Isobel nestled against him. She’d stirred only once in that hour, not fully waking, rousing only enough to burrow deeper into his arms.
Did she know whose arms held her? She’d been married for more than five years; him, she’d known for a week. He shoved the thought away as both unworthy and irrelevant, tightening his embrace.
But it was his name she whispered, her voice husky with sleep, as her hand crept up to cup his jaw.
“I must leave soon,” he said after several minutes. “I will see you to L’Orchidée first, however. I want you to stay there after, and not return to these rooms for any reason.”
“Yes. I need only a few minutes to dress and pack.”
Within the hour he delivered her to L’Orchidée and sent a man discreetly for her trunk.
A workable plan was made to secure Lucy Muir.
More people were pulled in and instructions dispatched.
Each of the major players would have multiple sets of eyes continually upon them over the next several days: Compton, Dubois, Cuvelier.
Miss Muir too should she leave the house Cuvelier rented for her.
He returned to L’Orchidée to bring Amélie up to speed on plans and remaining preparations. He’d be spending the evening at Cercle des étrangers, the invitation from Dubois having been delivered to his rooms. It was an invitation he could hardly have refused in any case, but especially not tonight.
Isobel was alone in the garret room at her own request; he let himself in after finishing his conversation with Amélie.
Slanting late afternoon sun lit the framing, the old wood softly gleaming. Isobel was asleep on the bed, her face shadowed by exhaustion. She’d not gotten much sleep lately; neither of them had.
He considered leaving her to her rest, but he wanted to tell her personally about the plans in progress, and he had no way of knowing when he might next see her given he’d likely be at Cercle des étrangers well into the early morning hours.
He took a step towards her, a board creaking.
She jerked awake, relaxing when she saw it was him. “I wished to stay up here.” Her voice was scratchy. “I know it is somewhat your space, but I wished for privacy, and Amélie assured me I was safe here . . .”
“It’s no trouble for you to be here.”
“I must have fallen asleep. I did not intend to. I meant only to lie down for a few minutes.” She pushed herself to sitting. “Come and sit. Tell me whatever you can of what is happening.”
It perhaps went without saying that there was much he couldn’t tell her, but the basics of the plan to get Miss Muir away from the theater he could share.
Pereira, whose face was unknown to any of the major players, would be at the Théatre de la Ga?té.
He’d already had a long look at Miss Muir’s miniature.
He had a bit of a trick memory with images; he could be trusted to identify her.
He would take possession of Isolde Muir’s ring on Tuesday morning.
Considering its emotional significance to Isobel, that wouldn’t be handed over yet lest plans change.
If all went as planned, Quinn would escort the sisters out of Paris and as far as London.
Quinn was an Irishman, an ex-soldier and fellow Rifleman from another company in the regiment.
Younger than himself by a good handful of years but, despite his age, as deadly a man as he’d had worked with this side of the Peninsula—one of the main uses to which the service put him these days.
Quinn would ensure the women’s safe passage along with carrying coded dispatches to the Foreign Office in London.