“Divorce!” The roar split the stunned silence like the crack of a thunderbolt. “Divorce,” repeated Rolfe in a more moderate tone.
His companion’s lips were suspiciously folded together. Monsieur Housard lounged against the leather armchair in Rolfe’s study in the house in St. James and studiously examined the amber liquid in the crystal glass in his hand. “This is excellent brandy,” he remarked conversationally, “but it’s not really my tipple. I brought a couple of bottles of burgundy with me, do you know? It would be a shame to let them go to waste.”
Ignoring this non sequitur, Rolfe demanded in barely suppressed fury, “On what grounds, may I ask, has my wife divorced me?”
“Adultery,” stated the Frenchman unequivocally.
“Adultery?” queried Rolfe. “A trumped-up charge, if ever I heard one. I have never committed adultery.”
“She named several ladies.”
“May I be permitted to know their names?”
“A certain Mrs. Roberta Ashton—”
“That was before my marriage,” cut in Rolfe.
“An opera dancer with Covent Garden who goes by the name of Rosamund, and two others—now what were their names? oh yes, now I remember—Mimi and Fifi.”
“Adultery? With the likes of those vestal virgins?” he said sarcastically. “That could never be considered adultery, surely?”
“I assure you, my lord, in France, under the new laws, a faithless husband has no more protection than a faithless wife.”
At these inadvertently polemic words, Rolfe’s eyes blazed, then glittered dangerously.
Hastening to amend matters, Housard offered, “There’s talk of repealing the laws which put men and women on an equal footing. Oh yes, there’s a definite swing to the right. Though, of course, I don’t suppose that is any consolation.”
“To the right? What does that mean?”
“Tradition.” There was an ironic twinkle in Housard’s eyes when he blandly offered, “Women are simply flocking to the courts to obtain divorces before the laws of the ancien régime are restored, and who can blame them?”
“I never heard of anything so insane—to treat men and women equally under the law. Men have always made free with women of a certain class.”
“Quite,” said Housard with mock commiseration.
Rolfe sliced his companion a hard stare, but Housard’s eyes were carefully averted. There was a protracted pause in the conversation as both gentlemen made inroads into the brandy decanter. They sipped their drinks in considered silence.
Rolfe eased back in his chair. He crossed one booted foot over the other and surveyed his companion through half-hooded lids. Smiling languidly, he said, “And now, Monsieur Housard, perhaps you will be good enough to come to the point. What, may I ask, is the real purpose for this unhoped for visit?”
Housard settled himself more comfortably before replying. “I think you know why. It has come to my attention, my lord, that you are making plans for a little foray into France.”
Rolfe took a long swallow of his brandy before responding, “Tinténiac told you, I suppose?”
“He did.”
“And if I am?”
“Surely, there’s no necessity?”
“Oh?” murmured Rolfe.
“Your wife has divorced you. She neither wants nor requires rescuing. And what could you hope to gain? Think of it, man! To abduct an unwilling woman behind enemy lines and flee with her to England? The task is beyond you.”
“Perhaps I only hope to murder her,” drawled Rolfe.
Housard started, then gave a low laugh. “I’m afraid I can’t permit it.”
Rolfe’s expression turned savage. “Nothing on God’s earth is going to stop me going after my wife, do you understand, Monsieur Housard? Not the war, not the Revolution, not the King of England, and least of all a stupid girl who does not know her place.”
“I think I could stop you, if I had a mind to,” was the quiet rejoinder.
The silence pulsed with controlled violence as both gentlemen took each other’s measure. Finally, his voice soft with menace, Rolfe said, “Try it, Monsieur Housard, and you’ll have the fight of your life on your hands, I promise you.”
A long audible sigh fell from the Frenchman’s lips. “I just knew you would prove to be awkward in this,” he said, and tipping up his glass, he drained it in one gulp. He offered a placating grin. “I suppose it’s better if we work together, rather than at cross purposes.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that—how do you English say it?—oh yes, I’ll scratch your back if you will scratch mine. And now, before I take you into my confidence, do be a good fellow and offer to crack a bottle of burgundy with me.”
Long after the Frenchman had broached his second bottle of burgundy, Rolfe remained hunched in his favorite chair, his mind grappling with the story Housard had just related to him.
Housard was still hot on the trail of La Compagnie. He had made some progress. Le Patron was known to be active in Paris once more, though Housard was no nearer to unmasking the man than he ever had been. Of more interest to Rolfe, however, was the intelligence that several suspected members of La Compagnie moved in the same salon circles as Zoë. It was a perfect cover, since it was almost impossible to trace one man’s contacts in these circumstances.
“Why are you so determined to net Le Patron?” struck in Rolfe at one point. “Why not simply pounce on his agents? Without a body, the brain is useless.”
“Two reasons,” replied Housard evenly. “In the first place, something is afoot, and your government does not wish to take any chances.”
“Pshaw!” derided Rolfe.
Housard’s bushy eyebrows lifted.
“If my government is backing a Royalist landing in France, then my government is an ass,” exclaimed Rolfe.
“Quite,” concurred Housard, eyes twinkling, “but you did not hear of this projected invasion from me. Kindly remember that, should you be asked.”
“And the second reason?” demanded Rolfe.
“Oh, merely that I have a debt that must be repaid.”
For some reason, Rolfe immediately thought of Housard’s agent, the woman who had been murdered after infiltrating the society. “Marie,” he murmured and Housard’s eyes flashed. Rolfe did not notice. His thoughts had drifted to the young actress who had paid with her life for the help she had given him.
After Betrand’s death, it had taken very little to persuade Amy Granger to tell them as much as she knew of her young protector’s acquaintances. She had been terrified out of her mind and Rolfe had unashamedly played on that fear to obtain information, not supposing for a moment that the girl stood in any real danger. He still could not say with any certainty whether her death was by design or whether she had taken a bullet that was meant for him.
In that last week, he had grown careless. La Compagnie was smashed. Its agents were being hunted down. He should have foreseen that those same agents would exact retribution against their persecutors.
He was escorting the girl from the theatre when the attack came. They were gunned down. The young actress—could she have been all of seventeen or eighteen?—had died instantly.
Rolfe felt the bile rise in his throat and he choked it down. “I wish you well,” he said, breaking the silence. “But I still don’t see how any of this makes a lot of difference to my plans. Zoë is my wife. I have every intention of going after her.”
“Unfortunately…” murmured Housard, and fell silent.
“Yes?”
Housard stifled a sigh. “There’s no gentle way of breaking this to you. I’m very much afraid that your former wife is a suspected member of La Compagnie.”
Shock held Rolfe speechless. After a moment, his teeth ground together. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in my life,” he snarled. “And Zoë is not my former wife. English law does not recognize your French courts. Her divorce isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.”
“Still, she has reverted to her maiden name. In point of fact, only her friends, the Lagranges, are aware that she was formerly—I beg your pardon—that she is a married lady.”
Rolfe’s brain had begun to function again. “What the hell do you mean—Zoë is a member of La Compagnie?” he roared.
“Suspected member,” corrected Housard quietly. “She is not a big fish, I’ll give you that. It’s even possible that she does not know that she is involved. But you must see that your advent into the game at this point could only tip the balance in favor of La Compagnie. Should you abduct your wife, the others may run for cover. I regret that I cannot permit it.”
“You must have some grounds for your suspicions!”
“She has a younger brother, Leon. At your request, I put my agents on to discovering what had become of him.”
“Yes,” said Rolfe cautiously. “His case seemed hopeless. And her sister’s also.”
“Leon Devereux is a member of La Compagnie, and one of its most ruthless assassins.”
Rolfe’s mind was reeling. With a visible effort, he brought himself under control. “That may be. But I’ll wager my life that Zoë is no conspirator. Damn it all, I know my wife!”
Ignoring Rolfe’s heated avowal, the Frenchman continued, “And two of her most constant escorts are also on the periphery of La Compagnie. Paul Varlet and Jean Tresier. Do you know of them?”
“No,” said Rolfe.
“They may be couriers—unsuspecting ones, that is, or nothing at all. It’s too soon to say.”
Rolfe straightened in his chair and gave his companion a long, level look. “You haven’t said one thing to stop me going after my wife. Quite the reverse.”
Housard permitted himself a small smile. “It was not my intention to dissuade you from going after Zoë. I merely wanted to impress upon you that the game must be played my way or not at all. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” drawled Rolfe, inwardly seething. “But nothing will persuade me, Monsieur Housard, that you, yourself, believe one word of what you’ve been spouting. Zoë a member of La Compagnie? It’s preposterous and you know it!”
Housard laughed. “I don’t believe it. Not for one minute, otherwise I should not permit you to enter France. Nevertheless, she is part of whatever is going on, and must remain in place until I give you the word to take her away. I must have your word on it, Rivard, before we go any further.”
Rolfe closed his eyes. He was thinking that he had his own friends in France, men who would come to his aid if he gave them the nod. That he could remove Zoë from under Housard’s nose wasn’t entirely beyond the realms of possibility.
He opened his eyes and studied his companion. The man would make a formidable enemy, he decided. Aloud, he said, “I shall give you my word to play the game your way, Monsieur Housard, if you promise to release my wife into my keeping when the time comes, whether or not she is a member of La Compagnie.”
“Agreed!” said Housard at once. “My God, man! You had me worried there for a moment! I was thinking that I shouldn’t like you for an enemy.”
Rolfe’s tone was considerably warmer when he said, “I shall need a cover. Any suggestions?”
“That has already been arranged.”
A start of laughter was won from Rolfe. He shook his head. “Amazing,” he said. “You are absolutely amazing, do you know? I’m all ears, Monsieur Housard.”
“You are to pass yourself off as a diplomat attached to the Swedish Embassy,” said Housard. “That is where I have set up my headquarters, by the way. The Swedish ambassador and his wife are in my confidence, to some extent. They won’t ask any questions. I understand you know Madame de Staël quite well.”
“Germaine and I were introduced when she was an exile here in England,” answered Rolfe. He could foresee a number of problems. “Germaine is a known anti-revolutionary,” he pointed out. “She is certain to be under surveillance.”
“That has been resolved,” answered Housard.
“Oh?”
“We have a powerful ally in the Convention. Deputy Tallien, to be precise. La Compagnie has made him a target. He’s incensed. He’ll do almost anything to crush them. He, privately, vouchsafes the progress of our investigation.”
“Our investigation?” drawled Rolfe, one eyebrow arching.
Housard laughed. “Look at it this way,” he said. “We work well together. You know as much as anyone about La Compagnie. Naturally, I expect something in return for the promise I’ve made respecting Zoë.”
“Naturally,” agreed Rolfe with a small ironic smile. “But there is one problem.” To Housard’s questioning look, Rolfe answered, “I don’t speak Swedish.”
Housard dismissed this objection out of hand. “Neither does anyone else in France, not even Madame de Staël.” Grinning, he went on, “Just try to look intelligent if anyone addresses you in a language you do not know.”
Much later, when the Frenchman had taken his leave, Rolfe found himself a fresh glass and reverted to the decanter of brandy. His brain was chirping like a bloody cricket. He’d lived through the worst six months of his entire existence, he was thinking, and of those, the last few hours must surely be the nadir of all nadirs. Zoë had divorced him. She was a suspected member of La Compagnie. How the hell had everything gone so wrong, and just when he had come to believe that everything was going to be all right?
Without knowing what he was doing, he had made love to her. How aghast he had been when he had come to his senses. She had been an innocent and he had taken her roughly, with a passion of which he had not even suspected he was capable. In the days which followed, his remorse had undergone a material change. In his dreams and in his waking hours, he had relived every minute of that blissful encounter. Surely he could not be mistaken? She had wanted him, responded to him, offered herself with shy abandon. The very thought had electrified him.
There was no thought, then, of banishing Zoë to the Abbey. When his assignment with Housard was over, he meant to court her, woo her, gentle her to his hand and initiate her, step by slow step into the glorious mysteries of love. God! Was ever a man so happy with his lot?
An assassin’s bullet had changed everything. For weeks he had hovered in and out of consciousness. For months, he had made a slow recovery from the wound which had almost put a period to his existence. And where was Zoë? he had weakly demanded of everyone who had entered his sickroom. They had put him off with evasions until he could stand it no longer. Only when he had dressed himself and had come tottering down the stairs on shaky legs was his wife’s perfidy finally revealed to him. Without a word to anyone, with the first wave of émigrés, she had returned to France.
The shock had restored him to health as nothing else could. He was demented with worry, petrified for her safety. It was to Tinténiac he had appealed for help. Who better could find her direction than this master spy? And Tinténiac, no doubt following his master’s orders, had fobbed him off with more evasions, more delays, till Rolfe thought he would go mad with the uncertainty about Zoë. As a last resort, he had determined to go to France himself. He had said as much to Tinténiac and was impervious to every argument put forward to deflect him from his purpose. Hence, no doubt, Housard’s sudden appearance on his doorstep that very evening.
She had run off to France and shortly afterwards she had divorced him. She was a suspected member of La Compagnie, and her brother was one of its known assassins.
For several minutes, he tried to consider these facts with dispassionate interest. Unbidden, there came to him the faces of the young assassins who had gunned him down on the steps of Covent Garden. Surely neither of those boys could possibly be Zoë’s brother?
A thought struck him, and he went perfectly still as he considered it. Was it possible that he had been mistaken in Zoë’s character from the first? Could it be that she was not the innocent she pretended, but that she really was up to her neck in intrigue from the moment she had surrendered herself into his custody in Rouen? She was a consummate actress. That much was proven. Was it possible that she had been deceiving him all along?
One thought led to another. His imagination ran riot, taking him down paths that, in his saner moments, he would have rejected out of hand. Zoë as a member of La Compagnie. Zoë setting up a cell in London, using him as a screen for her nefarious activities. And when his usefulness was at an end, Zoë…!
Christ! The idea was so shocking he could scarcely entertain it! What better way to rid herself of an unwanted husband than to arrange for his demise? And when that failed, naturally, divorce was the only alternative.
By the time Rolfe climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, he was imagining the silky feel of Zoë’s hair in his hands, but only in the split second before he wrapped it round her white throat and strangled the life out of her.
He slept fitfully and came awake with a start. Something that Housard had mentioned came to the fore. Mimi? Who the devil is Mimi? wondered Rolfe, but the moment he rose the thought was lost.