“Will Naismith?” It was so absurd, laughter burst from her chest. “A secret agent?”
His salt-and-pepper brows lifted. “Your mission amuses you?”
“It’s your supposition that Mr. Naismith could be a spy that I find entertaining.”
Sipping his coffee, he regarded her with the glassy stare that belied his irritation. “Granted, there is much we still don’t know, however—”
“I would say there is a great deal you have no knowledge of if you think Will Naismith, of all people, is a spy.” She laughed again, even though doing so would further aggravate his distemper. She couldn’t help herself; the very idea was too ridiculous.
When Will had visited them in Dorset long ago on school breaks, his nose had always been buried in one book or another, and her brother, Cosmo, had endlessly teased his scholarly friend for his complete lack of interest in athletic pursuits; he’d practically had to drag Will away from his studies to go riding or carousing. “The gentleman you speak of is a scholar who pursues one useless old coin after another.”
“Naismith is a clerk at the Home Office in London. While in Paris, he spends a great deal of time with Lucian Verney, who is attached to the embassy here.”
“Mr. Verney?” She recalled the dignified, dark-haired gentleman who’d been with Will and Monsieur D’Aubigne last night. “You suspect him as well?”
“Given their situations, both men would have access to important information. Perhaps there is an official connection between Verney and Le Rasoir. It is for you to discover.”
Elle had no idea what Verney did at the embassy, but she’d met many clerks in her time, primarily through her father’s work in the House of Lords. Most of them were lackluster types best suited to taking copious notes and following orders. “Mr. Naismith is just a clerk. I cannot imagine a clerk having access to important information. Especially not Will. The very idea is laughable.”
“Enough!” Duret’s fleshy palm slammed down hard on the wooden tabletop, which shuddered under the assault. “Do you accept my conditions?”
“Yes.” What else could she do? Susanna needed her, and she wouldn’t abandon her daughter again. Besides, Le Rasoir sounded like a man who could fend for himself. It was laughable to suggest she posed any sort of viable threat to an elusive English spy. “However, I won’t agree to be made a whore. I shall befriend Mr. Naismith and endeavor to obtain the information you seek.” Hopefully, that would be enough. She needed to bide her time until Moineau resurfaced with news of Susanna’s exact whereabouts.
“Just remember that failure is not an option.” Duret leaned forward, his beady gaze sending a blast of cold air straight to her bones. “If you must lift your skirts and spread your legs to save your daughter from doing the same, I expect you to reveal the true spymaster, and I expect you to make quick work of it.”
“Nothing,” said Lucian Verney. “Silent as the grave.”
Will, Lucian, and Henri strolled through Luxembourg Gardens, which had once been home to a French king’s widow. Of all the palaces in Paris, few compared to Luxembourg in magnificence. With its dome and pavilions, the ornate palace designed in the Florentine style provided a spectacular backdrop as they ambled past neatly laid-out trees, vases, and statues.
“What of the servants?” Will asked. Those who lived below stairs were normally excellent sources of information about the masters who resided above.
“Madame Laurent’s servants are remarkably loyal,” Lucian said. “Not a word from them about her comings and goings.” Will surveyed the area, scanning the path ahead, which was lined with orange trees that infused the air with a citrusy scent. He couldn’t shake the sense of being watched, but he saw nothing amiss, just other Parisians enjoying the garden’s delights.
“Madame Laurent?” Henri asked, a burning cheroot dangling between his fingers. “You have an interest in her comings and goings?”
“She is a close associate of Duret’s,” Will said mildly, looking over his shoulder. He couldn’t shake the sensation they were being followed. “As such, she is of interest.”
Skepticism hummed from Henri’s throat, although he nodded and exhaled, engulfing himself in a fog of smoke. “Bien sûr.”
They turned onto a path that led to a fruit garden. There were several varieties of pear and apple trees, the crisp-sweet scent taking Will back to the orchard at Langtry where a precocious twelve-year-old Elle had fallen out of a tree and first declared her intention to marry him.
Ignoring the lingering ache in his gut, he waved away the silvery plume of smoke Henri exhaled in his direction. “Do be kind enough to blow in the opposite direction. What a filthy habit.”
“It gives me pleasure.” Henri’s moist lips sucked on the cheroot. “Not, perhaps, in the same way Madame Laurent gives you pleasure, but a man must take his enjoyment where he can.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Will forced himself not to stiffen. “Lady Elinor is a long-ago acquaintance and nothing more. My interest in her is solely professional in nature.”
“I see.” Cynicism lined Henri’s craggy face. “And what is it you would like to know?”
“I merely wish to observe her.” To determine how involved she was with Duret. “She could be an asset.”
“Ah.” Henri exhaled circles of smoke into the air. “The plot grows more intriguing by the moment.”
“What kind of asset?” Lucian asked.
Henri smirked. “An asset between the bedclothes, no doubt. First, Madame Laurent entrances Duret and now our cold fish of a friend has fallen victim to her considerable charms.”
“Watch your tongue, Henri.” He said the words coolly, but the warning was clear. “You’re speaking of a lady.”
Henri chuckled, undeterred. “Up until now, I thought the only women who could raise your temperature were the dead ones found on cold metal coins.”
“The only febrile thing here is your imagination, D’Aubigne.” He tilted his head back, allowing his gaze to float upward over the treetops in a practiced show of disinterest. “Madame Laurent has Duret’s ear. If she is not working for the French, then she might prove useful to us.”
Henri tossed his cheroot away. “This evening you will find Madame Laurent at Frascati’s.”
Lucian exhaled his shock. “Surely not!”
Will’s curious gaze bounced between the two men. “What is Frascati’s?”
“It’s a gaming hell,” Lucian exclaimed in a huff of outrage. “No lady of character would frequent such an establishment.”
“Nonsense. Frascati’s is most respectable for those seeking an evening of pleasure.” Henri adopted the tone of a kindly uncle explaining the ways of the world to an innocent. “It is the only establishment of its kind that ladies can enter freely without fear of a stain on their reputation.”
“How can you be certain that she will be in attendance?” Will asked.
Henri shrugged and plucked a golden apple from a low-hanging branch. “Madame Laurent and her set attend every Tuesday evening. I have my methods of learning such things.”
Will didn’t doubt it. Henri’s vast resources were the reason the Crown compensated him so handsomely for information. “Do we need an invitation?”
Henri buffed the apple with the striped blue waistcoat straining across the generous prow of his belly. “Everyone is welcome, provided they pay the entrance fee of three livres.”
“Well, that’s it, then,” Will said. “This evening we try our hand at roulette.”
“Our sojourn should prove most amusing.” Henri bit into the apple with a loud crunch, chewing the crisp flesh with obvious appreciation. “Especially with such succulent fruit there as temptation.”
A few minutes earlier, Elle was walking through Luxembourg Gardens contemplating the impossible task Duret had set for her.
She couldn’t imagine erudite Will as a lethally competent spymaster. Although the gentleman she’d fallen in love with as a girl did have a quiet strength to him, she couldn’t envision Will killing anyone, especially not with his bare hands. The very idea was preposterous.
She turned to her lady’s maid, who trailed a few paces behind her. “Sophie, have you been able to learn anything of interest about Mr. Verney?”
“Mais oui. He’s a proper cull.” The girl’s speech was an odd mix of common English tinged with a lilting French accent. “Likes to ride, fence, and box.” Sophie, who had lived in London for many years with her aristocratic French mistress, had come to her on the recommendation of Moineau.
“So he’s a Corinthian,” Elle mused, having noted previously that Mr. Verney filled out his coat nicely. Perhaps Verney was Le Rasoir. It would make sense for a highly trained spy to be in superior physical condition. Even if Verney weren’t her target, it wouldn’t hurt to become better acquainted with the embassy official to see what she could learn from him. “Anything further?”
“He likes machinery.”
“Does he?” Elle marveled at the girl’s resourcefulness. “What kind of machinery?”
“Automatons and the like. He’s visited some exhibition at the Louvre every day it’s been open.”
Elle perked up. “The Exhibition of the Products of Industry?”
“Oui.” Sophie plucked a leaf from an overhanging branch as they passed it. “I suppose that’s the one.”
There’d been much talk in Paris drawing rooms about the exhibition at the Louvre, where hundreds of inventors, artists, and craftsmen gathered for a few days to exhibit their crafts. A jury would award medals to the most outstanding exhibitors at the conclusion of the event. Elle hadn’t been particularly interested in attending, especially not with her focus almost exclusively centered on finding her child.
As she mulled over Sophie’s information, she spied her prey walking with two men by a marble fountain in the distance. “Goodness, there he is now. How fortuitous.”
Sophie squinted into the distance. “There who is?”
“Mr. Verney. There, just beyond that fountain.” He was with two men. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized one of his companions was Will, easily identifiable by his slender form and dark copper hair glinting in the sun. She pointed in their direction. “Do you see those three gentlemen?”
“Which one is he? Puff guts or the ginger top?” Sophie asked as she came to stand next to her mistress. “Please tell me he’s the tall cove with the dark hair. Il est magnifique, a right rum duke. It would be no hardship to join giblets with that one.”
“Hush.” She pinched the girl. “I’m not bedding anyone.” She was beginning to regret confiding Duret’s scandalous proposition to her maid.
“Ouch!” Clearly affronted, Sophie rubbed her arm. “A true lady does not lay a hand on those who are in service to her.”
“And a proper lady’s maid does not speak of her mistress bedding strange gentlemen.” French republican sentiment was clearly rubbing off on the girl. No proper English servant would dare address her mistress with the insolence Sophie routinely exhibited. Elle gestured toward the three men. “Now make yourself useful. Follow them and see if you can hear what they’re talking about.”
With a quick nod of her head, Sophie faded into the trees. The girl might be impertinent and completely improper, but she was also smart, discreet, and enterprising, qualities Elle intended to use to her advantage. Anything to save Susanna.
With her maid dispatched to do a bit of surveillance, Elle allowed her mind to wander back to her daughter and to imagine the moment they would be together again. What did little Susanna look like? Did she favor her father? Her heart contracted at the thought of Susanna with her father’s eyes. Was she quiet and reserved like him, or lively and amusing, more like her mother?
The familiar doubts filtered in, crowding out the happy musings. Susanna might resent Elle for abandoning her with strangers. She might blame her for believing the liars who’d stolen her and then claimed the babe had died in childbirth. Elle certainly despised herself for it.
She made her way toward the fruit garden, one of her favorite spots in all of Paris, mostly because it reminded her of the orchard at Langtry. She reached into her reticule and pulled out her Cleopatra coin. Turning it over in her hand, sadness tugged in her chest; she’d once declared her intention to marry Will in that grove.
It had happened the summer they’d first met. She’d been twelve, and he’d come down from Cambridge with Cosmo to spend the school break with him. From the very beginning, she’d been smitten with his studious manner and kind demeanor. Her mind heavy with thoughts of Will, Susanna, and a longing for home, Elle walked straight into a broad-chested gentleman who seemed to appear from nowhere. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she began.
“Madame Laurent!” the gentleman exclaimed.
When she realized who it was, she batted her eyelashes and slipped the coin back into her reticule. “Why, Mr. Verney,” she said, thrilled that fortune had smiled upon her. “What a lovely surprise to see you again.”
He flushed and avoided looking her in the eye. “And you, my lady.” She wondered if he was this uncomfortable around all women, or if it was something in particular about her that made him uneasy.
“I’m so relieved to have encountered you.” She took his arm, even though he had not offered it.
He looked down at where they touched with obvious surprise. “Oh?”
“My silly maid has wandered off somewhere, and I should not like to be unescorted in a public garden.”
“Yes, that would be most inappropriate,” he said primly.
She bit back a smile at the man’s stiff manner. “I have had my eye on you.”
She felt his arm tense. “And why is that,” he returned politely, “if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“You seem to be a most agreeable young man, and I do so miss the company of proper English gentlemen.”
He preened a little at her nod to superior English comportment. “Paris is quite pleasant, but I find that I too yearn for home.”
She assessed him as they ambled among the trees. He was one or two years older than she, tall and well built, with dark hair and even features. Most would judge him handsome, albeit in a placid sort of way. She found it hard to imagine Lucian Verney’s proper, unassuming exterior masking the dangerously clever Le Rasoir but, given his position at the embassy, he could certainly be in league with the elusive spy.
“Do promise you’ll attend me soon at my home in Faubourg Saint-Germain,” she said, feathering her fingertips along his sleeve. “We shall have tea and discuss our fond memories of England.”
His cheeks went even redder. “It would be my honor.”
“But do not come on the morrow,” she said. “I hope to entice someone to escort me to the exhibition. I do so want to see it.”
For the first time in their short acquaintance, he regarded her with sincere interest. “The exhibition?”
“Yes,” she said lightly. “L’exposition des produits de l’industrie. Do you know it?”
He brightened. “Why yes, I have attended for the past three days.”
“You are so fortunate. I hear the machinery inventions are quite impressive.”
“The productions of the looms and the many workshops on the subject are indeed interesting.” His manner became much more animated, a marked change from his earlier apathy. “If you care to attend, I’d be pleased to escort you on the morrow.”
She smiled to herself. Verney hadn’t been so difficult to charm after all. “Oh, I shouldn’t like to impose.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
A male form stepped into their path. “There you are, Lucian.” Will bowed to her. “Madame Laurent.”
Her pulse quickened. “Mr. Naismith.” He wore buff breeches and a bottle-green tailcoat that set off the burnt copper of his hair and enhanced his golden-green eyes.
His expressionless gaze fell to where her hand lay on Mr. Verney’s arm, prompting a warm flush to sweep through her body. “I hope I am not interrupting.”
Feeling the heavy weight of his disapprobation, she forced a light tone. “Not at all. Mr. Verney was kind enough to offer me escort. My maid has gone missing.”
Lucian straightened and puffed his chest a bit. “The lady was unaccompanied. Naturally, I could not leave her to her own devices.”
Will looked from Elle to Lucian and back again. “Naturally.”
Leaves behind them rustled, and she turned in time to see Sophie appear through a gaggle of trees, pushing aside branches as she stepped onto the path. “There you are, you thoughtless girl,” she said, relieved to have the conversation interrupted. “Where have you been?”
Sophie raised a skeptical brow but otherwise assumed a contrite stance. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I had to use the necessary.”
Lucian’s color rose again in response to Sophie’s indelicate comment, while Will studied the girl in that intense quiet way of his. Something about the probing manner in which he looked at Sophie triggered a warning in Elle.
She disengaged from Lucian’s arm. “Now that my escort has returned, it’s time we were off. Come, Sophie,” she said crisply, turning to go.
Both men bade them a polite farewell, although Will still seemed to be contemplating Sophie rather more deliberately than Elle liked.
“Did he see you following them?” she hissed at Sophie once they were out of the men’s hearing.
“No, my lady. I made sure of it.”
Elle relaxed a fraction. “He was looking at you as if trying to place you. I thought perhaps he had.”
“Zut. I cannot say for certain, but I know how to keep myself hidden.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” They walked in silence for a bit until Sophie spoke.
“Don’t you want to know what they were discussing?”
She’d forgotten Sophie’s original information-gathering mission. “Yes, tell me. What were they talking about?”
Mischief lit Sophie’s eyes. “You.”
“Me?”
“Ginger Top wants to meet you at Frascati’s this evening.”
“Oh?” The thought of Will inquiring about her prompted something warm and hopeful to kindle in her chest. “I wonder what he wants.”
“He said you bear watching on account of your dalliance with the general.”
The buoyant sensation in her chest dropped, like a hot air balloon crashing to the ground. What a fool she was. “Well,” she said evenly, “it’s a fortunate thing, then, that I visit Frascati’s every Tuesday. This evening will be no different.”
Except that Will would be there. And that made all the difference in the world.