Elizabeth Boyle (73 page)

“You repaid that by testifying this afternoon and by getting rid of Armand. Consider yourself absolved,” Lily told her.

“No, that doesn’t even begin to clear the debt between us. After I left Byrnewood that summer, I realized how hollow my life was. You had such a grand passion for Webb, for life, and I had nothing but my work. You made me feel so empty and lost, much as I am sure you felt as you watched Webb and me leave Byrnewood.”

Lily’s lips pursed shut. She closed her eyes and tried to block out the long-held pain from that day.

Amelia stepped closer and placed her hand on Lily’s shoulder.

“I saw you that day,” Amelia said. “You didn’t think anyone would, but I did. I couldn’t get the image of you out of my mind. You made me see how petty and hateful I’d become. I never made love to Webb again.”

Lily’s lashes fluttered open.

“Truly,” Amelia told her. “I couldn’t. So I went in search of my grand passion, and I have you to thank for helping me find him.”

“And is that why you came here?”

“Yes. To thank you for helping me find my heart again. And to set yours free. I know what it is like to live for years besieged by bitterness. When I was fifteen, my father married me off to Lord Marston. Sold me, would be a better description.” The woman laughed bitterly. “I was in love with someone else, and marrying a rank old lecher such as Marston was the worst fate possible. By the time Marston died, my true love had married elsewhere. Happily so, as it turned out. And there was no room in his life for me. So I drifted into the service.”

“And that’s how you met Webb.”

“Exactly.” She sighed. “When I saw your face at the hearing this afternoon, I realized you must have come to the wrong conclusion about us.”

“So you and Webb haven’t …”

Amelia shook her head. “No. Even if he didn’t love you, I don’t think he’d risk it. Samir would have him disemboweled.”

Even if he didn’t love you …

Lily clung to those words. “He loves me?”

“Yes. I can say quite truthfully, Webb Dryden is around the bend about you. You won’t be rid of him for quite some time.”

Tears sprang to Lily’s eyes. “Oh, that’s terrible. Now what am I going to do?” The mist of tears turned into a deluge. “I can’t have Webb in love with me.”

Lady Amelia pulled out a handkerchief, handed it to Lily, and escorted her to the settee. “How can this be such a Haymarket tragedy?”

“I’ve been less than honest with Webb.”

Amelia laughed. “Haven’t we all been that way with a man? Though I have a feeling this goes beyond how much you spent on your latest gown.”

Lily nodded her head. “I wish it were so simple.”

Just then, Costard entered the study. “Those foreign devils have Armand ready to go and they are awaiting her ladyship’s orders.”

“Tell them I will be right there, Monsieur Costard,” Lady Marston said.

Lily held out her hand to Amelia. “Thank you, my lady, for your assistance.”

“Lily, whatever you think you’ve done to betray Webb, it can’t be all that bad. You have to trust him,” Amelia told her, ignoring Lily’s outstretched hand and taking her into her arms in a sisterly embrace. When she let go of Lily, she said, “Promise me you will confide in him. Trust his love for you that he will do the right thing.” Lady Marston smiled and left.

As they went to the foyer, Lily found Celeste and the Costards packed. She ordered them to get into the hackney that had arrived. Lady Marston had told her that Webb was on his way to the house, so the two of them would shortly follow behind everyone else. Costard offered to stay with her until Webb arrived, but she declined.

Once she saw her servants safely on their way, she took one last walk through Adelaide’s home. As she entered the hall, her fingers trailed along the edge of a framed picture of a long-past de Chevenoy relative.

It saddened her to think of all of Henri’s beautiful possessions ending up in the hands of Fouché and eventually Napoleon, but without any real heirs, how could it be helped?

She heard the sharp sound of hooves and the crunch of carriage wheels, and thinking Webb had finally arrived, she hurried to the front door, catching up her pelisse and bonnet.

Halfway down the steps, she glanced up at the passenger exiting the carriage. For a moment she smiled, thinking her gaze was about to fall on Webb, but in an instant her mouth opened in dismay.

For stepping down from the carriage was Joseph Fouché, followed by a contrite looking Troussebois.

“Mademoiselle,” Fouché said. “Where could you be off to?”

“To finish some holiday shopping,” she quipped, casually smiling at the men as if they were unexpected guests.

“So late in the day? Why most of the shops are closed.” Fouché straightened his coat, his appraising gaze looking her up and down. “And I do believe you forgot to close your front door.”

For a moment she thought of trying to run, but the leering and able-bodied footmen posted at the rear of the carriage appeared only too eager for her to take such a gamble.

Lily suspected they’d relish the opportunity to manhandle her. Still, she had nothing to lose.

“If you don’t mind,” she said, “I really must be on my way.” She made as if to brush past him, but she came up short, his tight, authoritative grip on her elbow.

“Not so fast, my dear,” he said, nodding to his grinning henchmen, who came down from the carriage and took her by either arm. “We have some business matters to discuss.”

Without further ado, the footman hauled her up the steps and into the house.

All too quickly, Lily found herself in Henri’s study.

“Get out the documents,” Fouché snapped at Troussebois. “Tell me, Mademoiselle, have you seen your betrothed this afternoon?”

While the nervous little solicitor opened his leather folder and began sorting through his papers, Lily scratched her forehead. “Which one?”

He nodded to one of the henchmen and the brute caught Lily’s hand in a powerful grip, his fingers like hot iron tongs closing over her. With another nod from Fouché, the man twisted her arm up behind her back.

She gasped in pain, then cried out as the man lifted her arm even higher until she stood on her tiptoes.

Fouché leaned forward until he was inches from her face. “Tell me where Armand is.”

“I … I … don’t know,” she stammered, trying to catch her breath against the white-hot pain stabbing through her arm.

Fouché nodded again and the man yarded her arm even higher, until Lily thought he would pull it from the socket.

“He was here,” she cried out. The man relaxed his hold, but only slightly. “But he’s gone now. He left before you arrived.”

“That seems highly unlikely,” Fouché commented, “given that the man thinks he is to be rewarded tonight. You,” he said, pointing a long, elegant finger at the closest of his two nefarious assistants. “Search the house and find that worthless actor. He said he would meet us here, and considering his expensive taste in clothes and lodgings, he’ll not be far. Check the wine cellar and the attic in case he spoke out of turn and has found himself being detained.”

Armand an actor? His odd statement earlier about poverty suddenly made sense.

“I have everything in order,” Troussebois said, his words trilling with a nervous stutter.

“Good,” Fouché said. “Now, Mademoiselle, I had hoped to catch you and all your accomplices, but it appears you have already moved your associates. I commend your quick thinking. But I shan’t worry about that now, for they cannot have gone far. In the meantime, I think it is time for you to get married and turn the de Chevenoy fortune over to a husband who can appreciate your bounty.”

“I won’t marry Armand or any man to help you,” Lily told him.

“Oh yes, you will. I have it all here. The marriage license and your new will. You will sign these documents, and you will sign them now. Then once we have found your dear betrothed, you will be wed. Imagine Troussebois’s good fortune today. He gained you the de Chevenoy fortune and has been appointed a commissioner this afternoon. He has the power to perform your marriage. And then I will control your estate and the de Chevenoy fortune.”

Lily knew that no matter what she did, they would force her to sign the documents, and given the painful demonstration of what Fouché’s handyman was capable of, Lily was in no humor for false bravado.

She took the pen offered by Troussebois and signed the documents.

Fouché added his signature as a witness, as did the henchman, who placed a flourished
X
on the line Troussebois pointed out for him.

“How will you control it if I am married? How can you trust Armand to give you what you want?” she asked.

Fouché looked up from the papers, which Troussebois was carefully sanding and adding the correct seals to ensure their authenticity.

“I have no doubt he will be quite cooperative. Unfortunately, like you, he will be quite dead, and then I will control the de Chevenoy fortune, rather than have it squandered by our illustrious leader.”

“Don’t you think someone will notice if you murder the de Chevenoy heiress and then claim her properties for your own? The de Chevenoys are held in quite high regard. There will be an inquest at the very least.”

“Oh yes, there will be an inquest, but it will be to find the Royalist perpetrators who killed you and attempted to kill the First Consul.”

“Kill Bonaparte?” she whispered.

“Yes, the First Consul. Quite ingenuous. I’ll be hailed a hero when I expose France’s enemies.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Lily saw the henchman raise his fist. Before she could move or even flinch, he brought it down on her head. An explosion of stars burst before her eyes and then the frightening blackness of oblivion closed around her.

D
amn this mission, damn his father, and damn Henri’s journals, Webb thought as he hastened his way through the rain-splattered streets of Paris toward the
Rue de Renard
.

As far as he was concerned, Lily was leaving Paris within the hour. The fact remained, despite her obvious triumphs, she was an untried and untested agent, and the stakes now had grown considerably higher.

He’d not listen to any of her protests or her arguments. As he turned the corner, he spied a black hackney pulling away from Number 8, a single lamp rocking from the front of the conveyance.

About to cross the street, he noticed the front door of the house stood wide open. A single candle burned in the window of Henri’s study.

Where was Costard? Where were the rest of the lights?

Webb drew a deep breath, looking down the street where the hackney had now disappeared from sight. He glanced back at the open door before him.

Go into the house or after the hackney?

As much as he feared losing the hackney, he continued on past the house, and at the first opportunity found a space between the houses and cut back into the alley.

The back door was also wide open, the kitchen cast in shadows and darkness.

He pulled out the small pistol he always carried and cautiously entered the house.

Lily
, he wanted to scream out.
Lily, where are you?

But he held his tongue and silently crept through the still room. Drawers and cupboards had been left open, their contents scattered on the drainboard. Further inside, it appeared a hasty retreat or search had been made, evidenced by the general disarray, which stood in stark contrast to Mme. Costard’s usual starched and waxed order.

As he entered the main foyer, the single candle in Henri’s study still cast its weak light. From inside the room, he heard a shuffling of papers, a muttering voice, and the hasty opening and closing of drawers—the only sounds in the otherwise still house.

Moving silently to the door, he found the puzzling sight of Troussebois rifling through Henri’s study.

“Troussebois,” Webb said.

The little man jumped, nearly overturning the table and candle. “
Sacré
! You frightened me, Monsieur. I didn’t hear you come in.” The solicitor blinked furiously.

“My apologies,” Webb said, “I hardly meant to frighten you.”

Caution. None of this looks right
, he told himself.
But the way to snare a rabbit and keep him alive is with gentle coaxing and carrots
.

“I called once or twice from the door, but no one answered.” Webb moved into the room a step or two and turned slightly. He still didn’t know if Troussebois was alone in the house so he didn’t want his back completely to the door. “So busy in your work that you didn’t hear me, eh?”

“Yes, something like that.” Troussebois fidgeted, his fingers picking at the hem of his jacket.

“Working on Christmas Eve, and so late in the evening? You are a dedicated man, Monsieur Troussebois. My hat is off to you for your devotion to your employer’s concerns.”

The man gulped. “Yes, well, I think it is time for me to take my leave.” He gathered a collection of papers, clutching them to his narrow chest, and tried to scurry past.

Webb caught the little man by the arm, startling him and sending his papers flying about the room in a snowstorm of parchment.

“Unhand me,” Troussebois squeaked.

Rabbits always squeal when caught, Webb thought. Dragging the solicitor over to Henri’s leather chair, he shoved him onto the hard seat.

When the man made a half-hearted attempt to rise, Webb brought his pistol to rest atop the man’s twitching nose. “Move one hair, and I’ll send you to hell with the rest of your breed.”

Satisfied that the man wouldn’t try anything, Webb turned and picked up the candle, holding it over the haphazard litter of legal documents Troussebois had dropped.

“What is this,” Webb mused aloud. He gathered up the document that had caught his eye. It wasn’t the title that sent his pulse pounding.
The Last Will and Testament of Adelaide de Chevenoy
only became of interest to him when he spied the signatures on the bottom. Notably the companionable scrawls of Bernard Troussebois and Joseph Fouché.

“Is it often that your client’s wills are witnessed by the Minister of Police?” Webb asked, holding the damning evidence up for Troussebois.