The Tide Watchers (17 page)

Rue Saint-Nicaise, Paris

August 28, 1802

C
AMELFORD HAD KNOWN THAT
woman was trouble from the moment he'd seen her in Duchess Gordon's house in Faubourg Saint-Honoré yesterday. He'd tipped the footman well to let him listen outside the door for a few minutes. It had been enough. The Recamier woman worked for dear Cousin Will, who had set up the Alien Office back in '93.

He'd been following the Recamier woman since she'd left the Gordon house yesterday. By now he was certain she knew it and was leading him a merry dance across Paris, shopping, meeting friends, riding in the park. He was even more sure that the meeting she'd had with Will's precious Alien Office agents had already taken place under his nose.

No chance of blackmailing her for information, then. He didn't let it worry him. He'd find a way. He always did.

Crossing another bridge, they were in the rue Saint-Nicaise, by the Tuileries Palace—the seat of Boney's power. In dangerous waters now since he'd been deported in April and told not to return to France, with posters of his memorable face to prove it. He felt no concern. He knew his worth, what he could do, the lines he could cross with impunity. They turned into the side alley, the rue de Malte, cramped and dark, with buildings overhanging the cobbled alley like a threat. This was where fifty or more people had died two years ago: the infamous Christmas Eve assassination attempt. More power to whoever did it. It was a shame they hadn't killed Boney and his trash wife along with the guttersnipes who played in the street late at night.

Halfway down, Madame Recamier turned. “I believe we've played this game long enough, Lord Camelford. What is it you want of me, and why should I give it to you?”

Camelford grinned down at that exquisite but lowborn face, unmoved by anything but amusement. She played the French noble lady very well, but like an ape taught to imitate its betters, he sensed something just a little off in the performance. He drew her to the side of the alley beneath a sagging old extension of a medieval row house. “Have you informed my cousin as to my current whereabouts yet?”

She nodded, smiling. “Is there anything else you need to know?”

She didn't seem in the least intimidated by him—a novel experience. Since it was obvious by his continued freedom, he asked, “Why hasn't he given orders to take me?”

A simple Gallic shrug. She must have been in France some time, then. She knew why Will hadn't had him taken, but she wasn't about to tell him. The air around this woman shimmered with well-honed talent. Whoever she was, this Incomparable, she had Will's confidence—and that was hard to obtain. He had proof of that.

Hiding his irritation, he asked, “Where have you hidden the real Madame Recamier? Or did you marry the poor fool for protection? Does he believe you're a real lady, or does he look the other way for gold?”

The shot went wide of his intended mark. She merely smiled.

Ah, this woman would be a small challenge. She'd won the first round and was pushing her power today; but breeding always won out in the end. Without warning, he murmured, “Have you yet discovered what day the Corsican will be in Boulogne-sur-Mer?”

Again, he was disappointed by the simple shrug and smile. “I have no interest in it, Lord Camelford. My work is here in Paris.”

“Liar,” he returned, wanting to strangle the pretty whore. “I know who you are—Sylvie. I saw papers in my cousin's study.”

The pretty bitch laughed, waved, and walked away, with no fear that he'd follow or hurt her. Caring not the snap of her fingers for his threats.

Why that convinced him to leave her alone, he didn't know.

He turned, left the rue de Malte and went out of the rue Saint-Nicaise to the rue Saint-Honoré, straight and wide, where he hailed a hackney. “Rue de Miromesnil, Faubourg Saint-Honoré,” he snapped, after he'd wiped the dirty seat with his handkerchief.

He'd get the information he needed, one way or another. Lady Georgiana, so new to Cousin Will's game, would be easier to pump. He needed the date, and he needed it now.

In the glimmering mist of a river valley sunset, Clare alighted from the coach at the crossroads halfway up the hill above her house and asked the driver to leave everything outside the door.

Only when he'd gone did she open the door of the farmhouse nestled deep in the valley.

She'd sent Cal to Eaucourt to meet his brother's men. Unlike the child, she could look after herself, she'd said—and Delacorte wouldn't be coming this way until he'd healed.

The truth was simpler. She
knew
an injured, furious Delacorte would be here and would kill Cal the moment he walked in. If Cal died, his brothers would start a private war of vengeance; and if the Stewarts lost, the English girl's son would grow up to become a monster.

Or maybe, like her child, he wouldn't grow up at all.

She'd lived, loved, lost a child, made mistakes. Lisbeth's son deserved the same rights.

There was no sign of light in the wattle-and-daub house built by her ancestors; all was silent. After bringing in her packages, she closed the kitchen door. A slight rustling sounded.

She lit the lantern on the wide, polished mantel and opened the wick for more light. Then she turned to look at the man standing behind the door. “
Bonsoir,
Monsieur Delacorte.”

In reply he gave her a blinding smile. “Clare,
ma chère,
must we be so formal?”

He must be desperate for information, if he was playing the angel with her. “Alain,” she conceded in a reluctant way, as if he had the power to hurt her. He liked that—and he never understood why he lost that power so easily with his lovers.

Five years ago she'd thought herself in love. Then he'd lost patience with her canary's twittering and broke its neck. Sickened, she'd ended it; but when he saw she'd lost her blinders about him, he'd beaten her until he'd taken their unborn daughter's life.

“I hope you haven't been waiting long,” she said now.

“Long enough.” Bright eyes touched with turbulent clouds. “May I sit?”

Cal had told her that he'd shot Delacorte in the leg. “Of course.”

“I have no desire to crick my neck looking up at you.” He waved a hand at a second chair as if it was his permission to give. He fell into the chair, slow and awkward.

She'd better tread with caution. A poor loser with a propensity for hurting others made a formidable enemy.

“You've been away overnight. So many purchases?”

She smiled at the sacks she'd brought in. “I needed these things for women in travail.”

His brows lifted. “
Ma chère,
whom did you treat to gain so much coin? Who accompanied you in the coach, and where did you take them?”

Her gaze lifted to his. He wasn't even taking the time to play with her, to make her afraid. He truly was desperate. “An injured Jacobin. There was some kind of confrontation with the gendarmes three days ago. It took so many medicines to save him, I needed to replenish. He was from Valery, so I accompanied him and stayed the night.”

He smiled. “Madame Fournier told me she heard many voices in the coach—including a woman speaking in English. A woman who I hear has a strong resemblance to my wife.”

Expecting something of this kind, she made no answer. Delacorte's wife had cried out in English when the jolting of the coach hurt her—but her neighbors couldn't possibly have heard it from the road.
Nor could they have seen the girl, bundled up as she was in a blanket.

One of Cal's brother's men was in Delacorte's pay . . . or worse, a French patriot. That kind—like Alain—betrayed and killed their fellow man without the slightest twinge of conscience. They believed in whatever cause they had with the same fervor as the old Inquisitors.

Alain was using her neighbors' coveting of her land to protect the man.

Clare knew from that moment. Alain couldn't afford to let her live—but then, she'd known he'd kill her as soon as he found out she'd saved his wife and his enemy.

“Did you see the Reynard trap passing you as you headed for Valery? Farmer Reynard saw you with two dark men and a blond young woman,” Delacorte said. “Who were they,
ma chère
? Did they give you their names, or did you not need to ask?”

He wasn't approaching the point slowly as he always had before, enjoying the cat-and-mouse chase. He'd betrayed Fouché; he must be frantic to clean the mess he'd made, to rid himself of everyone who could tell the truth. He'd have to start running, and soon.

Her head was jerked back by her hair. “You've been thinking too long.”

When had he risen from the chair? How had he moved so fast?

Alain was smiling down at her, almost fondly. “
Oui,
I fooled you with an exaggerated show of my injury. Your friend didn't hurt me as much as he'd hoped.” He sighed. “It's a shame. I quite liked you, if not your stupid canary.” The touch of cold on her neck was too rounded to be a knife. A pistol. “Tell me where they went, the people who traveled with you, if you don't want your head left in pieces around the room.”

Two Hours Later

Delacorte was too intent on torturing Clare to notice the shadow at the kitchen window.

A glance told Cal it was too late to save her. She had dozens of cuts to her face and body, two black eyes and a broken nose. Her hair was hacked off on one side, her dress in shreds. God alone knew what else he'd done to her before making the cuts—and there was a deep puncture
wound in her belly. Unlike Fouché, who was devoted to his ugly wife, Delacorte enjoyed inflicting pain on women who'd once loved him.

Clare lifted her head. Cal drew back before Delacorte's gaze followed hers, but she mouthed one word.
Please.

He'd seen the same look in Rose's eyes when he'd begged her to live. Sweat trickled down his face; his muscles ached and his stomach cramped.

She screamed, and Cal's eyes snapped open. Delacorte had sliced her stomach. He asked another question. Cut her belly farther open until her innards spilled out. Though her eyes were shut, her mouth moved.
Please.

Forgive me for making you wait, Clare. Forgive me for leaving you in the first place.
He lifted his pistol, pressed it against the glass, took careful aim, and shot her in the heart.

Clare died before the glass shards cut into her face—and Delacorte turned in time for shattered glass to rain over his face and arms. As the dirty bastard screamed, Cal fired another shot, this time at his other leg, in the knee. Delacorte fell to the ground, clutching his leg and holding his face, which had several deep cuts. From now on, he wouldn't be so pretty. Nor would he be chasing Duncan's lass for weeks to come . . . if he lived.

By God, Cal wanted nothing more than to kill him—but his orders had been reinforced by both Zephyr and Pitt himself.
We've learned he's a go-between in the war between Bonaparte and Fouché—and he has vital knowledge. He doesn't die until we know what it is.

He could do it now, get the information through the same kind of pain the bastard had just inflicted on Clare—but that could put Duncan's mission in jeopardy through their resemblance. Both he and Duncan had been seen with Clare. Remaining hidden for now meant the finger of blame for the shooting would likely fall on the Jacobins, or the gendarmes—but the days of the Stewart brothers giving each other an alibi were over.

Cal hoped the knee injury turned septic and poisoned Delacorte, except that dying of wound fever wasn't enough. If ever a man
deserved to be hanged, shot, beheaded—all three would be better, with his head left on a bloody pike—but Delacorte didn't deserve such a quick death.

Shaking, Cal turned away. “One day, I'll kill you.”

In the light of the blazing fire, Sir Edward Sunderland held his wife's hand. “You look lovely today, Caroline.”

Caroline's face lit with a ghost of her crooked half smile. “Thank you, Edward.”

Was it a lie, when she looked as lovely as a memory lost in a pale winter morning, a flower wilting in unending frost? The wasting disease was inexorable, stealing piece by piece the crooked beauty he'd loved for thirty-five years. The profusion of hothouse flowers in the room and the lavender water sprinkled over the cushions and bedding didn't stifle the faint scent of decay.

He'd taken her to the best doctors in Harley Street, but nothing any of them tried had reversed it. “It's in the bones, Sir Edward. It's just a matter of months.”

Caroline saw him thinking again. Her smile faded, and with her fair skin and white hair, she was almost lost in the pillows. “You didn't write to her, did you, or tell Duncan.” It wasn't a question. She knew.

He couldn't look into his wife's face and lie as he always had before, not when every word they spoke could be the last. “No,” he said hoarsely.

Her hand trembled in his before she tried to squeeze his fingers. Tried and failed, just bent them over his. “Please, Edward. Please.”

For nearly forty years the King's Man had put king and country before life, love, and family. When Delacorte outwitted him, he'd even sacrificed his only daughter to keep the country safe. But looking into Caroline's eyes, he knew that Lizzy hadn't been the only one to pay the price. Lizzy's ghost was killing Caroline with her loss.

“Leo and Andrew are coming tomorrow with Marian and Rachel,” he said in a bright voice—but though Leo and Andrew visited regularly with their new wives, they could hardly bear looking at the ruin their mother had become.

Her eyes closed. Tears trickled from the outer corners. Her hand went limp in his. “I'm tired now.”