Autumn 1819 — Paris
This wing of the vast house was silent, the windows and
the rooms behind them unlit with curtains securely drawn,
the garden beyond dark and shadowed. Sounds of distant
merriment drifted on the mild air, of music, laughter, the
hum of a large gathering, but here there was nothing to
disturb the midnight stillness. With its towers and
turrets, gravelled drive and formal gardens, it was a
formidable château on the very edge of Paris, the home of
the Comte and Comtesse de Charleroi, where a celebration
was being hosted for the forthcoming marriage of the heir.
An event of notable interest and comment to the blue and
noble blood of the Parisian beau monde. But here on a
stone-flagged terrace of the west wing, overlooking a
rigidly ornamental parterre, the felicitous event played
no part in anyone's mind.
The terrace was not as deserted as it might first appear.
A dark figure merged into the inky shadow of the house
where the twisted stem of a wisteria hugged, then overhung
the wall to give protection. Beyond the fact that it was a
man, tall and broad-shouldered, a solid outline, no other
detail could be ascertained. Dark clothes allowed him to
blend with the background and he was careful to keep the
pale skin of hands and face from attracting any stray
glimmer from a fitful moon. He wished to be neither seen
nor identified. He was waiting. Unmoving, breathing silent
and shallow. Waiting.
At last a noise. A careless scrape of a footstep on stone.
Two figures emerged as darker shapes against the dark
surround — one from the corner of the wing of the château,
the other on the short rise of steps that led up from the
garden to the terrace. An assignation, carefully planned.
The hidden watcher tensed, but otherwise remained
motionless.
There was nothing of moment in either figure, both as
sombrely dressed as the one who waited and watched. They
met at the top of the steps. A low-voiced conversation —
brief and hurried — took place and something changed hands
from both sides. Perhaps a letter and a flat packet. Then
one turned and vanished once more into the garden, the
black density of a yew hedge soon swallowing him and any
possibility of footsteps. The whole scene took less than
two minutes. The other made no move to return to the
house, but stood in full sight, moonlit, against the
terrace's carved balustrade, head lifted as if in
anticipation. Or perhaps he too was listening.
The watcher, after a brief moment to assess the quality of
the stillness that was once again total, stepped out from
concealment to advance cat-like with grace across the
terrace. The man turned. This meeting, it would appear,
was also not unexpected.
"Well, monsieur?" The watcher spoke in soft, low tones. "I
have what you require, my lord." Hardly more than a
whisper.
"The list of names?" 'Yes, my lord." The gentleman took
from his pocket the letter that had only a moment before
come into his possession. "Will you keep the agreement?
That my name and identity be deleted from any further
investigation into this delicate matter?"
"Of course." Teeth glinted in the dark in a hard and
particularly cynical smile. "I will keep my word, you may
be sure.'The watcher inclined his head in a gesture of
some irony as he took a bulky package from his pocket.
"Would you sneer, my lord?'The gentleman, still holding
the letter, breathed in with some hauteur. "Your
involvement is not beyond criticism. Blackmail, for
whatever purpose, leaves a particularly unpleasant taste
in the mouth."
"True." The smile again. The glint of an eye. "But then —
I do not sell the names of my compatriots to the enemy for
money, knowing that it could mean their death, for a mere
few thousand francs."
The gentleman turned his face away, perhaps embarrassed by
the justice of the accusation, then surprised his
companion when he laughed softly.
"As it happens, neither do I, my lord."
There was absolutely no warning. No sound, no movement of
air. Merely a deeper shadow within shadows, which advanced
noiselessly from the shelter of an artistically clipped
shrub in a marble urn. Before the watcher could react, a
heavy blow was dealt to the side of his head from the butt
of a pistol, almost robbing him of his senses. He groaned
on a sharp in-take of breath, automatically raising his
hands in defence. But before he could gather his wits to
respond to protect himself further, he found himself
forced back against the stone balustrade by a pair of
strong hands and the force of a well-muscled body. Next
moment he had lost his balance, thrust by a wide shoulder
and hard-driven thigh against and over the stonework. His
fingers scrabbled to find some purchase in the lichened
carvings, but he was falling, helplessly, to land heavily
and ignominiously into the clipped box edges and fragrant
plants of the garden some considerable distance below.
After which all consciousness and all knowledge left him.
In the fashionable quarter of Paris, some days later, in
the home of the British Ambassador Sir Charles Stuart and
away from the sumptuous reception rooms where visiting
dignitaries were entertained and suitably overwhelmed,
there was a small anteroom usually set aside for informal
or private transactions. This particular interview was to
be conducted not by the Ambassador, but by a gentleman who
made it his business to remain unknown and unrecognised
except by a very few. For the head of British espionage it
was good policy to remain anonymous, particularly when it
was hoped to discover the names of British politicians
attempting to undermine British foreign policy, such as
those who would find it politic to bring about the
downfall of King Louis XVIII of France and the restored
Bourbons. Politicians who might even go so far as to plot
the restoration of the deposed Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte —
if that ailing exile, imprisoned on the distant island of
St Helena, lived long enough to see the day.
There was nothing about the gentleman to draw any
attention. Indeed, he worked hard to achieve exactly that,
being addressed in his public life as Mr Wycliffe. Neat,
slight of figure, no longer young and with a quiet
demeanour, he sat behind a desk with a document in his
hand, a deep frown between his brows, as the door opened.
He looked up, the frown growing heavier at the
interruption, then rose to his feet with a quick smile as
he saw the identity of his visitor.
"My Lord Faringdon! Come in, my dear man. I had not
expected to see you so soon. Come in and take the weight
off your feet."
The gentleman entered slowly, without grace: Lord Joshua
Sherbourne Faringdon.
Those closely acquainted with the family would have given
the opinion that Lord Joshua was typical of the Faringdon
mould. Above average height with dark hair, although
prematurely silvered to a gleaming and stunning pewter,
and with the fine, distinctive features of all the men of
the family. The straight nose and dark brows, the
dramatically carved cheekbones and seductive mouth, the
aura of power and self-will were all instantly
recognisable. Under different circumstances he was
acknowledged to be both elegant and graceful. Well-defined
muscles would have rippled beneath the expensive cloth of
his fashionable garments. But on this occasion as he
walked forward into the room it could be seen that he was
in considerable discomfort. His exquisitely tailored coat
fit more closely than might have been usual, with evidence
of heavy padding around chest and one shoulder.
Furthermore he walked with a heavy limp, making use of an
ebony cane, which was not merely for affectation. He
lowered himself to a chair as invited with a grimace and a
distinct lack of co-ordination, lips tightly pressed into
a thin line.
"How are you, sir? We have been concerned." Wycliffe
resumed his seat behind the desk, eyes narrowed on his
visitor.
"I have been better." Lord Faringdon abandoned his cane on
the floor beside him and eased his shoulders with
noticeable effort.
"I had not expected you to have left your bed. There was
no need. We had been informed of — and accepted — your
present inability to continue your mission."
"Perhaps you see no need, but since you would not come to
me, sir, of necessity I must come here." The tone was not
conciliatory. Wycliffe found himself pinned by a hard
stare from predatory eyes, more austere grey than friendly
blue. "I need to know your intent."
Not willing to be cornered into any revealing or sensitive
disclosures, Wycliffe deflected the demand. He had spent a
lifetime in doing such. "There is time and enough for
that. Joshua..." he lapsed into a more intimate form of
address, hoping to placate, although his words were not
guaranteed to achieve that end '...you could have been
killed."
"I am aware. It has crossed my mind to wonder why I was
not. I could not have defended myself, and one dead
English spy must have its attractions to those who would
work against us." Lord Faringdon stretched out his right
leg, easing torn ligaments of thigh and knee. "And
although it shames me to admit it, I must consider that I
was very neatly set up. I had no notion that I too was
watched and my cover undermined."
"Hmm." Wycliffe steepled his fingers, elbows resting on
the desk, to cast a shrewd glance over one of his most
able, if most unlikely, employees. It would never do to
underestimate the powers of comprehension of Joshua
Faringdon. In the circumstances he owed him some degree of
honesty. "It would seem that the Bonapartists have more
skill — and certainly more determination — than perhaps we
gave them credit for. They had no intention of handing
over the names of those who would work to restore Napoleon
and they also escaped with the money that you agreed to
exchange for the list. You will not be surprised to learn
that Monsieur Blanc — such an obvious name! —" his lips
curled in distaste ' — who lured you to the Charleroi
château, has disappeared from all his known haunts in the
city."
"Very sensible of him." His lordship winced as he shifted
his bruised and battered body in the exceedingly
uncomfortable straight-backed chair. "I have a debt to pay
there! But as I said before — where do we go from here?"
Wycliffe pursed his lips. There was no point in skirting
the issue. "The problem is, my lord, that your role and
your cover here in Paris may have been compromised,
although to what extent we cannot yet guess. Perhaps it
would be wise for you to remove yourself from the scene in
the short term. It may be that you can no longer pose — as
you have done with considerable success — as the careless
and unprincipled libertine visiting Paris with an eye
merely to his own interests and pleasures."
"No. I agree.'Lord Joshua thought for a moment. "I still
wonder why they did not kill me when they had the chance."
He rubbed a hand over his face, returning to this one
aspect of the night's débâcle as if it had been keeping
him awake at night, along with the physical pain, a
memento of crashing from the terrace into the
shrubbery. "Someone had sufficient affection for me not to
wish to hear of my being discovered as a rotting corpse in
a garden. So who do you suppose it was who broke my cover?"
Wycliffe pressed his lips into a thin line of
distaste. "As to that, I could not guess. We have no
traitors in our camp. Our security is second to none."
"Marianne?" His lordship's voice was soft, dangerously
so. "Our security was appallingly suspect when dealing
with that lady. You may have conveniently forgotten the
details. But I cannot."
"Marianne is dead!'The slight flush along Wycliffe's
cheekbones might have hinted at embarrassment if one did
not know him better. Lord Faringdon watched him with a
sardonic twist to his mouth. His Majesty's spy master
clearly did not wish to prolong any discussion of
Marianne, the lady who had once had the honour of being
Lord Faringdon's vivaciously attractive wife. "The most
crucial matter, since you are so concerned with our next
step, is that your value, in this investigation at least,
has been destroyed."
"So?" 'I think that you should go home." On firm ground
again, Wycliffe relaxed and allowed himself a more
generous smile. "Regain your strength. Pick up the reins
of your life in England and let the dust of this
particular storm settle. I will contact you when things
become clearer here and we may see a way to using your
services once more. Besides, if Bonaparte dies — and it is
my understanding that his health is poor and declining —
our work here will be at an end and we shall simply close
down this operation. So, as you can appreciate, there is
no reason why you should not return to London until the
dust clears."
"I suppose I could.'Lord Faringdon showed no particular
enthusiasm. He made to cross one leg over the other,
remembered and came to a halt, fingers digging into the
screaming muscles of his hip. "It is true that I have a
motherless daughter who will no longer recognise me if I
stay away longer. It is over a year since I last saw
her." 'Well, then. Go and see your family." Wycliffe
leaned forward persuasively.
"Very well. You have more confidence than I that I shall
be made welcome. I fear that gossip and speculation has
made free with my name. I have it on the best authority
that my mother considers my remaining in Paris to be of
considerable benefit to the family in general and herself
in particular, so that she does not have to make excuses
for the scandalous behaviour of the head of the
family.'His lips curled to show his teeth, but his eyes
were cold and flat, accepting of the situation that he had
himself created as a prerequisite for his present
occupation. Brows raised in polite enquiry, he looked
again at his employer. "How do you suggest that I explain
my physical state — considering that I have been here on a
private visit of debauchery and excess, and am now
returning with an obviously incapacitating injury?"
"Oh, that's easy to explain.'The main business out of the
way since Lord Faringdon had, it would seem, agreed to
leave Paris, Wycliffe rose to pour two glasses of port,
one of which he carried over to his guest. "I am sure that
you can concoct some tale of a jealous husband who
disapproved of your attempts to seduce his young and
innocent wife. Disapproved sufficiently to dissuade you
with a show of force. As you say, you have a reputation
that is not inconsiderable — such a tale will be accepted
by all. And if you can see your way to it being spread
around the fashionable drawing rooms..."
"Why not?" A jaundiced shrug and a bland expression
signified agreement. "It is not a résumé that I would have
chosen, but I should have expected no less. I suppose I
will have to tolerate the fact that, given my injuries,
the jealous husband was able to beat me to within an inch
of my life. How ignominious!" His laugh had a brittle
edge. "But who am I to cavil at being branded a ravisher
and seducer of innocent — or not so innocent — girls?
Government service demands a high price indeed."