“Quiet. Here. Have a swig with me.”
Simms grabbed it from his old friend and drank down a goodly draught. The liquor was bracing, but not as much as conversing freely with his former comrade. He’d worried aboutMonsieur’s health even before he fell ill with pneumonia. He could not have afforded to lose such a capable man. Riverdale was a rare ally who would cut off his right arm to save his friend. Their friendship had been elemental, bone deep, bonded in loyalties, wrought in secrets and devoted unto the death. “Tell me why.”
Riverdale took back his flask and had another go at it. He took his time replying, slumping onto a garden bench two feet away. “I’m bored.”
“Hells bells! Bored?”
“Aren’t you?” His friend seemed not only serious, but curious.
“No.”
“Doing…this?”
Simms flexed his shoulders and sat down next to his pal. “There are compensations.”
“Right.” Riverdale lifted his flask and up-ended it.
“Are you drinking that for warmth or is this a new habit?”
“Both.”
“Well,merde.” Simms needed another drink himself. He waggled his fingers atMonsieur. “Give it over. Or did you finish that?”
“You have more in your cellar, don’t you?” He cocked a long black brow at Simms.
“I do. I’ll fill it up for you. Half way.”
“Generous of you, old man.”
Simms feared for his friend. “Why would you return to that life? The wars are done. What need is there now?”
“The French are not stable. The Bourbon king is an old fart and you know it. He’ll let the aristos whisper in his ear and he’ll tax his subjects up to their gizzards. They’ll revolt again and burn the country down. They’ll find a new asshole they love. Then we’ll all be back at it, fighting each other in no time like monkeys.”
“Whitehall wants you back in France?”
“They do. At the embassy. Eyes, ears. Tongues that speak French. German, too.C’est moi.”
“The earl of Marsden is attached to the embassy in Paris.” Simms spoke of the rightful heir to this house, the step-son of the Countess of Marsden. “He’s part of the Occupation Forces.”
Riverdale studied the house. “I know. We’ve talked. He made me the offer.”
“Will you go?”
“First, Marsden wants me to find a wife.”
Simms froze. Eliza? Would Riverdale court his Eliza? He’d found her charming, entertaining. “Why? Why marry?”
“Looks good for a diplomat to have a wife. Looks…normal. Not threatening. Nor mischievous.”
“Agreed.” Often while conducting missions, he and Riverdale had taken French women “to wife” so that they appeared innocent of the crimes they committed. “Are you here to find one?”
Riverdale waved a hand. “I might be.”
Hell. To think he might preside at the festivity where Eliza met her match—and that man might be his friend—turned his stomach.
“Not to your liking, is it?”
“No,” he answered before he had time to think or call it back.
