Chapter One
March 1815, Paris, France
Malcolm slipped throughthe streets of Paris in the dimming light of dusk, wishing he were back in London at White’s or Boodle’s with a glass of brandy in anticipation of a late night with a talented Cyprian.
Not that Paris didn’t have its own outstanding courtesans, but he doubted he would be relaxing enough to enjoy the fair sex while on this mission for the Crown. It was a damn nuisance, all this cloak and dagger stuff, when Bonaparte had been taken care of once already. Only with either great incompetence or, more likely, the cooperation of his captors could the former emperor have escaped his exile on the Island of Elba.
In any case, Bonaparte was en route to Paris, which was putting a bit of a crimp in the coalition’s celebratory air in Vienna, not to mention causing the new French king all manner of indigestion.
And Britain’s Prince Regent was determined not to let his old foe return to power. If Malcolm could prevent such or, at least, bring a new Napoleonic rule to a swift end, then Prinny would be in his debt. Again.
And in the back of his mind was the hope this would be his last such adventure. At twenty-nine, he’d spent the better part of a decade serving the Crown, regardless of whether it was upon mad King George’s head or his profligate son’s. And by God, Malcolm had his own small empire to run, as the eldest son of the Viscount St. John.
He’d avoided the parson’s noose so far, but his parents were increasingly demanding he fulfill his duty in that regard. This past Season, he’d even gone to a few insipid balls and now had two potential mates in mind, both eminently suitable with extremely pretty faces — Lady Dreadfully Dull, with her slender waist but off-putting vacant stare, indicating how little thought went on between her ears, and Lady Terribly Tedious, who could talk up a blue storm about anything and everyone, but had absolutely nothing interesting to say in the very many words she used. Still, she had full breasts to recommend her and was an earl’s daughter.
Malcolm sighed. His joyful, single life as a raffish bachelor must come to an end, another reason he would bloody well rather be home to enjoy his last few months of freedom, depending on how long he could delay the process of choosing a wife. And Paris, as everyone agreed, was cramped and uncomfortable, not only its streets but also its buildings. The houses were miserable, the streets narrow, and there were no pavements in the so-called modern capital of the French Empire, thus one very often—
“Oof!” He ran directly into a small figure in a very large cloak, knocking the person down.
“Je m’excuse,”he said, offering his best apology as it had certainly been his fault, letting his thoughts drift when he ought to have them firmly on the mission at hand.
A torrent of angry French came from the figure, a woman’s voice, so he instantly recalled his gentlemanly upbringing and helped her to her feet.
In doing so, her hood fell back, revealing a riotous mass of copper-colored tresses barely tamed in a chignon that was now half down across her right shoulder.
“Êtes-vous blessé?”he asked, hoping he hadn’t injured her.
“Non,”she returned, quickly drawing up her hood and covering her head again.
For a moment, he thought her actions furtive, but there was a distinct chill in the March air, and he reminded himself he’d been sneaking around too long. Everyone seemed suspicious.
“Après vous,”he said with a gesture of his hand, indicating she should go along wherever she might be going, and he would bother her no more.
Nodding, although he could no longer see her face, to his surprise she went the very direction he’d been going, into the Galerie de Beaujolais arcade of the Palais-Royal, hurrying along past shops filled with jewelry and fine furniture, past billiard parlors, perfumeries, and sweet shops.
Perhaps she was a hard-workinggrisette, although it was too late for a shopgirl to be going to work.
Malcolm was struggling with the alternative, that she was a whore. For some reason, either her delicate beauty or the quick glimpse he’d had of her intelligent eyes, he hoped she wasn’t one of the famed Palais-Royal prostitutes. On the other hand, that might mean he could meet up with her later.
Quick as a blink, she ducked into the doorway of the same restaurant that was his destination.
The devil!The lovely lass would think he was following her. He hesitated as the door of the Café de Chartres closed in his face. Waiting a mere five seconds, Malcolm pushed it open.
Nodding to the doorman, Malcom took a right into the establishment. The main floor was crowded, the tables filled with diners. And the female had already disappeared into the interior.
As on previous visits, he went to the back of the dining room to the familiar, black-painted staircase and ascended. Upstairs the fancy decorations, the statues and gilded objects, the extravagant floor tile, crystal, and china of the ground floor all vanished. Instead, there were plain wooden tables and comfortable chairs, at least in the rooms Malcolm had seen. As before, he was greeted by a nod and a wink and went past the armed man to the next room.
“Lord Branley, you have arrived at last,” came the familiar and always cheerful voice of another of His Majesty’s finest, Lord Herbert Randall.
“At last!” Malcolm quipped. “I received my orders less than thirty-six hours ago, and here I am, Randall. At your service as always.”
The man laughed. “Notmyservice, surely. But what you do for Britain — what we all do — is well-appreciated. Now more than ever. If we’re not careful, dark times are coming.”
“Along with Bonaparte apparently,” Malcolm agreed. “I hear he will be in the city before the month’s end.”
Randall nodded. “It would seem so.” He glanced at the other men seated at the table. Directly to his left was General Scovell, one of Wellington’s most effective intelligence officers and a codebreaker extraordinaire.
“General,” Malcolm greeted him.
