“Then you must go to your work.” Her arms slipped from around his neck. “It is of a piece, anyway, bringing her away so that she might tell you what she knows of this affair with Compton.”
“Aye.” But he’d have done it anyway.
For Isobel.
By morning the beginnings of a plan were coalescing. Tomorrow Quinn, Pereira, and some others would discuss logistics further in a tavern well removed from the public eye.
Today, actually; it was just before first light when he returned to his rooms. His own part in daytime surveillance of Compton and Dubois was over since he must act entirely as Beaumont going forward.
Isobel didn’t stir when he entered the rooms nor as he neared the bed. She slept deeply, expression troubled. Had she had more nightmares? It was little wonder if she had.
It was very early yet. He would take her to Amélie soon enough, but it could wait a little longer. He could use a few hours’ sleep first.
He debated briefly with himself before undressing down to his trousers and climbing into bed beside her. She curled into his body, murmuring a few indistinct words without fully waking.
“Aye, love, I’m here.” He gathered her into his arms and closed his eyes.
He allowed himself a few hours of light sleep. Another awake, thinking, with Isobel nestled against him. She’d stirred only once in that hour, not fully waking, rousing only enough to burrow deeper into his arms.
Did she know whose arms held her? She’d been married for more than five years; him, she’d known for a week. He shoved the thought away as both unworthy and irrelevant, tightening his embrace.
But it was his name she whispered, her voice husky with sleep, as her hand crept up to cup his jaw.
“I must leave soon,” he said after several minutes. “I will see you to L’Orchidée first, however. I want you to stay there after, and not return to these rooms for any reason.”
“Yes. I need only a few minutes to dress and pack.”
Within the hour he delivered her to L’Orchidée and sent a man discreetly for her trunk.
A workable plan was made to secure Lucy Muir. More people were pulled in and instructions dispatched. Each of the major players would have multiple sets of eyes continually upon them over the next several days: Compton, Dubois, Cuvelier. Miss Muir too should she leave the house Cuvelier rented for her.
He returned to L’Orchidée to bring Amélie up to speed on plans and remaining preparations. He’d be spending the evening at Cercle des Étrangers, the invitation from Dubois having been delivered to his rooms. It was an invitation he could hardly have refused in any case, but especially not tonight.
Isobel was alone in the garret room at her own request; he let himself in after finishing his conversation with Amélie.
Slanting late afternoon sun lit the framing, the old wood softly gleaming. Isobel was asleep on the bed, her face shadowed by exhaustion. She’d not gotten much sleep lately; neither of them had.
He considered leaving her to her rest, but he wanted to tell herpersonally about the plans in progress, and he had no way of knowing when he might next see her given he’d likely be at Cercle des Étrangers well into the early morning hours.
He took a step towards her, a board creaking.
She jerked awake, relaxing when she saw it was him. “I wished to stay up here.” Her voice was scratchy. “I know it is somewhat your space, but I wished for privacy, and Amélie assured me I was safe here...”
“It’s no trouble for you to be here.”
“I must have fallen asleep. I did not intend to. I meant only to lie down for a few minutes.” She pushed herself to sitting. “Come and sit. Tell me whatever you can of what is happening.”
It perhaps went without saying that there was much he couldn’t tell her, but the basics of the plan to get Miss Muir away from the theater he could share. Pereira, whose face was unknown to any of the major players, would be at the Théâtre de la Gaîté. He’d already had a long look at Miss Muir’s miniature. He had a bit of a trick memory with images; he could be trusted to identify her. He would take possession of Isolde Muir’s ring on Tuesday morning. Considering its emotional significance to Isobel, that wouldn’t be handed over yet lest plans change.
If all went as planned, Quinn would escort the sisters out of Paris and as far as London. Quinn was an Irishman, an ex-soldier and fellow Rifleman from another company in the regiment. Younger than himself by a good handful of years but, despite his age, as deadly a man as he’d had worked with this side of the Peninsula—one of the main uses to which the service put him these days. Quinn would ensure the women’s safe passage along with carrying coded dispatches to the Foreign Office in London.
As much as he would like to have Miss Muir brought straight to Isobel from the theater, assuming the plan met with success, it was neither feasible from a safety standpoint nor from an information-gathering standpoint. There would be eyes to see whereCuvelier went as soon as he discovered Miss Muir’s defection, but given Dubois’s suspicions about Nate and Isobel, there might be precious little time to make a move on any of the three: Cuvelier, Compton, or Dubois. In order to find out what Miss Muir knew and if it was of immediate help, she must be taken first to a safe house. Quinn would ensure she made it there. Once there, Nate and Baudelaire would interview her as soon as possible.
“Amélie will provide clothing and provisions for your journey and arrange for you to meet tomorrow with Quinn so that he is not unknown to you,” he finished. “If you write a message for your sister, Quinn will give it to her once they are safely away from the theater. I am sure she will be on her guard, so I hope it will help set her mind at ease.”
“Of course. I will write one tonight while Mr. Beaumont is out on the town. There is little enough else I may do.” Her voice held a faint trace of bitterness, but he didn’t think it was directed at him.
“It is best if you do not leave L’Orchidée.”
