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Mélanie didn’t. If by some chance she should catch sight of her mistress being led away, she might cry out and startle the baby. The child was already fussy, kicking her legs and screwing up her little face to cry. Mélanie shifted the baby’s weight in her arms and pressed her cheek to the silky mop of curls. She was not a nursemaid, and hadn’t much experience with children. If Madame’s other babies had survived, perhaps they would have lived distantly in the nursery as befitted children of a man like Monsieur le Comte. But after so many miscarriages and stillbirths, Madame had kept this beloved child with her almost every hour of the day. Mélanie had grown accustomed to the baby crawling around the floor as she tended Madame. Now it was a blessing, because it made the little girl familiar enough to go quietly with her. Perhaps she wouldn’t even have to give the baby laudanum to make her quiet.
At the top of the hill, though, she couldn’t help herself. Orvelon had been her home since she was a small child, where she had followed in her mother’s footsteps as a maid in the chateau. From this distance it was still beautiful, the pale stone gleaming in the clear light of the day, but to Mélanie it now looked like a mausoleum. In a way, it was. All Mélanie’s notions of French superiority and decency lay entombed in that elegant mansion, which would no doubt soon belong to one of Robespierre’s friends. Monsieur le Comte was a good man, a kind master and husband, a philosopher who actually believed in many of the Revolution’s goals. The only thing he opposed was the guillotine. Madame was a beloved mistress, compassionate and generous to all, an educated woman and the very model of a lady. Mélanie could remember a time, not so many years ago, when the comte’s kinship to the king was a source of pride. Now it made him an enemy of the state, regardless of what kind of man he was. That was not liberty, fraternity, or equality.
“I hate them,” she whispered to the tiny girl in her arms. As small as ants in the distance, the soldiers who had come to lead the comte and comtesse away milled about the chateau, their weapons gleaming dully in the sun. A thin whisper of their coarse laughter drifted across the neglected landscape. The baby’s dark eyes peered solemnly up at her, and Mélanie made a silent vow. If the worst happened, and the comtesse never reached England, Mélanie would devote herself to Madame’s child. She would teach Madame’s daughter everything—useful things as well as lovely, ladylike things. She would raise her to be strong and fearless and capable of defending herself. This child would never be left sitting helplessly in her home when men turned on her.
“Those revolutionary dogs,” she murmured to the child, turning away to follow Jacques. “I despise them, and you must, too.”
Chapter One
1820
London
* * *
Angelique Martand did not particularly enjoy being a spy.
It was a distasteful job, often dirty and dangerous, and at times she feared it would leave a stain on her soul that might never wash away. But it was also a necessary job, and someone must do it, for the good of the entire country. The fact that Angelique was exceptionally good at it merely made for a convenient—and enriching—coincidence.
Still, the envelope on her breakfast tray this fine late summer morning was unwelcome. She knew what it meant, that plain envelope addressed in a nondescript hand. Her employer, John Stafford, Chief Clerk of Bow Street Magistrates Court and Home Office spymaster, had a new assignment for her.
She considered ignoring it, pretending the post had gone astray and she had never received it. She toyed with this idea while she breakfasted, letting the envelope lie where the maid had left it on the tray. She did answer Stafford’s summonses of her own volition, after all, and no one could make her answer this one. The man who had sent it would never dare approach her more directly than this, and if she did not respond, he would have to find someone else. Someone who did not mind being sent off dangerously ignorant of the true purpose of her assignment. Someone who did not mind risking her life to conceal a petty bureaucrat’s thieving ways, or the disgrace of a well-respected lord plotting to kill the king, or the embarrassment of a high-ranking army officer at the hands of a blackmailer. Someone, in short, who didn’t mind being used by those in power to protect themselves.
Angelique sipped her tea and let her eyes wander about the bedchamber. It was a lovely room in a lovely house, if she did say so herself, simple but elegant, and it was all hers—thanks to Stafford. However disagreeable the tasks he gave her, the man paid her well. If only she hadn’t caught him lying to her. What was the point of that? She knew he dealt in underhanded, shady activities. But he had lied to her, and she wasn’t eager to chance it again.
Cursing silently, she opened the envelope and read the single line inside: Half past eleven, this morning.
She flung off the coverlet and got out of bed. “Lisette,” she called. “The green striped walking dress today.”
Her maid bustled into the room a moment later, the green dress over her arm. “Oui, madame. Shall I send for a carriage?”
Angelique walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. The fresh morning breeze blew her nightdress flat against her belly, and she raised her arms over her head, savoring the feel of the fine lawn against her skin. She hadn’t worked for over two months, and had become used to lazy days spent on pursuits of her own whim. That must be part of the reason she was so reluctant to go into the city and see Stafford. “I suppose,” she said, answering Lisette’s query.
“You are not anxious to see him?” Lisette clucked under her breath and answered her own question. “Of course not. Who would be pleased to wait on the devil?”
Angelique smiled. “Pleased? No. Satisfied?” She paused. “Perhaps.”
The maid raised her brows but said nothing. Lisette was more than a mere maid; unlike the other servants, she knew precisely what her mistress was. She accompanied Angelique on many assignments, helping with disguises, cooking when necessary, binding wounds, and even spying a bit herself among other servants. She was invaluable, both as a lady’s maid and as a spy’s servant.
Angelique washed, then sat before the dressing table. Lisette picked up the brush and began pulling it through her hair. Angelique gazed into the mirror and watched the maid arrange her long hair into a fashionable twist. She smiled wryly at the dark humor of dressing like a lady when she was anything but; why, Stafford might be planning to send her out posing as a whore this time.
Then she stopped smiling, and leaned closer to the mirror, ignoring Lisette’s impatient exclamation as a thick lock of hair fell out of place. Gently she touched the skin at the corners of her eyes and between her brows. The faint lines there didn’t go away, and when she frowned, they grew deeper and more pronounced.
“Madame?” asked Lisette curiously.
She sat back. “Wrinkles,” she announced. “I am growing old.”
“It is better than not growing old.” Lisette shrugged, twisting the loose hair back into the heavy mass. “I speak from experience.”
Angelique smiled reluctantly. Lisette was probably old enough to be her mother, and looked it. What she said was true enough, particularly to someone in Angelique’s profession. Besides, she was getting old. In less than two years’ time, she would be thirty. “That does not mean I must enjoy it.” Lisette laughed. “He is making me old before my time,” she added on a sigh.
“There’s no doubt of that, Madame,” the maid replied. “’Tis a hard life. You would be well quit of it, and him.” Lisette never called Stafford anything but the devil or him, as if his very name left a bad taste in her mouth.
“Indeed.” Hair coifed, Angelique rose from the table. As she dressed, each layer of clothing tugged and smoothed into place by Lisette’s capable hands, she studied herself in the mirror with critical eyes. There was a scar on the inside of her arm from one of her first spying missions, pale but noticeable. The burn scar on her shin was more prominent, but it lay hidden under stockings and skirts. The little finger of her left hand had been broken once and healed just shy of straight, also in Stafford’s service. Her figure was still slim and her muscles still strong—stronger than the average woman’s—but Angelique began to feel old and tired. Or rather, she sensed it coming, and was suddenly more keenly aware of the passing of time.
She thought about it as the hired carriage drove her into the heart of the city, where John Stafford kept his office. She felt no tension, no anxiety, no exhilaration about whatever he might present to her. That was new. Once, a summons from him would have made her heart pound and her blood surge. It was both terrifying and thrilling to be sent off on a dangerous assignment, although the terror had waned as she grew more skilled and practiced. But now the exhilaration was gone as well.
Perhaps more than anything, that meant it was time to consider retirement. A bored or distracted spy was not long for this world, and she preferred to die on her own terms, hopefully in her own bed at a date in the distant future.
