“I will not. I have never yet killed myself.”
“You are stubborn as a block of wood.” She knew the exact moment she had won because he kicked the crate he was using as a footstool. “You are also stupid as a cow. How are you planning to accomplish this idiocy?”
“I will think of something.”
“There’s a sentiment to fill the heart with terror. And I am wasting my breath. How well I know you.” He stood up and reached his sleeve toward her. “Take this. Get me out of this coat. I can’t think when I’m stewing hot.”
She pulled at his sleeve and helped him shrug out of the coat. He tossed it over the edge of an old screen. “Convince me it can be done. And let’s get the young minions out of here. The less they know, the better.”
“The boy is already involved. He travels with Guillaume. I would not have brought the girl to this place, but she seems to know it well.”
Jean-Paul shifted uncomfortably.
She said, “I see. If Owl is employed here, we must put a stop to it.”
He unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll his sleeves up. “Of course.”
“I mean this, Jean-Paul. I will not allow this to continue.”
He sighed. “You do not change, Marguerite. And you are right. Very well, we will stop her from whoring, if that’s what she does. Can we do it after we have rescued your Guillaume and killed ourselves doing it?”
“I can wait. I am not unreasonable.”
“You are pigheaded beyond all reason.”
“I am not pigheaded. I will not watch while a child that age works in a brothel. Though this particular brothel does not have the reputation of selling girls of her age.”
“Who’s been talking to you about whorehouses? Damn it, Marguerite, if you need to know about whorehouses, you should ask me.” He stopped. “That didn’t come out right. What I mean is—”
“I can hear you, you know.” Justine, standing on the ladder, propped her elbows on the floor of the loft. “This is a very expensive whorehouse, monsieur. If you like, I will see that you are entertained for the evening. Not the young boy, naturally. His innocence must be maintained at all costs. But you and the charitable mademoiselle who wishes to deprive me of my livelihood may come. We cater to all tastes here.”
She heard Adrian mutter, “If breaking into prison doesn’t kill you lot, I might.”
Jean-Paul closed his eyes briefly. “Let us proceed one catastrophe at a time. Unless you two have something to say, you should be elsewhere.” He waited, then said softly, “It is not that you are young. I’d say the same to anyone in La Flèche. You should go.”
Justine’s chin rose. “If I have done so little—”
We have been tactless, Jean-Paul and I. They are not children. She said quickly, “I am in your debt.”
And it was not a child who studied her gravely. Justine said, “I will collect payment, mademoiselle. Be sure of it.” She disappeared. She could be heard, going out through the storeroom below.
Adrian was a pace behind. He swung to the ladder, agile and silent. The two clomped noisily through the storage shed and out. It was their commentary on being dismissed. It was telling Jean-Paul they’d obeyed his order.
It is a hard world where children become so subtle.“When I remove my Guillaume to safety, those two children must follow the sparrows to England. This is no life for them.”
“Fine. We’ll send them to England. We will put them in school where they will astonish their classmates. May we now return to the business at hand. I’ll try to find someone who’s been in the convent. Get a floor plan.”
“Try. But we have no time. Tomorrow, I must decide how to crack this nut.”
For a moment the darkness she had been holding off closed in around the edges of her vision. A soft emptiness invited her to give up. She would not, of course.
Jean-Paul said, “Sit.” He pushed her shoulders. She was in the soft chair, among the feathers. “Don’t stand up for a while. What do we need?”
The dizziness became manageable, though it did not go away. “Floor plans. The other houses in the street. Every house with a wall that touches the convent. Your man in the Bureau Municipal can get that. I need the distances on the street paced out. We’ve done this before. Maps, first of all.”
Jean-Paul sat on her bed. “Maps. Distances. We can start that today. What else?”
Thirty-five
CARRUTHERS GRIPPED HER HANDS TOGETHER ON the blotter of the writing desk. Her face was grim. “We know where he is, at least.”
Althea set the tray down on the small table beside the empty grate. “The Convent of Saint-Barthélémy on Rue Tessier.”
“I’ve seen the outside. An impenetrable pile of stone. Do we have any ties to the place? Anyone who knows anything about it?”
“Not yet. I’ve sent out word, asking.” Althea poured boiling water from the black kettle into the teapot.
Carruthers’s face showed every one of her years. The discipline that contained her was very apparent. Her anger, close to the surface. “Look at the guards, of course. We’ll try bribery.”
“We cannot get the accusation withdrawn. It was made by Victor de Fleurignac.”
“This is the way we lose agents. Some fool lifts a skirt. Some pig must defend his cousin’s honor.” She crumpled the newspaper in front of her and tossed it into the basket by the desk. “Not for politics. Not for ideals. Not for useful intelligence. Just a woman. Even with a man like Will Doyle. Where is she?”
“Not arrested. Not returned home.” Althea shrugged. “She’ll be good at hiding.”
“Then we will be good at finding her.” Carruthers stared out into the afternoon slanting its way across the courtyard. “We have eyes inside La Flèche, of course.”
“None of them close to Finch. Or we would have known who she is months ago.” One lump of sugar clicked into the teacup. Thea poured tea, then dripped in three drops of milk.
“I said I’d take care of her. To do that, I need to know where she is and what she’s doing.”
“She will be making plans to rescue Will.”
“Or betraying him further.” Carruthers’s lips narrowed.
“Don’t make Will’s mistake. We have no reason to trust her.”
“Everything we know about Finch says she’s a good woman.”
“She is a good Frenchwoman. She is an admirable leader of La Flèche. That doesn’t mean she’s on our side. Marguerite de Fleurignac is not one of us.”
Althea stirred the cup and handed it across. “Now, Helen . . .”
“I am less enamored of young love than you are. I expected better of Doyle. I trained him better than this. What damned asinine foolery is he playing with in the middle of a job?”
“You are becoming a cynic. Will doesn’t make mistakes about people. If he has put his life in her hands, they are reliable hands.”
“You’re a romantic, Thea.” Carruthers came to her feet, impatiently, and strode to the window. She stood there, holding the delicate cup. “Very well. Let’s say she’s trying to save him.”
“She may succeed. Finch of La Flèche is better at what she does than anyone we know. No one in the Service can match her.”
“We know her work.”
“If you could pick anyone to free Will, she is the one you would go to.”
“Perhaps.” Carruthers watched the youngest of her agents cross the courtyard. Paxton. He was seventeen. Any of her men and women might be in prison tomorrow and dead next week. She’d never thought it would be tough, unkillable Will Doyle, though. “La Flèche has tried to take men from prison before, and failed.”
“They have also succeeded. Many times. She will get her Guillaume back, Helen. There is no force on earth stronger than a determined woman.” Althea tidied the tea tray. When she judged sufficient time had passed, she said, “We must help her.”
“She has La Flèche to draw upon.” A long, reflective sip of tea. “But you’re right. If we find her, if help is needed, we’ll offer it. Tell the others. And we will keep her alive. For that much, she is one of ours. Who are you sending to the prison?”