Voices murmured in the night. Scuffles and creaks came from bedrooms of people getting up from bed and dressing. The household was roused. She smelled coffee being ground in the kitchen. She was not alone with Guillaume. “You are all spies here, are you not? Everyone I will meet in this house is a spy.”
He didn’t hesitate at all. “Yes.”
With that one word, he said, “We are married.” He said, “Husband and wife trust each other.” He said, “There are no secrets between us.” One word, and he said all that to her.
“I had not expected to marry a spy.”
“Does it bother you?” He studied her while he filled the bucket again.
“I am unsettled by it.” She felt shy of him. Not because he was English, and in the habit of lying to her, and a spy. Because he was her husband. She did not know how to deal with a husband. Probably Beauty dealt very well with the Beast, but could not imagine what to say to the handsome prince he turned into. Her problem was compounded in that her Beast did not turn into a handsome prince. He turned into a tricky fox. As always, when dealing with Guillaume, matters were complex. “I do not mind that you are a spy. I have sent men out of France who were probably spies. I do not ask. They would only lie.”
No one would have seen the brief pause unless they were watching him closely and knew him well. “Spies do that.”
“I have told a few lies in my own time. I have less fondness for candor than some people, having a father who is most perfectly candid and would drive a lesser woman to murder. And I do not mind that you are English. I am entirely in charity with England. You give refuge to our squabbling idealists and our aristocrats, who are perfectly useless to you and expensive as well. I do not like it that England wishes to give us another fat Bourbon king, but I am even less fond of Robespierre. I think perhaps there is no government I would like.”
“I’m sure there’s a good reason we can’t get rid of all of them. It’ll come to mind in a minute.”
“You do not seem very English, in any case. You make a convincing Frenchman.”
“I’m about half French, if you add it up. Does that help any, or are you still feeling strange?”
“I will feel strange for a time. Being in love with you is shedding the skin of my soul, as a snake sheds its skin. I feel tender and naked. I would rather not love you, in fact, but I have no choice in the matter.”
“I don’t have any problems at all, loving you. It’s pure pleasure.” He filled another bucket and poured it over himself. This time, she got wet, too, she was so close to him. She cupped her hand to take some of the water that spilled off his body. It was chillingly cold, but she splashed it on her face.
She was disconcerted when he leaned down to nip at her ear and kiss her there, quick and playful.
His teeth, closing on her ear, tightened her skin up, sent a hot pulse of lightning within her, down to her toes.
A little breathless, she said, “Will we live in this house? I can deal with your Madame Cachard, if I must.”
“We’ll live in England, at least at first, since they’re holding a war in France and half the people in Paris know you’re running La Flèche. I’ll buy a place near London. Hampstead, maybe. They’re always after me to work in London. Training. Analysis. I’ll be Head of Section eventually, if I stay—”
“No.”
She felt the sigh he did not allow himself. “Then I won’t,” he said. “There’s enough work in this world for a man that he doesn’t have to go spying. There’s a paper on Celtic languages I’ve been meaning to write, if I ever got the time. I can—”
“I mean, no, you will work as you always have. You will travel about, poking and prying into the affairs of the world, and bring balance to the fate of nations and spin peace out of your own strength. You will do the work you were born to do. I will not make you less than you are.”
His lips and his breath were warm on the top of her head. His hair hung down, just touching her forehead, chilly from being washed. He was entirely motionless. It was like being held by one of the tall stones in Brittany, the menhirs, that mark the hilltops. “You’ll send me off? Let me work?”
“Do you think I want a great lummox like you about and underfoot all day long, every day? I shall breathe a sigh of relief, very secretly, when you go away. Then, in a short time, I will forget how annoying you are and welcome you back with great enthusiasm when you come home.”
“I like the welcoming-home idea. And the enthusiasm part.”
She stood on tiptoe to kiss his face where his scar would have been. Where it would be, when he went on his travels again. He tasted like harsh soap. It was a masculine flavor but not romantic. She liked it on him. “Think of my enthusiasm, at night, when you are in dangerous places. You will know that I am waiting for you. I shall, of course, take lovers, but I will shove them swiftly out of the house when you arrive. You must pretend not to notice their coattails disappearing around the corner.”
“Right.” His hands were confident and amused, drawing her in. “Good thing I’m not a jealous man.”
“I will make a home for you, Guillaume, not a cage. You will go away always, to your work and your wandering. If you will leave your heart with me, I will care for it like diamonds.”
When Hawker appeared with clothing they were standing, silent. Guillaume was naked and his arms were around her.
“Anybody’d think you don’t have a bed,” Hawker said.
“I am very fond of beds,” she said. “Perhaps if you take me to one I will show you my toenails. I have gilded them for you. Although I believe there are affairs of state to discuss in the kitchen.”
“Damn affairs of state.” Guillaume carried her away upstairs.
Forty-nine
RUMOR ENTERED THE HOUSE IN THE MARAIS WITH the dawn and returned again and again all day. Somehow everyone in Paris knew Robespierre would condemn his enemies in the Convention. English spies took a great and immediate interest in this.
Marguerite worked beside Althea, cooking omelets, toasting bread, and slicing ham for men and women who came to the kitchen and spoke, very fast, very excitedly, to Carruthers and ate what was put before them and departed.
By late afternoon, the kitchen held seven men and five women. That was too many to sit down. Three men and Hawker stood with their backs to the wall. The woman Carruthers—Madame Cochard—was at the head of the table, as she had been for some hours, collecting reports.
“. . . shouted him down when he tried to speak. Half the deputies are out for his head. Robespierre was so angry he lost his voice. The Convention is in an uproar.”
“Somebody said, ‘The blood of Danton is choking him.’ ”
“That’s a good one. That’s good.”
“The chairman kept pounding the gavel. Keeping Robespierre from saying anything. From naming any more counter-revolutionaries.”
Althea poured new coffee into cups and laid them down. “They’re all in this. Everyone Doyle warned. Both the Left and the Right.”
A woman, small and dark as a Gypsy, said, “They planned last night. A dozen of them met in the Tuileries.” She turned in her chair to look behind her, to Guillaume. “Fouché was brandishing that forgery of yours like he thought it up himself. That was well done. Well done.”
Carruthers narrowed her eyes at Guillaume. “Next time you decide to topple the government of France,” there was an edge to her voice, “warn me.”
Laughter broke out around the room.
Carruthers lifted her hand. Silence fell. “The tumbrels were stopped by a mob in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. That’s the temper of the streets. Did they get the prisoners free? Does anyone know?”
Around the table, head shakes. Hawker spoke up. “The mob was pushed back. Horses. Guns. The tumbrels went through.”
Silence for a moment. “Damn,” from one man.