“It is said you become the lover of Grey, the Head of Section. He is an admirable man, Monsieur Grey.”
She knew what they were all thinking. To Soulier and his agents she was become a nothing, an unreliable who spilled her secrets in a man’s bed. She was humiliated before the only audience that mattered. “We are lovers.” She had known it would be bitter to turn traitor. She had not prepared herself for the shame that washed across her.
Calm, wise eyes studied her. “We used to chuckle at you, Vauban and I, that you played the harlot so well and were so fastidious and virginal beneath it all. We thought, when the time was right, that René would drag you into the bushes some evening and make you wiser.”
She had to smile. “René teased me about it, always. He made such promises—a pasha of the East could not have fulfilled them.”
“A wild man, that one. So much laughter in him. He is wasted upon the Russians. You were all scattered when Vauban retired. I do not think any of you remain in France but Leblanc.”
She let her hands fall, empty, into her lap. Leblanc. Always Leblanc. “He was never one of us.”
Soulier snapped his fingers. One of his henchmen came quietly to kneel by the fire and build it up. She had shivered when he named Leblanc, so Soulier warmed the room for her. He saw everything.
His cane leaned beside him, a slim ebony wand tipped in silver. He played with it, twirling it between two fingers in his familiar way. “Was Grey your first? One’s first love is sweet and strong and fresh. My home city has a wine of that nature. Beaujolais. One drinks it raw and new, in great quantities, when one is young, before one turns to finer wines.”
She cleared her throat. “He was the first.”
“That will make a fine memory to carry with you when you leave England. Not the wisest man to pick. But I do not think he gave you any choice, eh, petite?”
“No, monsieur.”
“You will call me Soulier, as always. Things have not changed between us because you have been foolish with an Englishman. Though you have enraged Fouché completely, I am afraid.”
Yves, who was the chief of Soulier’s men in England and not stupid in the least, had returned to place a silver tray on the table between them. There were small flaky rolls, very hot, wrapped in a napkin, and a silver coffeepot, and wide, cream-colored bowls of a size to settle kindly within two hands. It was wholly French, such a breakfast.
Soulier poured coffee into a bowl. “You shall have much of this hot milk and just a touch, only, of sugar. I remember what you eat in the mornings, which Babette has decided this must be. She is infallible, my Babette, so we shall call it morning. We shall wait patiently till evening to let you taste a wine I have been saving, which you will someday develop the palate to appreciate.”
She took the bowl of hot coffee and the roll from his hands. Presented with these things, this way, there was nothing to do but dip the roll into the coffee and eat it bite by bite, as one does at home when one is entirely safe. This was Babette’s message to her and Soulier’s as well.
“So I shall live to this evening. Perhaps even long enough to develop a proper palate for wine.”
“If it were in my hands, you would live as long as Methuselah. Of course I shall ignore these orders, which Fouché has given when something he ate did not agree with him. He would not thank me if I took so literally every small word that drops from his lips.”
“Thank you.” She had known, in all the French secret service, only two men brave enough to ignore a death order from Fouché. Vauban was the other.
She finished the roll and drank milky coffee in long, slow sips, holding the bowl with both hands.
“It has been a long road for you, my cub, all the way from Marseilles, with Leblanc so incomprehensibly murderous. The men I sent were not quick enough to find you and rescue you.” He shook his head. “For that I am greatly at fault. You have felt abandoned, I think. And then you fell into the hands of the British. Will you tell me what secrets were the price of refuge in England?”
“I will answer whatever questions you put to me, monsieur.”
“Annique, chérie, you hurt me.”
“Soulier. Yes. I will tell you, Soulier.”
“That is better. You have been the guest of the British Service for many days now. What have you told them?”
It was not time to speak of the Albion plans. Not yet. Not yet. She would speak of little betrayals first, as was believable. “I have confirmed the names of Vauban’s old agents, though they knew us all. I gave them Frederick Tillman, who is in British Military Intelligence for us.” She swallowed. “There is more.”
The agent Yves stalked across the room to attend to a draft that worked its way through the curtains. He did not glance in her direction, but he condemned her with each angry footfall. He was the first of many who would despise her.
No. Not the first. She despised herself. Tonight was the end of her long loyalty to France. She had deserted Grey as well, and the British Service. After tonight, she was loyal to no man, to no nation. She who had believed herself loyal to the death, once upon a time.
Part of her watched her hands tremble upon the bowl of coffee. Part of her was pleased she played so skillfully the repentant sheep, returned to the fold. Such excellent technique she had. So skilled an agent.
She was quite sick of Annique Villiers. She set the bowl down because it was not possible for her to drink it, after all.
And Soulier saw so much. “I have said this and said this, Annique, but you passionate young ones never believe.” Soulier stabbed his cane to the floor, emphasizing. “All men can be broken. All! You. Me. That self-righteous young fool who stomps himself across my salon. Anyone. The British Service has men who can suck the pith from your soul without leaving a mark upon you. Grey is the most expert of them. You had no chance against him. Petite, please, look at me.”
She did. One obeyed Soulier.
“You will tell me, one by one, the holes you have put in our defenses. I shall repair them. I have seen many mistakes in my life. This is not such a huge one.”
“There is more. You do not know…”
“I shall amend all. Fox Cub, this has happened before, many times. France does not tumble down like a house of cards when an agent is captured. A few operations will be closed. This agent or that will be moved and given a new name. I shall amuse myself sending some of our fat colleagues scuttling for cover, hein? It will do them no harm. We become complacent. Now we shall be the tidy housewife and sweep the dust out of our corners.”
The Albion plans were not a matter of small housekeepings or moving this agent or that. Such treason was not forgiven. Soulier would receive orders even he could not ignore.
He said to her softly, “I shall bring you to Paris, and you will grovel before Fouché, which he will enjoy greatly because you are a pretty girl. He will give you most unpleasant work for a time, to prove your loyalty. A year. Perhaps two.” He dissected her spirit, accurately, with remote kindness. “You will do as he says. No. Listen to me. You will do this. You will accustom yourself, and you will live. It will be easier to accept this when you do not come so directly from your English lover’s bed, still warm from him.” He saw the involuntary flinch and reached across the table to touch her arm. “I understand better than you imagine, child. I will do nothing to smudge your memories of Grey, but the interlude has passed. You have been foolish. Now you will be sensible.”
She pulled away from his hand. “I will not whore for Fouché.”
Soulier sighed and turned away and made a small adjustment to the wick of the lamp. He was elegant even in this tiny, domestic office. “Sadly, it does not depend upon your consent, petite. I will do what I can to make it bearable. But this is painful for both of us. Instead, you shall tell me why Leblanc has conceived this irritation with you that sends him mad in this way. What has possessed him?”