She turned to Grey. He remained expressionless, his eyes level and cold. It was to him she spoke. “Leblanc lay in wait. And killed. And took the gold. He has done endless murder for that gold.”
When she said that, he nodded, just a fraction. Leblanc was dead from this moment. He might still walk and talk for an hour or a week, but he was dead. Soulier saw this. She did not think Leblanc yet realized.
“She lies. I swear, Soulier, this is lies.” Leblanc writhed in fury and fear. Long scratches showed red on his face. “It was Vauban. Only Vauban. I know nothing of this.”
She did not bother to look upon Leblanc. “I was with Vauban. Leblanc came to the inn with the blood of those murdered men still upon his clothing.” She remembered the shock and the sickness. Vauban’s incredulous anger. “Leblanc knew Vauban must have the plans. He demanded them, as the price of his silence.”
“The bitch lies. She lies in her teeth. I was in Paris that day. I can bring a dozen men to swear this.”
“He was there. He hid in the farmhouse of Paul Drouet that night, in Brésanne. No.” She snapped, “Be silent, maggot. Your men, Plaçais and Vachelard, are dead by your secret order. The family Drouet burned in their beds. It has been unhealthy to know this thing about you, Leblanc. But one daughter escaped and lives. There is a witness.”
The willingness of Yves and the other guards to keep violent hands upon Leblanc increased by the minute.
“You will not listen to this whore, this bitch in heat, who sweats and grunts under an English dog.”
“You killed Maman when I was blinded and useless. And three Englishmen in Bruges. And two of your own men. And the family Drouet at their farm,” she stared into Leblanc’s eyes, and her voice cracked, “even the children. The good God alone knows how many others. All for gold…” She could no longer speak.
Leblanc was a cornered rat, teeth bared. “You will regret this, Soulier. Fouché will crush you like an ant when I tell him this.”
Soulier had become like ancient ice in the mountains, frigid and blue and glittering. “You are a greedy man, Jacques. Greedy enough that I believe this atrocity of you. It is the answer to some questions that have occurred to me this last year. And why else would you try to kill Annique?
“She lies,” Leblanc hissed.
“You are stupid beyond belief to think you can attack in my own house someone I have given sanctuary. To do this to a woman Grey chooses to protect…Do you not realize, you idiot, that he has a dozen men outside? That this is his trap for you? That he has come for you tonight to hang you?”
Grey was at her back, and she could not see his expression. Leblanc did. He paled to the color of a fish belly. He did not like to look upon his own death, for all the death he had meted out to others.
Soulier threaded the thin sword cane into its concealing scabbard and secured it with a quick, vicious twist. “I will spare Grey his trouble, if he agrees. I will deliver you to Fouché, to make an example of. He will relieve his spleen by separating you from your head. You permit, Monsieur Grey?”
Grey’s voice was quiet into her ear. “Annique, Leblanc is yours. Shall I hang him for you? Or you can kill him with your own hands, if that’s what you need. Anything you want.”
The thought of laying hands upon Leblanc to kill him made her sick. She shook her head quickly.
Grey said to Soulier, “Take him. Get him out of here. We need to talk. Alone.”
Soulier waved impatiently. “Yves, put him…I do not know. I do not keep a cage for such rats in my house. Put him somewhere and watch him. The pantry. All of you go. Yes, all. Do not let him escape.”
Leblanc was dragged from the room, leaving threats behind him like the trail of a snail, departing.
Thirty-eight
WITH LEBLANC GONE, THE ROOM WAS ODDLY quiet. She rested within Grey’s arms, her cheek pressed against his sleeve. Truly, love plucked away all one’s common sense. She was tempted to cling to him and feed off the strength of him and feel safe. She had not known such temptations existed until she met him.
When she pushed herself free, Grey let her go with one instant of hesitation that said he did not want to.
“Soulier must be told the truth of what I have done,” she said, which was warning enough, for an astute man like Grey, that she was about to lie in a serious fashion.
This was the last throw of her game. This was what she had planned through her days at Meeks Street, lying by Grey’s side, playing chess with Galba, teaching Hawker to juggle knives. If she lied well enough, she would end the threat of invasion, yet lay no advantage into the hands of the British.
Soulier sat, urbane and well-tailored, framed by the chair with its high tapestry back. He might have been a courtier of the old king, receiving an ambassador at Versailles.
She must make him look upon her, not Grey. Grey was unprepared and might make some small revelations upon his face. “I did not speak of the Albion plans in front of the others. I knew you would not wish me to.”
“Then do not speak of them now.” Soulier was testy with her.
“I must.” She stood square in front of him. She had stood thus many times, reporting or receiving orders. “You have guessed most of it. The Albion plans are ashes. Vauban burned them in the fireplace of the inn that night, rather than give them to Leblanc.”
“You have said enough.”
“He gave them to me first, to memorize.”
Soulier conveyed the need for discretion with an angry, emphatic shake of his head.
“The British know about my memory. I have spent days at Meeks Street copying out the plans, page by page.” She made a picture of that in her mind, so vivid and exact it did not even feel like a lie. “They have them now.”
It was done. France would not invade. England was safe. Now she must face what would come to her.
Soulier stared at his hands that rested, one upon the other, on the pommel of his cane. “You did this for Vauban.”
“He asked it of me. In Bruges.”
“Then he has condemned you to death.” Soulier leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Even I cannot save you.”
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. There is a difference between knowing one will die and hearing the sentence pronounced. “I have accepted the consequences of my actions. I delayed leaving for England for a long time, hoping Napoleon would turn aside from this invasion, and the plans would come to nothing, but it did not happen. I did not wish to die, you understand. And I was injured and made blind.” Her mouth felt dry. “Which complicated matters. Leblanc has been a complexity, as well.”
“Annique,” Soulier said gently.
“Yes?”
“Be silent. I am thinking.” He opened his eyes to frown at her. “And do not stand there like a loaf of bread. This room is disordered beyond belief by the men you brought here to fight over you. Do something useful.” He closed his eyes again.
That was comforting. Perhaps Soulier would think of a way to save her from Fouché. It was not impossible.
Grey was saying nothing, for which she was grateful. He knew, better than anyone else, that the Albion plans were not in British hands. For the moment, he played her game.
She set the small table upright and put the silver tray upon it and knelt to gather shattered glass from the lamp chimney into the palm of her hand. Such mundane activities. Spying is a life of boring, ordinary tasks, performed while death scratches at the window. She had been seven when Soulier told her that.
Matters did not go so badly. Leblanc had not shot her, after all. The oil lamp that fell from this table had not set itself afire to burn her to death. She had told a convincing lie to Soulier, who was a master in detecting lies. Soulier had not yet been compelled to kill her. And she had, perhaps, prevented the invasion of England. Altogether, she had much to congratulate herself upon.