"And how did you travel back to France?"
"By fishing boat from Lymington to Cherbourg."
"And you traveled with Praed." It was not a question but a simple assertion.
Gabrielle controlled her features as her mind whirled. How did Fouche know that? Surely Talleyrand hadn't told him. She glanced at her godfather. His expression was inscrutable.
"Yes," she said.
Fouche's mouth moved in the semblance of a smile. "You seem uncertain, madame."
"No, I'm not in the least uncertain," she retorted. "But I'm wondering how you knew that."
"You were traveling on one of my laissez passer, madame. When you entered Caen, you showed the pass at the city gates. My men take note of such things."
"And they recognized Lord Praed?"
He shook his head. "No, but I was making a lucky guess."
Merde! He was a slimy, tricky bastard! But could they have seen Jake? He'd been asleep in the coach most of that first day, and she was almost positive the city guards hadn't looked inside the carriage. Nathaniel had been riding alongside, of course.
"So, perhaps you could tell me where we might find Lord Praed?" Fouche suggested. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and felt in his pocket for his sulphur matches. Catching his host's eye, he changed his mind and put the cigar on the table, reaching instead for his brandy goblet.
Gabrielle saw Guillaume's body, lying in her arms, the small crimson stain on the smooth, pale flesh of his back. She watched the stain spread and felt her arms grow heavy with his weight as the buoyancy of life left him. She heard again that strange little sound, half protest, half surprise, as the knife found its mark.
Nathaniel Praed had robbed Guillaume de Granville of life and Gabrielle de Beaucaire of a man she'd loved more than life itself.
"Madame?" Fouche prompted, leaning forward in his chair so that his face came close to hers.
"No," she heard herself say, her voice sounding distant, as if it were coming from the rustic pavilion all those months ago. "No, Idon't know where he is. He wouldn't tell me. He said Iwould be contacted."
"And have you yet been?"
Gabrielle had an image of the flower seller in the hands of Fouche's policemen. She shook her head. "Not as yet."
"I see." Fouche was frowning. "Forgive me, madame, but you seem a little uncertain of your answers."
"I detect no uncertainty, Fouche." Talleyrand spoke for the first time during the interview. His smile was urbane as he refilled his guest's glass. "Gabrielle is always one to weigh her words."
"I am also somewhat fatigued," Gabrielle said. "It was a long journey. I've told you as much as I can about the situation in England, and what I discovered among Lord Praed's private papers. If there's nothing else…" She rose from her chair.
"No, you've been most helpful, madame," Fouche said, rising with her, his eyes skimming over her face with a glitter that made her shiver. "You will, of course, inform me the minute the English spymaster makes contact."
"Biensur," she said.
"Well, I must take my leave, Talleyrand." Fouche bowed. "I'll use the rear door, as usual. No, no…" he protested as Talleyrand reached for the bellpull. "There's no need to summon a servant. I can find my own way."
"I'm sure you can, my friend, but I wouldn't dream of it," Talleyrand murmured with his calm smile. "Escort Monsieur Fouche to the door, Andre," he instructed the footman, who'd appeared so fast he must have been standing outside the door.
The door closed and Talleyrand shook his head with a grimace of distaste. "As if I'd be fool enough to let him wander unescorted through my house. He'd probably steal the silver."
Gabrielle's smile was a feeble attempt. "Do you think he believed me?"
Her godfather shook his head. "No. He took you by surprise, as he intended, and I'm sure he learned a lot more than you wanted him to. It's his way."
"But if he doesn't believe me, why did he let it go?"
Talleyrand shrugged. "You're a private citizen with powerful friends. He can't haul you off to his dungeons unless you do something overtly treacherous. I'm sure he'll try to discover why you lied, and you can be certain he'll be watching you."
"Yes." She turned to the door. "I'm sure he will."
"Just as a matter of interest, why did you lie? Because of the child? Even if Fouche' captures the spymaster, I can protect the child. He'll be of no use to Fouche anyway, once he has Praed in his clutches."
"I know… and I don't know why I lied. I didn't think I was going to, when I thought of Guillaume, and then I just did." She shrugged. "I'll have to warn Nathaniel that Fouche knows he's somewhere in the city."
"You will be endangering yourself by protecting him," Talleyrand pointed out.
"But Nathaniel's still more use to you alive than dead, isn't he?"
"Most certainly. But I can always find another conduit."
"And another seductress?"
"If necessary."
"It is a dirty business."
"That can't come as a revelation, ma fille."
"No, of course it doesn't. Bonne nuit, monparrain."
In the quiet of her chamber, Gabrielle lay open-eyed in bed on her back, arms folded behind her head. The room was lit only by the glowing embers of the dying fire. Why had she lied? Guillaume would have condemned Nathaniel Praed as coldly as Nathaniel had condemned him. Why had she passed up the opportunity to do the same? It would have been a perfectly fitting revenge, and a few short weeks ago she would have jumped at it.
But when she stirred the coals in her heart, searching for that clear, bright spark of hatred and vengeful determination, she found it was no longer there. She hadn't been aware of its passing, so when had it died? She'd told Talleyrand she was still prepared to use Nathaniel to further her godfather's political machinations. How true was that, now? Whether it was true or not, she could no longer imagine causing him direct harm.
Her grief for Guillaume was still a living flame, but it had become somehow detached from the everyday world. Instead of being intrinsic, the one fact through which she filtered everything else, it was now a totally separate emotion that had nothing to do with anything else.
And nothing at all to do with her passion for Nathaniel Praed.
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"So where did you find him?" Fouche regarded the sniveling lad held between two burly policemen with an air of mild curiosity.
"In a tavern behind the flower market, monsieur. He's got more money on him than he could expect to earn in an honest lifetime." The speaker backhanded the youth, who cringed, blood already flowing from a split lip, one eye swollen and purple.
"We've been watching the market ever since that tip from One-Eye Gilles."
"Ah, yes." Fouche pulled his chin. "He said he'd heard about some strangers who were throwing their money around rather freely, didn't he?"
"Yes, monsieur. Not that we've seen any signs, and you know old One-Eye. He's so far into the drink, he'd see goblins if he thought you'd pat him for saying so."
"Mmm. So, what have you got to say for yourself, boy?" He turned to the prisoner with a ferocious stare, his voice rising almost to a shout.
"I ain't done nothin' wrong,":he lad whispered, trying to back away from the hands gripping his elbows. "I just runs errands for the old besom who runs the flower stall."
Fouche looked with calculated incredulity at the leather purse in his hand. Deliberately, he shook the contents onto the table. A small pile of gleaming silver caught the light from the tallow candles. "Well, well," he murmured. "A few errands for an ancient crone who sells flowers? It seems we have amillionairess in our flower market, gentlemen."