Читать книгу Nothing But Deception - Allegra Gray - Страница 7

Paris

March 1815

“Non, Maman. I am French. Not an Englishman’s son. You must not be thinking clearly.”

Solange Durand’s fingers fretted the sheets, but she looked her son in the eye. “Philippe. It is my body that has betrayed me, not my mind.” It would not be long now, she thought, and yet she’d left so much undone. So much unsaid.

Jean Philippe Durand shook his head. His blue eyes, so very like those belonging to the one she’d loved and lost, filled with pain and shock.

“Trust me, darling. Go to him, and you will see.” Solange reached out a shaky hand to touch his cheek. Her boy. How had she done this to him? No, she reminded herself. She’d done it for him.

The sounds of the Paris streets filtered in through the open window, her only outlet to the greater world anymore. A pair of women laughed, a governess called to a child. Hoofs clipped along, then came to a stop. Solange sucked in a breath. Was Richard home? Were they still safe? Rumor had it Napoleon was on the move again.

Richard had a way of landing on his feet, but it never came without a cost. How many lies, how many friends betrayed in the name of politics? Her husband’s political intrigues ran deep. The constant uncertainty, spread across years, had depleted her.

Philippe scowled, drawing her attention once more. “If, as you say, I am the son of this Lord Owen, what use have I for him? He abandoned us both. Why should I go to him now?”

“Because, my son,” she said softly, “you’ve spent your entire life trying to emulate him.”

It was a lie. So many lies. Perhaps she was as bad as Richard. But this one she told without guilt, for it would serve him well. Solange’s hand dropped to her side and her eyes slipped closed as the pain grew more intense. Her son needed to know. More importantly, he needed to leave France, lest he pay for her mistakes.

Philippe smoothed the sheets around her. His long fingers brushed her cheek, he assumed she slept. “Rest, Maman.”

Summoning her strength, she squeezed his hand and whispered, “Lord Henry Owen is an Englishman, yes, but he is also Henri Gaudet, the elusive artiste you have for so long sought.”

Philippe drew back. “No! That cannot be. Gaudet is French. Every brushstroke of every one of his works screams it.”

Solange smiled inwardly, her face too exhausted to form the expression. Her son was not easily fooled.

“Please,” she whispered, desperate to make him understand what she’d sworn not to reveal. “Lord Owen. Go to him.”

Richard Durand had worked too hard, too long, to give up now. He walked through the door to the Paris town house where his wife lay upstairs, dying. A shame, truly, but one he could not devote attention to—not with the latest news of the Emperor flooding the streets.

He’d met Napoleon Bonaparte when the future ruler was but a newly commissioned second lieutenant in the French army. Richard had out-ranked him at the time, but he’d sensed his fellow officer’s potential even then. Bonaparte had fire, ambition.

Richard had ambition as well, but he lacked the vision to go with it, and he knew it. His main skill, as he liked to believe, lay in knowing the right sort of people. Building relationships and maintaining them—or, if necessary, destroying them.

He’d ridden his relationship with Napoleon all the way to his current level, though ever since Napoleon had abdicated last spring, Richard had professed to anyone who would listen that the Emperor had gotten out of hand, and that he no longer supported the zealous ex-ruler. Such political maneuvering had, once again, kept him on his feet—and kept him from being run out of Paris.

But times were changing once more. Richard punched a fist into the air, a silent celebration in the gloomy town house.

Napoleon had escaped his exile in Elba. Even now, reports said, he was on his way to Paris. If Richard could position himself properly, there was tremendous potential here. But he had to be careful—the Emperor had angered too many people, too many nations. If he failed in his quest to return to power, Richard needed to ensure his name was not linked with that of his former boss. Self-preservation demanded it. Fortunately, Richard had a plan.

“Word from Vienna?” Richard eyed the messenger across the café table. Both men wore their hats pulled low, though it was unlikely either would be recognized in this part of town.

His companion nodded. “The Congress has committed—they say they can put 150,000 men in the field to defeat Napoleon.”

“One hundred fifty thousand?” Richard Durand echoed. He’d spent the past four days pacing. Though the news he was hearing would soon spread throughout town, he’d paid extravagantly for the privilege of being the first to know.

“Each,” the messenger added.

“Each?” The United Kingdom. The Prussians. The Austrians. The Russians. Richard did the mental calculation. It was too much.

“Oui.” The travel-worn messenger slouched in his chair.

“C’est impossible.”

“They are very determined, monsieur.”

“Indeed.”

“The French are gathering as well. Since the Fifth and Seventh Regiments returned their loyalty to Bonaparte, several thousand more have joined him, including Marshal Ney.”

This, Richard already knew. The enthusiasm of the French army was encouraging. Their numbers were not.

“Merci,” Richard said. “The information is timely, and useful. I cannot say when, or if, you will be contacted again. We will not meet here again.” He slipped the man a purse, and watched him dissolve into the night.

Six hundred thousand men. Emperor Napoleon had no hope of countering a force so great. Even a fraction of that would prove difficult. How much support did he have within his own army? Would the remaining regiments join his cause, and how hard would they fight? They were battle-hardened, yes, but weary of political unrest. How far would they go for him?

Richard stood, pulled his hat brim even lower, and began walking. He’d exited his carriage several blocks away, then instructed his driver to wait. Though he did his best to hire loyal servants, it was prudent in some cases to prevent anyone from knowing exactly where, and with whom, he’d met.

Though the evening was brisk, he kept his pace measured, using the time to think.

Napoleon could do so much—had already done so much—for France. Far more than the weak-willed Bourbons.

If his army could not count on brute strength, they would need to gain an advantage by other means. Years of watching the self-appointed Emperor in military campaigns had taught Richard that the best advantage came from knowing your enemy. An army of tens could defeat one of thousands, if the smaller force had the advantage of knowing where, when, and how the enemy planned to strike.

If Richard could provide that kind of information to the French—and if the French were successful in using it—then his own value to the Emperor would increase immeasurably. And his reward…ah, his reward, if nothing else, would be the knowledge that he, Richard, had made it happen. That he was valued, even priceless. The thought made him giddy.

Of course, it would not be easy. There was no time to slowly blend in, to cultivate new, trusting relationships that could be harvested for gain. He would have to use whoever was already in place.

He was not a spy by trade, preferring to leave the cloak-and-dagger operations to those who didn’t mind risking discomfort, capture, and even their lives. But he’d spent years building a political network, one populated by men of questionable loyalties and even more questionable morals. No, Richard was not a spy. But he knew spies.