Gossamer Wing Read online

  She wanted to get to the restaurant before they discussed any more serious matters. It was past the usual breakfast hour, so it would be more unpredictable, and anybody who tried to finagle a seat near theirs would be easy to spot if there were few other patrons.

  “Not outside?” Dexter asked, as they were taking their seats near the back of the bistro they finally selected.

  Charlotte shook her head. “It’s nice and quiet inside, I prefer it.”

  When the waiter departed to allow them time with the menu, Charlotte leaned over to speak quietly, turning her head away from the window as she did so. “Too many variables outside. Too many places to hide. And there’s always the possibility of a lip reader.”

  “Really? That never even occurred to me.”

  “Or,” she said, “there may be other surveillance devices in play. Long-range lenses, even directional microphones like the one on my airship. Being inside will make it harder for them to get a bead on us.” An idea was trying to shape itself in the back of her mind, poking its way through. She couldn’t quite catch hold of it, though.

  “So no matter where we go, we’re never really safe from observation. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  For a moment, Charlotte felt sorry for Dexter. For the necessity that had gotten him involved in this. For the relative innocence he still held, that she herself had lost years ago. The underbelly of politics was an ugly thing, and those who never saw it were undoubtedly much happier for that particular ignorance.

  “That’s been the case since before we left New York, mon cher.”

  A smile won through his somber expression for a moment, then faded as he contemplated the reality she had presented him.

  “How do you bear it?”

  “We’ll learn together, I suppose.”

  They ordered food, and when the waiter was back out of range they covertly assessed the other customers and discussed what to do upon their arrival back at the hotel. Charlotte must play the flighty, adoring young bride again. Dexter must be the brash entrepreneur, bent on gaining all the business knowledge he could out of the trip, honeymoon or no, while still taking time to woo his pretty wife.

  And they must steal away from the hotel, always, before talking about their plans for the day, or discussing anything about the mission.

  “Tomorrow you’re planning to visit Murcheson’s factory in Gennevilliers, yes?”

  Dexter nodded. “We’re going to discuss the requisition process before I proceed to Nancy. He’s gathering some glassmaking prospects for me as well.”

  Charlotte glanced around the room, allowing her gaze to linger for a moment on the elderly couple seated near the door. That pair and a trio of young matrons were the only other customers, and none of them looked in the least suspicious. But Charlotte had learned never to trust appearances. Very few people, if any, were what they seemed.

  “You haven’t mentioned what you plan to do, to keep yourself occupied while I’m there.”

  Turning back to Dexter, she gave him a simpering newlywed smile, just in case. “That’s right. I haven’t.” And then, god help her, she batted her eyelashes at him most shamefully.

  She felt her heart skip a beat when his eyes flashed and narrowed, turning predatory as he leaned across the table toward her and captured one of her hands in his. And then that traitorous organ started to beat a furious tattoo as he stroked the inside of her wrist with his thumb, never dropping that carnivorous gaze.

  “Perhaps I shall try to coax it out of you later. We won’t be doing much talking at the hotel anyway, will we, my delectable little crème brûlée? I believe I’ll enjoy having you for dessert, Charlotte.”

  She had been about to tell him her plans, having never really meant to keep the information from him, as her intention was merely to shop. Now she bit her tongue, wondering how he would coax it from her. Charlotte blushed, feeling the lurid pressure of delightful shame in her cheeks and down to her breast as the waiter approached, bearing food and tea.

  Much as she wanted to give in to that feeling, wallow in it and in Dexter’s attention . . . part of her kept scanning the room, the windows and the street beyond, wondering who else might be witness to their conversation.

  * * *

  THEY SPENT THE day as highly visible tourists. After dinner, Dexter had made good on his affectionate threats, and Charlotte seemed to let herself disappear into the role of giggling, besotted bride for a few hours. It was easy enough, and very little talk was required. They devoured one another and lay dozing afterward, limbs wound together and tangled in the luxurious sheets.

  He felt her stirring first and tightened his arm around her, not yet ready to lose the feeling of warm, loose-limbed Charlotte snuggled against his side and chest.

  “Mm. No, don’t go.”

  “I’ll be right back, silly.” She pushed at his chest until he relinquished her, and for the next few moments he had the pleasure of watching her as she walked about the room, finding their various pieces of discarded clothing and draping it all neatly over the back of a chair. He was less pleased when she pulled a night rail from the wardrobe and disappeared into the bathroom.

  He pouted when she emerged. “You’re even more enticing with that thing on, you know,” he lied. “All it does is make me fixate on what’s underneath. You’d be better off without it.”

  She just smiled and turned the lights down completely, then slipped back into bed again. “I don’t want to scandalize the maids in the morning. Poor things, they have enough to worry about.”

  “I’m sure they’ve seen it all before, and far worse,” Dexter countered.

  “Yes, but they haven’t seen it from me. Nor shall they.”

  He grumbled a bit more, but his heart soared when she returned to the crook of his arm and nestled against him again.

  “So tomorrow, my silly noodle, I must go pay a visit to Murcheson’s local operation, northwest of the city. Oh, I know,” he said, hoping he sounded as though he were quelling some gestured objection, “but it can’t be helped. I really must see more of the small parts works. And also the direct sales outfit. He does a land-office business out of that factory, he claims. I could do with expanding that way, I think.”

  Charlotte gave a noisy sigh. “But Dex,” she whined, “what am I to do all morning?”

  “All day, poppet,” he corrected her. “I don’t think I’ll return much before dinner.”

  She made another noise, conveying infinite exasperation without words. “Fine. But I think you’re being beastly. It’s our honeymoon, and all you care about is those nasty, overheated factories, and pages and pages of figures.”

  “Charlotte, nothing could be further from the truth. You know you come first with me. Haven’t you noticed you always come first?”

  He gave a little dig into her side and grinned when she squirmed and giggled at the double entendre. A real giggle, not the fake one she adopted for this sham persona. Funny how he could love the one and loathe the other.

  “I plan to be quite put out with you, Dex,” she replied a little breathlessly. “If you’re going to the factory, then I shall take my revenge by spending the entire morning with the most expensive modiste in Paris. And I plan to order everything as a rush job, to drive up the price even more.”

  So that was her grand plan. If he hadn’t known she would be spending her own money at it, he might have been concerned. Or perhaps not, as Charlotte’s taste in clothing seemed nowhere near as extravagant as that of most fashionable ladies of Dexter’s acquaintance. But she was certainly playing her part well.

  “Kindly don’t bankrupt us before we even return to the Dominions. If you’re starving to death it won’t matter how well dressed you are. Will you spend the entire day there?”

  “Oh no,” she reassured him. “Only the morning. Then I’ll stroll about and sightsee, and in the afternoon I thin
k I’ll go to a museum or something like that. Perhaps a tour of important cultural sites.”

  “You must be prepared to describe it all to me at dinner, all right?”

  “Of course, Dex. That is if I’m over being angry with you.”

  “I see. And is there no way I can appease you?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Well, what about . . .” He rolled toward her a bit and whispered a shocking suggestion in her ear, loving the way she tipped her head to accommodate him.

  “That might work,” she admitted. “Only one way to find out.”

  In the course of finding out, her gown came off again. And in the morning, though Charlotte was mortified, she found the maid who brought the breakfast tray and opened the curtains to be entirely adept at averting her eyes.

  Thirteen

  PARIS AND GENNEVILLIERS, FRANCE

  CHARLOTTE FIRST NOTICED the man when she rang the bell at the modiste’s small, tucked-away shop. He had just taken a seat outside the bistro next door. He was so tall and skeletally thin that his knees knocked the underside of the table when he folded himself into the chair, and she felt a wave of pity for him.

  How hard that must be for him, she thought. I should stop fussing about being so small.

  Then she promptly forgot about the odd-looking fellow as she was ushered into the shop and lost herself in the world of fabric and color and style. An heiress from the Dominions, a baroness no less, might as well have been a princess to the modiste and her eager assistants. Charlotte had intended to stay for an hour and spend a fixed and rather modest amount on some specific garments she’d been needing. Instead she left four hours later, having overspent her budget by at least several hundred percent, but secure in the knowledge that no woman in the New York Dominion would be better-dressed than she by the time the seamstresses had finished and delivered their masterpieces.

  He was still there. She almost didn’t notice this time, because his back was to her as she left the shop. When she walked past his table Charlotte noticed his hands, which held a newspaper in front of him. One of those hands, she realized with a start, was prosthetic. A glove—apparently dyed to match his skin—covered a structure that only peripherally resembled fingers and a thumb. His other hand held the paper gracefully, while the false hand rested like a cheap stage prop, holding the opposite edge of the page in a crude pincer grip.

  Poor thing, Charlotte thought, a split second before she recognized the tall, lanky object of pity from earlier in the morning.

  She forced herself to keep walking without a hitch, though her heart started to pound and a cold sweat broke out over her face.

  At the corner she resisted the urge to turn and look behind her. It was a crowded street, in broad daylight; if he were to make a move, he would be unlikely to make it here.

  A window display half a block down drew her to a bookstore, and she ducked inside to purchase a guidebook to the Louvre and an illustrated history of French fashions for her mother.

  She didn’t see him outside the window when she approached it to leave. Perhaps her imagination had been playing tricks on her. Paris and the attendant anxiety over her impending assignment must have prompted a memory of Reginald’s lurid story—the only one of his stories that had ever been lurid—about his daring escape from the wraithlike, claw-handed agent with the curious metal device where one ear should have been.

  Charlotte’s mind lingered on Reginald, wondering what he’d thought of Paris. Despite her solid intention to hate the place, she had to admit the city was fascinating and often beautiful. Had Reginald’s cover persona allowed him any time to sightsee, to marvel at Notre-Dame or wander through the Louvre? She’d never thought to ask, though she supposed in time she would have gotten around to it. If they’d had time. Mostly she’d been eager to hear his thrilling tale of intrigue, complete with horrific villain and the astonishing recovery of stolen plans for what appeared—at Reginald’s single hurried glance—to be the infamous, mythical, war-ending British doomsday device.

  Without realizing it, Charlotte had strolled all the way to the Boulevard des Italiens. She was about to pull out her map when she recognized the massive edifice standing almost directly across the street from her: The Palais Garnier, home of the Paris Opera.

  * * *

  MARTIN COULD ALMOST believe it was accidental. The woman showed no guile, no subterfuge, as she observed the Opéra from across the boulevard. Only curiosity, and a puzzled expression as though she were trying to solve a problem or recall some elusive memory.

  She didn’t plan to come here, his instinct told him. He listened to that instinct, and held back to watch her.

  Dubois had ordered him to stick to Murcheson, and more recently to the Makesmith Baron, as though these men were some demons sent specifically to take down his empire. The more Dubois insisted, the more Martin became determined that the woman somehow posed the greater threat.

  The American agent’s face still haunted Martin’s dreams on occasion, two aspects of the same man at very different stages of his life. The first, as the young agent saw his death approaching at breakneck speed but miraculously escaped it. The second, right before he lost all ability to control his speech, at the very moment he recognized that death had finally caught up with him.

  Both times he had spoken the same, single word. “Charlotte.”

  Coeur de Fer had no nemesis. He was a legend to himself, a shadowy figure in the annals of international espionage. But he did have a bit of an obsession with that boy from the Dominions.

  “The only one who ever got away,” he mused to himself, “though even he couldn’t avoid me forever.” Martin lost himself in the crowd as he followed Charlotte across the boulevard and up to the Palais Garnier. Despite his outlandish appearance, he was talented at fading into the background.

  She was just in time to buy a ticket for the next tour. Martin almost laughed aloud. A tour of the building where her husband had almost met his grisly end. So be it.

  Martin would buy no ticket. He already knew how to pick the locks at the Palais Garnier quite well.

  Fifteen minutes later, when he finally accepted that she was not with the tour group, Martin saw it as another sign. The woman was an agent, clearly, he should have seen it from the start. Her story was too pat, her demeanor too glib, to explain her presence as a simple tourist in the country her husband and father had lived to defeat. Despite her earlier expression of befuddlement, her presence in the Palais Garnier couldn’t be coincidental.

  She was also still in the building, and he had a reasonable guess as to where she was heading. Just as he had once received a sign, Martin decided it was time for Lady Hardison to receive a sign. Or merely a scare, depending on her nerve and whether his guesses about her occupation and reasons for being here were correct. Sighing, he melted from the mezzanine and made for the service passageway to await her return.

  * * *

  “GLASS ISN’T MY area, to speak of. Can you be more specific? Are you interested in ceramics, resistor production, that sort of thing? Or specialized casings?”

  “Neither, actually,” Dexter told Murcheson’s man Cormier. The rabbity, bespectacled Frenchman looked more like a clerk than the head of regional operations for a large manufacturer. Nevertheless, it was Cormier who ran things at the large Murcheson facility in Gennevilliers, and the various satellite facilities near Paris. Dexter could tell Murcheson held the man in the utmost respect, but he hadn’t thought to ask before the meeting if the obviously local Cormier was privy to his employer’s clandestine occupation. Murcheson’s placid expression gave him no clue, so Dexter decided on circumspection. “It’s a new application I’m developing. Trade secret, I’m afraid, but quite promising.”

  Cormier frowned, as well he might. “Not much to go on. But if you’re heading to Nancy anyway, might try looking up young Arsenault. Late of the Lalique operation, has his own w
orkshop now. He’s known for innovation. If it’s something new you’re after, I suspect Arsenault’s the one you ought to talk to.”

  Dexter noted the name, and thanked Cormier profusely as the man walked out to have his secretary fetch the address.

  “I can have him send a message ahead, if you like?” Murcheson offered.

  “No, no. I don’t know when I’ll be there, I want to keep things flexible.” Dexter mostly wanted to keep from broadcasting any travel plans ahead of time. He was beginning to adopt the habit of caution, of suspicion. It gave him new insight into Charlotte’s reserve. What must it have been like, only child to a notorious gentleman spy? Wanting to follow in his footsteps, just at the time it was becoming feasible for a woman to do so? She had been shaped by her father for this role, whether or not he’d intended to do it. Dexter knew a moment of fear that Charlotte might never be able to adapt to a calmer, less perilous life.

  But the more time he spent with her, the more he grew convinced that he wanted such a life with Charlotte. Far from fading, his initial infatuation seemed to be deepening with each day that passed. She was not the fantasy woman he’d once envisioned, but he had long since ceased to daydream about that Charlotte. The real Charlotte maddened him, challenged him, inflamed his passions and excited his intellect. But most of all he simply liked the lady so damn much it frightened him. He felt comfortable with her, and he had no idea why. She was nothing at all like the women he usually spent time with. Voluptuous, friendly, often tall and occasionally a bit too brassy for good taste. Good girls, all of them, but they were so many overblown roses, merrily shedding petals in every godless shade of red. And bless them, all of them, for he adored women like that. Especially in his bed.

  Whereas Charlotte . . . Charlotte was a rosebud chiseled in diamond, dainty and crystalline and not nearly as fragile as she looked. But such sparks, such heat, if one could but look past the icy surface to see the flaring colors beneath. And when he was inside her . . .