Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) Read Online Free

before
she drew enough breath to scream. “Your grace.”
    “Mademoiselle.” His voice was as
tight as his expression. Fouche snapped his hat and perched it on the shelf
above him without breaking their gaze.
    Olivia extended her right arm in
response, palm face-up to display the broken-crown tattoo on her wrist.
    Fouche recognized the mark. His
bony shoulders dropped, tension draining from his frame. He pressed skeletal
fingers into her hand, fixing her with a wolf's grin. “Mademoiselle, it is a
supreme pleasure.”
     
    *          *          *
     
    Five guineas was highway robbery.
The footman should have let him peer through the door's crack for half that sum. Who carried so much coin at a ball? And who employed such greedy
servants?
    Ah well. It was a seller's market.
Ty made peace with his lighter pockets and adjusted an ear to better hear the
exchange between his two very different prey.
    Diana's ruse on the steps
had been coldly sobering, a reminder that from here on he would have to be more
vigilant, more thorough. He could allow her to do the dirty work, if he handled
things correctly. Claiming the letters from her was preferable to dealing with
Fouche and certainly more enjoyable. And if she botched the ruse, he could
always take his turn after her, with one less pair of hands to interfere.
    So far she was doing an admirable
job of cultivating Fouche into low hanging fruit. The tattoo was a move of
sheer brilliance; that sort of dedication was the hallmark of a good spy. For
just a moment he gave in, indulging some admiration for his lovely adversary.
    She was close to Fouche now,
playing on her beauty and the intimate lighting afforded by a single lamp. He
pressed an eye harder to the crack, to see her stroke Fouche's thin shoulder,
laugh throatily at something he murmured into her ear. None of it was seductive
in his estimation, nothing to rival the intrigued study he’d received in the
ballroom or her bald satisfaction at catching him in the upper hall. To a man
with a great deal of vanity, like the police minister, it must have been heady
attention.
    “No,” she laughed in reply to
something Fouche had asked. “Marshal Davout.”
    Fouche raked her over. “My old
friend is so thoughtful.”
    Davout was Napoleon's most
unsinkable general. Fouche's acknowledgment of their renewed friendship
confirmed suspicions that the man was a turncoat. Again.
    Long graceful fingers pinched at
Fouche's coat, just as they’d pinched at his own mask, and Ty held a breath as
he watched. “He sent me to welcome you properly,” she cooed, “and see that you
are satisfied in every fashion.”
    Melodramatic, but Fouche responded
predictably by stroking a withered knuckle up her cheek. “I have no doubt you
are a… talented hostess.”
    Her sweet vanilla musk clung to his
clothes, a reminder of what they'd shared upstairs. Had she made him the
same offer, they would not still be talking.
    She was stripping off Fouche's coat
with all the ease of peeling an orange, the man never once thinking to resist.
She dropped it carelessly onto an empty peg. “Will you treat me to a waltz
before dinner? In my experience, it increases one’s appetite.”
    Fouche licked his thin purple lips.
“I have arrived hungry.”
    Her gasp when Fouche grabbed her
arms and hauled her to him might have been genuine, but she masked it with a
giggle and a sigh.
    It took actual force of will,
watching Fouche slobber over her neck. This was her job, and she had probably
gone through the same charade a hundred times, but the idea of Fouche touching
her churned his stomach.
    Ty was glad he'd found restraint a
few moments later. She did something with her arm he wished he could decode,
slipping a hand under one side of her target's waistcoat, up the back, and out
the armhole on the opposite side. And when her hand appeared again, it clutched
three sealed letters. He blinked, not trusting his eyes on first glance.
Perhaps he should