on Hardison,” Martin murmured, gliding over to the desk to view the newspaper column over Dubois’s fat shoulder. The photograph at the top stopped him cold, hitting him like a blow to the gut.
“The woman . . .” he whispered.
“Charlotte, Lady Hardison. Née Moncrieffe. No, no, that was her first husband. Née Darmont. A young widow, it would seem. Hardison has exquisite taste, I must admit.”
Martin agreed. He had seen the lady in person, and knew the photograph scarcely did her justice. Five years hadn’t taken much toll, and she still looked like a porcelain doll. Particularly beside the finely dressed brute who stood next to her in the picture.
“He’s a monster, isn’t he?” Martin remarked, to draw attention away from the bride. “I hope I’m not called upon to subdue him. He’d run me out of tranquilizers in no time at all.”
“Just stay on him. Anticipate his movements, learn everything you can, be prepared for anything.” Dubois’s brow wrinkled. Martin thought he resembled a pug dog trying to work out how to chase its own tail. “Moncrieffe. Does that name sound familiar, Martin?”
The agent turned reluctant industrial spy shrugged, an elegant and quintessentially French motion. “I don’t keep up with the names of the American pseudo-aristocracy, Monsieur Dubois. They are so numerous.”
“True, true. Like the rats they are, eh?”
Dubois’s plump hand had curled into his pocket instinctively when Martin moved toward the desk. He was fingering the button, Martin knew. Always ready to unleash the fabled poison if Martin stepped out of line. Dubois had never come to trust his captive espionage expert, and that was the one piece of intelligence Martin was willing to grant him. He was right not to trust Coeur de Fer.
Making a mental note to acquire his own copy of the newspaper, Martin bowed himself out of the office and slunk from the building. He would do as Dubois ordered, of course. But the presence of Reginald Moncrieffe’s widow in France struck him as too unlikely to be coincidental. If it were, the coincidence must be nothing short of an act of Providence. Martin wasn’t sure yet exactly what opportunity her visit might grant him, but he vowed to be ready for it, whatever it chanced to be.
* * *
IT HAD BEEN a long few days, and Charlotte was beginning to feel her honeymoon must be some sort of awful penance—for what sins, she wasn’t quite sure. Her ear implants worked brilliantly, except when they failed suddenly and dramatically, which had happened several times already since the trip began. Still, she’d been half expecting that, and at least Dexter had been forewarned. He pretended to ignore the disgusting consequences of the malfunctioning equipment, and dealt with the stewards who came to clean up.
Still, it was not entirely painful, cruising over a clear ocean, surrounded by luxury and waited on hand and foot. As working assignments went, occasional violent nausea notwithstanding, it was certainly a plum. Charlotte had assumed the biggest threat to her peace of mind on board the good ship
Alberta
would be the sleeping arrangements with Dexter. She was half right.
The difficulty was not that she had to share a bunk with a very large not-quite-husband. Dexter was more than obliging, and though he took up an inordinate amount of space in general, he left more than his fair share of bed free and clear for Charlotte by sleeping on his side at the far edge of the bunk, his back plastered to the wall behind. He insisted, moreover, that he was quite comfortable doing so and she shouldn’t trouble herself to worry about him.
He didn’t even snore.
Unfortunately, none of that helped the subtle dread that came over Charlotte when Dexter closed the bed-curtains for the night. She thought she was hiding her anxiety well, until the second evening of the voyage when Dexter sighed in the darkness and scrambled over her to unfasten the heavy protective drape. He
“The woman . . .” he whispered.
“Charlotte, Lady Hardison. Née Moncrieffe. No, no, that was her first husband. Née Darmont. A young widow, it would seem. Hardison has exquisite taste, I must admit.”
Martin agreed. He had seen the lady in person, and knew the photograph scarcely did her justice. Five years hadn’t taken much toll, and she still looked like a porcelain doll. Particularly beside the finely dressed brute who stood next to her in the picture.
“He’s a monster, isn’t he?” Martin remarked, to draw attention away from the bride. “I hope I’m not called upon to subdue him. He’d run me out of tranquilizers in no time at all.”
“Just stay on him. Anticipate his movements, learn everything you can, be prepared for anything.” Dubois’s brow wrinkled. Martin thought he resembled a pug dog trying to work out how to chase its own tail. “Moncrieffe. Does that name sound familiar, Martin?”
The agent turned reluctant industrial spy shrugged, an elegant and quintessentially French motion. “I don’t keep up with the names of the American pseudo-aristocracy, Monsieur Dubois. They are so numerous.”
“True, true. Like the rats they are, eh?”
Dubois’s plump hand had curled into his pocket instinctively when Martin moved toward the desk. He was fingering the button, Martin knew. Always ready to unleash the fabled poison if Martin stepped out of line. Dubois had never come to trust his captive espionage expert, and that was the one piece of intelligence Martin was willing to grant him. He was right not to trust Coeur de Fer.
Making a mental note to acquire his own copy of the newspaper, Martin bowed himself out of the office and slunk from the building. He would do as Dubois ordered, of course. But the presence of Reginald Moncrieffe’s widow in France struck him as too unlikely to be coincidental. If it were, the coincidence must be nothing short of an act of Providence. Martin wasn’t sure yet exactly what opportunity her visit might grant him, but he vowed to be ready for it, whatever it chanced to be.
* * *
IT HAD BEEN a long few days, and Charlotte was beginning to feel her honeymoon must be some sort of awful penance—for what sins, she wasn’t quite sure. Her ear implants worked brilliantly, except when they failed suddenly and dramatically, which had happened several times already since the trip began. Still, she’d been half expecting that, and at least Dexter had been forewarned. He pretended to ignore the disgusting consequences of the malfunctioning equipment, and dealt with the stewards who came to clean up.
Still, it was not entirely painful, cruising over a clear ocean, surrounded by luxury and waited on hand and foot. As working assignments went, occasional violent nausea notwithstanding, it was certainly a plum. Charlotte had assumed the biggest threat to her peace of mind on board the good ship
Alberta
would be the sleeping arrangements with Dexter. She was half right.
The difficulty was not that she had to share a bunk with a very large not-quite-husband. Dexter was more than obliging, and though he took up an inordinate amount of space in general, he left more than his fair share of bed free and clear for Charlotte by sleeping on his side at the far edge of the bunk, his back plastered to the wall behind. He insisted, moreover, that he was quite comfortable doing so and she shouldn’t trouble herself to worry about him.
He didn’t even snore.
Unfortunately, none of that helped the subtle dread that came over Charlotte when Dexter closed the bed-curtains for the night. She thought she was hiding her anxiety well, until the second evening of the voyage when Dexter sighed in the darkness and scrambled over her to unfasten the heavy protective drape. He
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