murmured.
He chuckled, then listened to
silence pass around them for a few breaths while he contemplated Olivia’s
particular investment in their assignment. “Fouche is a greater evil to you
than to many others. Watching him go about his business, knowing in your bones
what he's done... I know you're frustrated, but hold fast a bit longer.”
Silence.
“Olivia?”
Soft, even breathing was his only
answer. Her head rolled onto her shoulder, but otherwise she was still.
His smile transformed into a yawn.
He slid down under the quilt, tired at last, and without daring to explore the
effect she had on him, fell sound asleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Agent of Influence.
Olivia skimmed the dossier once
more and tossed it onto the breakfast table between her and Ty.
Philipe reached out a slender
finger to pull it close.
Ty, face buried in the morning
papers, slapped a hand onto the stack. “Whitehall business only, your grace.”
Philipe, the least patient person
she'd ever met where Ty's antics were concerned, continued on his path, pinning
one edge and pulling against the weight of Ty's palm. “I am of Whitehall,
monsieur.”
“Allied support.” Ty bent the
newspaper in half. “Not an agent.” He flicked the newspaper back up.
She watched their exchange,
resisting an urge to roll her eyes.
Leaning forward, Philipe struck
Ty's boot with a stout fist. “Get your foot off my table, major.”
A polished black leather heel
wiggled in provocation. “My foot is not on your table.”
Philipe's dark brow raised and he
prepared to return fire. This could go on all day.
Enough . Clattering cup
against saucer, Olivia grabbed the stack of papers, pulling it in front of her
and out of their reach. “Pay attention, agents and non-agents.” She waved the
top sheet at two sets of wide eyes. “Agent of Influence. The very one racing us
for Talleyrand's correspondence.”
Two hands snapped for the paper.
She drew back, holding them higher and trying not to laugh. The top sheet was
nothing more than Grayfield's signature approving the dossier's release.
“Countess Elena Breunig,” she
started. “Daughter of an Austrian watch maker. Married a French count, widowed
by a French count ten months in. Wealthy, political, witty.”
Philipe was already nodding. “I
know the one. Beautiful. Plays the harp like an angel. Her salon is very
exclusive.”
“And her opinions very Austrian, if one carefully considers their roots.” She was the absolute
definition of an agent of influence. Even when they worked directly for a
handler, it was nearly impossible to connect the agent to their country of
origin. Some clever person at Whitehall, more educated about such things, had
been weighing Breunig's opinions, unraveling, determining who most benefited
from the outcomes she pressed. Elena didn't wear disguises or travel under
false papers. She used her beauty and connections to influence the hands of
powerful men. Austria stood to gain or lose a great deal depending on how
France was divided up and what terms it was willing to give. Breunig, as the
Austrian emperor's informant, would act for the most desirable ends.
Finishing a bite of egg, Philipe
leaned in, squinting through morning sunlight at the papers still on the table.
“I can very well see her in that role. Though I'm not certain what makes you
believe she's your competition this time around.”
She had rearranged the facts all
morning, distilling a novel's worth of information into a few drops. “Follow
with me. The congress is sitting now in Vienna, where Breunig was visiting only
a fortnight ago. Prussia wants Saxony, Russia wants Poland. Her native Austria
wishes for them to have neither.” She gathered the rest of the dossier into a
pile and set it back in the center near the coffee pot.
Ty thumbed the pages, handing each
one off to Philipe as he finished reading. “Everyone wants their own piece of
Europe when this is all over, but nobody can
He chuckled, then listened to
silence pass around them for a few breaths while he contemplated Olivia’s
particular investment in their assignment. “Fouche is a greater evil to you
than to many others. Watching him go about his business, knowing in your bones
what he's done... I know you're frustrated, but hold fast a bit longer.”
Silence.
“Olivia?”
Soft, even breathing was his only
answer. Her head rolled onto her shoulder, but otherwise she was still.
His smile transformed into a yawn.
He slid down under the quilt, tired at last, and without daring to explore the
effect she had on him, fell sound asleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Agent of Influence.
Olivia skimmed the dossier once
more and tossed it onto the breakfast table between her and Ty.
Philipe reached out a slender
finger to pull it close.
Ty, face buried in the morning
papers, slapped a hand onto the stack. “Whitehall business only, your grace.”
Philipe, the least patient person
she'd ever met where Ty's antics were concerned, continued on his path, pinning
one edge and pulling against the weight of Ty's palm. “I am of Whitehall,
monsieur.”
“Allied support.” Ty bent the
newspaper in half. “Not an agent.” He flicked the newspaper back up.
She watched their exchange,
resisting an urge to roll her eyes.
Leaning forward, Philipe struck
Ty's boot with a stout fist. “Get your foot off my table, major.”
A polished black leather heel
wiggled in provocation. “My foot is not on your table.”
Philipe's dark brow raised and he
prepared to return fire. This could go on all day.
Enough . Clattering cup
against saucer, Olivia grabbed the stack of papers, pulling it in front of her
and out of their reach. “Pay attention, agents and non-agents.” She waved the
top sheet at two sets of wide eyes. “Agent of Influence. The very one racing us
for Talleyrand's correspondence.”
Two hands snapped for the paper.
She drew back, holding them higher and trying not to laugh. The top sheet was
nothing more than Grayfield's signature approving the dossier's release.
“Countess Elena Breunig,” she
started. “Daughter of an Austrian watch maker. Married a French count, widowed
by a French count ten months in. Wealthy, political, witty.”
Philipe was already nodding. “I
know the one. Beautiful. Plays the harp like an angel. Her salon is very
exclusive.”
“And her opinions very Austrian, if one carefully considers their roots.” She was the absolute
definition of an agent of influence. Even when they worked directly for a
handler, it was nearly impossible to connect the agent to their country of
origin. Some clever person at Whitehall, more educated about such things, had
been weighing Breunig's opinions, unraveling, determining who most benefited
from the outcomes she pressed. Elena didn't wear disguises or travel under
false papers. She used her beauty and connections to influence the hands of
powerful men. Austria stood to gain or lose a great deal depending on how
France was divided up and what terms it was willing to give. Breunig, as the
Austrian emperor's informant, would act for the most desirable ends.
Finishing a bite of egg, Philipe
leaned in, squinting through morning sunlight at the papers still on the table.
“I can very well see her in that role. Though I'm not certain what makes you
believe she's your competition this time around.”
She had rearranged the facts all
morning, distilling a novel's worth of information into a few drops. “Follow
with me. The congress is sitting now in Vienna, where Breunig was visiting only
a fortnight ago. Prussia wants Saxony, Russia wants Poland. Her native Austria
wishes for them to have neither.” She gathered the rest of the dossier into a
pile and set it back in the center near the coffee pot.
Ty thumbed the pages, handing each
one off to Philipe as he finished reading. “Everyone wants their own piece of
Europe when this is all over, but nobody can
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