the paris affair

8/14/2019 The Paris Affair

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T H E P A R I S A F F A I R



The hanging oil lamps swayed and gusted at the opening of thedoor. The wind brought in the stench from the Seine. A man and

woman stepped into the Trois Amis tavern and stopped just be-yond the door. The man was lean and dark haired and perhapstaller than he looked. He slouched with a casual ease that took off several inches. A greatcoat was flung carelessly over his shoulders.Beneath, his black coat was unbuttoned to reveal a striped crimson

waistcoat. A spotted handkerchief was knotted loosely round hisneck in place of a cravat.

The woman, who leaned within the circle of his arm, wore ascarlet cloak with the hood pushed back to reveal a cascade of bright red curls, brilliant even in the murky light of the tavern.Glittering earrings swung beside her face, though surely they mustbe paste rather than diamonds. Her rouged lips curved in a smile asher gaze drifted round the common room with indolent uncon-cern.

The other occupants of the tavern glanced at the new arrivals. It was an eclectic crowd, a mix of sailors, dockworkers, merchants,

women who plied their wares along the docks, a few young aristo-crats in sporting dress. And soldiers, in the uniforms of Russia,Prussia, Austria, Bavaria, England. These days, less than two months

C H A P T E R 1



after Napoleon Bonaparte’s defeat at Waterloo, one couldn’t goanywhere in Paris without seeing soldiers.

After a moment, the crowd returned to their dice, drinks, andflirtation. The accordion player seated in the center of the room,

who had paused briefly, launched into another lively air.The couple moved to the bar, where the gentleman procured

two glasses of red wine. While he was engaged with the barkeep,several men ran appreciative gazes over the lady. One went so far asto put a hand on her back. “How much?” he asked, his head closeenough to her own that his brandy-laced breath brushed her skin.

The lady ran her gaze over him. Her eyes were an unusual color

between green and blue. She brushed her fingers against his faceand then put a gloved hand on his chest. She gave a dazzling smile.“More than you can possibly afford.”

The man regarded her for a moment, then shrugged andgrinned. “Can’t blame a man for trying,” he said, and moved to-

wards a fair-haired girl by the fireplace.The gentleman turned from the bar and put one of the glasses

of red wine into the lady’s hand. If he had noticed the man makingher an offer, he gave no sign of it. He touched his glass to hers, andthey threaded their way through the crowd to a table neither tooobviously in the center of the room nor too deep in the shadows.Experience had taught them that the easiest way to hide was oftento remain in plain sight.

The lady tugged at the cords on her cloak and let it slither abouther to reveal a low-cut gown of spangled white sarcenet. Thegentleman shrugged out of his greatcoat, slouched in his chair, andran an eye round the room.

“I don’t see anyone matching the description,” the lady said inunaccented French.

“Nor do I,” the gentleman agreed in French that was almost asflawless.

“We’re a bit early.”“So we are. But I’d give even odds on whether he actually puts

in an appearance. He’s never been our most reliable asset.”The lady tossed back a sip of wine. “Oh, well. At least we’ve hada night out.”

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The gentleman grinned at her. “I can think of places I’d rathertake you.”

“But this one has a certain piquancy, chéri . An evening withoutdiplomatic small talk. Bliss.”

The gentleman slid his hand behind her neck, then went still,his fingers taut against her skin.

The lady had seen it, too.The man they had come to meet stood by the door, a short,

compact figure enveloped in a dark greatcoat. He removed his hatto reveal hair that was several shades darker than its natural color.A good attempt at disguise, but nervousness still radiated off him.

“Well,” the gentleman murmured to the lady. “People can sur-prise you.”

The lady touched his arm. “I’ll take care of it, Malcolm.”Malcolm Rannoch caught his wife’s wrist. “Be careful.”Suzanne Rannoch turned to look at her husband. “Really, mon

amour, you’d think you didn’t know me.”“Sometimes I wonder.” Malcolm pulled her hand to his lips, the

gesture flirtatious to anyone watching, but his grip unexpectedlystrong. “Remember, we’re in alien territory.”

She squeezed his fingers. “When are we not?”Suzanne moved into the room, her spangled skirts stirring

about her, and bent over the accordion player. He gave her a quicksmile. A moment later, he launched into a lilting rendition of La ci

darem la mano. Suzanne began to sing, her voice slightly huskierthan usual. She moved towards the nearest table and brushed herfingers against the face of the portly man who sat there, then bentover a young Russian lieutenant at the next table, her burnishedringlets spilling over his shoulder.

The buzz of conversation stilled. The dice ceased to rattle.Malcolm allowed himself a moment to appreciate his wife’s skill,

then picked up his greatcoat and glass of wine and strolled acrossthe room to the corner deep in the shadows of the oak-beamed ceil-ing where the man he was to meet had taken up his position.

“My compliments, Rivère.” Malcolm dropped into a chairacross from him. “I gave even odds on whether or not you’d actu-ally put in an appearance.”

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Antoine, Comte de Rivère, cast a quick glance about. “For God’ssake, Rannoch, what do you mean coming up to me openly?”

“You were thinking we’d pass coded messages back and forthinstead of having a conversation?”

“If we’re noticed—”“My wife has things in hand.”“Your—” Rivère stared at Suzanne, who was now perched on

the edge of a table, leaning back, her weight resting on her hands,her skirt pulled up to reveal the pink clocks embroidered on hersilk stockings. “Good God.”

“I don’t think you’ve seen Suzanne in action before. We’re both

more accustomed to disguise than you are.”Rivère looked from Suzanne to Malcolm. “The way you’re

dressed you can’t help but attract attention.”“But the man and woman people will remember seeing tonight

will seem nothing like Malcolm Rannoch, attaché at the British em-bassy, and his charming wife.” Malcolm pushed his glass of wineacross the table to Rivère. “You look as though you need it morethan I do.”

Rivère took a sip of wine. His fingers tightened round the stemof the glass. “I pass messages. I don’t—”

“Indulge in this cloak-and-dagger business. Quite.”“It’s all very well for you British.” Rivère twisted the glass on the

scarred wood of the table. The yellow light from the oil lampsglowed in the red wine. “You’re protected by embassy walls anddiplomatic passports. It’s getting more and more dangerous for therest of us. The Ultra Royalists have been out for blood ever sincethe news from Waterloo. I sometimes think they won’t rest untilthey’ve rid the country of every last taint of Bonapartism. I’m notsure even Talleyrand and Fouché can hold them in check.” He gri-maced. “ Mon Dieu. That I’d ever be calling Fouché the voice of moderation.”

“If nothing else he’s a survivor,” Malcolm said. “As is Tal-leyrand.” Prince Talleyrand, who had once been Napoleon Bona-

parte’s foreign minister, and Fouché, who had been his minister of police, had both managed to survive in the restored Royalist gov-ernment.

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“Even they can’t hold back the tide,” Rivère said. “Look how Ultra Royalists are going after men like la Bédoyère—”

“La Bédoyère was the first officer to go over to Bonaparte whenhe escaped from Elba. You aren’t on the proscribed list.”

“Yet.” Rivère cast a glance about and leaned forwards, shoul-ders hunched, voice lowered. “Fouché receives more denuncia-tions every day. You’ve heard Royalists in the Chamber of Deputiesclamoring for blood. Cleansing, they call it. It’s the Terror all overagain.”

Malcolm cast an involuntary protective glance towards Suzanne,

who was tugging playfully at the cravat of a Prussian major. Helooked harmless enough, but these days Malcolm’s every sense waskeyed to danger. There was no denying France in the wake of Napoleon’s defeat was a dangerous place. Frenchmen clashed inthe street daily with soldiers from the occupying armies of Prussia,Russia, Austria, Bavaria. And, Malcolm could not deny, England as

well. Royalist gangs had ravaged Marseilles and Toulon and othercities. “It’s dangerous,” Malcolm conceded. “But that doesn’t meanyou—”

“My cousin’s in the Chamber, and he wants me dead. My fathergot the title when his father was guillotined in the Terror. He wantsit back.”

“There are legal avenues he could pursue.”“But getting rid of me would be quicker. And it would be

vengeance for his father. He’s worked his way into the Comte d’Ar-tois’s set. It’s only a matter of time before I’m arrested.”

The Comte d’Artois, younger brother of the restored Bourbonking, Louis XVIII, was known for his zeal in exacting retributionon those who had supported Napoleon Bonaparte. It had been eas-ier when Napoleon was exiled the first time. After his escape fromElba and his second defeat, at Waterloo, the Ultra Royalists wantedblood.

Malcolm studied Rivère’s usually cool blue eyes. “The irony

being that while you served Bonaparte you passed messages to theBritish.”“But there’s no way I can prove it, damn it.”




“We could help. But being a British spy isn’t likely to gain youfavor with the French, even the Royalists.”

“Precisely. I’m damned either way.”“You’re not generally one to talk in such melodramatic terms.”“I don’t generally fear for my life.” Rivère cast another glance

round the tavern. Suzanne was now standing on one of the tables,arms stretched in a way that pulled the bodice of her gown tautacross her breasts. A whistle cut the air.

Malcolm reclaimed his glass and took another sip of wine.“What do you want, Rivère?”

“Safe passage out of France.”

“I can talk to the embassy—”“Not through official channels. That will take too long. Get me

out of Paris and across the Channel within the week. Once in Eng-land I want a pension, a house in the country, and rooms in Lon-don.”

“You don’t set your sights low, do you?”“Do you have any idea how much I’m giving up leaving

France?”For a moment, Malcolm could smell the salt air at Dunmykel,

his family home in Scotland, and hear the sound of the wavesbreaking on the granite cliffs. It wasn’t easy to be an exile. Even if one had chosen the exile oneself, as he had done. “We don’t turnour back on our own, Rivère.”

“No?” Rivère gave a short laugh. “What about Valmay and St.Cyr and—”

“ I don’t turn my back,” Malcolm said. Far be it from him to de-fend the sins of British intelligence. “But I can’t make you guaran-tees of that nature on my own authority.”

“Take it to Wellington or Castlereagh or whomever you damn well have to. But I want an answer within twenty-four hours.”

“You seem very confident.”“I am.” Rivère reached for the glass and took a long drink of

wine.

A whoosh sounded through the tavern. Suzanne had jumpedoff the table and landed in the lap of a red-faced gentleman in ablue coat.

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Rivère set the glass down but retained hold of the stem. “Tellyour masters that if they don’t meet my demands, the information Ireveal will shake the British delegation to its core.”

Malcolm leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. It wasnot the first time he’d heard such a claim. “It’s not as though theBritish delegation has never weathered scandal. And the behaviorof most delegations at the Congress of Vienna rather changed thedefinition of scandal.”

“This goes beyond personal scandal.”Malcolm pulled the glass from Rivère’s fingers and tossed down

a swallow. “Enlighten me.”

“Oh no, Rannoch. I’m not giving up my bargaining chip. Butmention the Laclos affair to Wellington and I think you’ll find thehero of Waterloo is all too ready to accede to my demands.”

Malcolm’s fingers went taut round the glass. “What the devildoes Bertrand Laclos have to do with this?”

Rivère’s brows lifted. “That’s right. I forgot you were involved inthe Laclos affair. I think I’ve said enough for now. Just take mymessage to Wellington and Castlereagh. I doubt either of them

wants to see England and France at war again.”Malcolm kept his gaze steady on Rivère, trying to discern how

much was bluff, how much was real.“I may only be a clerk,” Rivère said, “but clerks are privy to a

number of secrets. I didn’t just ask you to meet me because you’reWellington’s best agent. I asked you because what I know aboutyou should guarantee you’ll help me.”

“Oh, for God’s sake—”“For the sake of your family.”“A bit extreme, surely,” Malcolm said in a light voice that

sounded forced to his own ears. “My family are a long way fromParis.”

Rivère leaned back, holding Malcolm’s gaze with his own.“Given her varied career, it never occurred to you that she mighthave had a child?”

Oh, God. Rivère knew— “Your sister,” Rivère said.For a moment, the blood seemed to freeze in Malcolm’s veins.




His acknowledged sister, Gisèle, was seventeen and safely in Eng-land with their aunt, where she had made her home since theirmother’s death. Even given Aunt Frances’s penchant for scandaland his own absence, he couldn’t believe Gelly had had a child

without his knowledge. So Rivère must mean—“Yes.” Rivère reached for the glass and tossed down the last of

the wine. “Tatiana Kirsanova.”The blood roared in Malcolm’s head.So that it took a split second for him to register the gunshot that

had ripped through the tavern.

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the paris affair

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