Delphine Dryden - Gossamer Wing

“Stop.”

“The curtains to the berth were closed and it was dark, so I leaned over to try to open them and felt . . . he was so still and cold. His arm, so cold under my hand. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I felt like we were in a coffin. I’d never seen a dead body before but I knew, even though I kept trying. I knew, I knew —”

“Charlotte, stop. Shh, shh. Stop now,” Dexter whispered, pulling her head into his chest. She resisted for a moment then relaxed, slipping her arms around him and clinging with all her might. “I didn’t mean to make you do this here, darling. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have for all the world. I didn’t know.”

“I’m going to cry, and I hate crying,” she explained into Dexter’s waistcoat.

He passed her a handkerchief then wrapped his arm around her again. “I’ll pretend not to notice, then. I’ll watch the fountain, and you just let me know when you’re finished.”

His humor and kindness broke the dam at last and Charlotte sobbed into his broad chest, no longer caring who saw, or that she was the one who had asked for no emotional entanglements.

She wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, her weeping and Dexter pretending not to notice. He stroked her back and occasionally pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and it finally registered with Charlotte that they were in a public park where such a maudlin display was absolutely out of the question.

Too late . She didn’t want to raise her head when the sobs finally hitched to a halt. It was all too embarrassing, and she had a horrible suspicion she’d ruined Dexter’s nice burgundy moiré waistcoat. His handkerchief was irrecoverably sodden. She would have to remember to buy him some new ones.

Another kiss fell on her head, and the gentle stroking turned to a pat on the shoulder.

“Better?”

Dexter’s voice rumbled in his chest, enticing her to stay. Reluctantly, she nodded and straightened up, trying not to meet his eyes.

He took her chin between his fingers and lifted it, procuring a second, clean handkerchief from parts unknown and wiping her face with it almost as though she were a child. To her astonishment, Dexter’s cheeks bore evidence of tears as well.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry too,” she said.

“The wind caught the spray from the fountain and it wafted into my eyes,” he replied dryly. “I really am sorry, my love. I never dreamed it was so—”

“No, don’t apologize. I do feel better now. You were right. I needed a purge.”

Dexter sniffled, then looked displeased with himself for doing so. “All right, then. Thank heavens it worked and we didn’t have to resort to amputation after all.”

“That would have been tragic. The modiste I saw this morning called in a milliner in the middle of our sartorial orgy. So in addition to a great deal of clothing I’m expecting a number of very frivolous hats to arrive in a week or so. I’ll be needing my head for those.”

“Tragedy averted,” Dexter laughed. “You’re wonderful.”

She blinked a few times, not sure whether to reply or pretend she hadn’t heard him correctly. “Thank you,” she said at last.

“You’re welcome.” Dexter smiled, then looked away and changed the subject. “Does our newly identified villain have a name, by the way?”

Charlotte grimaced. “Jacques Martin. But as I said, they mostly call him Coeur de Fer. Iron Heart. I’ve no idea if it’s literally true. I suspect not. They don’t really make implants from iron, and he’d hardly be fit for spying with a mechanical heart. But the name still fits.”

“This keeps getting better and better.”

She laughed, Dexter’s flippant remark breaking the chill that had overtaken her. “There is a very small bright side.” She stood up and held a hand out, smiling at Dexter as he stood and laced his fingers through hers. She wondered at how easily they fit together, him so large and her so small. But there was a nearly audible click, a rightness in their joining, even when they did something as simple as holding hands. She pushed the notion down, forcing herself to focus on business.

“Even a minuscule bright side would be welcome about now,” he said.

“Now that he knows that we know, I suppose we can sweep the room again and destroy all the bugs.”

“Ah, true,” he concurred. “I’ll have to devise a way to check the chandeliers. Perhaps I can use one of the cable crawlers, and a tiny grappling hook. In the meantime, where would you like to dine, my lady?”

Anywhere you are .

“I hadn’t given it any thought. Do you have a preference?”

Dexter pondered. “Someplace that serves simple, comfortable food I can pronounce, and where they demonstrate a healthy respect for the importance of decadent sweets after a meal.”

Charlotte gave a happy sigh, then had to pretend she was only talking about the dinner plans when she crooned, “Perfect.”

PARIS AND NANCY, FRANCE

MURCHESON’S MEN WERE able to confirm Charlotte’s identification of Jacques Martin by the following afternoon, but there were still questions left unanswered about the precise nature of the relationship between Dubois, Coeur de Fer and the French intelligence agency.

“Obviously this means you can’t risk going back to the Palais Garnier,” Dexter said, to Charlotte’s disgruntlement. “He knows we’re here, he knows you’re interested in that building. We have to assume he knows who you are, your connection to Reginald. He’ll be on the lookout.”

“On the contrary, it means I have to get to the roof of the Opéra soon, tonight if possible,” Charlotte objected. “If Martin knows who I am, I’ve tipped our hand. We have to get to the documents before he finds his way back up there and ferrets them out for himself.”

“I’m afraid I have to agree with your husband, Lady Hardison. Now is the worst possible time to try for them. You led Martin straight to the roof. He’ll be waiting there to intercept you if you try again. If indeed the packet is still there at all, and he’s not merely concerned with deducing your role in all this,” Murcheson countered.

“No, I can’t believe that. I also can’t believe he revealed himself in that building by chance or whim. Those papers were important enough to kill Reginald over, even years after the war had ended,” Charlotte insisted. “And apparently somebody remains interested enough to have Reginald’s widow followed on general principle. Would they still be so interested if they’d already found the weapon plans? And if they haven’t found them, that means there’s still time to prevent it. I have to get there before Martin does.”

Dexter cleared his throat. “Charlotte, what’s the range of the Gossamer Wing ?”

Charlotte blinked at the seeming non sequitur, then did some quick calculations in her head. “If there isn’t much headwind, I can get between four and five hundred miles out of her. The fuel payload has to be small, of course. Weight is always the primary consideration, so that does limit the range. Why?”

“It’s only a hundred seventy or eighty miles from Nancy back to Paris. An easy round trip without needing to refuel, as long as the weather holds clear.”

“But we’re supposed to be in Paris for several more days. I don’t think we can wait that long.”

“We could leave for Nancy tonight. We’re frivolous wealthy folk on our honeymoon, we can change our plans without warning if we like.”

She could tell that Dexter hadn’t wanted to suggest the idea, that he’d felt compelled to do it. Out of some sense of duty to the mission, probably. But he didn’t like the notion, it was clear from the look on his face. Still, he had proposed it, and it was probably the best plan available to them. After a moment or so, she nodded.