Delphine Dryden - Gossamer Wing

“You mean you’re not going to club me over the head and drag me off to your cave?”

“Do you want me to?” He smiled wryly. “We both know I’m capable of it. And have essentially done so a few times already. Charlotte, you do know I’m not normally so—oh, never mind, of course you don’t know. That’s the trouble.”

For some reason his humor angered her, where his anger hadn’t. “There’s so much trouble here, I don’t know where to begin. You’re right, I don’t know you. I hardly even know myself anymore, since we started this . . . this—”

“Affair.”

“Affair?” She threw her gloves on the bed and crossed her arms over her chest, feeling a need to shield herself. “I don’t have affairs .”

An affair was something temporary, sordid, the business of unhappy wives and jaded widows. Rakehells and faithless husbands had affairs.

What happened to “I love you”? Charlotte grimaced at her own hypocrisy.

“What would you call it, then,” he challenged, “since you’re determined to end it when we get back to New York? It isn’t a marriage, Charlotte, no matter what people may think. You and I know better.”

“I ought to end it here and now.”

His jaw was tight again, his eyes an icy wasteland. “If you were a stronger person, perhaps you would.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m feeling a sudden surge of strength. Consider our affair at an end, Lord Hardison.”

“ Mister Hardison, if you please.” For a moment they stared at each other in a silent contest of wills, then Dexter spoke again. “Charlotte, I don’t want to do this. Not this way.”

Charlotte looked away, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we were friends before, and we can be friends still.” He rose and offered his hands. Charlotte reluctantly unfolded her arms and let him pull her into the circle of his embrace, slowly relaxing against him as he held her. “Whatever happens, and even if it was all a product of the excitement of the mission, we both know it meant more than just an affair. At least it did to me.”

Charlotte slipped her arms around Dexter’s waist, burying her face in his warm, broad chest for a blissful moment before forcing herself to pull away. She patted his shoulder and nodded. “I know. We’re both just tired, I suspect. It will be so good to get home.”

“Soon,” he said in agreement.

“I’ll come to Honfleur,” she decided, “because you’re being gracious. I’m sure Murcheson can find something for me to do while you’re working on your . . . what did you call it again? Multi-seismical Phototonic—”

“Multi-hyalchordate Phototransphorinating Seismograph.”

“While you’re working on that. Besides, we can hardly make things more complicated at this point, anyway.” She moved to the wardrobe, sighing at the prospect of packing it all up yet again.

MARGUERITE, THE VASTLY skilled secretary, flashed Martin a stern look when he entered the vestibule outside Dubois’s office.

“He is occupied, monsieur.”

“He usually is. Yet I see you at your desk now, so I assume he must at least be fully clothed.” He bypassed the two uncomfortable chairs set out for guests, and sat instead on the corner of Marguerite’s desk.

“Why do you do it?” the woman asked after a few minutes of painful silence.

“Do what, ma petite ?”

She sneered at the endearment, as if Martin needed reminding that his gaunt face and ruined ear were off-putting. “Work for him. How did you come to do that, from what you were doing before?”

“I sold my soul,” he said without hesitation. “It wasn’t worth it, regrettably.” For the first time he scrutinized the woman carefully, noting her delicate features and intelligent brown eyes. He hadn’t paid attention before, and he should have. The way she looked back at him gave her away; she was daring him to guess her secret, and far too confident that he never would. Spying was apparently no longer as subtle a game as it had been during the war.

Marguerite could have used some lessons from Simone Vernier, Martin thought. Or even from the lovely Charlotte, Lady Hardison. She thought the skills she employed on her knees were enough, no doubt.

“Is Gendreau in there with him?”

The girl just raised her eyebrows at him. Sighing, Martin leaned a little closer to her, propping himself on one arm and speaking softly so as not to be overheard by anyone who happened to wander in. “Marguerite, I need you to take a message to your employers after I leave Dubois’s office later, can you do that for me?”

“Monsieur? You’ll be with Dubois, would you not just tell him—”

“Your real employers. Listen closely. They were right to suspect him all along. Their mistake has always been in assuming he had a higher motive than greed. Had I brought Dubois the information Simone Vernier gathered seven years ago, he would have happily used it to plunge the country into another decade or more of war, just to turn an easier profit. Simone was right to keep it from him, and I’m thankful I was thwarted in my attempt to undo her effort. What I do today, I do for Simone, to honor her sacrifice. You understand?”

The girl’s eyes had widened, but she said nothing, which Martin thought to her credit.

“Murcheson’s factory, and the steam car that exploded on the Rue de la Paix last night, both were also the work of Dubois. Not in the service of his country, or anything so lofty. Just filthy lucre, as was ever the case with him.” The voices from within the office grew louder, and the doorknob rattled. Just before the door opened, Martin bent even closer to Marguerite’s shocked face and whispered, “You will thank me after this day, mademoiselle. You’ll never have to suck Dubois’s cock again.”

“In that case, go with God, m’sieur,” she said quickly, dropping her gaze as Dubois and Gendreau emerged.

“If so,” Martin said, “it will be the first time in many years.”

“Martin,” Dubois grunted once Gendreau had gone. He was clearly not pleased to see his dour henchman. “I was about to give some dictation.”

“I won’t be long,” Martin promised, proceeding into the office. Dubois followed, slamming the door behind them.

Now that the moment had arrived, Martin found himself unsure how to proceed. His planning, conducted in an alcoholic daze, had left much to be desired.

“What is it?” Dubois snapped. He crossed to his desk and sat in his large leather chair as though assuming a throne.

“Gendreau should exercise more caution. He’s not even bothering with a disguise now.”

“His exile has been formally lifted,” Dubois reported. “People have short memories, and Gendreau has a great deal of influence. He’s planning to find backers among his friends for our steamrail project, and he has a design for a more efficient engine that would be cheaper to produce.”

“And will he actually succeed in raising money or improving the engines, do you think?”

“What do you want, Martin?” Dubois was fingering the button in his pocket, and Martin smiled. “I don’t have time to make chitchat with you.”

“Very well, monsieur, I shall put my cards on the table. And now, so shall you. I am calling your bluff.”

“Bluff? I don’t recall making any bluffs.”

“No? It occurred to me that I’ve been of great use to you these seven years, but I’ve also learned a great deal about you. One of the things I’ve learned is that you are far from subtle. Also you are a poor judge of character.”

Dubois’s lip curled. “I judged yours well enough.”