Sophia James: A Night Of Secret Surrender

Dedication I’d like to dedicate this book to my wonderful mother, Jewell Kivell. She was always one of the greatest supporters of my writing and I miss her.

Author Note Author Note Paris in 1812 was a city full of factions vying for political influence. Napoleon Bonaparte had departed from France to take the Grande Armée into Russia, leaving a power vacuum in his wake. Two men more than happy to extend their authority were Henri Jacques Guillaume Clarke, the Minister of War, and Anne Jean Marie René Savary, the newly appointed Minister of Police. Clarke was particularly good at encroaching upon weaker men and ministries, and in the absence of the Emperor he extended his considerable authority even further. A Frenchman of Irish descent, he was known as a wily opponent with the sort of cleverness that worried even Napoleon. But by the end of the year he would fall from favour. The Ministry of Police had been set up by Joseph Fouché and, although Savary had the running of the ministry in 1812, Fouché’s omnipresence and calculated cunning was instilled into the culture. Beneath the larger official ministries, smaller intelligence agencies flourished and it is here I have fashioned the fictional Les Chevaliers, of which my heroine Celeste Fournier is a part. France in 1812 was at war with Britain, but America, under President Madison, had sent envoys to Paris to test the waters, so to speak. The time was ripe for change and everyone wanted the chance to lead France into the new century. An Empire at risk made things in the country that much more volatile—the perfect place to set a story.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Author Note

Paris in 1812 was a city full of factions vying for political influence. Napoleon Bonaparte had departed from France to take the Grande Armée into Russia, leaving a power vacuum in his wake. Two men more than happy to extend their authority were Henri Jacques Guillaume Clarke, the Minister of War, and Anne Jean Marie René Savary, the newly appointed Minister of Police.

Clarke was particularly good at encroaching upon weaker men and ministries, and in the absence of the Emperor he extended his considerable authority even further. A Frenchman of Irish descent, he was known as a wily opponent with the sort of cleverness that worried even Napoleon. But by the end of the year he would fall from favour.

The Ministry of Police had been set up by Joseph Fouché and, although Savary had the running of the ministry in 1812, Fouché’s omnipresence and calculated cunning was instilled into the culture.

Beneath the larger official ministries, smaller intelligence agencies flourished and it is here I have fashioned the fictional Les Chevaliers, of which my heroine Celeste Fournier is a part.

France in 1812 was at war with Britain, but America, under President Madison, had sent envoys to Paris to test the waters, so to speak.

The time was ripe for change and everyone wanted the chance to lead France into the new century. An Empire at risk made things in the country that much more volatile—the perfect place to set a story.

Chapter One

Paris, France—June 1812

Major Summerley Shayborne opened the door to his accommodation on the Rue St Denis to find a young woman waiting inside among the evening shadows.

She wore thick glasses and her pure white hair was fastened loosely at her nape. He had not seen such a colour on anyone of her age before and so could only imagine it false.

‘I am here to warn you, monsieur .’

Shay saw the sheen of a blade in her left hand before it was slipped away out of sight.

‘Warn me of what, madame ?’ He could not place her accent; the French she spoke was tinged with the cadence of one who did not belong anywhere.

‘Savary and the Ministry of Police are watching you.’ Her diction was precise as she continued talking. ‘You have held too many conversations about French military affairs on the Champs de Mars and in the coffee houses, and people are beginning to ask their questions.’

Lighting a candle, she turned away, shielding herself from the brightness. As the flame took, she allowed it to illuminate him instead, the planes of her own face left in semi-darkness.

‘It is even being inferred that you might not be an American officer at all.’

‘Who are you?’

She laughed quickly at that, though the sound held little humour and he felt a sudden slide of cold running down his back.

‘Politics here takes no prisoners. One wrong move and you will be dead. Even a charming and inquisitive foreigner is not immune to a knife quietly slipped between your ribs.’ Her stillness was amplified by the movement of flame. ‘The police bureau will be here within days, asking their questions. You are a spy, Major Shayborne, of immeasurable value to both sides, but there always comes a time when luck simply runs out.’

The shock of her words had him turning.

‘Why would you tell me this?’

‘History,’ she whispered and walked to the door, opening it with care before slipping out into the oncoming dark.

Shay did not move, rooted to the spot in sudden comprehension of what she had said.

History.

There was something familiar in the timbre of her voice beneath the accent, under the hard anger, behind the thick lenses and hidden by a false wig. A memory. Like an echo in the blood. He stood as still as he could, trying to reach out and claim it.

* * *

She moved through the roads leading to the Palais Royale with a practised ease and up through the alleyways to the Rue de Petit Champs, walking quickly but not too fast, for such speed would draw attention. It was a warm night for June, the oncoming heat of summer felt through the grates and on the cobbles and the south-facing walls. Her hand ran across the patinas of chalky sand and limestone. Ahead she saw the tavern she sometimes stopped at was alive with people. Melting into the shadows, she brought the hood of her silken cape up, the new and expensive white wig stuffed into her pocket because it was too noticeable.

She did not wish to see anyone tonight and have to explain herself. She wanted to wash. She wanted to sit on her balcony and have a glass of the smoky Pouilly-Fumé she had bought yesterday in the Marais from the Jewish shopkeeper with good contacts in the fertile, grape-bearing valleys of the Loire.

She wanted to be alone.

She should have sent someone else to warn Shayborne. She could have penned a note or whispered her message in the darkness without lighting the candle. She could have transferred her information by any number of safe and practical methods, but she had not. She had gone to see him and whispered exactly what she should have kept to herself.

History.

One word coated in shame and blood. One word that had taken her from the girl she had been to the woman she had become.

She’d shown her hand because the Police Ministry and the War Office would soon be as much on her tail as they were on Shayborne’s and because after six years on the run she had finally exhausted all options.

It would be a miracle if she was not dead before him even, this English spy who had the whole of France in an uproar after his escape in Bayonne and who, instead of turning back to Spain and safety as he’d been expected to, had made his way north to the very heart of Napoleon’s lair.

Why?

She knew the reason even as she asked it.