The Forbidden Rose

Thirty-five

CARRUTHERS GRIPPED HER HANDS TOGETHER ON the blotter of the writing desk. Her face was grim. “We know where he is, at least.”

Althea set the tray down on the small table beside the empty grate. “The Convent of Saint-Barthélémy on Rue Tessier.”

“I’ve seen the outside. An impenetrable pile of stone. Do we have any ties to the place? Anyone who knows anything about it?”

“Not yet. I’ve sent out word, asking.” Althea poured boiling water from the black kettle into the teapot.

Carruthers’s face showed every one of her years. The discipline that contained her was very apparent. Her anger, close to the surface. “Look at the guards, of course. We’ll try bribery.”

“We cannot get the accusation withdrawn. It was made by Victor de Fleurignac.”

“This is the way we lose agents. Some fool lifts a skirt. Some pig must defend his cousin’s honor.” She crumpled the newspaper in front of her and tossed it into the basket by the desk. “Not for politics. Not for ideals. Not for useful intelligence. Just a woman. Even with a man like Will Doyle. Where is she?”

“Not arrested. Not returned home.” Althea shrugged. “She’ll be good at hiding.”

“Then we will be good at finding her.” Carruthers stared out into the afternoon slanting its way across the courtyard. “We have eyes inside La Flèche, of course.”

“None of them close to Finch. Or we would have known who she is months ago.” One lump of sugar clicked into the teacup. Thea poured tea, then dripped in three drops of milk.

“I said I’d take care of her. To do that, I need to know where she is and what she’s doing.”

“She will be making plans to rescue Will.”

“Or betraying him further.” Carruthers’s lips narrowed.

“Don’t make Will’s mistake. We have no reason to trust her.”

“Everything we know about Finch says she’s a good woman.”

“She is a good Frenchwoman. She is an admirable leader of La Flèche. That doesn’t mean she’s on our side. Marguerite de Fleurignac is not one of us.”

Althea stirred the cup and handed it across. “Now, Helen . . .”

“I am less enamored of young love than you are. I expected better of Doyle. I trained him better than this. What damned asinine foolery is he playing with in the middle of a job?”

“You are becoming a cynic. Will doesn’t make mistakes about people. If he has put his life in her hands, they are reliable hands.”

“You’re a romantic, Thea.” Carruthers came to her feet, impatiently, and strode to the window. She stood there, holding the delicate cup. “Very well. Let’s say she’s trying to save him.”

“She may succeed. Finch of La Flèche is better at what she does than anyone we know. No one in the Service can match her.”

“We know her work.”

“If you could pick anyone to free Will, she is the one you would go to.”

“Perhaps.” Carruthers watched the youngest of her agents cross the courtyard. Paxton. He was seventeen. Any of her men and women might be in prison tomorrow and dead next week. She’d never thought it would be tough, unkillable Will Doyle, though. “La Flèche has tried to take men from prison before, and failed.”

“They have also succeeded. Many times. She will get her Guillaume back, Helen. There is no force on earth stronger than a determined woman.” Althea tidied the tea tray. When she judged sufficient time had passed, she said, “We must help her.”

“She has La Flèche to draw upon.” A long, reflective sip of tea. “But you’re right. If we find her, if help is needed, we’ll offer it. Tell the others. And we will keep her alive. For that much, she is one of ours. Who are you sending to the prison?”

“Me. I’ll go myself.”

“Take some of the counterfeit Will brought. Be careful, bribing. The prisons are overrun with fanatics.” Below her, at the kitchen door, Claudine finished sweeping the flagstones and set the broom aside to pump water into a bucket set in the stone basin. “Idealists are the devil. Has that rat of a boy come back?”

“No.”

The courtyard overflowed with red and yellow flowers and brilliant green leaves. Althea’s boundless love of gardening spent itself in a few square yards. Carruthers said, “Don’t take risks at the prison. I can’t afford to lose you.”

“We can’t afford to lose William Doyle.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to.” Carruthers’s face was still as marble. “If the boy is taken, he will betray us. He may already have betrayed Guillaume.” She put the teacup down, precisely and carefully, on the windowsill. “Tell the men to find Adrian Hawkins. Kill him.”