The Orchid Affair

Chapter 12

“You should be more careful of the company you keep, Jaouen.”

Despite the sunlight falling through the window, Delaroche managed to keep to the shadows in his side of the carriage. It was almost as though the dark recognized a kindred soul and knit itself around him.

André stretched his legs comfortably in front of him and managed a credible yawn. “Governesses, you mean?” he said. “Surely I could hardly do better than to follow your example.”

Delaroche’s eyes glinted like a rat’s. “Sometimes even the teacher can be taught.”

Not this teacher. André would have laughed if it hadn’t been so important to keep Delaroche on a short string. He would have been more likely to suspect his governess of subversion had Delaroche not gone to such pains to make him do so. If the governess were really Delaroche’s creature, the man would be a fool to draw attention to it. He was just trying to sow discord and dissension, as usual. It was what he did.

Delaroche was slipping, thought André critically. This really wasn’t up to his usual standard.

Of course, it could all be a clever double-fake—if Delaroche were that clever. But Delaroche wasn’t that clever, and his governess wasn’t that malleable. Judging from their prior interactions, André would have been willing to attest that Mlle. Griscogne was about as ripe for subversion as a balky mule.

Still, everyone had her price. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that his governess was on Delaroche’s payroll. Logic told André that it was perfectly likely. Gut instinct told him otherwise.

Over the years, André had learned to trust his gut.

Was he being foolish, allowing himself to be swayed by the fact that she had known Julie’s old teacher, or that she had been, once, a very long time ago, the Girl with the Finch?

That painting had been one of Julie’s favorites, although her own style had been grander, bolder, and more inclined towards vast allegorical topics than the narrow and domestic world of Daubier’s portraiture. Against a plain background, the painting depicted a dark-haired little girl in a white dress with a bright orange sash and a finch perched on one raised hand so that she seemed in colloquy with the bird. The most striking thing about the portrait had been the girl’s expression. Her dark eyes had been bright with curiosity as she contemplated the bird. The portrait had been hailed as a representation of the unbounded possibilities of the human intellect in a world of natural wonders, a popular theme in those bright days before the world had burst into smoke and blood.

André wondered if his governess knew that she had become a pre-Revolutionary icon, a symbol of the lost dreams of the Enlightenment. The girl with a finch, who had now become . . . what? The woman with a crow? A spy for the Ministry of Police?

Or simply what she claimed to be, a woman alone, orphaned, making her way as best she could in an inhospitable world, and doing a damned good job of it.

André forced himself to adopt a suitably bored tone. “Have you been essaying lessons, Gaston?”

Delaroche hated it when André called him by his first name, which was exactly why he did it. Baiting Delaroche involved a delicate balance; one had to goad him just enough to maintain the balance of power, but not enough to provoke him into overt retaliation. Even hobbled, Delaroche was a dangerous enemy to have.

Was there anyone who wasn’t? thought André wearily. His world was a snake pit, in which even the smallest serpent’s venom could prove deadly.

“I wasn’t thinking of the governess,” said Delaroche, licking his lips in a way that suggested he had an even better card to play. “I was speaking of artists. Painters, poets, actors. Like that friend of yours. The one in the flamboyant jacket.”

“I don’t know any actors, actually,” André said, examining the seams of his gloves. “A lamentable oversight. As you know, Fouché has entrusted me with the monitoring of the artistic community. Such as it is.”

How Julie would object if she knew that was her legacy, her connections with the artistic community used as a means of gathering intelligence for her least-favorite cousin. Once a month, André threw an open house in the grand and deserted salons of the Hôtel de Bac, inviting painters, poets, philosophers, and the ladies who patronized them. Sometimes they recited; sometimes they displayed their work; other times they just drank.

Fouché never attended. That would destroy the illusion that it was nothing more than a social occasion. A tattered illusion, but a useful one, nonetheless.

“I would be wary of spending too much time with them,” Delaroche shot back. “Lest their habits rub off on you.”

“What habits might those be?” André asked. “Good taste? Proper diction?”

Delaroche’s eyes narrowed. “Improper allegiances, you mean. There have been rumors about your friend, that Monsieur Daubier.”

“Yes, I know,” said André. “I’ve heard them too. A cause for congratulation, don’t you agree, that he should be chosen by the First Consul to paint his portrait? It is not an honor extended to everyone.”

“For good reason.” Delaroche rested his palms on his knees as he leaned forward. “Someone allowed such intimate access to the First Consul might succumb to the temptation to treason.”

“What are you saying, Delaroche?”

Delaroche smiled a nasty smile. “Exactly what it seems. Your friend has been known to accept commissions from unregenerate members of the Ancien Regime.”

“All of whom are now accepted at the First Consul’s court,” André said acidly. Bonaparte and his wife had been assiduously courting the old aristocracy, seeking to add some luster to their increasingly pseudo-regal arrangements. “Daubier’s paintings helped make the Revolution. You can’t possibly mean to imply—”

“He wears very gaudy waistcoats,” interrupted Delaroche.

André resisted the urge to shove the other man’s hat straight down over his dour face. “Good God, man. If you arrested every man in Paris with the temerity to sport a gaudy waistcoat, there would be more people in the prisons than on the street. We’d have to declare a national emergency.”

Delaroche glowered from under the brim of his highly unfashionable hat. “This is not a laughing matter, Jaouen.”

Of course not. It didn’t involve thumbscrews. The only diversions Delaroche found amusing were those that involved the crunching of cartilage.

“Naturally not,” said André grimly. “Just think of the repercussions. The English would start shipping in waistcoats to our coastline, just to undermine our ordinances. The Austrians would probably contribute gold trim. You would find underground groups of waistcoat fanciers congregating in basements. And why? All because one elderly artist has a penchant for scarlet and gold.”

Delaroche fanned out the tails of his own black coat, like a bird ruffling its feathers. “Scarlet and gold are royal colors. You can’t deny that, Jaouen.”

Neither would the First Consul, who had increasingly adopted those colors for his own use, along with the jewels, the throne, and several palaces. There was nothing like collecting all the accoutrements.

“All the more reason to appropriate those shades for our virtuous citizenry, wouldn’t you agree? I doubt Daubier was making a political statement when he chose his waistcoat, any more than you were in wearing that hat.”

“There is nothing wrong with my hat.”

André leaned comfortably back against the seat. “I never said there was.”

Delaroche had been devilishly touchy about his attire ever since being the recipient of a series of mocking notes on the topic from none other than Sir Percy Blakeney. He had claimed not to mind, but the mockery had obviously left its mark, if not any actual improvement in his appearance.

“You sound like that damned, elusive Pimpernel,” snapped Delaroche.

André laughed. “Him? His accent is pure Versailles.” He exaggerated his own Breton burr, knowing that it made his point for him better than any number of testimonials. His own Revolutionary credentials were impeccable and Delaroche knew it. “Besides, he’s been out of the business for some time. You’re behind the times, Gaston. Isn’t there another flower making trouble these days?” He snapped his fingers as though trying to recall. “Something pink?”

“The Carnation,” snapped Delaroche. “The Pink Carnation.”

“Ah, yes. I forgot that you had personal experience of the creature.”

Delaroche donned his most sinister expression, the one that made him look like someone had just pinched his nose. “I will find him.”

“I’m sure you will,” said André soothingly. “Eventually.”

“Do you mock?” Delaroche demanded.

Always a dangerous question. If one had to ask, the answer was probably yes.

“No. I marvel,” said André. “I don’t see the point of fainting in terror at a pile of petals.” André turned to the window as the ancient carriage lurched to a halt that threatened to detach the cab from the wheels. “Ah, look. We seem to have arrived.”

Two guards stood outside a narrow structure. They were both, André noticed, employees of the Prefecture, rather than Fouché’s personal staff. Fouché had a long-standing rivalry with Dubois, the Prefect of Paris. This, as a matter concerning Paris, would be technically in Dubois’s purview. More importantly, he had gotten there first.

André looked back at Delaroche. Now he understood his colleague’s eagerness to fetch him. As second in command at the Prefecture, André had automatic access. Delaroche, on the other hand, would not. At least, not without André.

Seeing André at the window, one of the guards hurried forward and yanked open the door for him, nearly capsizing the carriage in his eagerness to wrench open to the door.

“Monsieur Jaouen! Thank goodness you’re here, sir.”

“What happened?” asked André without preamble. He made for the house without looking to see if Delaroche followed.

“It was Cadoudal!” said the first guard excitably. “He had Louis Picot here with him posing as manservant. We recognized him from his picture in the Bulletin. We followed him back here.”

The picture was becoming clear. “But Picot gave the alarm?”

“Picot gave the alarm,” confirmed the second guard morosely. “He realized someone was behind him”—a dirty look at his comrade, who hung his head and looked at his feet—“and began bawling out the first verse of the ‘Marseillaise.’ ”

“Their signal,” guessed André.

The second guard nodded. “By the time we made it up here, Cadoudal was gone.”

“Has anyone searched upstairs?”

The first guard shook his head. “We were instructed to wait for you.”

André noticed them studiously not looking at Delaroche. So he had tried to get in, had he?

“Well done,” he told them, and watched the first guard preen like a puppy. “You’ve been very helpful. Where can I find the room?”

“Straight up,” said the first guard. “The second floor, to the right.”

The building was small but well-maintained, the stairs swept clean, with cheap but fresh paper on the wall, no different from hundreds of similar boardinghouses across Paris. André took the stairs carefully, looking about him as he went. Contrary to popular opinion, a clever spy chose not a dark bolt-hole, but a tidy lodging house, a place where supper was served on time and the general population of low-level clerks was such as to not call the attention of the law. A man might hide indefinitely in such a situation.

Or almost indefinitely.

Cadoudal’s lodging was innocuous enough in itself—one large room with a smaller beyond for the manservant, a washstand behind a screen, a camp bed in one corner with furniture arranged as a sitting area in the other. From the look of the room, Cadoudal had been prepared for early flight. On the table, a partly eaten meat pie and a hunk of cheese sat next to a half-empty glass and a carafe of vin ordinaire (where Cadoudal was, there was always food), and clothing had been scattered across the floor as though a portmanteau had broken in flight, but the room was curiously bare of either books or papers.

There would be a thorough examination made, ravaging the mattress, the walls, the floorboards, but André doubted anything more would be found; canny old campaigner that he was, Cadoudal must have kept his more sensitive documents packed in one place, ready to go at the first strains of “La Marseillaise.”

André bent over the table. Some papers had fallen to the floor, wedged between the chair and the wall. One was a page from a Bulletin, the same bulletins that were delivered to him at the Prefecture, from which the master bulletin, the one that went officially to the First Consul and unofficially to Fouché, were prepared. There was only one problem. This Bulletin was dated as of the following week.

André held it wordlessly out to Delaroche.

Delaroche ignored it. He was rooting beneath the meat pie, like a particularly grubby sort of animal. A badger? André had always lived in towns. Natural philosophy might be part of a gentleman’s education, but he was weak on wildlife.

“Ha!” said Delaroche, holding something aloft.

At first glance, the paper hardly merited his enthusiasm. Taking it by two fingers, André turned it gingerly, first this way, then that. It was a piece of a letter, one that had been deliberately been folded, ripped, and then folded and ripped again.

“. . . with the Prince in Paris . . . ,” the fragment began.

“Prince,” said André. “A code name?”

“Or no code at all,” said Delaroche.

He sounded distinctly smug. Fouché had been warning the First Consul of a Royalist threat for months, a tune to which the First Consul had consistently turned a deaf ear. A Bourbon on the loose in Paris would make even Bonaparte sit up and take notice.

“You believe we have a prince of the blood on the loose in Paris.”

Delaroche’s lips twisted derisively. “So it would seem to say.”

“Yes, seem,” agreed André. All right, if they were going to play that game. “The Comte d’Artois would be the logical choice.”

While it was the dead King’s other brother, the Comte de Provence, who had been crowned Louis XVIII, the younger brother, Artois, had been the more active in fomenting schemes for the reinstatement of the Bourbon line.

“Ha!” said Delaroche. “The Comte d’Artois is too careful of his own skin to come gadding off to Paris. According to my sources, he is very happily ensconced on South Audley Street”—Delaroche pronounced the foreign name with distaste—“entertaining the heir to the English throne at games of whist.”

“Likely,” agreed André. “Highly likely. My sources also place the count in London. I doubt Provence would come himself. He’s too precious for them to risk. Unless . . .”

“Unless?”

“Unless Artois wanted to make the way clear for himself by compromising Provence.”

Despite the fact that it came from André, the idea of a double cross appealed to Delaroche. Reluctantly, he dismissed the idea. “No. They band together, these royal spawn. It must be someone else. Not Artois. Not Provence. But who?”

Why did André have a feeling he was going to tell him?

“The count has a son,” pronounced Delaroche, as though he had just done Descartes one better.

“Two of them, in fact,” supplied André. It wasn’t exactly privileged information.

Delaroche paced back and forth, his boots leaving blots on the land-lady’s clean floor. “The Duc d’Angoulême has been seen in attendance on his uncle, the man they call Louis XVIII. No. I refer to the younger son, the Duc de Berry.”

“The Duc de Berry?” André’s lips quirked derisively. “The duke is a known womanizer and bon vivant, just like his father before him. Would he leave the comforts of London for a dubious expedition to Paris?”

“When a throne lies in the balance, there are few comforts a man is not willing to forego.”

“An excellent aphorism, but not exactly pertinent to the current situation.” Lifting Cadoudal’s wineglass, André tapped the base against the table. “It is de Berry’s uncle’s throne, not his own. His own situation would change little. And my sources still place him in London.”

“Hmph,” said Delaroche.

Lifting the glass, André examined the wine as if searching for lost pearls. “Did you happen to think that this proliferation of papers might not be a little too fortuitous?”

Admittedly, one fragment and one dropped bulletin was hardly a proliferation, but hyperbole was a recognized rhetorical technique. In other words, it generally worked.

André could tell Delaroche’s attention was caught. The cold eyes fastened on him like a lizard sizing up a rat for its gastronomic potential. “Explain.”

“These papers under the bed. Cadoudal is a crafty old devil. What if he seeks to shake us off his trail by sending us off in search of a will-o’-the-wisp? While we go hunting mythical princes through the back alleys of Paris, Cadoudal and his confederates have their way clear.”

Delaroche’s nose twitched as though he had sniffed something gone bad. “You believe this is a ruse.”

“A clever one,” clarified André. “A clever one, but a ruse nonetheless. Can you imagine the Duc de Berry scurrying around Paris on the off chance of mustering forces in his uncle’s favor? He would be more of a liability than an asset. And Cadoudal must know it.”

Delaroche’s fingers drummed against the desk, once, then twice, like the drumroll summoning a man to the ax. “Berry is a prince of the blood.”

“Qu’un sang impur,” murmured André, quoting the anthem that had spurred so many troops into battle against the royal forces, the same anthem that had been Cadoudal’s cue to escape. “Be that as it may, it does seem telling that this is the first word we have had as to his presence. Querelle said nothing of the kind. He spoke only of Cadoudal and Pichegru and a traitor in our own military ranks. Nor has anything about a man answering de Berry’s description come through the Prefecture. I would have known.”

Delaroche acknowledged André’s competence in that regard with an almost imperceptible flicker of his lids.

“It would be clever,” Delaroche acknowledged grudgingly. “Cadoudal has shown himself cleverer than we had realized before. But the possibility of a prince of the blood in Paris cannot be ignored—will-o’-the-wisp though it might be. The gates of Paris will be closed and all vehicles searched. Fouché cannot do anything less.” He perked up a bit at the prospect. There was nothing like a bit of prospective search and seizure to improve a man’s day. At least, if that man was a mad megalomaniac.

“For how long will Parisians put up with that?” André asked quietly. The city was already restless, the quixotic population of Paris ever ready to shift their allegiances based on the grievance of the moment. Bonaparte had never been less popular. A lockdown of the city could be spark to tinder.

That, however, didn’t concern Delaroche.

Delaroche smiled at him, revealing yellowing teeth. “For as long as it takes,” he said complacently. “If either Cadoudal or our prince attempts to leave the city, they will be found.”