The Spymaster's Lady

Twenty-five

THE TWO MEN PUSHED BRUSQUELY PAST IDLERS at the tavern door. Henri limped, keeping up with Leblanc. “…watching Meeks Street. They report she entered the house with Grey himself. Grey of the British Service. It is disaster.”

“You should have killed her in Dover. Why am I surrounded by idiots?”

“Do you not see? The man we held in Paris…it was this same Grey. Sans doute. The description is unmistakable. The one who attacked me in Dover—it is Grey. He has been with her since Paris. Since you put them in the same cell.” Henri clenched his fist and flinched. “Bougre de Dieu. I am crippled by that man.”

“You are worse than crippled. You are an imbecile. There is no proof the man was Grey.” Leblanc kicked at a black dog that sniffed along the gutter edge.

“We held the Head of the British Section in our chateau and did not inform Fouché. We let him get away. If this comes out, I do not want to face Fouché.”

“You will not face Fouché.” Leblanc’s gaze flicked across Henri. He slipped his hand under his jacket, to the knife that rested there. “You have brought the men up from the south? The money? All is prepared?”

“Done. All done. It is always a mistake to use women. You all trusted that bitch, and now she spreads herself for this Grey and squeals our secrets. It must be stopped.”

“Not by you. You are useless to me with a broken shoulder. I need men who can shoot a gun.” Leblanc looked up and down the deserted street. An alley opened to one side, shaded and crooked and private. “Come. We will take this shorter way.”