Page 43 of To Love A Spy
Yes, until later, Monsieur Rochambert.
“Your wife is a most charming creature, Monsieur Daggett,” observed Levalier, tipping his glass in salute.
“Indeed, she is a lady of rare beauty,” agreed Noilly. “And you, sir, are a gentleman of rare courage to bring her with you to Paris,” he added with a sly wink.
“Hmmph.” Lynsley reached for another glass of champagne. The first two had been discreetly dumped into the potted arrangement of Oriental lilies. “Sea voyages are nothing to fear these days. Not when sailing on a sturdy Yankee schooner from my own fleet,” he growled.
“The sea is not half so dangerous as French soil.” The voice behind him was cool and mellifluous, like glacier water flowing over smooth stone. “What Monsieur Noilly means is that our city is said to have a seductive effect on women. There is something about the ethereal light, and the spirit ofl’amourthat makes them take bloom and spread their petals, so to speak.”
“Hmmph. You must be one of those poxy new poets, who revels in writing romantic rubbish,” replied the marquess with a slight sneer. Intuition had already told him who was speaking. But any doubts vanished as he turned and confronted Pierre Rochambert for the first time in the flesh.
Those golden eyes, that daggered smile. He had seen them far too many times in his mind’s eye to be mistaken.
Noilly smothered a laugh with a cough.
“Allow me to introduce our host, Monsieur Daggett,” said Levalier. “Pierre, this is the American consul, who has just arrived here in France for talks on our Caribbean trade.”
“Thomas Daggett,” said Lynsley, with a small nod.
“Pierre Rochambert.” The Frenchman responded with a more courtly bow.
Lynsley made a quick, dispassionate study of the figure before him. The picture he had in his head, assembled from a number of informants, proved to be highly accurate. A thin, almost effeminate face, framed by fair hair that fell in soft ringlets around his starched shirtpoints. A slender build, narrow-waisted, long-legged. A full, sensual mouth. A peek of perfect white teeth. A taste for expensive clothes.
The celestial blue color of his coat accentuated the man’s cherubic looks, creating the illusion of a gilded face floating in a heavenly sky.
The Angel of Death.
So Rochambert had been dubbed by Allied intelligence services on account of his ruthless methods. The man was a cold-blooded killer, utterly lacking in conscience or compassion.
“Seeing as I have already had the pleasure of encountering your wife, Monsieur Daggett, I must agree withmon amiGuillaume that you are indeed a brave man,” continued Rochambert. “Most men would consider Paris . . . too dangerous.”
“My wife is not some flighty schoolgirl,” said Lynsley gruffly. “She is experienced in the ways of society, and I trust that she possesses the necessary poise and polish to conduct herself with the utmost propriety, whether at home or abroad.”
The pompous speech brought a twitch of amusement to Lavalier’s mouth.
“Then it appears you have nothing to worry about, Monsieur Daggett.” Rochambert’s voice held an edge of mockery.
Lynsley knew Napoleon’s top assassin to be a man who enjoyed cutting up an opponent with his tongue as well as his blade.Forewarned was forearmed, he thought with an inwardsmile. For now, he would set himself up as a stiff-rumped target. Contempt bred carelessness. Rochambert must be tempted to think it would be easy to move in and seduce Valencia. In his conceit, the Frenchman was likely to make a small slip, an errant stumble.
And then Lucifer would fall back to the hell where he belonged.
“I should think not,” he said with a sniff. “Firm discipline, strict rules—a female is grateful for a husband’s guidance . . .”
Noilly started to smirk.
“Bonaparte should have applied his military genius a bit closer to home,” finished Lynsley.
The attaché no longer looked so smug. “I daresay the Emperor needs no advice on marital tactics?—”
A clink of crystal cut off the retort. “More champagne, Monsieur Daggett?” offered Levalier.
“Thank you,” said Lynsley. “Damn difficult to get decent stuff at home, seeing as the British navy has your ports bottled up right and tight.”
“If your American admirals had put up any fight,” muttered Noilly. “The British might?—”
“A toast, gentlemen.” Levalier raised his glass. “To a quick defeat of our enemies.”
“Aye, I’ll drink to that,” murmured the marquess.
