Page 25 of To Love A Spy
Chapter Six
Lynsley peered out the windowpane as the coach rumbled over the cobblestones. The setting sun shimmered off the slow-moving current of the Seine, and in the distance, the soaring stone spires of Notre Dame cathedral shone pure as polished alabaster against the pale pink skies.The City of Light.There was an aura of enchantment about Paris. Like a supremely sensual woman, its sinuous streets, its pungent perfumes, its sultry sounds seduced the senses.
A promise of pleasure.
And pain.
As if he needed any reminder of the dangers. He must remain impervious to her charms.
A glance at Valencia showed her face pressed up against the glass, watching with undisguised enchantment as they approached the Pont Neuf. Her presence only added to the awareness that he was walking on a razor’s edge. The slightest slip would be deadly.
After the first flare of conflict, the rest of the journey from Normandy had passed without further fireworks. He and Valencia had been scrupulously polite to each other, but a subtletension crackled beneath every exchange. Rather than allow it to distract him, he must find a way to turn it to his advantage.
A beautiful young wife, at odds with her older husband.Pierre Rochambert was a notorious womanizer and might very well find such a scenario tempting.
As for his own feelings about using Valencia as bait . . .
His personal emotions were irrelevant in light of the mission. Duty demanded dispassionate decisions. He, of all people, knew that was the cardinal rule of espionage.
Leaning back, Lynsley resumed reading over Tremaine’s documents.
“Anything else I should know?” asked Valencia.
“Not at the moment,” he replied, not looking up from the papers. “A elegant residence has been leased for us off rue St. Germaine. Perkins and Bailin will have us settled in by evening.”
In the port city of Caen, the rendezvous with the two agents sent from London had gone off without a hitch. His usual team of valet and lady’s maid was on assignment elsewhere, but given McAllister’s distinctive Scottish accent, the pair he had chosen was better suited for the job. Both were Americans by birth, and their knowledge of the country and its customs would be invaluable in maintaining the masquerade, especially for Valencia.
“Tomorrow I shall present my credentials to the Emperor’s Foreign Ministry,” continued Lynsley. “And then we shall make a show of strolling the boulevards and visiting the fashionable shops. You must order a number of gowns and accessories—a diplomat’s wife would be eager to appear dressed in the latest styles.”
“Shopping,” she muttered with considerably less enthusiasm than most females.
His lips twitched. “It’s quite crucial to our charade.”
“Of course.” She tugged at the fringe of her shawl. “Speaking of our charade, sir, how can you be sure that you won’t be recognized as an imposter by the other American diplomats?”
“The American delegation is currently away in the south of France, for talks on how to deal with the Barbary pirates.”
She looked surprised. “How is it that you always seem to know so much about all that goes on in the world?”
“It’s my business to be informed.”
She considered his reply for a moment. “Still, it’s more than likely that there are other Americans here in Paris who are acquainted with the real Tobias Tremaine.”
“Yes, you have a point,” agreed the marquess. “I have been thinking about that problem.”
He rubbed at his jaw. Growing out his side whiskers had already subtlely altered the shape of his face. And his hair was several shades lighter, thank to the potions and chemicals brought from London by his valet.
“I have some expertise in the art of disguise,” he went on. “But given all the other variables in this assignment, I’d rather not have to worry about assuming another man’s appearance every day.” Taking up the top document, Lynsley passed it to her.
Valencia read it over slowly. “How did you manage this without Whitehall’s resources at your fingertips?”
“My skills at forgery are fairly well honed,” he replied. “Bailin brought along the basic tools of the trade. I always like to be prepared.”
She took another look at the thick parchment. “So, we are now Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Daggett.”
“I am not overly fond of the name Tobias,” he murmured. “The actual Thomas Daggett is a wealthy merchant from the state of Connecticut who has handled some minor trade matters for the American government last year. I’ve createdan additional document, which explains that a sudden illness prevented Tremaine from making the voyage. We won’t be here long enough for any inquiry to be made, should someone question the substitution.”
“Ah.” Her tone was neutral. “And what, pray tell, is the moniker I should go by?”
