Page 46 of To Love A Spy
“And, mayhap, a dangerous one,” she replied.
He, too, paused to taste the frozen confection. “Danger adds a certain spice to life. A steady diet of bland and boring fare is unpalatable for those who crave variety.” Rochambert’s gaze dropped and lingered overlong on her limping step. “You do not appear to be a lady who is afraid to take a risk, Madame Daggett.”
Valencia took care to keep her voice noncommittal. “Perhaps my riding accident has soured me on the idea of acting impulsively.”
“Perhaps. But in my experience, people who are by nature adventurous rarely change, even if they suffer a stumble or two.”
“Dear me, Monsieur Rochambert. Put that way, you seem to mean that some of us never learn from our mistakes.”
“Au contraire, madame.Let us just say that some of us understand that risks make the reward even sweeter.”
“La, there you two are!” Her skirts kicking up a swirl of dust, Madame Benoit cut across the graveled walkway and hurried to catch up. “How very naughty of you to stray so far. Marie-Claire and I feared we had been quite abandoned.”
“We were just turning back,” said Rochambert smoothly. “Madame Daggett was curious to see the cafes.” To her he murmured, “Next time, you must allow me to take you to the Café Tortoni, which is a great favorite with thehaute monde.”
Madame Benoit accepted the explanation without further chiding, but her smile remained somewhat sulky. Maneuveringwith military precision, she forced Rochambert to offer his other arm.
“I should like to stop for a moment at Madame Moullier’s shop and order a pair of gloves to match my new bonnet. Do escort me there, Pierre, so that I may have your opinion on what color of kidskin would best compliment this ribbon.” She batted her lashes, along with a scrap of cerise silk. “La, I am sure that Madame Daggett won’t mind returning thecornicheand spoons to the ice cream vendor.”
“Not at all,” said Valencia.
Flashing a triumphant look, Madame Benoit drew Rochambert into a rapidfire discussion on the latest trends in fashion.
Valencia was happy to fall back a few steps, glad for the opportunity to make a more careful study of her adversary.
Pierre Rochambert.She had seen him often enough in her nightmares, but now was a chance to observe him in the flesh. He moved with a predator’s grace, light on his feet and with an air of alertness about him, despite the smiles and superficial chatter. Such vigilance was second nature for one trained in the shadowy skills of their profession.
They were so alike. And yet so different.
The hitch in her gait was testimony to how ruthless he was with a blade. She did not begrudge the fact that he had tried to take her life. Those were the rules of the sordid game they both played.
Kill or be killed.
No, the truly chilling thing about the night of his attack was her certainty that Rochambert had deliberately tried to cripple her. He had meant to take his time in dispatching her. That fleeting flash of a death’s head smile, cruel as curved steel, had betrayed just how much he had been looking forward to watching her suffer.
If not for the sudden appearance of the shore patrol, he would have taken great pleasure in making her death a slow and painful one.
Valencia gave an inward shudder. Not out of fear but out of loathing. She had killed several enemy agents, but always quickly, cleanly, and with a pang of remorse. She did it out of duty. He did it out of devilish delight. Thinking back over the long, bloodstained list of his victims, she decided this was one time when she would not hesitate for an instant to strike a mortal blow.
But first she must spot a weakness.
Every man had one. It was merely a matter of watching and waiting long enough to discern it.
Dropping back a discreet distance, she made a few more mental notes about his height, his reach, the length of his stride. The tiny details often divulged a telling flaw.
Her eyes suddenly narrowed.
The muscles flexed beneath his finely tailored clothing, and yet there was a hint of fleshiness softening the line of his shoulders. Rich food, fine wines, seductive strumpets—Rochambert was allowing himself to savor the decadent pleasures of Paris in between assignments. Was his edge just a touch duller, his reactions a fraction slower? No doubt he was supremely confident that no danger could reach him here, in the heart of the Empire.
A grave miscalculation on his part.
Gathering her skirts, Valencia veered off to rejoin Madame Levalier. She had learned through bitter experience that the most dangerous attacks came at unexpected times, and from unexpected angles. An agent who grew lax, even for an instant, did so at his—or her—own peril.
This time, she vowed, it would be her opponent who suffered the consequences.
As one of the assistant secretaries droned on about spice production in Martinique, Lynsley found his mind wandering from the tropics to the faubourg St. Germaine. Thankfully, he had the knack of appearing an attentive listener down to a fine art. Furrowed brow, thinned lips and steepled hands—they bespoke an intensity that few ever questioned.
This morning, however, he had no need to feign a frown or a tightness of his mouth. Though the first encounter with Rochambert had gone well, Lynsley was not ready to concede that his misgivings might have been exaggerated. True, Valencia had followed his orders with exquisite precision, wielding her looks and her flirtations with consummate skill. But Rochambert had not won his ruthless reputation on rakish charm alone.
