Page 49 of To Love A Spy
The swirl of the amber spirits momentarily obscured his expression. “Has he sought to single you out?”
She nodded. “I was treated to Italian ice cream and a not-so-subtle interrogation on my relationship with my husband.”
“And?” he inquired.
“I’ve hinted that ours is a cold-hearted arrangement,” replied Valencia. “You are a calculating prig, who married me for my family’s trade connections. My own ambitions are just as pragmatic.”
“Ah.” He set his glass down. “That should prove useful.”
She waited for him to elaborate.
Without further comment, Lynsley drew out one of the documents from his case and began reading.
She watched the firelight wink off his reading glasses, then returned to her study of the street plans of Paris. The old engravings provided page after page of exquisitely detailed maps showing the different quartiers.
Now, if only she could chart the inner workings of Lynsley’s mind. She was completely lost when it came to following his thinking. So many twists and turns, so many hidden paths that trailed away into shadows.
The same could be said for her, she supposed. Her own feelings were a convoluted maze of contradictions. She should be glad that he seemed unconcerned about any risk to her from Rochambert. It was what she had demanded—to be treateddispassionately, as simply another weapon to use against the assassin.
And yet a part of her was a bit disappointed that he hadn’t expressed a tad more concern over the unexpected appearance of the enemy.
A blade cut two ways, she reminded herself. If she wished to live by the sword . . .
A rude word punctuated the crackle of paper as Lynsley turned a page.
Peeking up, she saw him rubbing his fingers through the sidewhiskers that now curled well below his ears. “Do they itch?”
“Like the devil,” he said. “Though it’s not quite as bad as the time in Moscow, when I had to grow a full beard.”
“Moscow?” Intrigued, Valencia put aside her own musings. Lynsley so very rarely offered any glimpse into his life, past or present. “Is Tsar Alexander as handsome as they say?”
“The Angel was barely more than a lad when I was there. I had dealing with his father, Tsar Paul I, whose looks and behavior were less than divine.”
“Wasn’t the father a bit of a mad monarch?”
“As commander-in-chief of the army, he once court-martialed a rat, and then had the animal executed. So I daresay that qualifies as queer in the attic,” replied Lynsley dryly. “There is definitely something to be said for a democracy.”
“Tsar Paul was assassinated, was he not?” She took a moment to recall her Academy history lessons. “Which handed the throne to Alexander, who was greatly favored over his father by the country’s liberals and reformers.”
Lynsley did not look up from his document. “So rumor has it.”
“By whom?” she pressed.
“I believe it was said that his own Palace Guards smothered him with a pillow. But then, he had a tendency to fall into fitsof apoplexy, so he may well have died of natural causes. The Russians tend to wax melodramatic about a great many things.”
Sensing that the chances of getting a straight answer were virtually nil, Valencia refrained from further questions about the Russian ruler’s untimely demise. Still, now that he had broached the subject, she was curious tohear about his other travels.
“What other exotic places have you visited?”
Lynsley scratched at his chin. “I’ve rather lost count. India, for one. Along with China and Japan.
“Japan is closed to all foreigners. On pain of death.”
“So it is.” He proceeded to give a detailed description of the cherry blossoms in springtime at the foot of Mount Fuji.
“You make it sound very beautiful,” she murmured.
“It is a sacred place in their culture, one celebrated for centuries in poetry and painting. At dawn, with silence and mist shrouding the snow–capped peak, one can’t help but feel a profound sense of peace.”
