Rogue Spy

Thirty-four

“He’s dead,” Jacques said. “I didn’t see the body, but I talked to men who had.”

The Merchant was silent for a long time, thinking. Then he said, “Édouard died at once? He said nothing?”

“The woman who owns a shop directly in front of where he died said he was dead when they pulled the horses away.”

“It was an accident?”

“I heard a dozen stories. He ran into the street. He was shot. He was stabbed. He was in a fight over a woman. He fought a German. He fought a Norwegian. He attacked a judge from Antwerp. He was a jewel thief carrying a fortune in rubies.” Jacques shrugged. “I could look at his body. The magistrate took it away.”

Sharply, “No. If there’s interest in the death, you may already have been noted.”

“I was one of a hundred curious fools looking at bloodstains. I listened. I let other men ask questions.”

A careful man, Jacques. Reliable. It was unlikely he’d made mistakes. The Merchant acknowledged it. “You did well.”

“He was carrying a gun.”

The Merchant considered. “It may have been given to the magistrate or carried away with the body or stolen. It’s an English gun with no ties to us.”

“The woman from the shop said his body was searched and robbed by a gypsy.”

“Even better. Theft will break any possible small link to us. What else did you see?”

“A pool of blood beside the road. The cart and horse, gone, probably back to the livery stable. Chatter from a dozen English mouths, but no one asking official questions.”

“The mission is not endangered. No harm done,” the Merchant said. “We will remember Édouard tonight, in a toast. He died doing his duty to the Revolution.”

“There is no better death,” Jacques said.

The Merchant showed no impatience, no anger. Nothing. “There is almost no chance they will trace us here. But we will advance our plans.” He sifted details in his mind. “Hugues and Gaspard will take that woman to the cabinetmaker’s shop and guard her.”

“Now, instead of tomorrow night?” Jacques said.

“Now. We will spend this night and tomorrow at the cabinetmaker’s. A small change of plans. And on the day of the operation, you will perform Édouard’s tasks as well as your own. Do you see a problem with this?”

It was a measure of Jacques’ long, careful experience that he didn’t agree until he’d thought deeply. “Only the woman.”

“Who is always a problem. Tell Hugues and Gaspard to persuade her if they can. Tie and gag her when she becomes noisy. They need not be gentle.”

On the far side of the inn parlor, Camille Besançon sat in the most comfortable chair in the room, wearing the crimson silk robe that had been the price of peace for today. She’d let her long, black hair free over her shoulders to comb it in front of the fire.

The Merchant said, “After she is removed from here, you will pack our bags and cleanse these rooms. Dispose of her clothing and all this . . . trash she has brought in.” What useless, pointless things women were. At least this one was pretty. “My one small regret is that I didn’t give Édouard that woman to enjoy. He asked, last night.”

Jacques shook his head. “You were right to refuse. We are warriors. Women are for after the battle, not before.”

“It’s a waste, though. After the battle that one will be dead,” the Merchant said.