But something in the set of her shoulders and the small steps of her long legs told Halsey that she did not wish to go. Not now. Not with him. Never with him.
Halsey knew the man was an amoral bully who arrested women, men, and children without warrant or even cause. He’d made his reputation on his ruthlessness. Rumor had it that he’d shown his weakness for one woman, the lady now married to an Englishman who guarded her day and night with his own hired men. Since that night when he had disgraced himself in front of his colleagues, Vaillancourt had shown himself to be valiant—and combative to any who countered him.
But as Halsey watched the man all but drag the lady away, he suddenly had the urge to intervene to protect the beautiful woman from a man who had no good intentions. To rush toward the pair and snag her from him. To put her on his own arm and walk her away to a garden of safety—anywhere, but far from that man who harmed and charmed, then deceived so many.
Halsey took a step forward.
But you cannot.He halted. His mind rebelled.
He was here as a Frenchman, a good citizen of the French state. Here to do business with the military and the navy. Besides, countrymen did not debate the authority of the deputy of police. Not ever. Not unless one wished to be the focus of Vaillancourt’s wrath.
“Another drink?” Corsini asked, his gaze on the couple as they disappeared through the wooden door that closed with a heavy thud.
Halsey would have to forget her, forget what he saw. “Oui, a large cognac will do.”
“D’accord.”
Minutes later, supper was called. The guests filed back toward the formal dining room at the public end of the chateau. Vaillancourt did not reappear. Nor did the young woman he had so summarily escorted away. Halsey itched to run through the chateau, find the two, and take the lady far from here.
Hours later, in their carriage back to Corsini’s rented chateau in Cherbourg, Halsey needed to know more about Vaillancourt and the lady he had taken.
Corsini inhaled, a frown on his face. “You do not know the depths to which Vaillancourt will stoop to drive home his power.”
“Tell me.” Halsey had some idea, but needed details. One did not fight without knowledge of one’s opponent.
“He was a leader of the Croix Rouge Quartier, radicals who committedthe worst abuses during the Terror. We know he is a particular bastard when it comes to intimidating women. He stalked Amber, Lady Ramsey, with a ruthless intent. She now lives in England with her husband.”
Halsey grew more fearful about what had happened to the pianist. “I have met her.” Was she the woman about whom many whispered?
“He demanded she become his mistress.”
“I had no idea of that.”
“Hmm. Well, it is said she is the only woman he has ever loved. If one can believe a man like that loves anyone.”
“How did she escape him?” Halsey needed to know if the lovely pianist stood a chance of it.
“Viscount Ramsey, ever protective of her, carried her out of Vaillancourt’s house one night when she thought she had been poisoned by him. Ramsey spirited her away from Vaillancourt and Paris, then home to England with the help of Jacques Durand.”
“Our famous smuggler,” Halsey said with a laugh, but his sight was filled with the image of the lady who had been led away by that fiend.
“Vaillancourt runs all the agents here in France for Fouché. All too well, I will tell you.”
Halsey suspected that the grand minister would have a henchman to do his dirty work. “And now he sends double agents to Southern England by the droves.”It’s my job to catch them.
Halsey had caught one such spy two months ago. One more last winter. He believed there had to be more in England collecting information, sending it home. Corsini had been kind to work with him here. He was Scarlett Hawthorne’s man, always had been, and Halsey had no one his equal in Paris or anywhere in France. From this operation together, Halsey wished they might form a bond and an agreement, if not now then in the future, to work together.
He gazed at the Italian, hope in his heart. “Do you have any evidence to help you catch them all?”
“Some. We know that the famous actress Charmaine Massé, who ran to England during the Terror, was his agent in London. She died of syphilis. Her young sister Vivienne, who is now Lady Appleby, Tate Cantrell’s wife, was the one to reveal to us her sister’s actions. Charmaine has written a list, which she gave to Viv.”
Alarm mixed with delight spread through Halsey. “How reliable do you believe that list to be?”
“We test it. Go after those we suspect. One name turned out to be accurate. The others? We will learn.”
Halsey envied the extent of Corsini’s network. “I begin to think it would be best if I blend my agents with those you run here and in England.”
“For that you need the approval and cooperation of Scarlett Hawthorne,” Corsini admitted with a sigh. “She does indeed run a ring of agents here on the Continent.”
