He cupped her cheeks. She was so sweet, so tender. “The other night when you played Beethoven for me. I saw you in profile as I had seen you in Boulogne.”
“And you knew from those things I had told you, and what the Ramseys said about me, that I worked for Scarlett Hawthorne’s network.”
“I pieced it all together.”
“And you are not ashamed of me?”
“What? Why would I be ashamed? I am wildly proud you did so well, and for so many years!”
She curled in on herself. “But…I hurt him. I destroyed him.”
“Your Frenchman?”
She grabbed a breath. “I did.”
“He is our enemy, my darling.”
She looked at him, but saw not him at all. “Oh, Evan. He went to the country, to his chateau, after I left, and he…”
Evan had learned through Durham and Carlisle that Rossard was no longer on the French Admiralty staff. They had all assumed that he had retired in some disgrace. Now Evan waited for her to finish her statement.
“He shot himself.”
Evan crushed her to his chest. What he said in that moment, he had no idea. The words were murmurs of horror and defeat, sadness and triumph.
She found some words eventually—and she told him, forthright, her chin up, “I recommended to him that drawings and paintings he received were accurate depictions of English towns. I told him I had been there. I never was. Never. But he believed me.”
Evan looked down into her eyes. “They were Giselle Laurant’s work.”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
“Giselle was the artist who depicted the false sea levels of southern English towns.”
“I knew. I should not have. I did not ask. I did not need to. I saw the drawings and I knew her style. I knew she executed them.”
“Does she know you knew this?” Evan asked, terror creeping through him.
“No! I have said nothing to her. I will not. She should not know I was the agent in Boulogne. One fact is a secret as long as only two know it. But…but do you think Giselle knows I was the one to feed it to the French?”
“No.”
“Mon Dieu. But…but, Evan, are you sure?”
“I am. Carlisle became acquainted with Giselle as she did the work. She did not tell him what her mission was, but Carlisle could see what it was once he saw her art. Then, as she finished, she was attacked and abducted by French agents. They were to take her back to France, even got two of their top agents to arrange it. But it was Carlisle with Lord Ashley, Langley, and I who rescued Giselle from them. We still search for the two who were in charge. One was a woman, another her male counterpart. She calls herselfLa Mère. He is dubbedFaucon.”
“The mother and the falcon. Intriguing. So like the French, eh? Picking names for themselves.”
He rubbed his thigh. “I carry a reminder of La Mère.”
“She is the one who shot you!” Inès grew angry. She clutched him close. “She is a poor marksman.”
“She is. I am glad she did not shoot higher.”
She cuffed him. “You can laugh at this?” But she smiled, too.
“Let’s return home, shall we?”
They took the road back, and as they went, Evan noticed an iron might to her character that he had not measured before this. She seemed to be free, now that her past was out and known. He wanted that woman to be proud of her past, rejoicingin her present, and free to embrace her future. She had done a remarkable service to the world. The Grand Army of Napoleon had never struck at the belly of England. Instead, it had turned to meet its enemies in Austria.
