Page 113 of The Spy’s Song

Where to next?

Not London. Arlesford would be waiting with a rope and a gibbet. The Americas were possible—the Danes had contacts, and he had run operations in the Caribbean—but the Americans had abolished titles and entrusted government to men who thought this an improvement. Rodrick had his limits.

Not France. France smelled like Louise, and he did not crave her particular scent clinging to every corridor and corner, turning every step into recollection.

He lifted the pen again, watched a bead of ink gather at the tip, swell, threaten to fall. Vienna, then. Metternich liked his men clever and unprincipled. Rodrick had always found the city agreeable.

Paris, Faubourg Saint-Germain.

Prince von Metternich.

Your Excellency, I find myself—

Rodrick stopped writing. The letter should begin with something about the current political situation, about France, about what he had observed and what he could offer. It should not begin with 'I find myself,' which was just another way to say he was completely lost.

The door opened without ceremony.

Charlotte had that talent, he was discovering, of entering precisely when her presence would be least welcome.

"Really," she said, circling toward the desk, "if you are going to sulk, you might as well commit to it. Stop shaving. Rumple the coat. At present you look as though you are about to charm a debutante."

Rodrick did not look up. "One gets fastidious after a stay in La Force, I'm told."

Charlotte moved further into the room with the unhurried proprietary confidence of a woman in her own house. He heard her pick something up, set something down, and resisted the impulse to ask what she was doing with his things. They were, technically, hers.

"Even your horse is moping," she said. "Since Miss Bonnechoix returned him last week, he has refused half his feed and tried to take a piece out of the groom."

Rodrick dipped his pen. "Brutus is a warhorse. He has spent weeks being shot at, ridden into armies, and generally permitted to behave like a menace to civilization. Naturally he finds stable life disappointing."

Charlotte made a sound that suggested she had reached another conclusion. Rodrick ignored it. Brutus did not miss Louise. Horses did not pine for black-haired women who scratched precisely beneath the jaw and carried sugar in their pockets. The animal missed excitement, that was all.

"Miss Bonnechoix just left," she said.

He was aware of this. He was aware of it every day. If he closed his eyes, he could pick her out from the rest of the passersby on the rue de Grenelle. The others skimmed the stones, careful, avoiding the edges. She did not. Her step landed certain, as if the street would adjust to her. Once she had even stopped beneath the study's window. He had gripped the table's edges to stay in place.

"She is developing quite a coffee dependency. Antoine is concerned. He has begun making twice as much as usual, and I have told him that accommodating her only encourages the situation. Still, he says the coffee is not the situation." A pause. "He is not wrong, of course."

Rodrick wrote the date in the upper right corner.

"She frightens the salon guests," Charlotte sighed. "She sits in the corner and says nothing, and they cannot tell if she is judging them or simply absent. Madame Fortier left early on Tuesday. I had not realized silence could be so… communicative."

Rodrick's mouth moved, something that might pass for a smile if one did not look too closely.

"She is not fond of small talk," he said.

Not unless provoked. Not unless teased into it, prodded until her replies came quick and sharp, cutting through his nonsense.

Charlotte leaned her hip against the edge of the desk and studied him.

"It has been nearly a fortnight. The poor creature must be dreadfully bored, coming every day. If you received her once, she might not look quite so—"

"Charlotte."

"—pale. She looks rather pale."

He lifted his gaze, just enough to meet hers. "Charlotte."

"The least you could do is say goodbye to her properly."