Page 25 of The Spy’s Song

Hélène frowned. "Have you ever met this Autun?"

"No."

"Has Napoleon ever written to you himself?"

Louise's shoulders stiffened. "Autun speaks for him."

"Are you certain?" Hélène squeezed her hand before Louise could pull it away. "Men who served Napoleon serve the Bourbons. Men who swore to the Bourbons are crossing back to Napoleon. Loyalties are changing by the hour, and—"

"Loyalty does not change by the hour." Perhaps it did for people like Rodrick, but not for her. Not for the people she trusted. "Convenience does. Autun knew who I was and protected the secret for years. He has remained at his post, and so will I."

Whatever Autun had summoned her to France to do, she would do it. And when she did it, she would prove she was not just a foolish ballerina.

Rodrick found Gaetan in the paddock, surrounded by horses and looking altogether too content for a man whose Emperor had recently escaped an island and resumed rearranging Europe.

Damp earth softened beneath Rodrick's boots as he crossed the yard, and the smell of hay, leather, and warm horseflesh reached him. A dozen remounts moved within the enclosure, mostly bays and chestnuts.

"If you are done wooing the fellows, I need a word," Rodrick said.

"You are welcome to join me." Gaetan didn't look up. "These horses have better tempers than most women and cost considerably less."

Rodrick sighed and looked down at his new Hessians, then at the manure-littered field. "If my boots don't survive this conversation, neither will you."

Gaetan laughed. "Parbleu, that dreary island has not managed to dry your sense of humor."

"I'm afraid nothing stays dry in England," Rodrick said.

"I bought the lot in Normandy. The bays came from a breeder outside Caen. The chestnuts from farther south."

Rodrick folded his arms and inspected the nearest animals. Strong quarters, clean legs, good depth through the chest. Poor beasts. Munching grass peacefully, just waiting to be thrust into enfilading fire.

Rodrick's gaze shifted to Gaetan, who ran a hand down the stallion's neck and murmured something under his breath. Which of the overgrown animals possessed the poorer judgment?

"Splendid cannon fodder," Rodrick said. "I have a favor to ask."

Gaetan did not blink. "Anything."

Naturally Gaetan would say that. No bargaining, no calculation, no discreet inquiry concerning expense or inconvenience.

"I need an escort. Six troopers. I will move Miss Bonnechoix to Paris. We pose as minor aristocrats crawling back to kiss the Emperor's ring." He dusted something from his sleeve that wasn't there. "It's fashionable again, apparently. Second time around."

Gaetan set the brush on the fence rail. "I would give you ten. But the Emperor is no longer in Paris."

"Have they sent him back to Elba already? That was a quick visit."

"France's enemies declared war." Gaetan turned to face him. In the afternoon light he looked every inch the man built for campaigns, for open ground, for the kind of uncomplicated courage reserved only for horses and fools. "Britain. Austria. Russia. Prussia. A treaty signed before he'd been back a month. Each will raise a hundred and fifty thousand troops."

"Six hundred thousand." The number settled into Rodrick's gut like a rock. Maps formed in his mind—Prussia gathering east of the Netherlands, British and allied forces around Brussels, Austrians beyond the Rhine, Russians farther back and marching west. The Coalition had learned. This time the powers would not spend another decade taking turns discovering which of them could be beaten more humiliatingly. "They will threaten France's borders from all sides. The allies made the eagle bleed in the Battle of the Nations, and they won't rest until his wings are clipped for good. What are your orders?" Rodrick asked.

"My regiment moves north in a week."

"And Napoleon?"

Gaetan looked at him sideways. For once the great Count of Wagram had discovered discretion.

"The Foreign Office wants my head, Gaetan. Your state secrets are tragically safe with me. Besides, I still have an emperor's daughter to deliver. It would be useful to know where her papa has wandered off to."

"He is marching toward Brussels with the Army of the North."