Page 71 of The Spy’s Song

PS: Once you escort Mademoiselle de Bonnechoix to the ball, the arrangement is concluded, and you are no longer responsible for her safety.

Rodrick tried to read the sentence again with the detachment he generally counted among his virtues. The effort survived three seconds.

No longer responsible for her safety?

Just like that. Cinderella in reverse. Not the clock striking midnight and the gown becoming rags, but the clock striking and the handler becoming a stranger. Talleyrand had written it as though responsibility were something the master manipulator of France could bestow with one line of ink and revoke with another.

Tell that to the bastard tragic hero lodged somewhere beneath his breastbone. Tell him to loosen his hands from her waist. Explain that the arrangement had concluded, if he pleased, and see whether the fellow could be persuaded to stop counting Louise's breaths while she slept.

Talleyrand should have tried revoking it sooner. Before the farmhouse. Before his hands knew the texture of her hair. Before the goat path above the Sambre, where Rodrick had gone to his knees in the dirt.

Talleyrand could conclude arrangements, terminate assignments, and redraw Europe's map. He didn't get to decide when Louise Bonnechoix stopped being Rodrick's problem. Breathing hard, he gathered her close and pressed her against his chest.

Louise stirred, and her lashes lifted slowly. "What's wrong?"

Rodrick opened his mouth. Nothing came. He was at a loss as to why he'd awakened a woman who clearly needed her sleep.

Outside the carriage window, stone façades rose on either side of the street.

"We've arrived." His hand lingered at the back of her neck before he loosened his hold. "Brussels," he said, clearing his throat.

Carriages clogged the streets. Officers in scarlet crowded pavements and doorways. Servants carried boxes from coaches while women in bonnets inspected shop windows.

"I thought the city would be occupied by the English-Dutch Army. Why does it look like Hyde Park during the season?"

"The battalions are guarding the roads. Their wives, sisters, and mothers appear to have occupied streets. The English have always had unusual ideas about warfare, Lou. Apparently one defeats Napoleon by surrounding Wellington with debutantes."

They turned into the Rue Ducale, and Brussels immediately began presenting Rodrick with information. A British colonel stood outside a banking house speaking to a local financier. Two Hanoverian officers emerged from an inn. A carriage passed bearing arms Rodrick recognized from London, followed by a footman in livery belonging to a family whose youngest son owed enough at White's to become useful.

Louise was watching the street. A pleat had formed between her brows.

Rodrick smoothed the line away with his thumb.

Her eyes shifted to him.

"Lady Isabelle Vane does not frown. Europe has already produced quite enough devastation without adding premature wrinkles to the tally."

Louise sighed.

"Besides, Isabelle has married extremely well. Her husband is wealthy enough to indulge her, absent often enough not to bore her, and sufficiently disreputable that society will attribute any eccentricity on her part to marital contamination. You may spend his money, contradict him in public, and complain of his neglect whenever conversation falters. With luck, everyone will assume you are slowly reforming him. Society adores a reclaimed rake. Apparently once properly domesticated, we make the finest husbands."

Rodrick reached for her hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Every successful deception benefits from evidence."

He drew the ring from his pocket and slid it onto her finger, and Louise's eyes widened. Then her gaze lifted to his face.

The carriage wheels rattled over the stones. Somewhere beyond the glass, Brussels continued existing with astonishing indifference. Inside the carriage, however, no one appeared inclined to breathe.

It was just a piece of gold. Nothing more. A prop. Yet the tragic hero heard church bells ringing across Europe.

Rodrick swallowed. The ring settled at the base of her finger as though it had been made for her, which was precisely the kind of observation he had no business making. His thumb remained beneath her palm a moment too long.

There. Talleyrand had scheduled their separation, and instead Rodrick got to slide a wedding ring onto Louise's finger.

He cleared his throat. "Try not to look so pleased. Edmund will become unbearable if encouraged."