Page 91 of The Spy’s Song

The gray eyes were direct but tired, and her chin trembled. Then the girl's gaze dropped to Charlotte's neck.

Miss Bonnechoix raised one finger toward the medal. She did not touch it.

"It is really you," she said. "I'm glad."

Charlotte tilted her head. "Glad I'm alive? You hardly know me."

"I'm glad he no longer has to carry it," she said.

Charlotte went still. Rodie was on the couch with his eyes closed, looking twelve years old, while the cannon rolled in from the south.

Then she studied the girl. What sort of woman would Rodrick call his bane? She had no right to ask after being away so long, and yet her heart asked regardless.

"Come," she said. "I'll put you in the rose room."

"I cannot stay," Louise said. "I have to—"

"Nonsense."

Charlotte knew that tone. She had used it herself once, before boarding a ship for Île-de-France and calling disappearance a solution.

"It is late. There is nothing that can be done tonight that will not be better handled in the morning."

She paused at the door and looked back. Louise stood where she had left her, the white gown catching the firelight, her hands folded at her waist. She gazed at Rodie on the couch. The twelve-year-old face. Louise was looking at him with no surprise at all, as though the exhausted boy beneath Lord Saint John had never been particularly well hidden from her.

And the answer came to Charlotte. Miss Louise Bonnechoix was an adequate sort of bane.

"Come," she said again, more quietly. "Rodrick needs his sleep."

This time Louise followed.

Louise moved through the house in the dark, timing her steps to the reports of cannon fire. The same noise that had stolen her target now concealed her escape. Her father's most beautiful daughters. That's what Napoleon called his twelve-pounders. What did that make of Louise?

She could not call herself his most loyal daughter now, could she? Not after—after the relief she felt when Wellington moved away. Her legs had nearly buckled beneath her. A loyal daughter should not feel like this.

Another report. Another step.

At least Rodrick had not seen. The landing came into view. She shifted her weight, preparing the next step—

A hand closed over her mouth, the other arm catching her before she could twist away.

"What the hell are you up to now?" Rodrick's voice came low in her ear.

Her knees softened, and she leaned back against him. How easy it would be to let the strain leave her shoulders, let her head rest against him and pretend nothing had happened.

"I need to leave," she said. "The cannon interrupted. I didn't finish what I had to do—"

He released her abruptly. "The cannon indeed. A man had been about to hang for her, but she had ultimately been saved by her oblivious father."

"What do you mean?"

He stepped in front of her, blocking the narrow passage. "Go back to bed."

"Please let me pass," she whispered.

"Talleyrand is no longer working for Napoleon. He is in the Bourbons' pay now."

She shook her head. "He has been speaking to me for years. He loves France. He is loyal to my father."