In the practical art of war, the best thing of all is to take the enemy’s country whole and intact.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Brussels was beautiful in the spring. Pushing her bedchamber windows wide, Anaïs leaned out over the Rue de l’Escalier and inhaled deeply of air that was, for the moment, fresh with the scent of rain. Sadly, it would not last, the new butler had assured her, for the effluent of the city, like that of London, was carried away on a river that ran through the middle of town.
But for now Brussels was lovely and—unlike the Jolie Marie—very, very still. And to Anaïs, not even a deep whiff of the River Senne could lessen the beauty of that.
Across the narrow lane, pots of early flowers perched almost jauntily upon the wrought-iron balconies that marched up the street. Directly below, two elderly men were unloading the fourgon that had followed them from their inn at Ostend, grumbling at each other in what sounded like two or three different languages.
Reluctantly, Anaïs withdrew, for she could feel the promise of rain. It had drizzled almost the whole of their journey inland, but she had not minded, so grateful had she been to get her feet on land, dry or otherwise.
“And this way, madame, is your dressing room,” said the butler’s voice behind her.
Anaïs spun about with a bright smile. “Lead the way, Bernard.”
The butler showed her into a wide passageway with a pair of wardrobes, storage for several trunks, and a small dressing table. In the confined space, one could still catch the scent of fresh paint.
“Through this door, madame, is Mr. MacLachlan’s chamber,” Bernard informed her. “The bathroom, it is shared, and all the rooms connect.”
Anaïs felt her smile fade. This she had not considered when giving in to Geoff’s argument that a sham marriage—even in front of the crew and staff—made a slip-up less likely.
“I am sure, Bernard, that it will do nicely,” she managed.
The servant bowed and went out into the passageway to oversee the trunks, which were now bumbling up the steps. Anaïs watched him go, then drifted back to the window.
Bernard was far more formal than any servant Anaïs’s family had ever engaged. He had come, he explained to them, directly from the Parisian town house of Mr. van de Velde, as had the two housemaids. The footmen had come from Monsieur DuPont’s. The kitchen staff from someone in Amsterdam.
Though they were all trusted and loyal, they were a small group, Bernard had ruefully explained. In addition, their mysterious host—who, in the end, had not been especially mysterious after all—had brought with him a lady’s maid and valet when he met them at the port.
Mr. van de Velde had turned out to be a short, fat, and very rich Rotterdam banker with a swooping mustache and fingers in the financial pies of France, Belgium, and the Netherlands. Like Bessett, he wore the Fraternitas symbol on his cravat pin, albeit without the thistle cartouche.
After a warm welcome, and yet another warning about Lezennes’ reputation, he provided them with maps, keys, and a list of contacts throughout Brussels, then whisked himself off again, for he was too well-known, he explained, to be seen with them beyond the privacy of his enclosed carriage.
Behind Anaïs, Bernard gently cleared his throat.
“The Royal Palace, madame, is that way,” he said, pointing up the hill. “Madame Moreau’s church is a short walk down, just through the Grand Place and flower market. Mind your step, if you please, as you go out, for all of Brussels is under construction.”
Anaïs smiled. “The Revolution has been good for business, I collect?”
“In some ways, oui.” With a tight smile, Bernard dropped his voice. “And especially good for the bankers. Monsieur van de Velde has many business interests hereabouts.”
“Including this house?”
Bernard gave a decidedly Gallic shrug, and opened his hands. “Alas, the previous owner played his cards too deeply,” he murmured. “He was compelled to let out the house for a year. To meet the mortgage.”
“A loan for which Monsieur van de Velde held the note, no doubt,” said Anaïs wryly.
Bernard lifted one slender eyebrow. “He holds many such mortgages, I am sure.”
She turned back to the window, wondering yet again just how deep the tentacles of the Fraternitas wove throughout the governments and the economies of Europe. And van de Velde had taken the house for a year? Good Lord. Surely it wouldn’t take that long to make off with the Moreau family—or what was left of them.
With Maria’s reluctant complicity, Anaïs could skate her way past her parents’ curiosity for a while—a couple of months, perhaps, now that the growing season was here. With a little luck, Armand would be too busy cutting a swath through Town to realize she’d ever come home from Tuscany. And Nate . . . oh, Nate was like a bloodhound if he caught the scent of scandal. Even the clever Maria would not be able to put him off then. But Nate was frightfully busy, and used to her being far away.
Oh, it was true that a Guardian—even an unofficial one such as herself—often had to make personal sacrifices. She would certainly do what was necessary. But a year’s absence, she considered, would burn some bridges. It would ruin her in society. And heaven only knew how she would manage under the same roof with Bessett—with Geoff—for that long.
It would be helpful, perhaps, if he returned to being that haughty, domineering gentleman she’d first met at the St. James Society. Instead, he seemed determined to keep her perpetually off-kilter with the occasional spate of pure kindness. From time to time, even those ice-blue eyes began to look capable of melting.
But Bernard was still standing at her elbow as if awaiting her next command.
“So the house with the red and yellow tulips,” she murmured, “that is the house of the Vicomte de Lezennes?”
Bernard stepped nearer. “Oui, madame,” he said, dropping his voice. “Already we have accomplished much. Mrs. Janssen has made the acquaintance of Lezennes’ cook at the market in the Grand Sablon, and our footman Petit is—how do you call it?—stepping out with the upstairs maid? They will have much to tell you of the rhythms and gossip of the house.”
Anaïs pulled the sheer drapery aside, and peered more intently at the house just two doors up the steep lane. “And what of the child?” she asked pensively. “Has she been seen at all?”
“Very little,” said the servant. “Most days Madame Moreau takes her to the park for a midday walk, and Lezennes meets them there, then walks them home again. He has also engaged a governess to come in each day.”
Just then, Geoff’s firm footsteps came swiftly up the stairs. Anaïs turned to see him striding down the passageway, one of her trunks balanced easily on his right shoulder. Today he wore his straight, heavy hair tied back with a leather cord, as if he were too busy to give it any thought. Her new French maid hastened after him, barely able to keep up with Geoff’s long legs.
“Well, that’s the last of it,” he said, making his way through to her dressing room. “The house is splendidly situated, Bernard.”
“Certainly the view across the street could hardly be better.” Anaïs went to the dressing room door as Geoff set the trunk down with a grunt. “And look, my dear,” she continued, crossing her arms over her chest. “Our dressing rooms connect—and we share a bath.”
From his kneeling position, Bessett cut a teasing glance up at her. “Aye, well, at least there’s a bit of plumbing,” he said evenly. “Up in Yorkshire we still tote our water—hot and cold.”
Claire, her new maid, bobbed a quick curtsy, declaring in rapid French her intent to begin the unpacking.
“Merci,” said Anaïs.
Behind them, the butler cleared his throat again.
“Ah, Bernard,” said Geoff, rising. “You said there was something in the attics you wished us to see?”
The butler gave one of his stiff little bows. “If madame and monsieur would kindly follow me?”
Much like a London townhouse, the house in Brussels was deep and narrow, and consisted of a below-grade service floor with kitchens, three main living floors, and vast attics above. Anaïs and Geoff followed the butler up the last flight of stairs, expecting to find servants’ quarters.
Instead, most of the attic was open and vaulted, finished with white ceilings, a polished wooden floor, and a large, raised skylight to the rear. In one quadrant sat, of all things, a pocket billiard table, longer and perhaps narrower than an English table. In the opposite corner some distance away hung a stuffed leather bag on a rope, such as gentlemen might use for boxing practice. Between the two lay a thick, quilted mat—for indoor wrestling, she assumed, her brothers having a fondness for that sort of brutish violence.
The opposite half of the attic was empty, save for a wall rack containing an array of rapiers and épées, along with miscellaneous side blades and fencing gear. And at two of the dormered windows sat small telescopes mounted on tripods, like those used for navigation, along with a pair of matching chairs.
Geoff turned slowly around, and gave a low whistle of appreciation.
“A gentleman’s paradise, n’est-ce pas?” said Bernard. “The owner is a great fan of sport.”
“Hence his unrelenting indebtedness,” muttered Anaïs, crossing to take down one of the rapiers.
“These telescopes are an unusual touch,” said Geoff, sliding into one of the chairs to peer through the eyepiece. “Ah. I see.”
“They are ours, oui,” said Bernard. “You may wish to move one of them to your bedchamber, perhaps. For now, we take turns here watching Lezennes’ dining room, and what we believe is his front parlor.”
“Seen anything?” asked Geoff, still squinting.
“Occasionally, Madame Moreau,” said Bernard. “She seems to move freely through the house, and she goes out—shopping, a little, and to church two or three times a week.”
“The dossier DuPont gave us says that she is Catholic,” said Anaïs pensively. “Is she devout, do we believe?”
Bernard shrugged. “Her late husband was devout, certainly,” he answered. “Our contacts in Paris believe she is perhaps less so. It may be that church has become an escape from Lezennes’ thumb. Or perhaps the lady is praying desperately for something.”
Anaïs considered it. “And she goes to where?”
“To St. Nicholas,” said the butler.
“Ah,” said Anaïs. “Perhaps it is time I, too, went to confession.”
Geoff straightened from the telescope, and looked at her a little oddly. On one side, much of his hair had slithered from its cord.
Bernard merely bowed. “I shall go now, and get your personal servants situated. Also, sir, Monsieur DuPont has sent an envelope for you. He says it is not urgent. Shall I leave it on your desk?”
“Yes, of course.” Geoff had returned his eye to the scope. “Thank you, Bernard.”
As the attic door closed, Anaïs restored the rapier to its place, sliding it home with a metallic zing!
“No one appears to be at home across the way,” said Geoff, giving up and unfolding his long, lean form from the chair.
“Yes, we’re going to have to go over and make new friends soon,” Anaïs murmured, taking down one of the épées. “I confess to being a tad anxious about it.”
She turned from the rack to see that Geoff was eyeing the weapon in her hand. “Well, you look like you know what you’re doing with that, at least.”
With a grin, Anaïs snapped into stance, and lunged. “En garde!”
Geoff did not so much as blink. “Oh, trust me, my dear, I have been on guard since the moment I laid eyes on you,” he said, wandering toward her with his usual loose-limbed grace. “But I did wonder if old Vittorio hadn’t taught you a trick or two.”
Anaïs felt her grin fade. “Yes, he was a master swordsman in his day,” she said softly. “He was . . . amazing. And renowned throughout Tuscany. Indeed, did you ever hear—”
“—about that secret assassination attempt at the Congress of Vienna?” Admiration warmed Geoff’s brilliant blue eyes. “Now, that exploit made Vittorio famous within the Fraternitas. As I hear it, the knife was intended for Cardinal Consalvi?”
“Yes, the assassin drew his weapon, but never got the chance to strike.” Anaïs thrust her blade forward with a flourish. “Vittorio ran him through blind like so—”
“—whilst standing behind the dais drapery,” Geoff finished.
“Yes, yes, for that was his Gift, you see!” Lowering her left hand, Anaïs dropped her gaze to the épée’s intricate basket grip. “Both his Gift, and his curse. He could sense the . . . the very being of a person; the life force, if you will. And he knew evil for what it was. He could smell it, you see, like the scent of death. He tried to teach me a little . . . but I . . . I think perhaps I did not wish to learn that particular lesson too well. Indeed, I do not envy anyone with so strong a Gift.”
Some inscrutable emotion passed over his face, like an instant of pain, too swift and too raw to be acknowledged. Immediately, he changed the subject, lightening his tone. “So, Mrs. MacLachlan,” he said, “what’s your weapon of choice?”
Anaïs dropped her point. “The rapier with dagger.”
“Ah, the traditional school!”
“Vittorio was nothing if not traditional,” she acknowledged, “save when it came to me.”
“No, you are decidedly untraditional,” he murmured. “What else did Vittorio teach you—besides that smooth lunge and blind sight?”
“I don’t have the gift of blind sight.” Her voice was perfectly emotionless as she drew one finger assessingly down the flat of the blade. “An eventually, yes, he hired a Florentine fencing master for me. Vittorio said he’d grown too old to do a proper job of the faster, more complex moves. That such a job wanted a younger man.”
She glanced up to see Geoff was watching her hand as if mesmerized. “Did he imagine you’d ever have to defend yourself with a sword?”
Anaïs shook her head. “I think he just wanted me to learn grace and speed,” she said. “Clarity of thought under pressure. And the whole sensory thing—well, my instincts are better than average, I’ll grant you. Maria says I’m like a cat in the dark. But I’ll never be Vittorio.”
Geoff’s gaze had softened. “And I wonder what that poor fencing master thought,” he murmured. “Such a lethal beauty you must have seemed. He was probably half in love with you by the time it was over.”
Anaïs felt heat rush to her cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, hastily turning to rehang the weapon. “He thought I had a knack for blades, and nothing more. He tried to teach me the spadone, just for the balance work, but I couldn’t heft the cursed thing with any accuracy.”
Geoff was staring at her with a sudden intensity when she turned round. “Why do I get the impression, Anaïs,” he said quietly, “that you focus far more on your failures than your successes?”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone?” she returned. “Everyone, I mean, who hopes to make something of themselves?”
For a time, he merely looked at her, his head set at an assessing angle. “I think you already have,” he said quietly. “Made something of yourself, I mean. But I get the sense that you push yourself—even to serve other people’s wishes. Your being seasick is a perfect example of that.”
“So you are suggesting I what?” she demanded. “Stay home to avoid a little queasiness? Give up entirely my great-grandmother’s dream?”
She saw his jaw twitch tellingly, just the faintest of movements. “I’m suggesting that you had as bad a case of mal de mer as ever I’ve seen—and I’ve seen grown men weep.” Geoff’s voice was suddenly gruff. “And I’m suggesting that perhaps you ought to live your own dream, if you’ve ever taken time to decide on one.”
She lifted her chin a notch. “And what of yourself?” she returned. “Are you doing precisely what you wish? And remember, I saw your face that night when you talked about your work with your stepfather.”
For a moment, he looked away. “My life changed when Alvin died,” he said. “Until then, yes, I had a career doing something I loved. I knew, of course, in the back of my mind that I could be called by the Fraternitas into service at any time, but the organization had become so fractured—”
“That in the end, you took it upon yourself to repair it,” she interjected, stepping nearer. “And thereby altered your life forever.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I daresay that’s one way to look at it.”
On impulse, she touched him gently on his cheek, and turned his face back into hers. “And thank God you did,” she said, “for it breathed new life into the Fraternitas.”
“I am not sure it was begun quite so unselfishly,” he murmured, glancing away. “Looking back, I think it was done out of anger. For Lazonby.”
“For Lazonby?” Anaïs’s brow furrowed.
“We had fallen in together in Morocco, he and Ruthveyn and I,” said Geoff quietly. “Partners in dissolution, you might say. I had just finished a project for the French government, Lazonby was on leave from the Foreign Legion, and Ruthveyn—well, he was just smoking his way through the opium dens of North Africa. It was all one great bacchanalian orgy until the gendarmes hauled Lazonby off and handed him over to England. So Ruthveyn and I followed.”
“And then what happened?”
“We bought a house, and founded the St. James Society,” he answered. “We made good on all our high talk of resurrecting the Fraternitas. What good is a Brotherhood if it cannot protect its own from false imprisonment?”
“And was Lord Lazonby falsely imprisoned?” asked Anaïs. “It was a murder following a card game gone wrong, the newspapers said.”
“He did not kill the man he was convicted of murdering, no,” said Geoff. “But was he guilty of bad judgment? Yes. A man with a Gift such as his cannot play at cards. All manner of things can turn sour. But Lazonby was little more than a boy then—and even now, he denies that what he has is a Gift.”
“But he has been marked as a Guardian by his family,” she murmured.
“As have you, or so Lazonby says.” For an instant, the ice returned to Geoff’s eyes.
“Yes, as I told you that night in the Temple,” she responded. “That was Nonna Sofia’s instruction to Vittorio—that once I was trained, I should be marked and given to the cause.”
“Why?” he pressed.
Anaïs shrugged. “I do not know,” she said. “Toward the end of her life, my great-grandmother said only that there was something I was meant to do, and that fate would reveal it to me. And yes, I understand one can be a Guardian without metaphysical abilities. It requires only good sense, determination, and a certain amount of bravery. But Lord Lazonby’s Scottish line is a strong one—most of the Scottish lines are, you know.”
“Oh, aye,” said Geoff tightly. “I know it well.”
“And some of the French, too,” she said musingly. “But truly, in parts of Europe, the Fraternitas had become almost ceremonial. One might as well have been joining the local Masonic Lodge—or even the Beefsteak Club—for all the good it did. But I don’t need to tell you that. With all their research and documentation, the St. James Society has begun to put things to rights.”
Geoff made a faintly dismissive sound. He had taken her hand again, and turned it up to trace his index finger over the lines, as if he might read her palm.
Anaïs instead folded her hand over his. “Listen to me, Geoff,” she said a little fiercely. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re now the one selling your good deeds short? You diminish all of us when you do that. And whatever you think of me—whether the Fraternitas wants me or not—I will always believe in what the St. James Society has done.”
“Ah, such kind words, Anaïs!” he said softly.
“They aren’t just words.” Her voice trembled a little. “So often I heard Vittorio praise the work of your society. He believed it would eventually identify and keep safe all those with the Gift. Especially the most vulnerable amongst us. Like Giselle Moreau.”
“Did he?” Geoff caught her hand almost roughly as she tried to draw it away.
Anaïs nodded. “I only wish that my great-grandmother could have lived long enough to see the Fraternitas rise from its ashes,” she said. “To know that it would once again be more than just an old wives’ tale. That it would resume its place as a secret society committed to doing good.”
“It sounds so noble when you put it that way,” he murmured, lifting her hand a little, almost as if he might brush his lips over it. “Perhaps we were just tired of feeling different, Ruthveyn and I. Perhaps we just wanted something to keep ourselves busy—busy enough that we didn’t have time to look inside ourselves and question what we had become.”
“I simply don’t believe that,” she whispered. “Perhaps, Geoff, I . . . I don’t have much of a Gift. But I see you. And I think perhaps you know that.”
She looked up to catch his fierce, cold gaze, only to realize he had pulled her almost effortlessly toward him. It was as if he’d drawn her across time and space instead of the glossy attic floor. An energy—a sort of tangible emotion—seemed to shimmer in the air about them, and every logical thought went skittering like marbles from her head.
They stood chest to chest beneath the rack of swords. Slowly, as if he moved under water, Geoff’s opposite hand came up, his fingers stroking over her cheek. If waking yesterday morning with her dress unbuttoned and her corset laid open had felt intimate, this felt a thousand times more so.
“Ah, Anaïs, this is so unwise,” he murmured. “Tell me . . . tell me we both know that.”