Prologue

Irène Daniau set down her duster and softly closed the door to Minister Clarke’s study. She took a quick glance through the papers on his desk. There was nothing of interest today just requisitions for supplies and reports on the number of casualties from the last battle fought. She sighed. As Minister of War, Clarke usually had detailed information on the number of troops at any given location as well as an abundance of other information useful to the English government.

Irène was supposed to meet George, her counterpart, the following morning, and she needed something to give him. For the past week, there hadn’t been anything of interest here. It was almost as if Clarke knew Irène was copying his documents—but that was ridiculous, no one even looked twice at the ordinary little maid who dusted and changed sheets.

In a fit of frustration, Irène felt under and around the desk. Perhaps there was a secret drawer somewhere that she hadn’t found before. Somewhere he was keeping his more sensitive documents.

There was nothing under the desk. She crouched behind the table and ran her hands down the intricate wood carving that decorated either side of the ornate piece of furniture, randomly pressing at anything that protruded more than it’s surroundings.

After minutes of fruitless search, she finally felt something depress. A soft click and a very shallow drawer opened up just below the one that held his stationary. It was well hidden, looking like it was simply a part of the drawer above it. Inside was the minister’s official seal.

Mon Dieu! Irène thought. With this—

“Marie! What do you think you are doing?” the harsh voice of the housekeeper made Irène jump.

She looked up and over the top of the desk. “Madame? I… I am cleaning Monsieur’s desk. The carving here was gathering dusk in all the small cracks and crannies,” she said as she quickly pocketed the seal. Thank goodness the drawer made almost no sound as it closed.

The woman was around the desk in a moment, peering suspiciously at Irène. “I do not believe you, you little trollop. You are searching for money. I know your sort.” The woman shook an accusing finger at Irène. She then stretched her arm out, using that same finger to point to the door. “Out! You no longer work in this house. Do you understand me? We do not suffer thieves in Monsieur Clarke’s home. You will leave immediately.”

“But, Madame!” Irène protested.

“No. There is no arguing. Go and find yourself another position elsewhere.”

“Will you write me a letter—” Irène began. Without a letter of recommendation, she would not be able to find another position, and it was vital to her work that she be embedded into the home of some official in Napoleon’s army. It had been a major coup that she’d gotten a position in the home of the minister of war.

“Absolutely not! Now, go!” The woman stamped her foot to emphasize her words.

Irène had no choice but to do as she was told. At least she had the seal. That would surely make her superior, Lord Everston, happy. And perhaps she would be able to find another position even without a letter from the housekeeper. Letters could be forged, after all.

With all her worldly goods packed into a small valise, Irène left the minister’s home and headed toward the center of Paris. At least she would not have to worry about sneaking out to meet her contact the following day. Perhaps she would go early and spend some time looking at the works of art stolen from the nobles who’d met Madame Guillotine over the years. Napoleon had them displayed at the palace of the royal family near the Seine, which he now called Le Musée Napoleon, and was open to visitors. And thank goodness it wasn’t so cold anymore. She would be sleeping outdoors tonight.

The following morning at precisely ten, Irène was strolling slowly around one of the artifacts, which had been brought back from Egypt. She did not understand Napoleon’s fascination with such odd things. They were not to her taste at all. Sadly, it was where she was to meet her counterpart. Ah, and there he was.

She lifted a hand and gave him a smile as only a lover would share. “Georges, I have missed you,” she exclaimed loud enough to be heard by any passersby.

He smiled and kissed both of her cheeks. “My darling, it has only been two days,” he said, his French accent that of the lower classes to match his thin coat and badly scuffed boots.

She laced her arm through his. “It feels like forever, but then when one has no position, time passes so differently.”

“No position?” He looked down at her, concern on his face.

She shook her head. “Me, I was accused of thievery when anyone would know that is ridiculous. I would never bend so low. But nonetheless, I was thrown out.”

He tsked sadly. “I am sorry,” he said quietly in English.

She shrugged and then slipped the seal out of her pocket and into his, under the cover of their arms locked together. “I did manage to take this away with me, however,” she said, responding in the same language.

He shook his head and slipped it right back. “Give it to him yourself. If you have no job, you should return.”

“But, George—”

He held up a hand. “Irène, you know the way of things. Discuss it with him.” He slipped her a small pouch filled with money. By the weight of it, it would be enough to get her from Paris to London, and perhaps there would even be a little left over for a nice meal once she arrived.

They walked in silence for a few minutes before he said, returning to French, “I will miss you.”

She looked up into his handsome face. She had no feelings for this man other than that of the closest of friends. Indeed, he had been not only her contact here in Paris, but her lifeline and her friend. How many hours had they spent together teaching each other their own languages in their own accents? Too many to count. But after five years, he now spoke French like any workman, and she could mimic the English of the haute ton of British society.

With a scowl, Irène pulled away from him, turned on her heel and left, commenting just loud enough to be heard by the people she passed, “Men! You cannot trust them.”

She was not happy. She didn’t want to return to London. She wanted to continue doing what she had been doing for the past five years—stealing documents for the English government and doing all she could to bring down the regime of the man who was supposed to bring equality to the masses but instead had only recreated a nobility of his cronies. It disgusted her, and she stomped angrily all the way out of the museum.

#

“Pippin Poppleton? You have got to be kidding! Who in their right mind would believe such a ridiculous name?” Philippe Proulx, Comte de Vernais asked with a sneer.

“I fully expect all those idiot English to believe it, without even the blink of an eyelash,” Fouché said. He curled his lips to match those of Vernais. “And if they do not, it will be your fault.” He turned to the older woman who stood in the cell next to Vernais. “Your dear auntie’s head will look so good gracing a fence post at the palace.”

Silent tears slipped down the lady’s soft cheeks—cheeks that had nestled against Philippe since his own were as soft and downy. “You do what you feel is right, Philippe. Do not think of me. I am old, and will go to God soon in any case. If they want to hasten my departure, let them.”

He turned to her and took her into his arms as much as the iron bars between them would allow. “I will not let them, Aunt Margrit. You know I cannot.” He placed a loving kiss to her forehead just as she had done so many times to him as he’d grown from a scared, orphaned boy to the man he was today.

He loved this woman even more than he’d loved his own mother, for in truth, his mother had not been nearly so kind and loving as her younger sister. His mother had enjoyed her parties, her gowns, and her antics. She had enjoyed court life until it had killed her and Philippe’s father when he’d tried to stop her from engaging in some stupid race. They’d both died, leaving Philippe to be raised by his aunt and uncle.

“I have no choice,” he whispered into his aunt’s hair before pulling back and turning to Fouché. The tall, slender man was looking down his patrician nose at the display of affection before him.  “Fine, I shall do it. I shall become this… this Pippin Poppleton.”

The man’s sneer turned into a smile. “A wise decision. And may I congratulate you on your newly appointed viscountcy? I hereby name you Viscount Poppleton.”

“Viscount? I am to be reduced in status? I should be an earl by the English system,” Philippe protested.

The man spread his hands wide. “I am so sorry. It was the best we could do for you. At least, you get to keep your silly initials.”

Philippe looked down at the ring on his finger, two Ps intertwined in gold. It had been his father’s ring and his grandfather’s before him. It had been worn by the head of the Proulx family for over a century. Well, he would be able to continue wearing it. He supposed this was something.

“Excellent,” the man said, rubbing his hands together. “Now, let us work on your English accent, shall we?”

“Wait! I want my aunt placed into more comfortable lodgings. She cannot stay here in this cell for months while I collect your intelligence,” Philippe told the man, planting his feet firm.

Fouché sighed. “Very well. We shall move her. I promise you, she shall be made comfortable, if imprisoned, until you get us what we want. Now, let us go.”

“But what of his position?” his aunt called from her cell. As always, she was thinking only of him. “He is an officer in the Emperor’s army.”

“His supriors know he is working for me now,” Fouche answered the woman. He then turned to Philippe. “And if you are successful, perhaps I can arrange for promotion. How does colonel sound, Major?”

“I would rather rise by my own merit as I always have than accept such a gift from you. Just be sure I can return to the field and my men.” Philippe turned and reached out a hand to his aunt. “I will refuse to leave until I see you in comfortable rooms.”

“Do not worry for me, Philippe, just go and do what you must. I shall see you when you return to France. I promise,” she said, holding his hand up to her cheek. “I shall see you soon.”