Free The Black Hawk by Joanna Bourne Page B

I didn’t lead anybody here.”
    “He has the skill.” Doyle had all the parts of his gun laid out on the table where he’d pushed his plate away. “It’s his neck, too, if the French stumble in here.”
    “If he’s left a trail here, the French won’t get a chance to kill him.” The Old Bitch picked up her cup and looked over the top. “Tell me what the girl said.”
    He could do that. He started at the beginning—meeting Owl in La Place de la Révolution. “First off, she asked me if I’d seen Robespierre die. Called him the ‘great man.’ But sarcastic-like. I said . . .”
    He knew how to report. He used to do this when he worked for Lazarus, back when the King of Thieves owned his soul, such as it was. When Lazarus wanted information, a fellow gave it to him fast, not wasting words and not making mistakes.
    Working for Carruthers wasn’t all that different from working for the cold-blooded bastard who ran the London underworld, except now he lied and stole for England, and he was likely to get killed by the French instead of dancing in the air on the nubbing cheat.
    He went back over his encounter with Owl, word for word, as near as he could remember. Doyle cleaned his gun. Two more agents came in, took chairs, and listened. Althea—she was the other old lady spy, but fifty times more reasonable than the lead-plated bitch—brought out eggs and toasted bread and laid it down in front of him.
    Maggie sat on a stool to the side of the kitchen under the window. She was five days married. Married to Doyle over there. They were generally within sight of each other when they could manage it. She was spending her honeymoon busy as a cat with two tails, but not the way you’d think. Or not only that. She had maybe two hundred gold louis piled up on a barrel top in front of her. She was counting them into bags and writing out notes, giving orders for La Flèche business she wouldn’t be here to see to, personal. She’d be leaving France tomorrow.
    Maggie was another one who wouldn’t let Bitch Carruthers get peevish and slit his throat.
    He finished up his report with, “. . . said she’d expect me at sunset and I should wear something unobtrusive.”
    They all sat, considering him.
    Doyle fingered the crop of bristle that was establishing itself on his cheek. He hadn’t shaved, since he might need to go out and look scruffy on the streets. “So she says they’re about to close this Coach House operation. You have to go in tonight. That’s not much warning.”
    “I doubt the timing is accidental.” Carruthers had a way of looking at you so you almost doubted yourself. “You saw a dozen children, learning to fight.”
    “Thirteen. They’re doing a good job of it. If Owl is right—”
    “Justine DuMotier,” the Old Bitch corrected.
    “Her. If they learn English as well as they’re learning to fight, they’ll pass for English kids. No problem.”
    A long stare from Carruthers. She turned to Doyle. “Do you believe this?”
    “It’s an elaborate lie, if it’s a lie. Why bother?”
    Carruthers came back with, “The boy’s not worth the trouble of arresting. You are. Are they after you?”
    When Althea went around pouring coffee, she poured some for him too. The cup was thin as paper and the color of blue jewels, with curly gold leaves painted on it. The only time he touched something like this was to steal it. It didn’t feel right, drinking out of it.
    They started talking back and forth, all of them arguing, and left him to eat in peace.
    “If the girl belongs to the Pomme d’Or, then Soulier’s behind this.”
    “. . . and the very wily Madame Lucille. They’re both old enemies of the Jacobin faction, particularly Patelin. This could be aimed at discrediting him.”
    “. . . internal politics of the Police Secrète. The DuMotier girl’s being used by them, at the very least. Probably she’s an agent herself.”
    “If the boy gets caught, it looks like a British operation. That