Read Chapter 14: The Countess’s Favor

The farmhouse stank of cider and blood. Moreau pressed his back to the splintered doorframe, breathing shallow, listening for bootfalls over the distant drumbeat of morning muster. The canvas-wrapped fingerprint sat heavy in his coat pocket. So did the scrap of paper with its partial watermark—a mill in Mechelen, outside French supply lines. Bourbon money. Bourbon paper.

The Countess de Vancy had not come to him in the fog of the last three days. She had been a name on a guest list, a whisper in Lefebvre’s tent, a silhouette at the edge of camp who always seemed to be watching the quartermaster’s stores with too much interest. And now she was his only thread.

He found her carriage two hours later, at the crossroads outside Genappe. The horses were lathered. The coachman wore civilian clothes but sat like a cavalryman. Moreau approached from the treeline, hands raised, his stolen provost coat torn at the shoulder.

The curtain drew back. A woman’s face, sharp-boned and amused, studied him over a silver-handled fan.

“Captain Moreau,” the Countess said. “You look like a man who has lost his regiment.”

“I’ve lost a great deal more than that, madame.”

She smiled. “Then you’ve come to the right woman. I’ve always had a taste for lost things.”

The carriage door opened. Moreau hesitated, then climbed in. The interior smelled of rosewater and powder—not gunpowder, but the kind women pressed into their hair. She wore deep blue silk. A small Bourbon lily was embroidered on her glove.

“You know who I am,” he said.

“Everyone knows who you are. The quartermaster who stole the Emperor’s gold. The provost has offered a rather handsome reward for your capture.” She tilted her head. “But you’re not here to surrender, are you?”

“I’m here because you helped the Crow.”

Her expression flickered, just for a moment. Then the smile returned, wider now. “That’s a dangerous accusation.”

“It’s not an accusation. It’s a conversation.” Moreau pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket. “This watermark is from a mill in Mechelen. Belgian paper, not French. The only local contact with Bourbon sympathies who had access to the Crow’s movements is you. The fingerprint I found matches a hand that touched the gold crates. I’m going to find out whose.”

The Countess laughed. It was a light, musical sound, utterly at odds with the gravity of his words. She leaned forward and laid a gloved hand on his knee.

“Captain, you misunderstand me. I did help the Crow. I gave him shelter, gave him names, gave him a way to move through this country without being noticed. But I did not know what he was stealing until it was already done.” She paused. “And when I learned the gold was meant for a secret operation, not for the Emperor’s coffers at all, I found the whole affair rather distasteful.”

Moreau’s jaw tightened. “The gold was never meant for Waterloo.”

“No.” She withdrew her hand. “It was meant for something far more interesting. But that’s not what you want from me, is it? You want to know where the gold is now. Where the Crow’s partners moved it after you killed him.”

He didn’t flinch at the word *killed*. “I want the location. I want the names. And I want to walk out of this carriage without a provost blade in my back.”

The Countess considered him for a long moment. Outside, the coachman shifted on his seat. Somewhere distant, a cannon fired—French artillery, practicing for the battle everyone knew was coming.

“I can give you the location,” she said at last. “The gold was moved the night Finch died. It went north, to a windmill outside the camp. A neutral meeting point, used by both sides before battles. The English know it. The Prussians know it. And now you will know it.”

Moreau’s heart beat faster. “And the names?”

“I don’t have them. The Crow was careful. He worked alone on the details, even if he had accomplices in the shadows. But I can tell you this—he was not the only one. There is a network. The letter you found, the one with the Prussian eagle, that was not the first of its kind. There are others, deeper in the French command. Men you have served with for years.”

“Then help me find them.”

The Countess smiled again, but this time it did not reach her eyes. “Help is a word that implies charity, Captain. I am not a charitable woman.”

“Name your price.”

She looked at him, assessing, weighing. Then she said, “There is a man in your regiment. Colonel Lefebvre. He carries a letter from the Emperor, sealed with the imperial cipher. I want it.”

Moreau’s blood went cold. “That’s treason.”

“No, Captain. That is politics.” She smoothed her skirts. “The Bourbons are returning. Not today, perhaps, and not tomorrow. But Napoleon’s star is setting. When it falls, I want to be on the winning side. That letter contains names—French names—who have already pledged themselves to the Emperor’s cause. When the time comes, I will need those names to prove my loyalty to the restored throne.”

“You’re asking me to betray my commanding officer.”

“I’m asking you to save your regiment,” she said softly. “The gold is gone. You know that now. Finch told you before he died—it was never meant to be found. But your men don’t know that. They think you stole it. They are muttering. The provost is hunting you. By nightfall, there will be blood in that camp, and it will not be the enemy’s.”

Moreau stared at her. The carriage swayed slightly. The rosewater was cloying in his throat.

“The letter is in Lefebvre’s tent,” she continued. “Third lockbox from the door. The key is in his coat pocket. He wears it on a chain. You’ll need to take it from him.”

“I won’t kill him.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to make a choice.” She leaned back against the velvet cushions. “You can walk out of here with the location of the gold, and with the knowledge of the network that surrounds you. Or you can walk out of here with your honor intact, and your men will hang you before noon tomorrow.”

The windmill. North of the camp. The gold was there.

“And if I refuse?”

The Countess’s smile turned sharp. “Then you will not leave this carriage. My coachman is not a coachman. He is a former sergeant in the King’s Guard, and he is very loyal to me. You are a fugitive, Captain. No one will miss you.”

Moreau looked at her gloves again. The Bourbon lily. He had spent years fighting against that flower. Now it was asking him to trade his honor for the lives of his men.

The cannon fired again, closer this time.

“The letter,” he said slowly, “is sealed with the Emperor’s cipher. I cannot forge it. If Lefebvre notices it missing, there will be an inquiry.”

“There will be an inquiry anyway,” the Countess said. “You are already implicated. What is one more crime?”

Moreau thought of the mutiny building in the camp. He thought of Bisset, bleeding in the farmhouse. He thought of the gold, sitting in a windmill, waiting for the enemy to claim it.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “But I need proof you’ll keep your word. I need the name of one of the network’s agents. A name I can verify.”

The Countess hesitated, then reached into her sleeve and drew out a small, folded paper. “This is a list of three men who were seen entering the windmill the night the gold was moved. Two are English officers. One is French.”

Moreau took the paper. He unfolded it. The handwriting was neat, precise, feminine.

The third name made his blood run cold.

He looked up at the Countess. “This can’t be right.”

“I assure you, it is.” She watched him with something like pity. “You said you had served with the man for years. You were right.”

Moreau folded the paper and tucked it into his coat, next to the fingerprint and the scrap of Mechelen paper. He reached for the carriage door.

“The windmill,” he said. “How far?”

“Three miles north. A straight road.” She paused. “But Captain—you should know that the Prussian patrol Finch was supposed to meet has not scattered. They have regrouped. They are waiting for him at the windmill. If you go there, you will not be alone.”

Moreau stepped out of the carriage into the cold morning air. The Countess leaned forward, her face framed in the carriage window.

“I’ll expect the letter by tonight.”

“You’ll get it,” he said, though he wasn’t certain he would survive to deliver it.

The carriage rolled away. Moreau stood in the road, the paper burning against his chest, the name of the third man—the French officer who had helped steal the gold, the man he had served with for years—still echoing in his mind.

He had thought he was hunting a traitor. He had not expected it to be his own brother-in-arms, Capitaine Renard.