A Dance with Seduction

by Alyssa Alexander

  “Nothing of import.” So many lies. “The agent, he must have confused my room with Anne’s.”

  Both heads jerked up. Two sets of eyes narrowed on Vivienne. She was being skewered by family, though Mrs. Asher was not a blood relative. Wisdom suggested she turn away and ignore both females so they could not guess what was happening.

  Wisdom did not always follow love.

  “I have been given two assignments this night. One of them will make Henri very angry.” Even now, with only Mrs. Asher and Anne, she used the French pronunciation. One small lapse might mean two, which might become three. “The other assignment will make someone else very angry.” Worry and dread hunched her shoulders so the knife tucked inside her stays pressed against her breastbone.

  “What will you do?” Anne sawed at the onion, hacking off uneven bits. With luck that particular vegetable was not needed for dinner.

  “I do not know.” Leaning against the table, Vivienne absently fingered the transparent, papery onion skin piled there. She felt stretched as thin as that peel. But transparent? She hoped not.

  “You cannot risk your position, miss, if I may be so bold.” Mrs. Asher dropped a lump of dough onto the sturdy wooden table and began to work it. Forearms dusted with flour, she kneaded, pressing and turning the bread. “We have food and a roof because of what you do. Don’t risk that.”

  Mrs. Asher was right. Without Vivienne’s position with Henri, they would have nothing—but Mrs. Asher and Anne did not know the whole of it. If she defied Henri, she might be deported or hanged. It had always been so. Even when the English declared the Flower their best spy, when the French raged because she could steal their secrets and elude them so easily, Henri still knew she was once a pickpocket and thief on the London streets.

  I am all that stands between you and the gallows.

  He had said those words, and she remembered each syllable as if he had spoken them yesterday. Could she still be sent to the gallows? She did not know, and there was no one to ask but Henri.

  She was tied to him.

  “Perhaps if you tell Lord Wycomb about the second assignment, he will let you do both,” Anne suggested. She sniffled and used her plain cotton sleeve to wipe away a tear.

  “No, that I cannot do.” Vivienne was reminded why she did not slice onions as its pungency stung her eyes.

  “I don’t understand why not.” Anne stopped cutting the onion and looked up with eyes amusingly red and teary, but Vivienne could not find the strength to smile.

  “Henri is not—” Vivienne swallowed hard, lowered her voice. She must be careful. Walls had ears. “Henri provides for us, but it is not because he cares so much for us.”

  “No, miss.” Mrs. Asher folded thick, work-reddened hands over her stomach, dough and all. She planted her feet squarely on the stone floor. “It is you who cares so much.”

  Vivienne shook her head. It did not signify. These women, her sister and the woman who had cared for her until Vivienne could see Anne settled—they were her responsibility.

  If she did as the French Vulture asked and was discovered, she would be hanged for treason against the English.

  If she did as Henri required of her that evening, she would remain alive to protect Anne from the Vulture—and she would not have the whole of the English government out for her blood.

  “Henri, then,” she murmured, looking about her. Gold autumn sunlight flickered into the room to illuminate the onions and bowls of pudding and flour, mocking their difficult subject. “I have made my choice.”

  “Good.” Anne’s voice seemed strong in the quiet kitchen. “Mrs. Asher, I think this onion might be rotten. It’s making my eyes water.”

  “Lud, girl. It’s not rotten, it’s supposed to do that.” Mrs. Asher peered over Anne’s shoulder. “The more you hack at it that way, the worse it will be. Let me show you. A woman needs good knife skills in the kitchen to land a husband or a position.”

  Now Vivienne did find the strength to smile. Her sister, someday, might have a husband. Even children. She could see Anne as a woman, preparing a simple meal in a warm, comfortable kitchen in a sweet cottage somewhere green and open. Perhaps a child would be tugging at her skirts and a great, handsome man would kiss her cheek. Mrs. Asher might still be with them, knitting by the fire in a rocking chair or holding a new babe and helping Anne to care for it.

  It was for this Vivienne fought so hard. Espionage was her life and it was good, but it was not for Anne. Mrs. Asher and Anne trusted her to protect them, sleeping each night secure in the knowledge they were safe because she was there.

  She would do what was best for all of them.

  The Vulture could go to hell.

  Chapter Four

  “Sir, you do not have time to attend a soiree, even if it is hosted by the Prince Regent.” Daggett huffed, his chest swelling with indignation. “You have work to do. Important work.”

  “Yes, Daggett.” Maximilian stared into the mirror. His cravat was crooked. Damnation, how was a man to get these things straight without a proper valet? He’d let his go last month due to finances and had been dressing himself since.

  “You should be working on the French medical text. The completion date is quite finite. Only two days remain.” Daggett lifted his pudgy frame to the balls of his feet. The ever-present ledger waved in the air, a herald of timeliness.

  “Yes, Daggett.” Maximilian tugged one last time before abandoning his ministrations. It was only a neckcloth. No one would care if it was crooked.

  “The prime minister has asked that you translate a letter from India. Quickly.” Brushing imaginary lint from Maximilian’s sleeve, Daggett made an irritated sound in his throat. “You cannot ignore his lordship.”

  “Yes, Daggett.” He usually avoided these ton gatherings. A lot of bored people wore ridiculous clothes and gossiped about one another. Silly, really. Except a gentleman did not refuse the prince—at least not a man whose livelihood still depended to some degree upon the government and the monarchy, even if the missives were diplomatic letters instead of coded military messages.

  “Do you suppose Mademoiselle La Fleur will have additional messages to decipher?” Daggett asked. “I should like to schedule them in advance, if so.”

  He’d lost the thread of the conversation. “Mademoiselle La Fleur?”

  “Will she be a regular client again?” Daggett’s quill hung suspended above the ledger, feather quivering with anticipation as it waited to record Maximilian’s statement.

  “I sincerely hope not.” He didn’t want the Flower as a regular client. Maximilian no longer wanted to be wrangled into spying and code breaking and Frenchwomen working for the English government. He had done what needed to be done during the war against Napoleon. Now the war was finished, and so was he.

  “Hmm.” Daggett scribbled something into the ledger. “I shall make a notation that she may be arriving with more frequency. Perhaps she shall even arrive during the day instead of in the dead of night.”

  Moreover, the Flower didn’t smell like a flower. Nor was she delicate. She was like a hardy thornbush. It quite amazed him that the men of London only saw the exquisitely beautiful opera dancer and never the sharp, strong woman beneath.

  Of course, in the demi-monde, men didn’t notice what lay beyond the surface. Living in the center of that world and supported by a wealthy protector, the Flower made a very effective spy.

  “Sir, you have made a mess of your cravat. It is quite wrinkled. Do have a care, next time.” Daggett sounded quite angry.

  “It is only a cravat.” Frowning, he studied the mangled mess in the glass. “Give me another. I’m going to tie it the old way instead of one of these new methods the dandies use.”

  When he left the town house, the second cravat was also wrinkled and not the least bit fashionable. But it was around his neck and tied, and Daggett assured him
he would not be an utter embarrassment to his assistant.

  Carleton House was ablaze with light when he arrived. As usual, it was full of raucous, half-drunk guests. All Prinny’s favorites, of which Maximilian was one—to his everlasting surprise. He’d helped the regent pen a coded love letter to his mistress, which she had delighted in. Now he endured the odd dinner parties and balls and excessive drinking and eating, because a favorite did not refuse the Prince Regent.

  Tonight was no different. Music played, glasses clinked, elaborate gowns shimmered everywhere. A young lord fondled a widow’s breasts, and after ensuring it was not his married brother doing the groping, Maximilian turned away. They might be lovely breasts, but a gentleman would perform such acts in private rather than a crowded salon—and with more respect.

  Judging the tenor of the party, he decided it was already beyond salvaging and searched for his host. If he greeted Prinny and made a point of speaking with one or two of the guests not already swimming in their cups, he could return to his work quickly enough.

  He found the Prince Regent ensconced on a settee, looking like his corpulent body had been planted on the seat. Beside him, with her hand on his arm and her head bent toward his, was Vivienne La Fleur.

  The Flower.

  Only not as he’d ever seen her.

  Dark curls bounced and flirted around her face as she laughed aloud at something Prinny said. Her mouth was wide and red and lush, her laughter throaty. Color rose on her cheeks, and her eyes were bright. Not with drink, he saw, but with pleasure.

  “Monsieur Le Roi, you are a naughty man.” She sparkled up at the prince, then angled her head. “I have my protector, and so I must decline.”

  “Mademoiselle La Fleur, your loyalty pains me sorely, though it does you credit.” Prinny took her hand and raised it to his lips. He appeared to want to gobble the Flower right up, like a French pastry at the end of a long meal.

  There was something about her vivacity in the midst of the ton, the confection of white lace and pale-blue satin she wore, the laughter lurking beneath her curving lips—all of it could lure a man. Maximilian couldn’t decide if he would count himself luckier to drown in those dark eyes or turn and sail away.

  The prince caught sight of Maximilian and grinned. “Max, my boy! Do meet Vivienne La Fleur, the best opera dancer to grace the King’s Theatre. Mademoiselle La Fleur, may I present The Honorable Maximilian Westwood?”

  “Mademoiselle La Fleur.” Maximilian ignored Prinny’s use of the utterly ridiculous name Max and bowed in greeting. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said, meeting the spy’s eyes as he bent low.

  “Monsieur Westwood.” Not even by an eyelash did she reveal she knew him already. Instead, she sparkled up at him as she had done to Prinny, coy and gorgeous, with her hair artfully styled to appear as though she’d been well tumbled.

  He did not care for it. The riot of hair made him think of beds, a warm female body, and the Flower’s hair spread across a pillow.

  “This is a most delicious soiree, is it not?” she asked, smile quirking up on one side.

  “Delicious,” he repeated. Not a word he would have chosen, as it made him sound like a milksop.

  Her smiled widened, and he knew she laughed at him. “You do not have a beverage, Monsieur Westwood. Come, we must rectify that, do you not think, Monsieur Le Roi?”

  “You must see to his comfort, my dear,” Prinny said, still gripping her hand. “Not before my own, however.”

  She laughed again and bent forward to whisper something in the prince’s ear. The regent’s gaze darted toward her bosom. She knew her quarry well, it seemed, as the glimpse and the whispered words served to have her host relinquishing her hand. “When you return, then.”

  Mademoiselle La Fleur stood, and even with heeled slippers she just met the height of Maximilian’s shoulder. “If you will excuse me, then.” Sinking into a deep curtsy, she fluttered her fan over her bodice.

  Now it was Maximilian who was given a glimpse of cleavage. Her gown barely covered the lavish breasts presented by the plunging bodice. Little blue flowers dotted the sleeves and neckline. They moved with every breath, every shift of her breasts.

  Reluctantly, he sent his gaze over her head to study the gold chinoiserie paper covering the walls. He was a gentleman. A pretty spy would not change him, however luscious the breasts she offered. When she rose, he politely offered his arm and wished the Flower to perdition. He wanted to leave immediately, not drink wine or brandy or another liquor bound to muddle his brain.

  Or see the lovely curve of her breasts.

  They were not something he usually saw when she came to his study. Nor did he see a smiling woman. This was not the solemn spy who slipped into his home with codes to be broken and weapons too numerous to count. This was a charming, playful woman—and a stranger to him. He could not reconcile the two.

  Then again, perhaps he could. Neither of them was truthful.

  As they started to move through the crowd, he cast his mind around for a suitable conversation topic and said the first thing that came to mind. “You do realize, mademoiselle, that the Prince Regent is not yet the king. You cannot call him Monsieur Le Roi.”

  An amused smile curved her pink lips. “This, I know. He delights in my words and that a pretty Frenchwoman finds him attractive. Accordingly, I call him king, and he laughs and thinks much of himself.”

  She was excellent at deception. Hopefully the prince never discovered it.

  “If you would like an escort to another group or to find a refreshment, I would be delighted.” Could one’s tongue turn black and fall out if one lied often enough? Perhaps he should ask the Flower. “However, I do not desire a drink.”

  “This, too, I know also, Monsieur Westwood.” She did not look at him as she spoke, but waved to some acquaintance or other with her fan as they passed. “You need a good woman and a good tumble to set you straight, not a drink. I told the prince the same.”

  He nearly choked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “A tumble.” She slid dark eyes toward him. “Not from me, you understand.” Ah, there was the Flower he knew behind the focused gaze. She was only playing at being an coquette, then.

  For a moment he was disappointed.

  “Do you know your cravat is ridiculous?” she said. “Did your valet allow you to leave your town house with such a monumental disaster?”

  Suddenly the damned linen felt too tight, though a moment ago it had been comfortable. Thing felt like a noose around his neck, now that she had spoken of it. “It isn’t too wrinkled. I checked.”

  “It should not be wrinkled at all. Come.”

  Sliding her free hand around his arm, she linked her fingers together in the crook of his elbow and led him from the salon. Guests lingered in the hall, deep in conversation or flirtation. Gazes flicked their way, and though she smiled gaily, they did not stop until they were in a dim offshoot from the main area. He wasn’t certain why he followed along. He should have shrugged her off, but her hands were insistent on his arm, and he couldn’t seem to dislodge them.

  “This is a pathetic attempt,” she said, turning him so his back was pressed against the wall. “I cannot help the wrinkles, unfortunately.”

  Maximilian let the sound of her words wind through him, trying to determine the dialect again. He closed his eyes. “Français méridional, is that right? Meridional French, influenced by Occitan in southern France.”

  Small, silk-clad fingers had reached for the base of his throat. They stilled, then tangled in linen.

  “That is right.” Insistent hands tugged and loosened the starched white fabric. “My family came here when I was only a little girl.”

  “Are they here in London?” Curiosity about the Flower’s past trapped him, the minutes and years swirling in his mind. “Do you see them often?”

  “No.” Long lashes co
vered her gaze, fanning out to create shadows on her cheekbones. “They have all died.”

  “I am sorry.” He was, though he did not care for much of his own family. Pain did not enter her expression or her tone, but the lack of emotion revealed more than he’d expected.

  “It was long ago.” Breasts rose as she breathed deep, the valley between shadowed in the unlit hall. “You are tall, monsieur,” she said softly. “It is a good height.”

  She began to retie the fabric, smoothing and twisting.

  He should have stopped her. A dark hallway was his brother’s venue, not his. Yet the cravat was ridiculous, and she appeared competent. “You have considerable experience with such knots.”

  She pursed her lips in a coy, knowing smile. “I am an opera dancer. I have a protector. Do you think I would not have learned to do this?”

  “I suppose mistresses must learn these things.” Her face was shadowed in the hall, and he could not see her eyes. He discovered he wanted to so he could gauge what lay behind them. The Flower lived in the same world as his brother—courtesans, glasses overflowing with brandy, and infidelity—but she did not seem to possess a similar dishonorable nature.

  Through the dim light he searched her features, but there was nothing he could translate to thoughts. No code to be read. Her eyes were downcast, hiding any glimpse into her soul. “What will you do when you are old and have no more protectors?”

  Her hands ceased their ministrations.

  Devil take it. Had he asked that question aloud? He stepped away so she could not finish whatever concoction she was making with the cravat. “My apologies. I have no right to ask—”

  “Stop.” Her fingers fisted in the cloth and pulled him back to her. Strength was in those hands, in her dancer’s arms. “When my role is no longer agreeable, I shall find a new role.”

  Her face might be unreadable, but he could decipher her words. She spoke of spying, not dancing or being a mistress. The brisk tone was one she used in his study, serious and sober, rather than that of an insipid tease sitting beside Prinny.