Vivienne put her mouth to Anne’s ear, ignoring the tickle of hair on her nose. “They have come,” she breathed.
The girl stiffened, muscles tensing, though she could not know who they were. Terror radiated from her so vividly, so sharply, Vivienne could almost smell it—but Anne did not move.
Good girl.
Vivienne waited for the next sound. Which direction would they come from? She could not move until she knew. Sweat slicked her palm so the hilt of the knife slid against her skin.
Now fear clutched in her own belly. She did not sweat. It was not tolerated. Sweat and terror would make her knife inaccurate.
Another sound met her ears. A scrape. Perhaps a branch on the window. Or perhaps not. There was no tree, and so no branch could scrape.
They were coming in through the window, then.
Again into Anne’s ear she whispered. “When I say so, run into the hall. Hide behind the secret wall in the linen closet downstairs. Take the footman and Mrs. Asher with you.” Mrs. Asher would know to go straight to the closet and to take Anne. They would be safe.
Anne shook her head, and Vivienne heard her breath tumbling in and out in a mad rush.
“You must hide.” Vivienne clutched at her sister’s arm, pressing her fingers into young skin to make her point. Hide! She wanted to scream it, but could not. “Do not come out until I let you out, or until morning, then run far and fast and do not return to England.” It was the best she could do.
There was no time for a proper good-bye.
Swallowing her sorrow, Vivienne rose to a crouch, balancing on the balls of her feet. She took a second knife from her boot. One knife for each hand, hilts solid in her curled fingers. Comforting, even.
She would not be alone when she faced the intruders. She would have her knives.
Vivienne studied the window, the outline of the drapes. The fabric would move, ever so slightly, once they entered. There had not been any movement yet. She had another moment, then, to gather herself for the battle. To center and quiet the mind, to control breath and push away fear and sorrow.
She turned her head to look at Anne and saw the girl’s eyes were wide and petrified. Anne tried to smile bravely, but her smile wobbled and tore at Vivienne’s heart.
She would carry that valiant, trembling smile with her. Always.
“Go.”
Anne’s thin, taut body sprang up, as an arrow might be loosed from a bow. She wrenched the bedroom door open and slipped through, the hem of her nightgown a whisper in the night as it disappeared from view. The candle sputtered in the draft from the door, then was extinguished, leaving a thin trail of smoke.
Vivienne spun on the balls of her feet and set her back to the door, arms raised. There was no light to glint on the blades of her knives. No movement in the air. But she felt the intruders. In the dark. In the night. The drapes had moved while her back was turned, and she had not seen. They were in the room.
The shadow sprang at her.
Her breath stopped. Turning to the side, she shot a leg out, up and high. It connected with the column of a neck. Someone else’s breath wheezed out. She ignored the sound and took satisfaction in the feel of flesh against her booted foot.
Vivienne arced her knife into the air. The man jumped back, but another was in his place. The whisper of a blade slid through the air, perilously close to her side. She did not hesitate. A thrust, a parried slice. Neither made contact, so she leaped forward.
Even as her blade slashed through fabric and skin, air rushed in her ears as the other man sprinted past her. Out the door. To the hall. To Anne. Vivienne spun, flailing outward with her knife, but it was too late.
The man was through the door and away.
With a howl of rage, Vivienne sprang toward the hall. A foot rammed into her back. She slammed into the floor and skidded through the bedroom door. Pain rode up and down her spine, but she pushed to her knees.
She was too slow, too clumsy.
Anne. She must protect Anne.
A shout rang in the hall. “Oi! Who is it?” It must be Thomas, the footman, but he was lame. He could not run well and would not be of use against these men.
On her feet now, pounding down the hall. An enemy in front, another behind who was not fast enough to stop her from finding the servants’ stairs. They were narrow and steep, but she plunged down them as fast as her legs would allow, bouncing off the plastered wall.
A scream came from below. Vivienne recognized Anne’s voice and needed nothing more to spur her forward. Her stomach heaved and pitched, and her breath would not become steady in her lungs.
Jumping the last few steps, she landed in the hall of the first floor. Here, light flickered from a candelabrum lying on the floor, a few scattered candles still burning. She sped down the hall at a full run. Mrs. Asher slumped on the floor, hands clutching at a forehead trickling blood.
The first intruder, tall and wide and muscular, had his arms around Anne in a great, farcical hug. The girl bucked and kicked her feet, but she was no match for him. Vivienne heard Anne’s whimper, the male grunt.
Not Anne. You will not take my Anne.
No time for hesitation, but he was too close to Anne. In the dark she could not separate their shadows enough for the thin blade of a knife—but she could see which part of the shadow was the man. Vivienne kicked out, foot connecting with his kidney. He staggered, and Anne broke free.
Henri’s voice was loud in her memory. When the enemy is down, a spy pounces or risks losing the advantage. Advantage means life. Her foot lashed out again, and she heard ribs crack.
“The closet,” Vivienne called to Anne.
Again her sister did not listen. She dropped to her knees beside Mrs. Asher, sobs bursting from her throat.
“Hide!” Vivienne shouted, leaning down to pull Anne to her feet.
Pain exploded in her head.
Suddenly the world consisted of throbbing agony, spinning stars, and tumbling hair as the neat coil at her nape came apart. The floor rose up to meet her. More pain burst into life in her knees and wrists as she fell. A sharp cry grew in her throat, and she could not keep from giving it voice.
She would not fail.
She could not see properly to throw her knife. Her vision was blurry, but she could see well enough to launch herself at the man who stepped past her toward Anne. More pain in her shoulder as they tumbled to the ground. Dimly she heard Anne’s cry for help as the other man lifted her into the air and began to run toward the front of the house.
The footman’s lurching footsteps came from the other end of the hall. It was too late for his help. Vivienne’s knife thrust in and out of flesh. Again. She could not think of the life taken. There was only Anne and her mewling cries growing fainter as she was carried away.
Vivienne did not look at the intruder whose life was spilling onto the hallway floor, but pushed to her feet, panic roiling inside her.
“Here, Miss Vivienne.” The footman huffed, thrusting a pistol at her. She fumbled with it, unwilling to take even a moment to shove it in her waistband.
Mrs. Asher was on her hands and knees now. Blood matted her hairline, but she was lucid, her breath wheezing out a whispered, “Anne.”
She would heal, Vivienne thought, letting that small relief fill her as she spun away.
“Into the closet,” she shouted to the footman as she raced down the hall. “Take Mrs. Asher. Do not come out until I return or until morning.”
“Aye,” he returned.
If she was fast, she could still reach Anne. Head hammering in tandem with her footsteps, she concentrated on the open front door and steps beyond. On the cobblestone street and the London night.
It was deserted.
They were gone.
Chapter Nine
Maximilian had quite a few words for the Flower.
&
nbsp; Never mind that it was midnight. After midnight. Maximilian flipped open his pocket watch, turning it so the carriage lamp shone on the surface. After one in the morning, even.
Well, she was a dancer and a mistress. No doubt she was accustomed to late nights. Besides, it had taken Daggett this long to unearth her direction. Now Maximilian was riding in his brother’s cast-off, second-rate carriage, intent on confronting her.
In the middle of the night, it seemed.
The clip-clop of horses’ hooves competed with the pattering rain. He smoothed down the front of his greatcoat, then clasped his hands together in his lap while deciding what to say when he arrived.
Are you a double agent?
That might result in his death, likely by pistol or knife. She was no doubt competent with both. He had no experience with knives himself. Marksmanship was a skill he possessed, of course, having honed it during the war—though he was no longer accustomed to carrying a weapon, despite occasionally practicing at Manton’s.
He would have to rectify that if he were to continue having dealings with spies. As he would in the next few minutes.
Perhaps he should begin by asking her, Are you committing treason?
Surely one did not open a conversation in such a way. It seemed a bit harsh. Maybe he should begin the conversation with some pleasantries.
How was your most recent performance? Did you dance well? Oh, and are you committing treason?
Perhaps that was too pleasant.
The carriage jerked as the footman-turned-coachman slowed the horses. Maximilian didn’t wait for the steps to be set down, but jumped from the carriage on the wet cobblestones. Tilting his head back, he squinted through a light rain at the facade of Mademoiselle La Fleur’s town house. Every window was dark and silent. Not even a whisper of life.
She was probably sleeping. Or gone. Or—devil take it—entertaining her protector.
He should not have come. Waiting until morning would have been prudent.
“Do not move.” The Flower’s voice was low and deadly. The click of the pistol cocking certainly didn’t ease the menace he heard there. How the bloody hell had she sneaked up behind him?
Something poked against his back, and he assumed it was the pistol. The powder would be wet and useless in this rain. Probably. Possibly.
He really ought to have brought some type of weapon. It was a mistake he would not make again.
“Mademoiselle La Fleur.”
“Monsieur Westwood?” Surprise bounced along the edge of her sensual voice.
“What are you doing on the bloody street instead of inside the house?” he asked. They would both be soaked through in another minute.
“I’m looking for—no. It is not important.” The pistol pressed firmly into his vertebrae. “Why are you here?”
He swallowed hard. “I know who the Vulture is.”
The pistol jerked against his back as she gasped. If she pulled the trigger, she would sever his spine.
Time spun out to nothing but sight and sound and breath as he waited for her to make a choice. The jingle of harness, rain trapped in his lashes, light slanting over the walkway from a neighboring house. The clean scent of the Flower, made stronger by the rain. All were more intense in that moment.
“Sir?” The driver called from atop the carriage.
The word spurred the Flower into action, and the pistol eased away from his spine. “Send your driver away,” she whispered. “Come inside.” Then she flitted into a rain-soaked shadow, leaving him seemingly alone on the street.
He had half a mind to step back into his carriage and go home. A fire waited for him there. Work, too. Dry clothes and brandy. Any of them were better than standing on the street in the middle of the night, rain dripping from the brim of his hat.
Yet he couldn’t ignore the fact that the Vulture was sending the Flower coded messages.
“Take the carriage home, John.” He cursed himself even as the words came out of his mouth. “I’ll hire a hackney on my return.”
“Are you certain, sir?”
Yes, he was bloody well certain. He couldn’t leave now. In too deep, Maximilian, his conscience said. “Go home, John.”
He waited in front of the silent house as the carriage pulled away. It disappeared into the darkness, and he wondered if he had taken leave of all of his senses. Rain pelted his greatcoat and the back of his neck. He hoped the Flower would return soon from whatever dark place she’d disappeared to.
“Monsieur. Come in.” The words barely carried over the rush and rhythm of rain. He could not see her at first, then, yes. There she was in front of the town house and wearing men’s clothing again, as he could see her legs moving up the steps, one after the other.
He strode to the entrance and started up himself, but the damn things were slippery. He nearly slid off the top step and gripped the railing to keep from tumbling down.
It was a sign from fate, he thought, as he scrambled to get his legs back under him. He should run, fast and far. Becoming involved with the Flower would be complicated and likely dangerous.
Looking behind, Maximilian checked for the carriage. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to turn back. But, no. That damnable duty again. He hadn’t shied from duty when he’d first been recruited for code breaking, and he wouldn’t do so now.
The door to the house was open, revealing nothing but midnight and silence. Mademoiselle La Fleur was a shadow against the dark interior. She made some unintelligible gesture he theorized was “come in” given the circumstances.
So he did. Stepped right into the lion’s den. Or the dancer’s lair.
It was more or less the same thing.
He passed by her and into the shadowed entryway. The town house smelled feminine and flowery and perfumed, and not the least bit like her. If he had given any thought to the matter, he would have expected it to smell fresh, as she did.
The door shut behind him. A quiet snick that spoke of restraint and—fear? Was that fear? Then he caught some strange scent in the perfumed interior.
Fresh blood.
He whirled to face her, prepared to fend off an attack. A knife ready to slit his throat or aimed for his gut so the death would be slow and painful. She only stood there, a shadow pressed against the door. Harsh breathing filled the quiet entry, the uneven rhythm loud now that the rain was shut outside.
“Excuse me. I must see to—” She broke off, shaking her head with erratic movements. “Wait a moment, please.”
She pushed off the door to stride down the hall, dancer’s legs moving with a quick, determined stride. He followed, deciding whatever blood had been shed in this house, it was not here in the front hall.
His eyes had adjusted to the dark, revealing the outline of the Flower, yawning doors to other rooms, and the shape of paintings on the wall and statuary on tables. All of it a jumble of shadows and forms.
She must have cat’s eyes, she walked so confidently in the dark. No wonder she was able to enter and exit his house without detection. He could not hear her, though she was only a few feet in front of him. It must be the dancing. She moved with grace and fluidity, feet stepping as lightly as clouds kissing the earth in the quiet early-morning hours.
He couldn’t quite accept the fact his brain had devised a phrase as ridiculous as clouds kissing the earth.
Maximilian set his fingers against his forehead and rubbed—and ran into her when she stopped. A light oof puffed from his lips as he registered her body against his. He could not feel her shape, but the contact still sent a jolt straight through him.
“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle,” he said stiffly.
She only shook her head and turned toward an empty wall. Her hand reached through the dark, touched something, and a door creaked open. Stepping back at the sudden glare, he was certain a host of spies would spill from the narrow
space to swarm the hall.
The glare was only a small stubbed candle, illuminating a heavyset woman in a shift and wrapper and a young man in a long nightshirt. They huddled on a stone floor in a room barely big enough for both of them.
“Good.” Sagging shoulders accompanied the mademoiselle’s uneven sigh. “You are both safe. Are you well, Mrs. Asher?”
“It’s a small cut.” The heavyset woman stood. Blood matted her hair, and her hands trembled as they pulled together the edges of the wrapper. “Anne?”
“Gone.” The Flower’s tone was bleak. “She is gone.”
“Oh, my dear.” The older woman flew through door and straight at Mademoiselle La Fleur, drawing her in.
“I should have helped, Miss Vivienne.” The man clambered to his feet. He limped forward, clearly injured, though Maximilian saw no fresh blood. “You needed me. Anne needed—”
“No, Thomas.” Mademoiselle La Fleur spoke firmly, even as the older woman looked to be squeezing the breath from her. She patted the woman’s back, two perfunctory taps, before disentangling herself from determined arms and turning to the man. “You went into the closet as I asked. They would not have hesitated to kill you and Mrs. Asher.”
“What in the blazes is going on?” Maximilian stepped into the circle of light from the candle. He did not care for feeling ignorant, and whatever ghastly episode had played out here, it was time he knew.
The light from the candle stub shadowed the Flower’s eyes as she faced him, giving her a mysterious look. It suited the scene.
“Do not quibble now, Monsieur Westwood. We have a dead man who must be removed.” She spoke woodenly, as though she were discussing the rain outside. “The facts I will explain later.”
The blood. He’d smelled it, hadn’t he? Death and violence and fresh blood.
“Who is it? Marchand?”
She hissed out a breath. “Do not say the Vulture’s name. Not just now. I do not know what ears—” She whirled away, hair fanning out in wet coils to lure him in. “Thomas, bring the carriage. Mrs. Asher, find linens, towels. Something to wrap the man in. We’re going to dump him in the Thames.”
A Dance with Seduction Page 6