That did not signify.
Marchand, he would use codes. She could not decode them herself, so she would use Monsieur Westwood.
She could not do anything until the Vulture contacted her again. Until then, she must spy for Henri, laugh with the Prince Regent, and pretend the very breath of her life had not been stolen.
“I will find Anne, Mrs. Asher. Do not fear.” She fisted her hands. Perhaps if she could make Mrs. Asher believe it, she would believe it herself. “Monsieur Westwood, he will assist us.”
Shamelessly, she would use Monsieur Westwood—and hope she did not lose her temper and stick her knife into his shoulder when he became irritating.
…
Maximilian set the pistol case on one of the short tables at the rear of Manton’s Shooting Gallery. It wasn’t a set of Manton’s pistols, as Maximilian could not afford the high price, but they were a respectable enough pair. If he would be consorting with the Flower in the near future, he had best make sure his weapons were in working order.
A crack rang out as another patron shot at the wafers lined up at the other end of the gallery. The acrid smell of black powder hung permanently in the air of this building, as did the continuous hum of voices as gentlemen came and went, practicing their marksmanship and placing bets on the skill of others.
All quite satisfactory, he thought, opening the solid lid of the pistol case.
“I haven’t seen you here or at Gentleman Jackson’s of late, Westwood.” The smooth baritone voice was familiar and pleasant, and Maximilian grinned as he turned to face the speaker.
“Angelstone.” He nodded at Alastair Whitmore, Marquess of Angelstone—a spy, actually, but a decent enough one—and then broadened his grin when he saw Angelstone’s companion. “Well, Langford, I haven’t seen you at either place of late, either.”
“The end of the war brought many changes, as has marriage and fatherhood.” The Earl of Langford clapped Maximilian on the back, genuine enjoyment gleaming in bright-blue eyes. “We’ve less need for marksmanship and boxing now that we’ve retired—well, you and I, at any rate.” His voice lowered, though he did not modify his demeanor.
“Are you still active, Angelstone?” Maximilian asked quietly, turning back to the pistol case. His pair was sitting quite comfortably among the velvet, wood gleaming and barrels catching the light. He rather liked the lack of engravings and adornment. Much more practical than some of those elaborate carvings one saw.
“It’s different now that I’m married.” Angelstone’s voice, too, had lowered so the words would not carry. He leaned over Maximilian’s pistols casually, as though nothing was being discussed beyond a pair of inferior, non-Manton pistols. “What of you? What are you doing now?”
“Mmm,” was the only statement Maximilian’s currently empty brain provided. Lying had never come easily to him, and he was certain the Flower would not appreciate him imparting information. “Work.”
“That’s rather cryptic, though not unusual for you, Westwood.” Langford’s words competed with a pistol shot from down the row. He stepped to the table beside Maximilian and began reloading his own pistol, pushing the ball deep into the barrel with the ramrod. “Translations, isn’t it?”
“Books, letters, messages for various embassies.” Maximilian shrugged, concentrating on removing one of his pistols from its velvet nest in the box. It felt as if he’d last held them in his hands yesterday, never mind the months between. “Still the occasional code.”
“Ah. We never quite retire, do we?” Angelstone reached for Maximilian’s second weapon, the queue at the base of his neck shifting over his shoulders as he drew it out. “There was that code for Prinny’s mistress, of course. It’s a difficult life you lead,” he added, grinning.
“Indeed.” Maximilian snorted and began loading his own pistol. “I wasted a perfectly good afternoon devising a code for love notes.” He had yet to receive his fee, come to think on it.
“Well, it put you in Prinny’s good graces.” Langford sighted down the length of his pistol, aiming perfunctorily at the row of wafers at the far end of the room.
“Coding love notes is a far cry from Wellington’s missives.” Maximilian stepped beside Langford and chose his target, then settled into his stance.
“Oh, how far you have fallen, Westwood.” Angelstone replaced Maximilian’s second pistol in the case before leaning a hip on the table. He crossed his arms, lips curving beneath tawny eyes.
“Things are different, as you said.” The butt of the pistol was warm in Maximilian’s palm, so he lifted it and aimed at the first wafer. “What isn’t different is that I can hit more wafers with my second-rate pistols than you can with your fancy ones. You always were my favorite agents, particularly because I could best you both with a pistol.”
With that, Maximilian aimed his pistol and fired, hitting the wafer where he’d intended—precisely in the center.
Langford threw back his head and laughed. “You’re right, Westwood. Some things never change.”
…
Vivienne stared at Marchand’s latest message, lying on the polished tabletop as though it were an innocent visitor in her bedchamber.
The note had been folded inside another paper and tucked inside a chicken delivered by the butcher’s boy. He had not been the regular runner, which Mrs. Asher had not thought about until she’d hacked the bird down the middle with her massive cleaver and discovered the now-split note inside.
At least the inner paper was cleaner than the one it had been tucked inside.
Vivienne set her forefingers on the two pieces of the note, moving them over the tabletop. It was not precisely in halves. One side was larger than the other. The cleaver had not sliced evenly.
Finger tracing the markings, she tried to decipher them. Some were letters, others numbers—and the vulture at the bottom, of course.
Beneath that, an added note.
I am well.
~ A
A single line only, but she knew Anne’s handwriting as well as her own. The tail at the end of the second l, the points of the m. The angled cross mark of the A.
Relief and fear rocketed through her—Anne was not dead yet, even after these two days she had been missing. Vivienne had guessed it, because if the Vulture killed the incentive, she would not be motivated to comply. Still, Anne’s hand was steady, which meant she could not be seriously injured.
Hope was a pitiless pair of butterfly wings beating inside Vivienne’s chest.
She held the two ends of Marchand’s message together, joining the letters, but it did not make sense. At least, she did not think so.
Small words she could read with ease. “His,” “her,” “at,” “the.” Even medium words. “Lord,” “street,” “paper,” “Whig,” “house.” Even longer words like “London,” “king,” “France,” “prince,” “Whitehall,” “Parliament.” Anne had taught her those words for her work and was even teaching her words such as “ambassador.”
The words of Marchand’s note, now split in two, those words she did not recognize.
She hunched over the message again, the cream-colored squares of paper more important than their small size would make them seem. Mrs. Asher had assured her the letters did not make sense together. They did not all form words and sentences, she said.
Hopefully, it was coded. She must see Monsieur Westwood with this note to be sure, and it would be embarrassing if the letters did form sentences. He might look at her in that manner he had. One brow up, the other angled in a frown, as though he could not decide precisely how to interpret her words.
If Monsieur Westwood could decode the note, it might lead her to Anne.
Brushing the two sections of the note into her hand, she strode from the muted, feminine bedchamber Henri had decorated for her, her cumbersome skirts swishing about her ankles.
She did no
t have time for hope, only time to gather information.
There was no way to go but forward, which meant asking questions. She would track Anne in the traditional way. Questioning others. Espionage. Trickery, if she must. But not in her own home.
Mrs. Asher stood at the butcher block in the bright, open kitchen, hands on her aproned hips, scowling at the chicken as though it had offended her. Blond hair was knotted atop her head, additional gray strands threading through it each day.
“I’m sorry.” Mrs. Asher did not look up from her contemplation of the display in front of her. “I noticed it wasn’t the regular boy, Miss Vivienne, but I didn’t know it mattered.”
Clutching the halves of the note in her fist, Vivienne stepped to the butcher block and looked down. The chicken was still splayed open on the block, though it had been quite brutally dismembered now.
Mrs. Asher’s face was red as she glared at the shredded poultry and raised her arm. The cleaver whistled through the air, then sliced into bone and flesh with a terrifying, angry thwack!
“You could not have known the delivery came from him, Mrs. Asher.” She could think of nothing else to say to ease the housekeeper’s heart.
“I should have.”
It was a natural reaction, thinking if one had been more observant, more careful, one might have changed the course of fate. If only she had secreted Anne away that night, or sensed the spies creeping through the second-floor window a moment earlier. If only she had obeyed a Frenchman and become a traitor. If only.
Anger and guilt bubbled up inside her, along with a cold fear. It was not Mrs. Asher who had failed, but Vivienne. Miserably so. “Mrs. Asher, I want you to tell me everything the butcher boy said.”
The woman pressed her lips together.
“I want to know what he looked like,” Vivienne said. Sunlight shone on the tight sleeve of her rose-colored gown as she set her hand on the woman’s shoulder, squeezed. Softly, before letting her hand drop away again, she added, “Tell me what he said, please. What he wore. Nothing is too insignificant.”
“He didn’t look French, Miss Vivienne, but as English as I am.” The knife blade caught the light as it came down again. Vivienne could no longer identify the parts Mrs. Asher was hacking away at.
“Of course,” she soothed. “If he was good at his work, he would look and sound English.” No one wanted to think they had failed to see a villain, and Vivienne hoped her words would bring comfort. “It is not so hard, if one trains for a long time.”
“Aye. You would know, I suppose.” Mrs. Asher sent Vivienne a sly, almost amused look. “Well, I’ll tell you, he looked like an ordinary butcher’s boy and spoke not a word. I didn’t pay him much mind.”
“Was he taller than me, or shorter?” Vivienne drew herself up to her full height, which was not much, so the answer would likely be obvious and would make Mrs. Asher feel useful.
“Taller. Definitely taller than you, miss.” She looked Vivienne up and down, as though measuring.
“Good. Do you see? You remember well enough.”
Mrs. Asher shook her head, a most ferocious frown on her lips. “You are getting thin again. I swear, that theater works you too hard, as does his lordship.”
“I am not hungry.” Food was not important just now. “The boy’s hair? Brown? Blond?”
“Light brown, I think, almost blond. Not dark like yours, at all.” Mrs. Asher turned and set her hands to her hips. “I’ll set you up with a bite to eat.” She strode into the little room that served as their larder and pantry.
“Truly, I am not hungry. Light brown, then, Mrs. Asher?” Vivienne set her elbows on the table and leaned on it. Light brown, taller than her. It was not enough to track him. “What color were his eyes?”
“Eyes?” Mrs. Asher’s voice floated out from the open larder door. Crockery rattled, competing with her words, and Vivienne struggled to understand them. “Those I don’t remember. His nose, now—that I couldn’t help but notice. Beaky, it was. A big ’un. He was young, too. Older than Anne, but younger than you, Miss Vivienne.”
The housekeeper emerged from the larder with a hank of bread and a ladle that had clearly been misplaced and was now recovered. Still, she had given Vivienne something. Age was approximate, but with the nose, the hair, it was information to work with. Rising up on her toes, she planted a kiss on Mrs. Asher’s round red cheek.
“Thank you.” She plucked the bread from the housekeeper’s hands and took a bite.
“Oh, go on with you.” Mrs. Asher threatened to smack her bottom with the ladle, so Vivienne went on, a little bit lighter of heart. “Miss Vivienne?”
“Hmm?” With her hand on the kitchen doorjamb, she turned to face the housekeeper, who had exchanged the ladle for her cleaver again.
“Get him.” The words were as violent as the cleaver splitting the chicken’s breastbone into two pieces.
“I will.” There was no mercy in her voice.
She had none.
Chapter Twelve
Monsieur Westwood was bent over his desk when she slipped into the study. He never seemed to be anywhere else. Did he not rest? It was always work with this one.
Vivienne could only be grateful for it.
She hesitated in the doorway, watching him scratch away with his quill. He worked without gloves, probably to be more efficient and practical. A single candle was set at his elbow, casting its light over an array of documents and multiple inkwells. Quills lay side by side on the desktop, as if marching across the polished surface. Behind him, flames crackled and spit in the hearth, illuminating the shelves lining every wall. Books towered and tumbled about, their leather covers muted in the firelight.
Had he read them all? Most likely. It made her feel stupid.
The monsieur’s quill paused in its scratching.
“Hello, Mademoiselle La Fleur.”
How did he always know it was she? Even with his face nearly pressed to his papers, he knew. “Hello, Monsieur Westwood.”
Turning to look at her, he pulled off his spectacles and her stomach did a funny little flip. The strong jaw and broad shoulders, the muscular thighs beneath nankeen breeches made him seem so male. But the hazel eyes punctuated with bursts of gold, the full lips that ought to kiss rather than frown—it was these that drew her focus.
“Did you receive a message from Marchand, or do you have another body to dispose of?” Oh, that wry tone made her want to smile, though there was little to smile about.
“A message.” Boots silent on the thick rug, she crossed to him and offered the two sections of the note.
Wide, strong fingers plucked it from her hand. Delicately, carefully, as though he did not want to touch her skin. But just as he wrote without gloves, she picked locks without gloves, so they did touch. A brush of finger on finger. Rough skin, warmth, and then he was bent over the message, spectacles looped once more over his ears.
“It’s in two pieces.” Brows raised in question, he peered at her over the top of the lenses.
“The housekeeper’s cleaver discovered the note.”
“Method of conveyance?” Attention shifting to his task, he looked back at the note.
“A chicken.”
“That must have been a surprise.”
He did not push aside the document he had been working on. It was more an orderly shifting of duties. Paper on top of paper, straightened just so, then the entire stack was moved to the side of his desk and squared against the corner before he bent over the Vulture’s note. Powerful hands ran over the lines of text, then settled lightly on Anne’s scribbled note. “There is a message. From the girl?”
“Yes. I recognize her handwriting.”
“She lives. Good.” He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with a forefinger. “Let us see what Marchand has to say.”
“Is it the same code?”
“I cannot tell at first glance.”
The vulture signature was the same, but the rest was a jumble of letters to her. She set her hand on his shoulder and leaned over, looking at the two scraps of paper.
Muscle shifted beneath her hand. Staring down at her fingers, at the shoulder beneath it, the note was forgotten. His body was warm and solid, and she felt strength there as well. The faint scent of sandalwood drifted on the air, and Vivienne wondered how strength and sandalwood could cause her pulse to hitch.
She heard his breath then. A little strained.
“Step back, if you would, please,” he said curtly, shoulder moving again beneath her hand. He did not look up at her. “You are distracting.”
“I beg your pardon?” Taking a step back, then another, she let her hand slip away from his shoulder. She could not help staring at his profile. She was distracting?
Something odd fluttered in her belly again. Strange, but not altogether unpleasant. She could not decide if she liked it. It left her feeling unsettled inside and aware of every inch of her skin. She very much feared this fluttering had unleashed something she had not known was inside her.
“The code is identical. They have not modified it.” Quill flew over the paper while his eyes narrowed in concentration. Such concentration he had.
She could focus, too, and block that uneasy, slightly delicious feeling inside her to think only of the note. “What does it say?”
“Wait. I am not finished.”
The thick rug gave way beneath her boots as she shifted impatiently. He knew the code—he should be faster. Finally, when her patience had spun out almost entirely, he spoke.
“Bond Street, noon on 21 October. I am hoping to find a gift for my mother. Perhaps she would enjoy some jewelry. The gift must be delivered unopened to the Nelson Hotel, Room 12. Marchand’s vulture signature completes the message.” Monsieur Westwood paused, his frown ferocious. “I must have made a mistake. That message does not make sense. Jewelry? Gifts?”
“No mistake, monsieur,” she said softly. A message like this she could understand. “It is a conversation.”
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