“What?” He removed his spectacles and rubbed a hand over his face. Leaning back in his chair, quill dangling from one hand, he looked up at her with bleary hazel eyes.
“Someone on Bond Street will say to me he is looking for a present for his mother. I will say she might like jewelry. He—or she—will give me something to deliver while we speak.” Thinking, planning, she began to pace the room. “A letter, most likely, or the business would not be conducted in the open. He wants me to be a simple courier. Nothing difficult. It is a test.”
“How is it a test?”
“Because it is a simple task. Accept a letter over here, and take it over there.” She shrugged and stepped yet farther from him. “Any of his agents could do it.”
“Explain.” Frowning, he lifted his spectacles and peered at the lenses, as if looking through them again would help him understand.
“The Vulture wishes to determine if I will do as he commands, now that he has the girl.” There was no choice but to do as Marchand demanded, even if Anne was well. “I will do as he asks.”
“What of the letter?” He stood now, towering over the desk and her with shoulders that seemed overly broad, though not frightening. They were simply masculine—and she felt foolish for even thinking so. “You don’t know what you’re delivering.”
“True.” The war was over, but there were still secrets to be uncovered and sold. “Delivering a message without opening it is part of the test.”
“You can’t do that.”
He set a hand on her arm. Perhaps he meant to stay her, or simply to punctuate his words, but for a moment, all of the world contracted to that single point of contact. The unleashed thing in her noticed only his hand, warm and strong through the sleeve of her coat, before his hand fell away and the world expanded again.
She took a deep breath, a very deep breath. “Monsieur, any letter will be sealed. If I open it and Marchand discovers I have done so, I will have proved myself untrustworthy to him.” Once more the world contracted, this time to a single thought. A single fear. “Anne might die.”
“What will we do, then? You can’t deliver the letter without knowing what the consequence might be.” Solemn finality edged the words when he spoke.
“There is a way to open such a letter, but it is difficult and will take time.” She shook her head. “What if I did open it? It might be a letter about jewelry, or some other innocuous thing. If it is also coded, I would not know what it said, at any rate.” Which Marchand would hope for. He would want her to deliver it, not to decipher it.
“Confound it, you’re right. It is an impossible situation.” He ran both hands through his hair, gripping the mix of cinnamon and russet and gold. She was becoming accustomed to this movement, and it nearly made her smile. “I’m coming with you.”
Now there was no desire to smile. “Do not be absurd. You are not a spy.”
“No, but I am a code breaker. You’ll likely need one to decode the letter. Need me.”
“Perhaps.” Ideas formed and broke apart and formed again. “I need you,” she said softly. “Yes. I need you.”
His gaze dropped to her lips, stayed there a moment before flicking back up to her eyes. Others had looked at her lips in such a way, like they wanted to nibble and taste. Some tried, despite her protector. Monsieur Westwood had never looked at her just so.
He made her think of kissing.
Vivienne had never wanted to kiss someone before. What would it be like? Wishing to feel those lips against hers—it was too much sensation to feel inside a body. Heat. Uncertainty and need pulsing low in her belly. Shock, as this man had never looked at her in such a way before.
“Come with me, the day after tomorrow.” The invitation sounded awkward to her ears. She felt awkward. Something had changed inside her and between them. “I only need you to be nearby when I receive the letter. To read it, and other things.”
He watched her solemnly. They were close, too close, so that she could see the gold spears in the depths of his eyes.
“Other things,” he said softly, gaze falling to her mouth once more.
…
I need you. She’d whispered it in low, soft tones, watching him cautiously with those dark eyes. Below them were her lips, pink, curved, and calling to him simply by existing.
If there was ever a woman he should leave be, it was the Flower. Not only because she was a spy, but because she had an arrangement with Wycomb. It was not quite the same as lusting after another man’s wife, but close enough.
Maximilian dragged his gaze away from her mouth and forced his mind back to the problem—a meeting on Bond Street, finding the girl, and stopping Marchand.
Maximilian would not let the Flower go alone.
“What, exactly, does ‘other things’ entail?” he asked.
“I do not know, for certain. I must see the letter first.” She shrugged, an expressive movement full of Gallic indifference. A pink flush tinged her cheekbones and made him think of all sorts of other things.
Whatever it meant in the Flower’s world, it was bound to be more unpleasant than in his world.
“Also, you must bring the tools to open the note,” she continued, stepping away from him. Skimming a hand down her thigh, she smiled suddenly. “I can hide much in my clothing, but not everything.”
“What do you usually conceal in your clothing?” That, you bloody idiot, sounded both debauched and stupid at the same time. To busy his hands, he scooped up the two halves of the note. He couldn’t think what to say to excuse his momentary lapse of intelligence.
“Monsieur Westwood.” She cocked her head to the side, a little half smile fluttering about her lips. Not quite the smile she had used to laugh at his cravat—that one had been colored by the role of coquette. This was soft rather than mocking. “Those are my secrets.”
The Flower reached out, hand cupped to receive the paper he offered. Black wool shifted over her shoulders and torso, leaving him wondering less about the weapons lurking beneath her clothes than her figure.
Gaze dropping to trace her shape, he speculated for only one moment before his brain properly engaged. Eyes wheeled in his skull as he tried to avert them, refusing to ogle the Flower as men of his brother’s ilk did.
It was too late.
Curved hips in breeches, a narrow waist nipped in by the coat—he could not see her breasts, but dear God, in that moment he wanted to. Desperately.
Gripping the back of the chair to steady himself, he tried not to breathe in her clean, simple scent. Everyone used fragrant soap—even his soap smelled like sandalwood. Not the Flower. Her lack of perfume was as dangerous as an opiate.
“Day after tomorrow.” He tried to wipe the burgeoning image of her breasts from his brain, but the confounded organ defied him. So he did not turn to look at her again, lest he look at some other improper part of her.
“Merci.” The word was very quiet. Very thoughtful.
He did not hear her retreating footsteps, but he did hear the door close as she left.
Her damnable scent lingered.
Chapter Thirteen
The sun shone bright, and Vivienne was playing at being a pretty opera dancer, so she surveyed Bond Street with fake delight from her seat on the barouche. A pair of dandies passed on their horses, and she waved, beaming at them—as though she were not on any kind on mission. As though Marchand would not be in some window on this street, watching her every move. It was her test, after all.
Hopefully, Monsieur Westwood would do what he was told.
“Thomas, do set me down. The most lovely milliner’s shop is just there.” Breath turned to fog in the chilly autumn air as she called to the footman.
“Aye, mademoiselle.” Thomas slowed the barouche, and the horses’ hooves clip-clopped to a halt on the cobblestones.
“Thank you, Thomas.”
Wiggling her fingers inside her fur muff, she checked for the knife she’d hidden earlier. Yes, it was still there, warm from the heat of her hands and the fur. Gripping the hilt, she took comfort in the feel of the weapon in her palm. It was best to be ready. If she were not, it could be seconds before she found the knife. She could die in those seconds and knew it well.
“I am hoping to find a gift for my mother.” The stranger’s voice was pleasant and not French at all. It was also not far away from her right ear.
She did not look at this stranger, this courier. One did not look unless it was necessary, because then one could be forced to give a description. Instead, Vivienne bent to look at a display window. Pretty snuffboxes were scattered beyond the glass, their ivory lids glowing in the sunlight.
“Perhaps she would enjoy some jewelry.” Vivienne inclined her head toward the display, the curls peeking from beneath her bonnet sliding over her shoulder to dance in the wind. “Not from here, however. There is another shop down the street with much better workmanship.”
“Ah. Well, these snuffboxes are nice.” The man bent over to look through the window, just as she was doing. He, also, did not look at her.
Still, they each sized up their opponent’s measure. She could see in her periphery that it was a man with a top hat and dark coat. A cane hung from his forearm, dangling inches above the walkway. It likely held a sword. She assumed he was studying her pale-blue skirts and the muff she carried, thinking similar thoughts about what weapon she might be hiding beneath the white rabbit fur.
The letter was nothing more than a bump against her thigh. Using the fabric of skirt and pelisse to hide the transaction, she accepted it and tucked the letter into her muff beside her knife.
It was over—at least this portion. The man with the cane walked away as though she did not exist. To anyone on the street, he might not even have noticed her, he was so focused on his next destination, which meant Marchand would be focused on her, wherever he was hiding. If he was not watching her himself, someone he trusted would be.
She would have to be careful.
Chapter Fourteen
Ah, the Flower.
She was quick. He had not seen her accept the letter from his agent, though he did not doubt she had done so. Watching her from a window across the street, he should have been able to see the exchange and where she hid the letter.
The Flower was too well trained.
She would be an asset, no matter which side she played on. He’d known it, but until he watched her take the document and hide it without him being any the wiser, he had not quite believed it.
Marchand twisted the heavy gold ring on his right hand. A woman with clever fingers was an asset to a man, and the Flower could be useful in many ways.
“See that you are at the hotel when she arrives,” Marchand murmured, gaze still on her form as she continued to wander on the street.
The man beside him slipped quietly away. The agent would be in the appointed room to receive the letter—Marchand himself could not go, of course, as he did not want her to recognize him.
But the little girl, Anne, had never seen him before. Ah, the girl. Delightful, really. So much like the Flower—without the French accent, of course.
Also the perfect incentive.
Chapter Fifteen
“Hold the letter over the flame. Mon Dieu, not so close or it will catch fire.” Vivienne set her hand over Monsieur Westwood’s to guide Marchand’s note away from the flame. His hand was warm beneath the glove, and she quickly let go again. “There, just so.”
Vivienne glanced down at Monsieur Westwood as he sat at the squat wooden table. He was not looking at the letter or the flame, but up at her with a strange light in his eyes she could not identify.
“What is your perfume?” he asked, brows angling down in irritation.
“I do not wear perfume. Keep your eyes on the letter so we do not burn it.”
His gaze snapped back to the paper. Leaning closer, his frown deepened at the corners of his mouth. “The wax is softening already.”
“Good.” Vermilion wax had become translucent ruby. She would soon be able to pry up the seal, and with care, replace it.
“Does this method usually work?” He gestured with his free hand toward the scrap of paper he held over the flame.
“If the person melting the wax performs correctly.”
The paper paused in its path over the flame. “Perhaps you should perform this part of the operation.”
“I cannot. I must heat my knife in the other flame.” The monsieur’s eyes widened when she slipped the weapon from her muff. “If the knife, too, is warm, it will help the seal come away from the paper.”
The second candle sat beside the first in the dirty back room of the Goose and Gander Inn. It was not the most pleasant space to be in, but the proprietor never asked questions. He simply rented his secret room to whoever paid him the most.
Vivienne set the knife in the flame, counting the time carefully in her head. The metal could not be red-hot lest it mark the page, yet must easily melt the wax. Pulling it from the flame, she set her finger to the tip of her knife.
“Ouch,” she murmured, satisfied with the sharp, lingering sting.
“Are you hurt?” Westwood turned toward her, concern edging his words.
“Let me see the letter.”
He grumbled but gave it over to her. “You might answer and tell me if you are hurt.”
“I am not hurt.” She ignored the sting on her finger. It would cease eventually.
“Be careful.” He leaned over to watch her movements, and their shoulders touched, his coat brushing against her pelisse.
“Go away.” The seal was warm; she could see the edges were slightly darker. Softer. “You are looming.”
“I am not looming.”
She could not concentrate with his nearness. He smelled of sandalwood, of wood smoke. Of man. Concentrating on the heat where their shoulders touched, she let her skin sense it. Feel it. Listening to his breath, she matched her own to it, in and out.
She did not have to feel his body to know how he filled the space beside her. Where his wide shoulders were in relation to hers. How his large, strong hands were splayed on the tabletop. That the handsome jaw could tick as the muscle there clenched.
She sensed him looking at her. Skin prickling, she turned her head to find his eyes were very focused on hers, his breathing uneven though it matched her own. She did not want to think about kissing Monsieur Westwood.
It seemed her thoughts were wayward.
“Mademoiselle.” His voice sounded deeper than usual, becoming a rasping whisper that shivered along her skin. “You should proceed.”
It was a moment before the words made sense.
The letter. Marchand. Anne.
“Yes.” She focused on the paper, the wax, but pretending Monsieur Westwood was not beside her was like pretending not to think.
Vivienne set her warmed knife to the edge of the red seal. So carefully she did not breathe. Beside her, the monsieur held his breath as well. The blade slid beneath the wax, slowly, moving only the breadth of a hair each moment.
The seal released. Candle flames danced as their combined breath shuddered out.
Quickly, she unfolded the letter.
“Is it coded?” she asked, tilting the document toward him. It would take her too long to decipher it.
“No, but it’s in French.” Angling his head, he studied it with narrowed eyes. He’d forgotten his spectacles. “Very poor penmanshi
p.”
“The penmanship I do not care about. What does it say?”
“Very innocuous, actually. Something about a dinner party. They ate roast duck and some sort of pudding with a lemon sauce. The author is going to bring the recipe for the lemon sauce back to France. That is all.”
“There is nothing more?” She peered down at the letter. Pudding with a lemon sauce? That was what Marchand wanted her to deliver? It did not make sense. “Who wrote the letter?”
“Georges St. Yves.”
“I do not know him.” Not at first hearing of his name, but she did not have time to search her memory. “I must complete the assignment. Soon. Can you quickly copy the letter? I must warm my knife again.”
Using the paper, ink, and quill she’d instructed him to bring, he quickly copied the letter. She watched his great hands move across the page, dip the quill delicately into the ink, then move again in his bold, flowing scrawl.
He was still too close. Too large and male. Vivienne could not focus on the words spreading across the paper.
“There. It’s done.” He shoved the letter aside to dry—they had not thought to pack blotting paper—and gave her the original.
She set her teeth, steadied her fingers, and touched the warm knife edge to the wax. Just enough to soften it. Then, quickly, because if she spared a thought to being careful it would cool, she pressed the softened seal to the paper.
“It is done.” Was it perfect? Was it set exactly right, so that Marchand would not know? Yes, it was good. “I must go. If I linger too long, they will suspect.”
But it was not Marchand that worried her—it was Monsieur Westwood. He was picking up her ribboned reticule, handing her the furred muff, as though she were any lady of the ton. It was most disconcerting.
“We must decide the intent behind the letter,” he said. “It cannot be simply about a recipe for pudding.”
“No. It is not.” Pudding was not worthy of cultivating a double agent.
“I don’t think we should deliver it until we know.” His voice was that of a man preparing to be difficult. She hoped he would not be unpleasant, though she was feeling the need to be unpleasant to counter this thought of kissing him.
A Dance with Seduction Page 9