A Dance with Seduction

by Alyssa Alexander

  He spoke slowly, as if weighing very heavy words, and watched her with curious eyes. “There is no room for that in my life. In our lives. We are spies, both of us, with disguises that run deep. We owe our existence to our commanders and the training provided to us. Turning away from this duty to our country—no. Love and a family cannot be.”

  “No, they cannot.” She should not mourn the loss. Her path was set, and it was a good path. Wishing for everything, or even for something, was useless. “I will stay away from Citron.”

  “Good.” Jones nodded once, picked up his chosen weapon and offered her a light smile. “Now, get out of here. I have a mission to complete before midnight.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You are distracted, my dear.” Henri bowed over her hand, kissed it, the few gray strands at his temples glinting sliver. When he stood again, his mouth was tight, lips pressed thin. “Your timing in the last song was off.”

  She had known he would remark upon it, but she could not keep her mind from her visit to Manchester Square. Her clothing for the night’s work was bundled and hidden beneath the carriage seat, waiting only for the opera to be complete.

  In keeping with her role, Vivienne set her goal aside and smiled at Henri as she adjusted her costume. A soft lover’s smile. Many eyes and ears were backstage at the theater. “I was thinking only of you, Henri, as I saw you in your box.”

  Henri returned her smile, and to others it might seem as lover-like as her own. Still, she saw the tight smile, the narrowing of his eyes. He was angry, as he always was when she did not perform correctly. Fear flared in her belly.

  “A compliment, to be sure, Vivienne, but you must be perfection itself if you are to keep your position.” His gaze held hers a moment, sharp and blue. “Now, I have brought you a gift.”

  Hand gripping her elbow, he drew her out of the bustle of costumers and singers swarming around. Intermission was busy as scenes changed and bucks came backstage to ogle dancers and find a potential mistress, the colors and stripes of their clothing as bright as any peacock. Somewhere nearby a soprano practiced a trill, while a boy shouted about costumes for the next act.

  When Henri had guided her toward the side of the room, he pulled a velvet bag from the pocket of his evening coat.

  “Oh, what is it?” Clasping her hands together beneath her chin, she flashed a wide, anticipatory smile and felt like a foolish child.

  “A special treat. Look.” A long chain of gold slipped from the inverted bag, loop after loop, to coil in the palm of his hand. The diamonds set into the chain sparkled and caught the candlelight.

  “Oh, Henri. It is lovely!” she cried. It was her own, an item she had used many times, for many missions. “You are too good me.”

  They were in public, or nearly so, and certain proprieties must be maintained. Yet they were still in the world of men and their mistresses. The demi-monde. So she set her hands on his shoulders and pressed a light kiss to his mouth. His taste made her want to wrinkle her nose. Tobacco and port. Not sour or disgusting, in the way some men tasted, but not pleasant, either.

  She felt his arousal at even that light touch.

  “Here, take the bag and I’ll put the necklace on you.”

  Ah, the bag. That was the assignment.

  “The diamonds will look stunning on stage with your costume.” His hand slipped over her shoulder, sliding against her skin just as a snake would slip over rock and stone.

  Repressing the shudder crawling inside her, she tucked the velvet into her palm while he stepped behind her and laid the string of gold and diamonds against her throat. It was long and would hang nearly to her navel, she knew, so he looped it around a second time. Now it hung perfectly in the V of her bodice. When he had clasped it, he pressed a kiss to the place where her neck met her shoulder, lingering there even as his fingers skimmed down the length of chain and across the swell of her breasts. His hot breath hitched against her skin. It would look like a lover’s caress, but the fingers of his other hand were hard on her upper arm. She felt the tension in his body as he controlled her position by holding her in place.

  From across the room, she heard her name. A moment later, “Lord Wycomb is a lucky bastard to have her warming his bed.” The words floated to her ears over the click of many feet and the strains of musicians beginning to warm up for the second half. She saw a young lordling eye her through a quizzing glass, a grin on his lips. “Don’t you think, Highchester?”

  His tall, blond companion nodded. Highchester, the lordling had called him. Monsieur Westwood’s brother was Baron Highchester. She could see a resemblance about the mouth and jawline, as well as the shoulders.

  Highchester smiled at her, but it was filled with cunning avarice. “Aye, a lucky bastard,” he said brashly, watching Vivienne with a steady gaze as dancers passed between them. “Any man would want his cock in that flower.”

  The baron was not as good-natured as his companion. Nor as gentlemanly as Westwood.

  “Pay them no mind,” Henri whispered into her ear. “The mission must be conducted tonight.”

  Giggling, she pretended he’d imparted a lover’s secret. “Tonight, then, Henri, I will do exactly as you wish.” She said it loud enough the other men would hear.

  The man with the quizzing glass groaned enviously, a sound that nearly made her laugh. He was silly, that lordling. The other, Highchester, met her gaze again. His brow rose, a charming gesture, before he nodded his head as though she had spoken to him.

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and it was not from Henri’s quick caress before he left her to return to his opera box. As befit her role, she smiled at the baron, then turned away, conscious of the velvet bag clutched in her fist.

  Vivienne could not read all of the note Henri had stuffed into the bag. Enough to understand what she must do, but there were a few words that were too difficult.

  The theater was emptying out now, patrons whirling through the front doors while dancers and singers poured from the rear exit. The boxes and the pit had long since emptied of most of the aristocracy. She was alone in the room the dancers used to change their costumes, surrounded by empty stools and mirrors, waiting to end the night’s work.

  Frustration was a sick ball in her stomach. She fought the urge to crumple this note from Henri in her fist. Time was dragging out. Anne had been with Marchand for days now, and there was only Vivienne to find her. Manchester Square was not far from the theater. Yet there was Henri and his assignment that night. She must do as he asked so he did not wonder what else she was about. After, then. When her mission for Henri was complete, she would search Manchester Square until the morning sun brightened the sky.

  Vivienne wiped damp palms on the skirts of her gown. The costumer would no doubt rage at the marks she left in the silk, but when she read Henri’s instructions again, her hands were steady and dry. There was a long word she could not read. It started with a P. “Swiss” she could read. “Italian.” “Papers.” “Late supper.” These she knew. The long word beginning with P she did not.

  A throat cleared behind her. She whirled, her hand moving to her bodice and the knife tucked there. But it was only Maximilian Westwood, standing in the doorway of the small room. He clutched a top hat in his fist, his eyes very grave and a clean-shaven jaw firmed.

  She looked at his lips. Mon Dieu, they were good lips. Pretty, but masculine. She could feel them on her own even now.

  This was not good. She needed him for things other than kissing. Still, her body yearned for another kiss. For more of a kiss than the quick, sweet need she’d felt inside.

  Very deliberately, she set the yearning aside. She would not allow distraction.

  She did allow gratitude for his presence and shame that he knew her secret—though she discovered a strange relief as well. No one but Anne and Mrs. Asher was aware she could not read, and now he shared it w
ith her, too.

  “Monsieur Westwood.” She stepped toward him so quickly her costume shushed around her ankles like so much rushing water. “I have a note. Can you—”

  “Mademoiselle.” Interrupting her without any form of civility, there was no hint in his eyes or face that he wanted to kiss her again. It stung—and deflated her yearning. “My brother desires an introduction.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  In the dim hallway beyond the broad, broad shoulders of Monsieur Westwood, she heard impatient footsteps.

  “My brother desires an introduction,” he repeated, shoving his hat onto his head and covering neatly styled mahogany hair. His voice was loud—to carry into the hall, she supposed, where his brother waited. Then, more quietly, he murmured, “My apologies. He would have come alone if I had not agreed to introduce you.”

  She did not have time for this. A bubble of panic rose in her chest. She could not make Henri angry or fail her mission. Anne waited somewhere in the dark. Yet there was no choice but to endure the introduction and postpone both her mission and her search.

  The delay did not mean inactivity. She needed Monsieur Westwood to read the letter. Now. Quickly.

  She stepped close to him, set the hand holding the note on his shoulder. Cocking her head, she said coyly, “Another Monsieur Westwood? But, of course.” Loudly again, so the brother could hear. As she spoke, Vivienne slid her hand down Maximilian Westwood’s tensed arm and tucked the note in his hand. There was no skin now to rasp against hers, but only a soft leather glove.

  His fingers folded around the paper, hiding it from view. Candlelight shone on the round top of his hat as he angled his head to look at his fist, then into her face.

  She rose to her toes to whisper close to his ear. “I cannot read all of the note.” Gripping his arm tightly, she held him close to her, so close the ruffles on the bodice of her gown brushed his arm. “Please tell me what it says.” Then, stepping around him, she moved into the hall to face the baron.

  Yes, she saw the avarice in this brother’s gaze, though his smile was charming and face attractive. More handsome even than his brother, Maximilian, and though his bow was as elegant as she’d ever seen, she found she preferred the honest code breaker to the practiced movements of this rake.

  “Bonjour to the second Monsieur Westwood.” She said the words prettily, with her own well-practiced charm, knowing that he was a baron.

  “Not the second,” he said, smile widening. “I’m the eldest. Baron Highchester.”

  “Ah, Lord Highchester.” She raised her brows, as if impressed by his title. “An honor, my lord.”

  Someone brushed by them in the hallway. A boy who delivered messages and costumes and sets, and usually one of the last people backstage.

  She must leave. Soon.

  “Mademoiselle La Fleur, your dancing this evening was exquisite,” Highchester said.

  She laughed and held out a hand to him. “My lord, you have an exceptional ability to recognize talent.”

  “The others on stage paled in comparison.” He pressed her hand to his lips, lingering.

  Behind her, Monsieur Westwood snorted. She ignored him, silently imploring him to read the note and tell her what it said instead of paying attention to her conversation.

  “Where is your friend this evening?” the baron asked, still holding her hand in his as he spoke of Henri. “I have not seen him since intermission.”

  “My lord was unable to stay tonight, but he sent his carriage. In fact, I must leave soon.” She would not be returning home, however. She would be going wherever Henri was sending her, in the pantaloons she kept in the carriage. If only she could find out what the long word starting with a P meant.

  She felt Monsieur Westwood move closer so that he stood right behind her. Perhaps the sudden heat at the base of her spine was from his body. Perhaps it was connected to that strange yearning to be kissed.

  She looked behind her at the code breaker who knew too many of her secrets. Unsurprisingly, he was scowling, the array of green and gold of his eyes appearing fierce and clever.

  “Please, mademoiselle, let us escort you to your carriage so we may ensure your safety.” He tried to sound charming, her Monsieur Westwood. Perhaps he attempted to emulate his brother’s flirtatious tone. He did not succeed, as he sounded stilted and a thousand times more sincere than his brother.

  To Lord Highchester, she said, “Any lady would be pleased to have such escorts.”

  She looked at Monsieur Westwood over her shoulder again and raised her eyebrows in question. She could not ask what the letter said with his brother there, but the monsieur understood. His nod was clear, and a hundred unspoken words passed between them.

  To Highchester the exchange meant nothing.

  To her it meant everything.

  Relief spread through her. Gathering it, she beamed at Monsieur Westwood. He blinked, as if he were a man sitting in the dark too long and being shown the sun. It made her smile more broadly, until she thought about kissing him. Then it was she who felt dazed.

  Breathing deep, she turned back to the elder Westwood. The one charming as a goat.

  “A moment, please,” she said, smiling at him. “I shall get my cloak.”

  She went to the small table she used to apply rouge and work with her hair during a performance. A thick mantle was thrown over her stool, black wool spilling over wood.

  “Let me assist you, mademoiselle.”

  Monsieur Westwood’s big hands took the garment from her. She imagined his brother was gnashing his teeth for not being faster. Swirling the garment around her, the code breaker set it on her shoulders. He leaned in. Leaned close.

  The yearning returned. Breath caught in her throat, and her skin tightened over her body. Forcing both from her mind, she blocked out the scent of him, man and sandalwood. Distraction was weakness for a spy. Hadn’t Henri told her this time and again?

  Then the monsieur gave her the answer she needed, in a rough whisper.

  “The Italian ambassador carries documents that are to be delivered to a member of the Swiss embassy before morning. You are to see they do not get there. The ambassador is at a late supper at Lord Pemberly’s.”

  “Thank you.” Pemberly. It was the long word she had not known.

  His hand moved on her shoulder as he settled the cloak there. He smoothed the fabric, pressing out wrinkles that did not exist. She reached up, set her gloved hand upon his.

  “Thank you,” she said again, letting her hand rest over his.

  All awareness, all sensation focused there. His hand on her shoulder, heavy, large. Strong. Over that, her own hand. Smaller, but just as strong, she thought proudly, if in a different way. Meeting his gaze, she could not understand whatever swirled in its depths, though she felt it in her toes.

  He offered his arm as escort, and on her other side, Lord Highchester arrived and did the same. She smiled and flirted, looked between them, then accepted both arms.

  “It is not often a lady has such fine escorts.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Lord Pemberly’s town house wasn’t an average town house. It was a mansion squatting on the better part of a street, lined by shrubbery and trees beginning to winter over. Surrounding three sides of the property was a tall brick wall. No doubt great lawns led down to the river in the rear of the house.

  Maximilian sniffed the air. The clean part of the river.

  Why he was standing across the street from Lord Pemberly’s mansion was a mystery. He should be home, alone and working. He could think of nothing that would drag him out of his home in the early hours of the morning. Except the Flower. Somewhere nearby she was sneaking around, trying to find a way in to steal something from the Italian ambassador.

  Quick and deadly—as befit her occupation—the Flower did not need his protection. Still, he stood i
n the street like a fool. Ten times a fool, as his only thought was she might need him for something beyond protection. Reading another note, or perhaps the pistol shoved in the waist of his trousers. No doubt she had carried out missions alone before—but damn it all, he couldn’t leave.

  He saw her then. Or someone that might be her. Moving down the walkway across the street was a thin, short, young man. Very short. He was whistling, hands tucked easily into his pockets. A servant coming home after his night off. But Maximilian recognized Mademoiselle La Fleur’s walk, even the turn of her foot. When had he noticed the Flower’s feet? He could not say, but he knew her rhythm as well as his own. Better, perhaps, as she was trying to disguise herself, and still he knew it was her. Her body moved in a way others’ did not—a grace that came from dancing, he was sure. He ignored the low beat igniting in his belly at the sight of her. There was a time and place for such things.

  His brain knew it, even if his body didn’t.

  She ambled down the street, coming closer to Pemberly’s. Carriages waited in front, horses stamping impatiently. Drivers called to one another. And then—

  Damnation. She’d disappeared.

  Concern washed through him, and he took a step forward. She might have turned an ankle and fallen. If so, she would be lying on the walkway, revealed by the oil lamps running along the street.

  The path was empty.

  Ah, the alley, he realized. A slim space between the Pemberly’s mansion and the house beside it, barely six feet wide and dark as a tomb. She would be hiding there, biding her time.

  Sneaky wench.

  He decided to join her. Not from the front—he was not an unobtrusive shadow—but from the rear. Sticking to the shadows as much as possible, he jogged down the street. Maximilian picked his way through another alley and a rear garden, avoiding any patches of light from the windows.