A Dance with Seduction

by Alyssa Alexander

  No. She was so much more than a dancer. More than any of them realized. No one could know all there was to know of her.

  Except maybe him.

  “You will leave Mademoiselle La Fleur alone, Highchester.” He did not wait for an answer but turned to Bishop Carlisle, who puffed out his chest. A lecture was in the offing.

  Maximilian didn’t want to hear it.

  “What is between me and Mademoiselle La Fleur is of no one’s concern but ours.”

  “It isn’t only yours, Maximilian. It is your family’s concern as well.” The bishop stepped between Highchester and Maximilian. He seemed older than Maximilian remembered, but not smaller. Not weaker. “I know you have enough sense—enough gentlemanly honor—to make the right choice.”

  The right choice. Maximilian stared into the bishop’s grave countenance, into the sharp eyes, and saw only Vivienne’s eyes when he’d left.

  “Give Mother my regrets that I cannot visit her this evening. As for Prinny”—he slid a glance toward the box—“his message must have gone astray.”

  …

  Plié, step, step, turn. First position, attitude.

  The crowd in the pit was barely watching. It was thus, sometimes. The tenor was not particularly talented that evening, the soprano very new—only a second-rate performance—so the guests in pit and boxes did not care. They busily gossiped and exchange political news.

  Vivienne watched them, as she always did.

  Lord So-and-So, a Whig, visits the box of a known Tory. Henri would want to know. She would try to remember this.

  Demi-plié. Arabesque.

  But her muscles were aching and sore. She did not know why exactly. Her body seemed not quite her own. It was very heavy. The soprano joined the tenor, their voices soaring. Around her, other dancers moved and played their parts.

  She stumbled a little—recovered. Had anyone seen? A quick glance showed that the other dancers had not noticed. No one looked at her differently than they had before. Costumes swirled around her, the fresh flowers in the dancers’ hair cloyingly sweet.

  Her gaze searched the pit for anything remarkable. Henri would expect a report. This was her duty each night. Nothing of note in the pit, nothing interesting in the boxes.

  Then she glanced at Prinny’s box.

  Maximilian.

  Her heart lifted, her limbs lifted. She spun on the stage, her petit fouetté becoming fouetté en tournant. Bigger, more brilliant turns. Her heart thumped in time with it, momentarily glad. The fouetté en tournant was not part of the performance. She would be chastised—but she could not help it.

  She would be afraid of Henri’s reaction later. Just now, she only wanted to see Maximilian.

  Turning in a pirouette, she quickly glanced at Prinny’s box again. At Maximilian.

  Her heart plummeted, belly clutching. It was not him, but the other one. Baron Highchester. He was as tall, as large. The shape of him was similar, but they did not move the same. Eyes were the same shape, but not color, nor did they have the same mouth. Only the same jaw.

  She could have wept. So foolish, she was, to dance a fouetté en tournant. It was not Maximilian. And if it were he, he had left her. He would not come back.

  Her feet tangled together. She tried—oh, how she tried—to untangle them. A step and another, but they would not listen to her brain. They did not obey her commands. She tripped, stumbled, nearly caught herself—but she did not.

  She slammed into the stage, skidding across the wooden boards. Splinters pierced her palms and shredded her gown. The rip, it was audible. As audible as the gasp of the dancers, the groan of the crowd. The tenor’s voice ceased its drone, the instruments trailed off. All that was left was the soprano and the murmur of the crowd.

  The soprano’s warble also died, and there was nothing but horror in the theater, along with that unmistakable amusement when someone failed.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “You could knock on the front door, you know.” Jones did not look up from the pistol he was cleaning. He continued to polish, the soft cloth penetrating this nook, that cranny, each movement undertaken with deliberation.

  “Knocking on the door is not as enjoyable.” Vivienne could not help the half smile, though it seemed to stretch her reserve of energy. “I always wonder if I have truly hidden my entrance from you.”

  “No.”

  “I did not think so.”

  She could not decide how best to ask for assistance, so she prowled the room while he continued his careful cleaning. The town house was beginning to lose the look of Angel. Angel had liked richness tempered with practicality. Now that Angel slept elsewhere, she could see Jones here. Weapons carefully arranged, corresponding tools lined up by length. Books stacked on tables and shelves—many more than Angel would have had lying about. Yet each stack was ordered precisely by size.

  “How are you, after your fall at the theater yesterday evening?” Jones asked, the concerned tone as deliberate as his care for the pistol.

  “Well enough.” She ran a hand over the three sets of field glasses lined up on the mantelpiece. She did not know, precisely, what Jones was asking or what information he was searching for.

  But she was not ready to leave, and she could not decide how to start. How did one state one was working with a French spy, but only for a little while? More, how did one ask for assistance from the man tasked with ensuring British spies did not work with the French?

  The matched pistol to the one Jones cleaned sat on the desk. Picking it up, she sighted down the barrel, checked for ammunition. It was empty but needed cleaning. This she could do while she considered her words.

  Sitting beside Jones, she began the methodical task of cleaning the pistol. Cloth, oil. It smelled and felt familiar. Side by side they worked, and there was comfort in that. She did not realize how much she needed to be in this world of espionage, where secrets were expected. Where a person did not need to tell someone everything. Here, it was understood that whatever was in your head could stay there.

  Secrecy was not always the right way.

  She sighed, very long, very heavy. “Do you ever wish to simply tell the truth? All of it?”

  “The truth is often frightening,” he countered, flipping his pistol to attack dirt and dust on the other side.

  “That is not an answer.”

  “Why are you here, Flower?” Jones did not look at her. He sighted the barrel of the pistol, checking its accuracy. He aimed at the floor, then at a painting, then the bookshelf. She knew the movements herself. Check the sight at each distance, then recheck.

  “It is tiring, never being honest.” She had not meant to say it in such words, but there it was.

  “Would this be about the code breaker?” He blew dust off the pistol, checked the sight again. “Westwood?”

  Something heavy landed at the base of her belly. Jones was watching her, the spy among spies. “Perhaps.”

  “He’s the man you spoke of before, isn’t he? The one that sent you running into my arms.” His dry tone was constructed in part of laughter, part of embarrassment.

  “I should apologize for throwing myself at you, no?” Grinning, she shrugged one shoulder to dismiss it. “Oui, it is he. I do not know of anyone else I can ask these questions, Jones. You understand me, and where I am from.” Though he had never known the whole of it.

  It was only Maximilian she had told.

  “Westwood is a good man, Vivienne.” Jones said quietly, all laughter gone. He laid the pistol in his lap and looked up to study the painted ceiling, as if the curling designs would help him choose his words. “He’s not an agent, however, even though he’s on the periphery of this world. He doesn’t quite understand it. And from what I know, there is little room for error with Westwood. He does not take kindly to half-truths.”

  “Dire words.” She m
ade small round circles on the barrel with the cloth. If she continued these circles, perhaps she would not have to meet Jones’s gaze.

  “You’re under scrutiny, Flower.” It was said casually, but there was little mistaking his warning. “And so is Westwood.”

  “By whom?” She sent a puff of breath over the pistol so that she would not be tempted to hold it while she waited for an answer.

  “Your meetings with Westwood have not gone unnoticed.” He had not answered directly, which meant only a few knew yet. “A late visit to your town house, a glimpse of you together near a notorious brothel owned by a man known to work with the Vulture. All is noted.”

  “Henri?” She breathed deeply and carefully, so that whatever skittered in her belly would not show itself elsewhere in her body.

  “Knows nothing of you and Westwood, yet, but it will not be long. Nor does he appear to know you are involved in something beyond his assignments.” Jones looked at her, direct, with the full force of his intense gaze. “I cannot know either, Vivienne. Don’t tell me.”

  “It is not wrong, what I am doing.” It was not precisely right, either. There was much unknown between working with Lessard to find Anne and bringing down the Vulture.

  “Be wary, Flower.” Jones set a hand on her shoulder, squeezed once. “Your leash is short, and I can’t make it any longer.”

  She understood. He was caught between loyalty to a friend and loyalty to his commander. At some point, he would have to choose. If she told him, he would have to make the choice.

  She was alone. Alone, with Lessard and the Vulture on one side and Henri on the other. Anne was in front of her.

  There was no one behind.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “She is on the edge, my lord.” Lessard pushed the billiard balls absently across the green baize. He sat on the side of the table, idly swinging a big leg.

  “I’m not surprised.” The Vulture leaned on this cue, contemplated the end of it. “The Flower seems determined to find the girl.” Which was why he’d sent his message. The Flower would take the hair to heart. He’d observed her long enough now to know that.

  And she’d fallen during her performance.

  It seemed he’d aimed and found his mark.

  “Do you think she can be turned?” Lessard stood, ducking his head to avoid the tiered chandelier above the table.

  “No,” the Vulture said softly, rubbing a thumb along the length of the billiard cue. “No, she cannot be turned. She has a sense of loyalty I hadn’t expected from a petty thief.”

  “Then she’s useless to us.” Lessard huffed and pushed the balls across the table again. “We should eliminate the girl, then the Flower, and be done with it.”

  Large man, small brain, the Vulture thought. It was often thus with the men he used. Muscle and brawn, but little mind behind it. Lessard was a bit different, true. A businessman through and through, but he lacked farsightedness.

  “I’m not finished with the Flower yet. I can’t turn her, so she’ll never be the double agent I’d hoped, but I can use her now, while she’s still off balance.” More, he needed her quick fingers and access to those around Prinny.

  “I do not understand.” Lessard’s brows turned down in confusion, the scar on his face shifting.

  “The Flower will do as I command in the short term. Until she finds the girl, she won’t risk noncompliance.” The Vulture laid his cue across the table, then rolled it beneath the flat of his hand as he considered the angles. If, or when, the Flower found the girl, there would no longer be an incentive to ensure her silence. The Flower would tell what she knew—and it was unclear just how much she did know—to the British. “If she finds the girl, they must both be disposed of immediately.” Before either had the opportunity to provide any information to the British.

  “What of her companion? Westwood?”

  “I haven’t decided whether to kill him or not. He might be useful, given the correct circumstances.”

  Still, with the Flower panicked about the girl, now was the time to act. Before she determined where the girl was hidden.

  “It is time,” the Vulture said softly. “We will put the plan into action.”

  Chapter Forty

  Vivienne studied the bright flame illuminating her bedchamber as she performed her stretches. It focused her, that dancing gold light. She could imagine it as bright hope. A silly thing to pretend. Hope was an emotion a spy should never rely on.

  Only she had nothing else to rely on now.

  She must practice. She had never fallen in a performance. Never.

  Henri, the conductor, the manager of the theater. All had been livid, though none as much as Henri. He had railed, and like a viper, she’d expected him to strike. He had not, but she had not forgotten that moment of fear.

  She shifted from first position to fourth position, held, moved to fifth position, then lowered into a demi-plié, held, breathing in and out. She stayed there, testing herself, her strength, her balance. Thighs trembled, her stomach muscles shivered beneath her skin. Still she held it, pushing herself. Another second, just one more—

  The door to the bedroom opened. She shot to her feet, the knife she’d lain on the floor gripped in her hand before she could think. Spinning, she faced the open door, poised to throw the knife and already aiming for the throat.

  The throat belonged to Mrs. Asher.

  The woman’s gasp was sharp on the air, her eyes on the knife. “Miss Vivienne, you put that down.”

  “Mon Dieu.” Lowering the weapon, she sank to the floor, knees weak. What had she nearly done? Henri, Marchand, Lessard—they were all putting her on edge. “I am sorry, Mrs. Asher.”

  “Miss Vivienne, you need to sleep. Just rest for a few hours.” The housekeeper closed the door quietly, leaned against it. Her gown was stained from the day’s work. “You’re making yourself sick with worry.”

  “Perhaps.” But she could not sleep. She could not rest. Deliberately, she set the knife on the floor. “You do not come into my room at the end of the day for no reason, Mrs. Asher. What do you need?”

  “I have a note.” The paper seemed very delicate in Mrs. Asher’s competent hands. “It was delivered not five minutes ago to the back door. I nearly missed the knock, as I was preparing for bed.”

  Vivienne leaped across the room, snatching the note from her fingers. In but a moment, the seal was broken and she was scanning it. She recognized the words “viscount” and “deliver,” the usual “to” and “this.” It was not from the Vulture, as the telltale bird was missing. In its place was a large, ornate L. Lessard, of course.

  There was a second note, folded into the first. This, too, was sealed, but she did not dare open it. Not until she knew what was to be delivered.

  “I remember the boy who brought it, Miss Vivienne. That won’t escape me again.” Mrs. Asher’s eyes were determined. She crossed large, round arms over her equally large chest. “He was a child, barely seven or eight, and filthy. I could scarcely make out the color of his hair. Blue eyes, for whatever help that is. An orphan from the street, likely enough, paid to run an errand.” Her lips thinned out, flattened in that way Mrs. Asher had of showing sorrow. “I’ve known my fair share of those.”

  “Yes,” Vivienne said softly. Meeting Mrs. Asher’s eyes was difficult, but she did it. “You have been kind to them. What did you give the boy before you sent him away?”

  “Bread.” Mrs. Asher flushed, rosy circles blooming into her cheeks. “It was left from yesterday, so ’twasn’t fresh any longer.”

  “I don’t begrudge the boy bread, spy or not.” His allegiance could still change, and a kind word and a loaf of bread from someone other than Lessard might make the difference between a future spy for France or some other life. “The note, Mrs. Asher. What does it say?”

  She was not embarrassed with Mrs. Asher. There was
no need, given their past.

  “Is it in English?” Mrs. Asher leaned over. “Aye. Sure enough. The girl is being moved. Deliver this letter to Viscount Lynley before midnight, and I shall find out where.” The housekeeper’s head jerked up to stare with wide, round eyes. “That’s only a few hours away, Miss Vivienne. It’s already after dark.”

  “It does not say more?” It was not enough information. Where would she find Lynley? What information would she be delivering to him? What if she failed? And Anne. Always was the threat to Anne in her mind. “What of the other note?”

  “Miss Vivienne, you should take this to Mr. Westwood.”

  The rip in her heart was large and very dark. “I cannot.” She shook her head and hoped the rip would stitch itself someday.

  She studied the folded message Lessard intended her to deliver. There was little time to melt the seal, but the paper was thinner than the note she’d collected on Bond Street.

  “Can you read through it?” she asked Mrs. Asher. “Here, like this.” She pulled Mrs. Asher over the candle on the bedside table, held the paper over the flame. It became a burnished gold, emphasizing the ink inside.

  “It’s backward, but I can see it is about money.” Mrs. Asher peered at the paper. “Lynley owes Lessard, for gambling and women, it looks like.” She scoffed. “Men. Doesn’t matter if he’s a peer or poor, they fall victim to both.”

  Not all men, thought Vivienne. Maximilian did not.

  “I am going out, Mrs. Asher.” She spun toward the wardrobe, intent on the clothing there. In her mind, she was already dressing in breeches and boots. “I must locate Viscount Lynley somewhere in London.”

  Lynley was ridiculously easy to find. She knew enough about him to know he would be at the most indecent, debauched soiree of the evening. For today, that was a masquerade. This was good, as it was easy to sidle into the ballroom unknown and unrecognized.

  But one must have a costume at a masquerade. Her hair was piled high and powdered to hide its color, a mask was added to her breeches and boots, and she’d removed the linen shirt beneath her coat and waistcoat. With the scandalous deep V of a few open buttons and the tight-fitting breeches, it was only a few moments until the guests standing in front of her were intent on her body, not her face—which was as she wanted it.