A Dance with Seduction

by Alyssa Alexander

  “Hello, sir!” She sang it as if she did not know a masked Prinny was holding court on a mound of pillows in a ballroom decorated like a feast in ancient Rome. As if she had not noticed Lord Lynley was to his left, fondling the breast of Minerva—or perhaps Venus. “Your little group seems to be having the most fun at this party.” She cocked her head and bowed with a flourish. “I want to play, too.”

  She used her most aristocratic English. It was more difficult than using the French, as Henri had taught her the sound and lilt of le français before the refinements of her native tongue.

  The men and women around Prinny turned to look at her. Eyes behind masks blinked, even as lips curved in welcome. Men did so love women’s skin, did they not? The women with them were as drunk as the men and did not seem to mind another woman cavorting on the pillows.

  It was early, yet, for a party such as this, and the guests were not as much in their cups as she would like.

  “Welcome, my dear.” A familiar-looking man—not Lynley—held out a hand to pull her down to the pillows. No doubt he was one of Prinny’s regular hangers-on. “You did not dress correctly. This is ancient Rome, didn’t you know?”

  She smiled at the man and picked a plump, ripe grape from the plate of food at her elbow. Setting the grape to her lips, she tapped it there as if thinking. “If we all looked like goddesses, a lady would never stand out.” Popping the grape into her mouth, she continued to smile coyly at him. “And a lady always wants to stand out, does she not?”

  Down the line of the pillows and goddesses and Caesars, a masked Prinny laughed. “Not a shy one, are you?”

  “What would be the point of bashfulness, sir?” She leaned back against the tasseled pillows. The coat buttons strained with the movement, so with one hand she unfastened the top button, then another. The waistcoat would cover her, but the hint of removal would entice.

  “Indeed.” Prinny’s greedy eyes followed her fingers.

  Ah. She had his attention now, if she had not before.

  She must be careful. Prinny would know Vivienne La Fleur, so she would be certain not to be Vivienne. Instead, she would continue to be this English girl, a young lady out to play where she should not be.

  For herself, her attention was to Prinny’s left. Lynley had barely noticed her, it seemed. This was good, she decided, flicking open the last coat button to leave only the waistcoat between her and Prinny’s gaze. Easier to slip the note into Lynley’s pocket if he did not notice her. Although he did not have pockets—he wore a toga. She studied the drape and fold of fabric. More difficult than pockets, but not impossible.

  Prinny gestured for her to come forward, flicking his fingers at the pillows in front of him. Others shifted to make room for her near the regent—it was impossible to hide princeliness behind a mask and toga.

  Sauntering toward him, she set her feet lightly between the pillows and glasses of wine and trays of food. Her mask seemed heavy on her face, and yet too thin. Her powdered hair, the male costume, the rouge and paint she wore on her face—none of it seemed enough. Yet there was no other way to disguise herself but costume and powder and mask.

  Gathering her courage and sending an additional sway to her hips, an additional flutter to her lashes, she approached the prince and his companions. Blood hummed as she focused on the man to Prinny’s left. An easy matter to position herself just so. An easier matter to smile at Prinny and sense Lynley’s body. She was close. A shift, one way or the other, and she would be able to slip the note between the folds of his toga to sit inside the wide leather belt he wore. He would notice it later, as the toga was removed.

  Gaze on the regent, she extended her legs and lazily picked up the nearest glass of wine. Through the slits of her mask, she eyed the rotund Julius Caesar before her, and while she did, she slipped the note from her pocket and tucked it into her palm.

  “You’re holding court, it seems, Caesar. It is good the Prince Regent is not here, or you would lose your throne.” She drank deep from the cup. The wine was warm and robust and glowed red in the glass. She hoped it didn’t go to her head too quickly. She didn’t want to fumble the note.

  “What makes you think I haven’t staged a Roman coup and overthrown him?” the prince pretending to be Caesar asked.

  “Because the regent is too handsome and too powerful to be overthrown, of course,” she said, quite seriously.

  The royal laughed, belly shaking beneath the toga as though it were a thick sauce being jiggled in its saucepan.

  While she watched Prinny enjoy her flattery, her peripheral vision caught Lynley looking their way. The laugh had drawn his attention. Now, then. While Lynley was looking right at her—because he was looking at her face, not the hand tucked among the pillows, or the note she’d palmed.

  The thrill of the hunt rose in her. Her fingers moved—

  The regent leaned forward, cupped her chin in his plump hand. Fear tripped along her spine as he studied her masked face, turning it side to side. Her fingers stopped their movements. Too many eyes on her. The goddesses, the Romans, the masked faces surrounding them. All were watching.

  “A wise lady, indeed, to think of the prince’s power,” Prinny murmured, breath pungent with the odor of wine. Greed and avarice brightened his eyes as his other hand played with the thick powdered curls she’d left loose to skim her shoulders and breasts. “But what is your costume?”

  “A proper English lady who’s escaped the confines of her life and is looking for fun,” she responded. Coy words, a coquettish look. “What else would I be?”

  “A flower, of course.” The sly voice pierced her consciousness, plunging an icy fist into her belly. She did not recognize the tones, the tenor. She only knew that voice belonged to a man—and it was not the prince.

  The royal hand cupping her chin fell away. The royal face turned to look at the speaker.

  “If I am not mistaken,” that sly, chilling voice continued, “this proper English lady is none other than the elusive Mademoiselle La Fleur.”

  Raw terror scraped at her skin. She was discovered. Someone had seen through her costume. But how deeply? To the opera dancer, or the spy? The opera dancer was of no import, as she could play that role and still accomplish Henri’s mission. The other—Lessard’s note was becoming damp in her palm.

  A pickpocket could not have damp palms. Mistakes were made this way. She angled her head to study her revealer, keeping that coy, coquettish look on her face. He was masked, but she did not need the mask removed to recognize him.

  He was not Maximilian. The hair was not the same, nor was the deviousness in his bright-blue eyes, so different from Maximilian’s hazel ones. But she knew the shape of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders.

  Not Maximilian, but his brother.

  “Lord Highchester,” she said, slipping back into her French accent. “Monsieur. Are you still enamored of the opera?” She could barely think beyond the note in her hand.

  Beyond discovery.

  “Not as much as my brother.”

  Ah. So, that was how the wind blew. It was not that he knew she was the spy, but only Vivienne La Fleur, the dancer, and the elder son envied the younger son. She could make use of that. She was not certain how, exactly, but knowledge was always a weapon.

  “Your brother is not as enamored as it seems, my lord.” She sipped her wine, then she slid a gaze at Prinny. “It appears I have been discovered, Monsieur Le Roi.”

  “That was a very convincing act, my dear.” The prince was watching her speculatively, eyes very much alert. It was a surprise. He often consumed casks of wine in much the same way a fish consumed water.

  But she knew Prinny.

  “How else was I to attend?” Stretching like a cat who’d eaten cream so her body was at its best advantage, she pouted at him. “I was not invited, Monsieur Le Roi.”

  “A travesty.” His
eyes glazed over, traveling along the length of her body. “Are you recovered from your illness?”

  “A misstep, that is all.” She wiggled her fingers, dismissing her fall on stage.

  Lynley had looked away again, his attention focused on the blond Roman goddess on his lap. He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. The woman pretended to be uninterested, but her giggle belied her actions.

  “I could not allow my favorite men to play without me.” She included Lord Highchester with a glance, tipped her lips up on one side. A lure that was effective on most men.

  Then her quarry, Lord Lynley, staggered to his feet, and alarm staggered its way into her chest. Lynley reached for the goddess’s hand. They were leaving, probably for a tryst in a shadowy alcove or an empty hallway.

  She would fail.

  If she did not deliver the note on this, her first mission, Lessard would dismiss her. There would be no more opportunities to gain information from him.

  She rose to her feet, the note still folded into her hand. “Lord Lynley, have you tired of our company?”

  He paused, an ingrained gentlemen no matter his profligate ways. “Never, mademoiselle.”

  All eyes turned to Lynley, and then to his companion—who blushed prettily.

  Vivienne slipped the note into Lynley’s toga.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Vivienne had driven him to Bedlam.

  Maximilian couldn’t concentrate on even the simplest translations. His brain—a traitorous organ if there ever was one—kept circling round to Vivienne.

  Or whatever her name was, because Vivienne likely wasn’t it.

  He dipped his quill into the ink, thinking to start on the next line of his translation despite it being well after midnight. But damnation, he couldn’t think. His mind was buzzing with gossip, of all things. The great Flower had fallen. Rumors were many and varied—she had finally lost her skill, she had taken a draught of brandy before the performance, she was with child.

  That last gave him pause. It was strangely satisfactory, even as it terrified him. If she were with child, it would be his child. The concept was interesting and warmed an odd corner of his heart. The reality of it made him uneasy, however. He would be a miserable father. He didn’t have the slightest idea where to begin. Perhaps there was a treatise on fathering he could read. Yes, if he could find a treatise, then he would know the proper way to go about it.

  A moot point, he thought, since she hadn’t trusted him with even her real identity.

  “Sir.” Daggett’s voice pierced through the fog filling Maximilian’s brain. “Sir. Lord Wycomb to see you.”

  Maximilian jerked, sending the quill skittering across the page. He stared at the line of ink now crossing through his translation. The Flower’s commander. Her fake protector and the man responsible for the twists and turns of her life.

  Maximilian had the overwhelming urge to smash his fist into the man’s face.

  “Mr. Westwood.” Lord Wycomb’s voice dripped with ice.

  When Maximilian looked up and over at the man, he saw Wycomb’s eyes were chilled as well. Maximilian had seen him before, of course, fondling the Flower in his brother Highchester’s house. Having the man standing in his very own drawing room in the middle of the night seemed an affront.

  A single fist might not be good enough. He thought of the pistol in the top drawer of his desk and its mate tucked into the box on the bookshelves. Unfortunately, he couldn’t shoot a man in cold blood.

  Pity.

  “I am aware of your service to our country, Westwood, and I have need of those services.”

  “My lord.” Slowly, Maximilian stood. He was taller than Wycomb, which was absurdly pleasing. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need you to read this note. I believe it to be coded.” He tossed the note on the desktop instead of simply handing it over. The paper fluttered lightly as it fell.

  Maximilian waited a moment until Wycomb looked at him and held his gaze. “I’m busy.”

  If possible, Wycomb’s gaze became yet more frigid. “This is potentially a matter of high treason.”

  “That may be, but I don’t take kindly to people entering my house without an appointment and making demands.” It wasn’t true. He didn’t take appointments, and nearly all of the people who entered his house made demands of one kind or another, but he disliked Wycomb on principle.

  “You will decipher this,” Wycomb said softly. Menacingly. “Now.”

  “I will work on this—tomorrow.” He hadn’t known he had mulish tendencies. Apparently, they only presented themselves when confronted with an ass.

  “I need it now.” Wycomb’s eyes narrowed. “By order of the prince.”

  Maximilian picked up the note, ready to shove it down Wycomb’s throat. There were other code breakers. Not as good as himself, perhaps, but good enough. Wycomb could go to any one of those men and see the deed done.

  He caught the scent on the paper. Her scent. Soap. No perfumes, no flowery additions to make a man cough.

  Just clean, homespun soap.

  It was finished.

  Maximilian was sick. His gut roiled and burned, and something damn near fury was growing in him.

  She had lied. Again.

  Wycomb had been waiting in the drawing room for nearly an hour. How Daggett had kept him there was unclear, and Maximilian didn’t want to know. It was enough he’d had silence to work in. Nothing to distract him but the letters and mathematics and the smell of the Flower’s soap.

  “Did you complete the decoding, sir?” Daggett asked, quill poised above a ledger as Maximilian stepped into his assistant’s adjoining office. As ever, Daggett was ready to record Maximilian’s findings.

  At the moment, the thought made bile rose in his throat. He handed the note and translation to Daggett, unable to even look at either one again.

  “The letter is from Lessard and outlines an assassination plot against the Prince Regent. It also states the Flower has agreed to be the assassin’s courier.”

  …

  The back door of the town house was unlocked. She slipped through and into the dark kitchen. There was no Anne waiting for her, sitting in a rocking chair near a banked fire with some household task. No Mrs. Asher working at the counters. There was little need to cook when the growing Anne was not there to be hungry eight times each day and Vivienne never knew when she would be at home.

  The night had been exhausting. Monsieur Le Roi was tireless. He’d expected her to stay until dawn. She had not. Only long enough to please him with disclaimers about her health and a few amusing stories. Then she had slipped into the night—early morning, in fact. The guests had imbibed enough so they had not noticed she’d left before the sun rose.

  She had succeeded. The note had been placed in Lynley’s toga. He had left with the girl—the pretend goddess—to do what men did with pretend goddesses at masquerades. And Vivienne had been left entertaining Prinny. Still, the note was delivered well before midnight, and Lynley would think nothing more of it than a debtor to a creditor.

  The stairs were long. Weariness settled over her muscles, her mind. Her bed would be heaven. The door to her room was closed. The hall was dark and still in the last hours before the sun. She brought that darkness into her for a moment. Exhaustion weighed heavy, and she fought the urge to slide to the floor right there in the hall.

  Tired. She was just so tired.

  But there was Anne. Tomorrow—today, if one used the clock—Lessard might tell her where Anne was being moved. Or the next day. He had said he would, if she succeeded. She had done so, and she would hold him to his bargain.

  She set a hand on the bedchamber door and pushed it open, then stepped into her room. Darkness, here, too. No Anne. No Maximilian.

  Only emptiness.

  The backhanded slap sent stars wheeling behind
her eyes. Fire singed a line along her cheekbone. The shock, the strength of the blow, spun her around. She caught herself on the cold wall, just missing the painting hanging there.

  “What are you doing with Lessard?” Henri’s voice was low and harsh in the dark behind her. He did not shout when he was angry. He became quiet, so one strained to hear one’s punishment.

  His hand fisted in her hair, forcing the pins out, pressing her face into the wall she’d sought steadiness in.

  “I am doing nothing with Lessard.” Now she sought solace in the cool, flat wall. She could not think quickly enough. Her cheekbone felt cracked in a thousand places.

  His hand released her hair, and she let out a shaking breath. A candle flared, and the monster in the darkness became visible. She turned to face him, pressing her shoulder blades flat against the wall. It was the only solid thing she could find.

  The handsome face of Henri was not so handsome, now, in the candlelight. It was terrifyingly blank.

  “You would not visit Lessard for nothing.” He stepped forward. She flinched, unable to stop herself, and nearly reached for her knife. But one did not use a knife on one’s trainer. “You would not pass Lessard’s coded letter to Lord Lynley for nothing.”

  “The letter was not—” She could not complete the words. Another blow smashed into her face. The explosion of pain sent her to her knees. She caught herself, barely, before her face crashed into the floor as well as her knees.

  Coded? The wooden boards beneath her were hard. She pressed her palms against them and breathed deep to center her thoughts. Center herself. Vivienne fought against the retching pain in her belly. Had the note been coded? What had she delivered?

  Henri crouched beside her.