A Dance with Seduction

by Alyssa Alexander

  Which meant he was her best chance at remaining undiscovered.

  Chapter Two

  Maximilian propped his chin in his hand and frowned at the small symbol resembling the Egyptian hieroglyphic letter A. It wasn’t actually an A. The vulture wasn’t shaped correctly, and it faced the wrong direction. It wasn’t a logical progression in the code, which should have been a mathematical substitution cipher. The vulture changed the rotation.

  On 13 October, go to No. 14 Hanover Square. Yes, that part of the message was easy. A date and an address. Document will be hidden in a copy of Sense and Sensibility by A Lady. Truly, spies were an odd lot. Who would hide important documents in a novel where any young debutante could pick it up? Deliver document to 22 Neva Street.

  At the end of the message was the vulture. He could not understand its purpose there. He pulled the scrap of paper closer, leaning over and squinting despite his spectacles. A signature, perhaps? Interesting, that little drawing. Quite well done, in fact, and vaguely familiar.

  Maximilian yanked on the bell pull recently installed by his assistant. The bell clanged somewhere distant in the house.

  Nothing happened. Not for ten long, silent minutes.

  He jerked the embroidered pull again, then rubbed a thumb over the vulture mark. Damned if he could remember where he had seen it before. Daggett would likely remember. Or he would have a record of some type in the maze of notes he used as a classification system for the documents Maximilian translated.

  “Sir?” Daggett staggered into the room, mouth open on a yawn.

  “Why are you wearing a nightshirt?” Maximilian leaned back in his chair, eyeing the skinny legs poking out of the bottom of the nightshirt. Surprisingly scrawny considering the round belly above it.

  “It is nearly four in the morning.” Another jaw-cracking yawn. Daggett blinked and absently rubbed the side of his ear. “I was sleeping.”

  “Oh. My apologies.” Maximilian looked down at his own clothing and realized he hadn’t changed in nearly twenty-four hours. Well, he was still working. “Do you recall seeing this symbol?” He tapped the document with his forefinger and noticed the digit was smudged with ink.

  Daggett peered at the vulture, thin lips pursed as he considered the drawing. “Yes, sir. I am uncertain as to where, however.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “Of course, sir. It will take some time, though. There are quite a lot of documents I must reference. You have completed so many translations—” He broke off, peering closely at the Flower’s message. “What are you working on? I did not enter this document in my records.”

  “No.”

  Daggett tugged on his nightshirt. “Sir, I cannot be of proper service to you if you don’t allow me to accurately record your work. Or your visiting clients.” His mouth turned down in offended grimace before his eyes popped wide. Two shocked circles of gray. “Oh, sir, I have failed in my service. I missed a client. I must not have heard the door. My deepest apologies. It shall not happen again. I shall be more vigilant in the future—”

  “It was the Flower, Daggett. Even I didn’t know she was here until she was standing next to me.”

  “Oh.” Relief sent his assistant’s shoulders sagging. “Well, in that case—but, have we decided to work on codes again? I thought we had retired from that work.” He frowned and leaned over the note again.

  “Just this code. She is paying rather more than the usual rate.”

  “I must record it, sir. One moment.” Thin legs marched out of the room into the connecting office. They marched back a moment later supporting the man, a ledger, and quill. “When did she arrive, sir? Before or after midnight?”

  “I don’t know.” Maximilian could not see that it mattered. He bent over the note again to study the vulture mark. Until he knew what it meant, he could not complete the translation. Most dissatisfying. In good conscience, he could not charge her the full amount.

  “I must record the correct date.” Daggett’s quill hovered above the ledger, poised to begin his notes.

  “Before midnight, I suppose.” When he was still hoping to be left in peace with his brandy, the fire, and the Russian text.

  “Very good, sir. The price?”

  “Three pounds ten shillings.” Finishing it would require additional effort. Flicking at the buttons of his coat, he shrugged out of it. “If I cannot break it fully, I will have to repay some of the money.”

  “Naturally. You are most honorable in that regard,” Daggett said, his chest puffing out. The nightshirt swirled around his legs as he set the ledger under his arm. “I remember when the German consulate asked you to translate a letter into Russian, French, Persian, and Swedish, and you could not complete the Persian letter. We had to repay—”

  “I’m quite aware, Daggett.” An expert in eleven languages, and he could not complete the task. Persian was a language in which he was less than proficient. Germanic languages and Romance languages had similar roots, but Persian—well. He must work on mastering that one.

  “The Germans were quite pleased with your level of service, however,” Daggett finished cheerfully.

  “Go to bed.” Maximilian shifted his shoulders, wishing briefly that Gentleman Jackson’s was open at four in the morning. A round of boxing might clear his mind enough to decipher the vulture.

  “If you are awake and working, sir, then I shall be also.” Daggett drew himself up. “We must find the vulture reference. We must not disappoint the client, even if it is the Flower.”

  …

  Monsieur Westwood was bent over his desk when she returned just before dawn. Aside from being in his shirtsleeves, it appeared as though he had not moved. Vivienne studied him from the shadows before stepping into the room. The line of his back, strong and broad as he dipped his quill into one of the four inkwells on his desk. Marvelously thick hair stood on end, so that what should have been a smooth, burnished mahogany was spiked with cinnamon and gold and even russet.

  Sighing, he leaned close to the paper, as if his spectacles were ineffective. She had not seen him in spectacles before. They made the strong planes of his face seem more scholarly. She shifted, intent on stepping close to the desk, but his head jerked up like a wolf scenting the air.

  “You are back,” he said, in that brusque voice he used. It did not change for anyone, so far as she had heard.

  “Have you completed the code, Monsieur Westwood?”

  “No.”

  Panic sliced through her, as cutting as her own knives. “I gave you time, as you asked.” Striding to the desk, she looked down at him.

  He removed the spectacles, dropping them to the desktop. Bare fingers rubbed against his closed lids, as if clearing away cobwebs. Monsieur Westwood’s hands were wide and strong, with long, powerful fingers. The hands of a farmer or laborer, perhaps. Elegant they were not, though they were gentle with a quill.

  “There is one figure I cannot decipher.” He sounded exhausted, as if his bones required rest. Shadows were deep beneath eyes that missed nothing. A niggle of guilt crept into her heart.

  She pushed it back out, as she had paid him handsomely.

  “This symbol, what is it?”

  Reaching out, he set one finger on the note. Paper shushed across the wooden desktop until it was in front of her. Seeing the sloped handwriting again made her stomach clutch.

  “The vulture.” The monsieur angled his head in the direction of the message, candlelight edging his cheekbones and jaw. The stubble shading his skin had grown since the night before, and now that the spectacles were removed, he appeared less scholarly and a little more dangerous. “It’s similar to Egyptian hieroglyphics, but it’s not quite right. The feet are out of proportion to the body, and the bird is facing the wrong direction. It might be a signature, or it could have some meaning that modifies the code.”

  She knew what th
e symbol meant. It would not affect the words of the message, but it did chill the skin at the base of her spine. “What does the message say?”

  “I believe it states: On 13 October—that is tomorrow.”

  “I am aware, monsieur.”

  “Oh. Of course.” He looked oddly put out that he could not instruct her on the date. “On 13 October, go to No. 14 Hanover Square. Documents will be hidden in a copy of Sense and Sensibility by A Lady. Deliver documents to 22 Neva Street.”

  “Neva Street? You are certain it states Neva Street?”

  “Quite certain.”

  Vivienne bent over, staring at the vulture drawing. The mark—yes, she knew it well. The French spymaster signed all of his messages in this way. She understood what he wanted her to do—steal documents from an Englishman on Hanover Square and deliver them to a Frenchman on Neva Street.

  The chill at the base of her spine grew, spreading over her until it settled in her belly. She would not steal the documents. Absolutely not. It would be treason. She gritted her teeth and forced her chest to fill with air, then constrict again. In and out.

  Do not show fear. A spy never shows fear.

  Turning her head, she looked toward Monsieur Westwood. He, too, was bent over the letter. The unknown mark must have offended him. A great frown creased his forehead. Large, dark brows slashed downward. He had a prominent nose, though it was not unhandsome. Ah, but then there were his lips. Some men with such lips, they would be very great lovers. This man used a generous mouth to snarl at paper and ink.

  “Thank you, monsieur.”

  “Unfortunately, I cannot accept your money. I could not complete the cipher.” Frustration edged his tone, and he flicked his finger at the paper. “Damn vulture.”

  “You did complete the message.” She did not want to speak of the Vulture. “Thank you for acting quickly.”

  Ignoring her gratitude, he narrowed his gaze on her lips. “Your accent is difficult to place. I have been trying for years, and despite my experience, I cannot determine the origin. It is not the French spoken in Paris, certainly. The nasal tones are not right.”

  “No?” Amused, she grinned at him. “I shall not ruin the game by providing the answer to your riddle.”

  The scowl crossing his features was ferocious. “Your accent is like the vulture symbol—both trouble my memory. I’ve seen the symbol before but don’t recall exactly where.” He picked up the paper and folded it carefully, end to end, lining up the edges just so. “My assistant will find it, though.”

  “The vulture—I know the drawing.” The cold returned, moving from her spine to ice her belly. She did not want Monsieur Westwood to remember, or the chattering assistant to find it in his records. “It is not a code, but a man. He means nothing.”

  “A man.” His gaze searched her face. They were a curious shade, his eyes. A mix of green and brown, with starbursts of gold fighting through both. “Are you in trouble, Mademoiselle La Fleur?” he asked softly, handing her the message.

  “No, Monsieur Westwood.” Except she was. “Good-bye.”

  It was a simple matter to slip from his study. In the early-dawn light, she left by the back door of his town house. Minutes later, she walked through mews already bustling with life. Grooms, coachmen, livery boys. Each with assigned tasks. Wash this, mend that.

  Loosening her walk, Vivienne pushed her cap low over her face. She was not tall, so she would be a young male, one growing into himself. She hunched her shoulders in that way lanky boys did before they understood their shoulders to be wide as a man’s. Cap low, a whistle between her teeth, and boy’s breeches—she was just another groom, sauntering through the mews on his way to work.

  Unfortunately, her work that morning involved lying to her commander.

  “Bonjour, Henri.”

  She received him in the boudoir attached to her bedchamber, as was her habit. Henri preferred to maintain appearances, which was also why she used the French pronunciation of his given name. Anne and the housekeeper had come with her during her training. The lame footman she had known in the old days. The others—the day maid, the groom—were hired.

  Vivienne reclined on a chaise and found her pose. Breasts forward, one arm dangling carelessly along the back of the chaise. The satin negligee slipped over her legs as she curled them onto the seat. Smiling flirtatiously, she angled her head so he would not see the telltale pulse pounding in her throat.

  So he would not think she might commit treason.

  Henri bent and kissed her cheek. “You are a vision, my darling.”

  She accepted his kiss and the slight rasp his whiskers left behind. He was the same age her father would have been if he’d lived, but his eyes still perused her body, lingered here and there. Lust, she supposed, was the least of his sins.

  She suppressed the repulsion beneath her skin, burying it deep so he would not see. “Thank you, Henri. You are well?”

  “As ever.” He was lean from his daily rounds of boxing and fencing, and handsome with his patrician features and the hair silvering at his temples. Elegant. No large laborer’s hands for Henri. “And you, Vivienne? Are you well?”

  Why they bothered with these niceties, she did not know. “Well enough.” She shrugged, using the Gallic gesture she had worked months to perfect. “Rehearsal was difficult yesterday.”

  “Too taxing for you?”

  “Of course not.” As though such things would tax her. “The soprano, she had the vapors again.”

  “Ah.” He did not even pretend to care. Already his focus had turned elsewhere. “Did you retrieve the documents I requested? I asked for them nearly a week ago.” He sat and crossed his legs. Each elbow rested on an arm of the chair, then he pressed his fingers together to form a many-steepled roof.

  “Of course.” She angled her head toward the sheaf of papers folded and sealed on a nearby table. Could willpower cause another person to stand, pick up an object, and walk away? If it was possible, she would will it so.

  “Good.” Cold eyes flicked to the documents, back to her face. “You were unnoticed?”

  “Do you doubt me, Henri?” She questioned herself, sometimes, as she could not always read the documents—but the quickness of her fingers and her stealth were dependable. These she took pride in. “Have I not been trained well?” She brushed a finger across the raised design of the brocade covering her chaise, idly, as if his answer had no import.

  “Of course, darling. I trained you myself.” A man could be utterly still and wholly terrifying. Lips that never smiled. Eyes that never warmed, watchful eyes to haunt one’s dreams. “Has something happened, Vivienne?”

  “I am tired, that is all.” If she denied it easily, he would leave soon and read nothing in her face. “I had to wait hours for the lord and his mistress to retire before I could obtain the documents. The lord—he was enthusiastic.” The roof had been cold and damp beneath her buttocks as she waited for the eager gentleman to finally stop playing with his long-suffering mistress. She counted herself lucky she had not succumbed to an ague.

  “You have shadows beneath your eyes.” Henri’s voice was quiet. Sharp. “You must take care, Vivienne. I cannot allow my best weapon to fail me.”

  “Of course not.” That would be intolerable. “I shall sleep well these next nights, with no assignments to complete.” Aside from meeting a Frenchman, perhaps, if she were to commit treason. Tomorrow was 13 October.

  “Sleep must wait, as I do have a task for you.” His tone did not allow her an opportunity to refuse. Nor did the eyes that searched her face with such suspicion. “The Prince Regent is hosting a soiree tomorrow evening. Lord Lynley will be attending, as usual. He is charged with passing a note to Prinny from a Tory supporter.” He paused and set a finger to his sleeve. An offensive white thread lay there. He captured it between thumb and forefinger and flicked it away. “The prince must not r
eceive that note. I have arranged your invitation to Carleton House.”

  “Non.” She had not said it aloud, had she? Fingers twitching on the arm of the chaise, she struggled to refrain from leaping up.

  “I beg your pardon?” He was angry. His voice became colder when he was angry.

  “No, Prinny certainly must not receive the note. I shall retrieve it.” But she could not be in two places at once. Stealing in Hanover Square for the Vulture and at Carleton House for Henri in the same night was impossible.

  Her commander did not speak for a long moment. Perhaps he understood her heart beat as quickly as a fleeing rabbit’s.

  “Bring me the note at first light.”

  He stood, much later than she had willed him to, retrieving the sheaf of papers she had stolen. Folding them a final time, they disappeared inside his coat. “I will have more orders for you soon, Vivienne.”

  After a final, slow caress of his finger on her cheek, he turned away and let her breathe. The door closed behind him. Soft, but firm. She let out her breath. It was uneven, but she ignored that. He did not guess. Not yet.

  She had time, then, to decide what to do.

  Chapter Three

  “I am glad Mr. Westwood could read the code. I was ever so surprised to find the note under my pillow when I woke. If it hadn’t been wash day, I might not have seen it.” Anne carefully set the edge of a kitchen knife on a peeled yellow onion.

  Vivienne eyed the sturdy worktable and its stacks of bowls and partially completed dishes. Frightening. Terrifying, even. A knife was much easier to wield in combat than in the kitchen.

  “Not like that, dear. The knife will take your fingers clean off.” Mrs. Asher, the housekeeper, repositioned Anne’s hands before looking up at Vivienne. “What did the note say?”