A Dance with Seduction

by Alyssa Alexander

  He felt a bit more on even ground with this Flower. The other one—the one that seduced a man with smiles and laughter—he did not understand.

  Quick fingers looped the cravat, pulled. He hoped she knew what he was doing, as without a glass he could not repair it.

  “There, it is finished. Not as fashionable as some, but the best I could do in this hallway.” Stepping back, she cocked her head to study it. “The Mathematical Tie would suit you best, but the starch is insufficient in this cravat. It has been handled too much.”

  Setting a hand to this throat, Maximilian ran his fingers over the folds. It felt correct. Better than what he could do, at any rate. “Thank you, Mademoiselle La Fleur.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he stared at her.

  She watched him steadily, as though assessing him. Did she find him lacking? Or did he meet some unknown expectation? The flickering light from the wall sconce at the end of the hall lit her face, then shadowed it again. The shape of her lips was visible, however, even in the shadows.

  “Do you never smile, Monsieur Westwood?”

  “No.” Letters did not require smiles. “Do you when you’re not playing these games?”

  A faint line formed between her brows—a thinking line, as erotic as it was intelligent. Smoothing away again, her face became that of the opera dancer who dallied with a prince.

  “Life is a game, is it not, monsieur? Endless parties and routs and balls.” Her smile was brittle at the edges, though she spoke with a bright enthusiasm that might have fooled some men. She’d returned to her frivolous role.

  The change irritated him, though he couldn’t say why.

  She held out her arm, waiting for his escort. “Come, we must return, before the prince begins to wonder if I have taken it upon myself to tumble the unhappy gentleman and make him happy.”

  Chapter Five

  She should not tease Monsieur Westwood so, but his respectability demanded it, as did the deep frown turning down the corners of his handsome mouth.

  If she was needling him, she would not worry about her assignment.

  There, now she was worrying again. Her stomach clutched, as though a hard fist had plunged into it. The Vulture would not yet know she was disobeying his command. She had one night, this night, when she would not yet need to be on guard against him.

  Enjoyment could not be allowed, however, as she had not seen Lord Lynley and completed her assignment. What if he had left before she arrived and Prinny already had the note? She would have failed. Henri would be displeased, and then she would have both him and the Vulture to worry about.

  “I am happy.” Monsieur Westwood muttered it to himself as they reentered the soiree. She had heard him do this once before. That muttering had been about a Prussian code she’d brought him.

  “Hmm?” Vivienne looked up at him. Brows were angled as they would be if he were hunched over a difficult code, but he was still handsome, a squared, strong jaw the culmination of a face formed of sharp cheekbones and full lips.

  “It does not signify.” Shaking his head, he looked away, but his frown did not ease. “Prinny is waving at you.”

  Indeed, he was. Most leeringly so. It was a wonder he did not fall from the settee. She smiled at the prince, a knowing little half smile. It would make him feel like the king.

  Expanding her smile to the man standing beside him, she realized it was Lord Lynley. Blond and handsome in that angular way some men had about them, he did not seem dangerous. He bent his head to speak with another man—a bishop, judging by his gaiters. Lynley’s hand dipped into his pocket, moved there, so many fluttering bumps beneath the fabric as he fingered something.

  She had not yet failed.

  Heart pumping, the rush of her blood—these were the beginning of her assignment. Whatever was in Lynley’s pocket was her goal, the one set for her by Henri. Her lips curved up.

  It was time to work.

  “Mademoiselle, do you intend to pierce my arm with your fingers?” Monsieur Westwood’s tone was dry as he looked pointedly at her gloved hand. “I did not give offense again or ask any unforgivable questions, I am quite sure.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Vivienne let her fingers relax. They should be quick and limber, not frozen to the monsieur’s arm from the thrill of the hunt. “I must return to Monsieur Le Roi.”

  “I should say so. Prinny looks like a windmill, beckoning you that way.”

  He was quite right. She laughed, a true laugh that did not come from this role she played. Monsieur Westwood looked down at her but did not smile, though she thought perhaps one corner of his mouth had twitched.

  She had never seen him smile. Most strangely, she wanted to.

  “You are right,” she said, curbing both her laugh and her foolish desire. “Monsieur Le Roi, he would not like it said.”

  When they reached the settee, she let her fingers drop away. Monsieur Westwood’s arm did not look injured from her fingernails, but as strong and steady as before. Perhaps playing with quills day in and day out created some strength.

  “Lord Lynley.” Monsieur Westwood inclined his head in greeting. His eyes crinkled at the corners, just a little, as he turned to the bishop standing watch above Prinny. Perhaps such lines were as close to a smile as she would see from the monsieur. “Bishop Carlisle,” he said. “Very good to see you again, my lord.” He reached out a hand, which the bishop accepted.

  “And you, Maximilian.” The bishop seemed an incongruous guest this evening. He appeared quite respectable with his sober, dark clothing and lined face—not at all as entertaining as the rest of company. “Do convey my well wishes to your mother.”

  “I shall,” the monsieur said. To Vivienne and the prince, “The bishop was my father’s oldest friend.”

  The bishop looked very carefully at Monsieur Westwood. Then, also carefully, he looked at Vivienne, gaze lingering on the plunging neckline of her gown and her unruly curls. The lines around his mouth drew down. She had received such disapproval before from other men of the cloth. It was not of import whether this gray-haired, staid bishop believed her to be immoral.

  It was Lord Lynley she focused on. He was fingering the little something in his pocket again. Trills of anticipation skittered across her skin. Palms itched to lift the note, to touch fabric and smooth paper and know she had taken something.

  “Carlisle isn’t as prudish as some others, you know,” Prinny said, gesturing toward the bishop. “Though he does try to keep me on the straight and narrow on occasion. Like today, attempting to talk politics instead of pleasure.”

  “As the bishop has done most of my life, as well, Your Highness,” Monsieur Westwood said to the prince. The lines around the monsieur’s eyes crinkled again as he slid his gaze toward the bishop.

  “Not politics,” Carlisle corrected with a slight nod of his head. “Advice on matters of state. Now that I have delivered my message, I will be taking my leave.” The bishop folded his hands over a trim middle. “Lynley?”

  Lord Lynley’s eyes flicked toward Prinny. “No, I shall stay a little longer.”

  To deliver his note. It was clear. The intent was bright in his eyes, if one knew to look.

  Not if I steal it first.

  Her pulse hitched. The air seemed dense on her skin, as though it weighed more now than only a moment ago. She felt every shift in its flow. It was always so when she took something. Stealing was a skill, one that took time and practice to perfect. A craft, she supposed.

  She was good at her craft.

  “Bishop Carlisle, I’m too busy for matters of state.” The prince gestured to a footman waiting nearby and plucked a glass of wine from his tray. “You may go.”

  “Quite.” The bishop bowed, revealing a skull beginning to bald at the crown. “Your Highness, Lynley.” He nodded. “Maximilian, I shall no doubt see you soon.”

  “I will joi
n you as you take your leave, sir, if I may,” Monsieur Westwood added, clearly seizing upon the excuse. Relief was barely hidden in his voice.

  “If you must, Max.” Prinny raised his glass in mock toast, the pale-gold wine sloshing over the edge to discolor his gloves. “You too often leave early.”

  “Farewell, Bishop, Monsieur Westwood.” Vivienne smiled when she saw the monsieur was irritated again by the prince’s words. Such fierce brows the monsieur had. “Our time together was quite charmant,” she added.

  “Indeed.” He bowed to her, attention already elsewhere, though his cravat did look better. “Delightful, Mademoiselle La Fleur.”

  Striding through the crowd, he was a step ahead of the bishop. Monsieur Westwood was very tall, taller than the other men in the room. It must be interesting, watching everyone from such a great height.

  “You were gone a long time, my dear,” Prinny said from his comfortable seat on the settee. He sulked like a little boy, his lower lip curled under.

  “I missed you every moment, Monsieur Le Roi. You have other company now, I see.” She angled her body so that she stood beside Lord Lynley. She smiled at the prince, at the lord. A warm smile, so they would see her face and not her hands.

  Lynley nodded his head to her. “Mademoiselle.” He was not like Prinny, with his excess and his women and his plump body. This man had sharp eyes that missed little.

  Suddenly the challenge was more enjoyable.

  “Lord Lynley. I have not seen you at the opera lately. Have you tired of my performance?” She pouted, just a little, and set a hand on the arm that had been fingering the note.

  Apprehension suddenly rose from deep inside her, and her mouth went dry. What if she were caught? Never, in all her years, had she been afraid to steal. Never had she believed she might fail. Except this time, it was more than thievery. She thought of Anne, of the Vulture, and of Henri.

  Failure was unacceptable. She must complete the assignment.

  “I could never tire of your performance.” Lord Lynley leaned down with an enticing smile. “Unfortunately, I had important matters distracting me from your charms.” Still, his eyes, they lingered on her shoulders, her bodice.

  So she leaned her body toward him, exposing the valley between her breasts, to say, “Then my charms must try harder,” and slipped her hand into his pocket.

  …

  Maximilian was not unhappy. What was happiness, after all? Certainly not a tumble with an opera dancer, or the raucous world of Prinny and his ilk.

  He pushed open the door to his town house. Awaiting his arrival was a single candle casting a glowing circle over a faded rug and a pair of urns his mother claimed were from Greece. They were not, since the carvings purporting to be Greek letters were quite fabricated, more’s the pity.

  Daggett stood halfway up the steps to the upper floors, a stack of ledgers under his arm and a cup of tea in his hand. He appeared to be retiring for the evening, given the tea he usually carried to bed. Maximilian glanced at the utilitarian wooden clock squatting on a narrow table near the door. It was too late to go to Manton’s or Gentleman Jackson’s. Perhaps he had enough time to work tonight.

  Narrowing his eyes, he studied the yellowed clock face.

  “Daggett, you moved the clock again.” He did not comprehend how his instructions could be misunderstood. Mathematical angles were precise.

  “It is not visible from the hallway unless it is angled this way, sir,” Daggett said. “I must be able to record the time when going in and out of your study.”

  “It is supposed to be angled toward the front door for optimal visibility when one enters the house.” Setting a finger at the base of the clock, Maximilian pushed the left side two inches backward. “From the door, one may choose to go in any direction from this entryway. If it is only readable from the hall, one must move farther into the house to check the time, then retrace one’s steps to go upstairs or to the study. It is a matter of efficiency.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man sighed.

  “Good.” Maximilian began to peel off his gloves, content now that the clock was angled properly. “I intend to start work on the German text tonight.” When his assistant didn’t answer, Maximilian glanced up and found the man staring openmouthed. “Yes?”

  “Your cravat, sir.”

  Daggett had noticed. Of course he had bloody well noticed. The Flower had tied it into some confounded knot Maximilian probably couldn’t undo.

  “What of it?” he bit out, tugging at the offending linen. It came apart more easily than he’d expected, but it was still a mess of loops and tucks and folds.

  “Sir.” Daggett swallowed. “It looked perfect. How did you learn to tie your cravat in that manner?”

  “I didn’t. The Flower corrected it for me.” Thankfully, it was now undone and hanging from his fingers.

  “The Flower? You were with the Flower?” The ledgers slid out of Daggett’s hand and tumbled to the steps, a few slips of paper fanning out on the dark wood. “She has a protector, and she is a spy. Sir, well—she is adventurous.”

  “I wasn’t with her in that way.” Unable to determine if he was insulted or not, Maximilian narrowed his eyes. Did the man think Maximilian couldn’t take the Flower to bed? Or that he was unadventurous? He acted honorably, unlike many men in society. “She attended the soiree at Carleton House and took offense at my untidy cravat.”

  Maximilian shoved the linen into his pocket and marched toward the study, leaving Daggett to scramble around the steps and retrieve his ledgers.

  Unfortunately, Daggett’s voice trailed down the hall behind him. “Oh, meeting her at the prince’s makes much more sense, sir.”

  Now Maximilian was insulted. Not that he wanted to be with Vivienne La Fleur in that manner. She was too—too— Well. Too much. In every way possible. She practically breathed sensuality, as her entire body was formed to draw a man’s gaze. She was a spy, which he knew from experience meant devious and sneaky and incomprehensible. One never knew where one stood with a spy, and particularly the unreadable Flower.

  She was also pledged to another man, a fact he never forgot.

  As he stepped into the study, the betraying scrape of wood on wood floated in from the hallway. The clock was being shifted on the tabletop again.

  “Make a notation in your ledgers for me to terminate your employment tomorrow morning,” Maximilian shouted down the hall.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Blast the man. Daggett did not sound abashed in the least.

  Maximilian shut the study door quietly and firmly. He had work to do. Mademoiselle La Fleur and her cravat-tying skills should not be of interest to him. The German ambassador wanted a translation of an English book on etiquette for the ladies of his entourage. A silly frippery of a book, but it was business. The ambassador was willing to pay handsomely, so Maximilian would do the translation.

  Vivienne La Fleur and her coded messages and sensual voice would fade away once he could begin to work with the words. Words, at least, made sense.

  The Flower was impossible to decipher.

  Chapter Six

  “The Flower did not take the document from the book, my lord.” The agent’s voice was quiet, even fearful. “It was still there this morning.”

  “Did you retrieve it?” The Vulture did not look up from the thick tome splayed open on his desk, but kept his fingertips resting on the thin pages and their tiny printing to mark his place.

  “Yes, my lord. I have it here.”

  Cold fury filled him as the agent set a small square of folded paper on the corner of the gleaming mahogany desk.

  “Burn the letter.” The Vulture did not need to read it to know what was inside. It was not of any import, as it was only a test to see if the Flower was as good as the reports indicated. He also wanted to determine if she would do as commanded, but the Flower had
clearly ignored his directive.

  No one ignored the Vulture.

  She was nothing. A mere slip of a girl. A pickpocket. A common thief.

  Perhaps she was not so common, he allowed. She had access to places he could not go because he would be recognized, places many of his quickest agents could not access. It was why he needed her. Anyone could pick a lock, but not everyone could slip notes into the pockets of politicians during Prinny’s gatherings or a dinner party with lords and their mistresses.

  The fire across the room flared as his agent dropped the letter into it. The scent of burned paper could not overpower the burning wood, but the Vulture fancied he could smell it nonetheless.

  “Leave me.” He needed to think, and he needed silence.

  “Yes, my lord.” The agent bowed quickly then retreated from the room.

  The Vulture leaned back and watched the dancing flames. Setting his elbows on the arms of the chair, he pressed his fingertips together. Tapped them.

  The threat to the girl had not been enough to turn the Flower as he had expected. He had meticulously researched her and knew everything about her past. It had taken months of work, but he knew everything until she entered the service. There was a gap there—presumably she had been in training—and then she had emerged as the Flower. A dancer capable of slitting a man’s throat and lusted after by dozens of London dandies.

  What man wouldn’t desire to bed such a beauty?

  The Vulture wondered, vaguely, if the younger sister resembled the Flower. His tastes did not run to shy, untutored young girls, however. He preferred experienced, creative women. Those women would—and did—allow anything. Perhaps he should send round for one tonight. Or two. He had an endless supply. It was good to have the owner of a brothel in your pocket. He yanked on the bell pull, already anticipating a satisfying night.

  While he waited for his men to bring a woman, he would make plans to find the proper incentive for the Flower. He could still use the little girl to achieve his goal.