“I must deliver it. If I do not, Anne will be at risk. We can discuss it later. I must go.”
Vivienne could feel his eyes on her as she walked out of the room, but she did not look back. Nor did she take the copy of the letter. If she were searched by whomever she was meeting, she could have nothing beyond the expected.
She must trust Monsieur Westwood would not turn the letter in to the government.
She was trusting him with Anne’s life.
Chapter Sixteen
The door to Room 12 of the Nelson Hotel seemed solid. It was made of light-colored wood, nearly gold in hue. Vivienne might have thought it pretty if she were not concerned with the letter tucked inside her muff. It was a very small letter, folded as it was. Yet in that moment, it seemed enormous.
She knocked, a quick rap on the pretty gold door, then waited. Twenty seconds. Thirty. There was no answer. So. She would knock again. When she had, Vivienne tucked her other hand into the muff and gripped her knife.
She did not like delivery instructions that did not include people to receive the delivery.
Was it a trap? The hair on the nape of her neck rose. Perhaps she was not alone in the hall. She sent a glance to the right. The left. Nothing but empty corridor punctuated by golden wood doors. Curtained windows guarded either end. There was ample room to hide in those heavy, elaborate curtains.
The faintest scratch met her ears. She whipped her gaze back to the door of Room 12. It opened wide, the yawning entrance to the unknown.
“I have a gift of jewelry for your mother,” she said to the man in the doorway. Marchand had not conveyed any password, so this must do. Very poor planning on Marchand’s part.
The man did not look French—but as with the butcher’s boy and the man on Bond Street, he would not look French. If he was in England, he would appear English.
Nor was he the butcher’s boy who had delivered the last note. The hair, perhaps, could match, but this man was decades older than Vivienne, with a nose not remotely beaky. He was tall, thin, and wearing the dark coat, light trousers, and high starched cravat of any fashionable man.
The movement of his body told her what he truly was. A man could not hide entitlement. This was no thief from the docks or the rookeries. A spy, most likely, but he was also very much an aristocrat.
“Merci.” His voice was low, with a hint of gravel to correspond with his age. He held out his hand for the letter.
She did not give it to him. Could not. Nerves dampened her palms, though she wore gloves so the letter was dry and would not reveal her fear.
“The girl.” It was a risk to ask. “She is well?” Holding her breath, she waited for the answer.
“Alive.” The man’s cool eyes watched her, cataloging every feature even as she cataloged his brow, his cheekbones, the shape of the nose, even the amount of stubble and the pattern in which it grew.
“Good.”
The letter was plucked from her fingers the moment she held it out, then the door closed with a sharp snap.
What now? Pressing an ear against the door, she listened for movements on the opposite side. Silence. Not a whisper or the patter of footsteps. He was quiet, this man of Marchand’s. Still, he would have to leave. For food, if not to deliver the letter or relay its contents.
Or act on them.
It occurred to her that he might be standing on the other side of the door, waiting to hear her walk away before leaving himself.
She made enough noise that he would hear, but not so much she did not sound like a spy. A rustle of clothing, but not footsteps. A loud intake of breath, but no words. She began to walk.
Her gaze focused on the curtains at the end of the hall. They were deep crimson and heavy. Brocade, perhaps? It did not matter. They were wide, heavy, and draped in large folds.
She was a very small person.
It was but a moment to ensure she was alone. Sliding behind the curtain, she shook it to cover her feet. It was hot behind the thick fabric. She could not see, nor barely breathe, but she stayed there. Listening.
A door opened. She twitched the curtain aside—a half second only, to see the hallway. A man and woman walked comfortably arm in arm, as if they had done so a hundred times before. They had not passed Room 12 yet and could not have come from there. Eventually they passed the room and moved into the stairwell, leaving her alone again in the hall.
It was stifling standing behind this woven fabric, but she was not ready to leave yet. Marchand’s man—or enemy, it could be either—was still here. The heat rose minute by minute until sweat gathered between her breasts, at her temples. The pelisse and muff became unbearable weights.
Perhaps this was not her best idea.
Another door opened. Another twitch of the curtain.
Room 12. The man was leaving Room 12.
She let the curtain fall closed. Her heartbeat accelerated, in that way it did when she was on the hunt. Only now it was not a mission, but a driving force. This man might lead her to Anne.
She gathered herself, her energy, before peeking out again. The man was walking away in long, confident strides. He did not look back as he turned into the doorway to the stairwell.
Darting from behind the curtain, Vivienne followed him. Swift feet, blood pounding in her ears. Frustration blossomed when she realized she was not as silent as usual in her slippers and gown. Pantaloons and boots would be better—she rustled with every step.
It was not difficult to slip down the stairs to the ground floor. The hotel lobby spread before her, not busy, but not empty. She kept her gaze on the toes of her walking half boots, like so, and crossed the room. If she stopped she would lose much ground between the spy and herself.
The man exited the hotel. The door started to swing closed, but she saw him turn left. Picking up her pace, she moved quickly through the lobby. The door was just there—
“Mademoiselle La Fleur?” It was a strange man’s voice, a young man’s voice. A guest at the hotel, perhaps one who recognized her from the stage.
She did not stop for the man. She did not even look. Instead, she slipped through the door and onto the street, pretending she had not heard. Bright sunlight blinded her. Blinking, she looked frantically to the left. The street and walkway were not crowded, but so many men wore the same blue coat and light trousers of a fashionable gentleman. It was not easy to pick out one from the others. Yet he must be here, somewhere.
She walked carefully, searching for him and refusing to panic. Letting panic take hold might cost her in clear thinking. Carriages moved along the street, as did men and women and street hawkers and boys sweeping the cobblestones and— There. Getting into a hackney was a man with the right height, the right clothing, the right hair.
She dashed forward, uncaring now what picture she might make, so she could hear his direction.
“To Manchester Square, please,” he told the driver.
Then Marchand’s man was inside the carriage. Whinnies filled the air as the driver encouraged the horses. Hooves began their rhythmic sound.
Raising her muff, she attempted to call a hack. She must follow, as quickly as possible.
A hand on her arm stayed any potential conveyance.
“Mademoiselle La Fleur!” The man from inside the hotel was young, handsome, and every bit a dandy. “I thought that was you in the lobby. I saw you on stage…”
Vivienne did not hear the dandy’s next words. Did not care what they were or who he was.
She was trapped on the street, unable to follow her quarry.
Chapter Seventeen
Maximilian was ready for her.
He squinted into the darkening evening beyond the window. The Flower wouldn’t be able to sneak into his study and surprise him this night. He knew she was coming to discuss the letter, so whatever mysterious method she entered by would not go unnoticed.<
br />
“I shall be on the alert, sir.” Daggett straightened a stack of papers on Maximilian’s desk with efficient precision, positioning them parallel to the edge. “She will not be able to evade us both.”
“I should be working.” Maximilian looked down at the paper clutched in his hand, lines of his own handwriting scrawling across the page. Frowning, he set the copied letter regarding pudding and lemon sauce in the cleared center of his desk. “This spy business doesn’t pay the clothier’s bills.”
“Sir, you have been working all afternoon and evening, and have not spent any time on pleasurable pursuits in weeks. I do not recall the last time you attended Gentleman Jackson’s for a bout to clear your head.” Daggett pulled a wing-back chair near the fire and brushed a hand over the upholstery. “You should rest.”
“Rest?” Maximilian eyed the offered chair and wondered when he had last sat in it. He usually sat at the single chair before his desk.
“Yes, sir. Before the Flower arrives. You shall be working well into the night, I daresay.”
Daggett did have a point. She would be here soon, with her dark hair hidden beneath a cap and the scent that wasn’t perfume. Once she was, he would be distracted for the rest of the night.
“Yes, I shall rest,” he said.
“Very good, sir.” Daggett beamed. “I shall keep watch for the Flower. Enjoy yourself.” He marched from the room and closed the door with a soft but firm snap.
Maximilian stood for a moment, looking blankly about the study. What did a man do for leisure? Sitting in a chair by the fire didn’t seem to be enough. His eyes lit on the brandy decanter, the liquor glowing through the crystal. Aha. That seemed just the thing. He poured two fingers, then added another splash for good measure. He was trying to rest, after all. He replaced the decanter and began to wander, unsure what else to do.
He looked at his desk. The copied French letter lay there. He could read it again. Perhaps he’d missed something earlier—but no, he had read it a dozen times already. Well, then, what to do? He spun in a circle. Perhaps he should sit in front of the fire. Daggett had gone to the trouble of moving the chair. Decision made, he strode to the chair and settled in, the soft chair wings enfolding him. Quite comfortable, despite the strange large flowers carved into the wooden legs. He set his feet on the accompanying ottoman. That was quite comfortable, too.
He stared at the snapping fire, sipping brandy and listening for the Flower.
She had looked stunning that afternoon, her loveliness a sharp contrast to the filth of the Goose and Gander. In fact, she’d looked like any debutante recently shopping on Bond Street. Hands tucked into an elaborate fur muff, her pelisse a shade of blue that matched the autumn sky. Young and frivolous. Yet her eyes were wise when she’d looked at him in the inn. Her lips had been very red, and the stunning face that had captured the imagination and lust of a city of dandies had been close to his.
By all that was holy, he’d wanted to kiss her. What would she taste like? Fresh and sweet? Or would she taste of temptation? Both. She would taste of both. She would feel the same, if he were ever to touch her. Her skin would be smooth, and perhaps flushed and rosy and warm.
“Monsieur Westwood, have you—”
“Damnation!” He nearly jumped out of his skin. As it was, the brandy sloshed over the rim of the glass. He leaped up and turned to face her, brushing at the stains on his waistcoat.
Her eyes were bright with laughter, and rosy lips parted in a light grin.
“Mademoiselle.” How had she entered without him hearing her again?
“Monsieur.” She gestured toward the chair, then the glass. “Please excuse me. I have interrupted your brandy.”
“No.” She hadn’t interrupted his brandy, she’d interrupted him coming perilously close to imagining her naked. “I was—” Dash it, his mind went blank. He gulped what was left of the liquor for lack of anything else to do and gasped as it caught at the back of this throat.
“The letter, monsieur?” A slim black brow rose even as her mouth curved fully upward.
“It’s over there.” Using the brandy snifter, he gestured toward the desk. She turned around to look, presenting him with her back—and a round bottom in breeches. He swallowed hard. “I couldn’t determine that any part of the letter was coded.”
She strode to the desk with her smooth dancer’s gait. Black fabric moved over her buttocks with each step, then—God’s eyebrows, she bent over the desk.
He needed more brandy. To numb his anatomy. He couldn’t think what else to do. He moved across the room and quickly poured more of the caramel-colored liquid into his glass, then tossed it back. It didn’t seem to help. He stared through the thick base of the snifter to the rug below, its design distorted by the crystal. He was little better than his brother, it seemed, lusting after the Flower.
“I do not understand.” She sounded perturbed, and when she turned her head to look at him, there was a line between her brows. “There is no code?”
“I don’t believe so. The letter appears to be exactly what it is.” He could be wrong, he supposed, but he rarely was when it came to codes. “I have been working on it since I returned from the inn.”
“But not just now when you were resting, correct?” Her voice was dry and a little mocking, dousing any remaining ardor he might have felt.
“It was a short rest.” He walked to her side, scowling down at delicate features framed by the widow’s peak. He tapped his finger against the document on the desktop. “If the letter included a code, I would have seen it by now. I might not have deciphered it, but I would have at least recognized it was there.”
“If there is no code, then it may have a hidden meaning.” She looked back to the document. “And so we must decipher it.”
“Then we had better get to work.” He seated himself at the desk again and looped his spectacles over his ears. The simple gesture steadied him.
“The clues will be in the words he uses,” the Flower said, her eyes focused on the paper. She stepped close to the desk. Closer to him. “They will have other meanings.”
“If there is a hidden meaning. You said yourself this is a test. It might mean nothing.”
“Yes, a test of my abilities and willingness to follow his orders. That does not mean the message does not have some meaning. If I had chosen not to deliver it, he would know and simply have someone else deliver it.”
Confound it. She was right. Again.
He set his fingers on the paper and ran them down the lines of text. He played the words in this head, backward and forward. What could it mean?
“Monsieur.” The Flower’s whisper was nearly as quiet as his fingers skimming over the paper. “What, exactly, does it say? Will you read it for me again?”
“Hmm?” He looked up, fingers stilling on the smooth plane of the page.
“I cannot—” She would not look at him. Face averted, her eyes were not on the letter but somewhere else. “I cannot read it.”
“But it’s in French.” His brain felt as though it were a cart with a horse that had slipped its leads and was now stuck in the middle of the road. In mud.
She shook her head, still not looking at him, though a slow-moving flush colored her cheeks. “I cannot read well. Only the small words.”
“You cannot read?” Now the cart had been upended and all its contents spilled. He knew of people who could not read, but not ladies. Or at least, not those who acted like ladies and were mistresses of lords. And she was a spy. “How are you unable to read?”
“I know some words.” She looked at him now, sharply. Pink lips were pinched, dark eyes narrowed beneath the brim of her cap. “I am not an idiot. I simply do not know the long words.”
Maximilian held his hands up in truce, lest she bite them off. “My apologies.”
Shame settled in her eyes, and her face softened. “P
lease. S’il vous plaît. Read it.” An entreaty for understanding, for closing the subject, lay beneath in her words. She waited, watching him with dark eyes that could skewer a man’s soul if he wasn’t careful.
He couldn’t inquire further. It would make him a clod. Clearing his throat, Maximilian spoke the English words.
Dear Sir:
Today, we went to dinner before the theater. Our host served roast duck, but it was undercooked. However, there was a pudding with lemon sauce that was well received. I have obtained the recipe for the sauce and will return to France with it.
Yours sincerely, etc.
George St. Yves
“This does not have meaning to me.” She cocked her head, as though still listening to the words. “Maintenant, en français, s’il vous plaît.”
He didn’t hesitate. Doing so would make him that clod and a heel as well.
Mon cher Monsieur:
Aujourd’hui, nous sommes allés dîner avant d’assister au théâtre. Notre hôte a servi du canard rôti, mais il n’était pas assez cuit. Cependant, il y avait un pudding avec une sauce au citron qui a été bien reçue. J’ai obtenu la recette de la sauce et la ramènera en France.
Veuillez agréer l’expression, etc.
Georges St. Yves
“We must think on this.” The Flower began to pace the room. It was not an idle pacing, nor purposeful. More lyrical. Which was the most ridiculous thing he’d thought in ages. A person couldn’t pace lyrically.
His brain must be addled by the brandy. Or mademoiselle’s breeches.
Maximilian dropped his spectacles onto the desk’s surface and deliberately turned in his chair so that he wouldn’t look at her bottom. Instead, he stared up at the nearest shelf of volumes, where leather covers containing poetry and mathematics sat side by side.
“The letter must mean something to someone, or Marchand wouldn’t have wanted to deliver it,” he said, mulling over the words of the note. “We should try to think like a spy.”
A Dance with Seduction Page 10
