A Dance with Seduction

by Alyssa Alexander

  “That is simple.” She didn’t laugh outright, but he could hear the amusement in her voice. “I am a spy, monsieur.”

  Of course she was. Devil take it, he needed to focus. Perching his spectacles on his nose, he slid a fresh sheet of paper in front of him and took up his quill.

  There. Now he felt much more at ease.

  “I’ll write down some possible meanings. We’ll reason this out.” Holding the quill in the air, he sent his gaze in the Flower’s direction, certain to keep his eyes on her face and not her pantaloons. “First, dinner and the theater. What does that bring to mind?”

  “Hmm. I would think of the King’s Theatre. It probably does not mean the theater itself—only the king. Thinking as a spy, you see.” Her gaze slid sideways at him, sparkling with humor as it had when she’d fixed his cravat.

  “A reasonable conclusion, mademoiselle.” She was clearly laughing at him. He ignored it and continued to scribble on the paper. “So good old Georges St. Yves met with the king—”

  “Or the king’s representative,” she added.

  “—but he went somewhere else first—”

  “Where something was not well received.”

  “—and the duck was undercooked.” He frowned at her, confused. “What do you mean, something was not well received?”

  “Undercooked. Whatever the duck symbolizes, it was not acceptable. Not finished.” She stepped to the fire, crouched, holding out her hands to the flame. She turned them over, as though they, too, needed cooking. “It could be anything. A proposal, an agreement, a negotiation that is incomplete. Perhaps even a person who was not well received.”

  These ideas were speculative, without any basis in fact. This was no substitution code or cipher with a logical sequence. What if they were wrong?

  Except she had delivered the letter, and there was no going back. He sank his head into his hands, gripped his hair. This is what came of consorting with dancers and spies. He should have stayed with his books and letters.

  “J’ai obtenu la recette de la sauce. I have obtained the recipe for the sauce,” she said softly. He shifted his head in his hands to look at her. She was kneeling on the thick rug before the fire now, staring into it. He could all but see her mind sorting ideas, discarding, considering. “A document, do you think, monsieur?”

  “It’s a recipe for pudding with lemon sauce.” Maximilian did not take his head out of his hands. “Un pudding avec une sauce au citron. It’s a sauce. Not plans for espionage.”

  She did not answer, so he dropped his hands, dangling them between his knees, and watched the Flower. Her legs were folded beneath her, torso straight and shoulders erect in that dancer’s way she had. The firelight gilded her face so that she was more beautiful than usual, all gold and rosy. Slowly, thoughtfully, she lifted one hand and removed her cap. Thick black hair tumbled down over narrow shoulders clad in a man’s coat.

  All the working parts of his brain simply stopped. When her free hand began to idly run through the curls, he realized he was holding his breath.

  “Citron.”

  He jumped when she spoke, then pulled in a deep inhale. “What?”

  “Citron.” She rose in one fluid movement, from crouched to standing, like a waterfall moving backward. Her eyes lit with discovery as she twirled to face him, cap forgotten on the patterned hearth rug. Bouncing up onto her toes and buoyed by excitement, curls bouncing with her, she grinned at him. “I understand the message. It is about Jean-Phillippe Citron. A French soldier in the war. Well, a spy, it is suspected, and an English prisoner. I do not know in what prison he was kept, but he was there for a few months. I believe he has not yet been released.”

  Maximilian straightened and looked down at the words marching across the paper. “How did you reason that out?”

  “Citron, of course. It is written in French, not English.” As though it were obvious. “There is also the idea that the author will be returning to France with the recipe for the lemon sauce. He will be returning with Citron, or a plan to free Citron. It might be an exchange, even. The duck for the sauce, but the king, he does not want the duck. So they must find another duck.”

  He was confused. And, clearly, she was unhinged.

  “What of the rest of it?”

  “Do you not see? Aujourd’hui, nous sommes allés dîner avant d’assister au théâtre. Dinner before the King’s Theatre. What does one do at dinner? One speaks to one’s companions. They tried to ‘have dinner’ or ‘speak’ or ‘conference’ before they met with the king’s representative.” Bright with knowledge, glowing with excitement, she was as alluring as a candle flame.

  “All right,” he said slowly, unsure if he should agree with her or not. “What of the rest?”

  “The meeting was not good, and the duck was undercooked. The intended subject did not come about. Mais attendez.”

  “But wait. Mais attendez.” Suddenly he was caught up in the quick inhalation of her breath and the flush of her cheeks. His own breath became uneven, his pulse quick. “What are you thinking?”

  “Citron is Marchand’s man, and the Vulture wants him returned. A deal must have been brokered.” She paced the circumference of the room like a trapped mare. Or a dancer constrained to a space smaller than a stage. “If a deal was negotiated by the king, we cannot interfere.”

  Dark curls settled around her face as she returned to his side. Lips curving in a triumphant smile, she sat on the edge of the desktop so that she faced his chair, legs extending out to cross at the ankles. But her breeches. He gripped the carved edge of the desk, unsure what else to do with his hands. Her clothing had never affected him this way before.

  “I don’t think ladies should wear breeches. They are too tight on your legs.” As soon as he said the words, he wished he could pluck them back out of the air. Most inappropriate. A gentleman never remarked on a lady’s body. At the very least, he should have said limbs instead of legs.

  “I agree.” She was laughing at him again, her smile broadening with good humor. “Though I am not a lady, as you may have noticed, monsieur. I’m an opera dancer with a protector.”

  “Of course you’re a lady. Your gender, I mean. Not you. Ah. That is to say—”

  A laugh tumbled from her lips to bound through the room and lodge somewhere in his middle. “I do not pretend to be anything more than I am.”

  Pausing, listening to the meaning behind her words, he held her gaze. “I know you are a man’s mistress, Flower, but never forget you are more than that.”

  “Are you sure?” Deep words to match her unfathomable eyes.

  “You are a lady of many layers, and every one of them is lovely.” Maximilian meant every word and more than he said.

  “If I were a lady, I would not be a spy, would I?” Her lips were still bowed up as she straightened, but he saw the dark pain in her gaze. “You are sweet, monsieur, to call me a lady.”

  She leaned down to look at the document, then turned her head to face him. Her mouth was there. Just there. Lips parted as though she planned to ask a question, though she didn’t. She only looked at him, eyes slowly becoming serious and powerful. They were a beautiful shade, dark brown deepening to black in the center. Her lashes swept down to cover those eyes as her gaze fell to his mouth for a moment before flicking back up.

  Suddenly he could not think beyond her lips. Beyond her face and the fresh scent enveloping him.

  He leaned forward, desperate for a taste, afraid she would bolt, afraid she would not.

  And kissed her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  His lips were warm and firm, pressing gently against hers. A small, yearning place inside her unlocked and opened. She could not stop that place from growing inside her, filling cracks she had not understood existed. Her eyes fluttered closed, lips parting with the slightest movement to accept him.

  Fingers
slid along her jaw, a thumb feathered across her cheekbone. A part of her, the one fueled by fear, shouted at her to run. The yearning part told her to stay one more moment. If she reached for him tomorrow, he would not be there. Could not be. This moment would be the only one she could have.

  Touching his shoulder, lightly, tentatively, her mind learned the feel of his lips against hers, the scent of him, so that she could remember how he felt beneath her fingertips. He angled his mouth over hers, causing her belly to flutter and her body to revel in his touch. She had been right. A man with lips such as his could be a great lover. He could taste her and take her, and yet give of himself so that she did not feel conquered.

  Herself. It was all he asked of her. His kiss told her this.

  It could not be.

  The hitch of her breath rasped loudly in her own ears. She pulled away, heart thudding in her chest. Please, do not let him hear her galloping heart.

  He stared at her, the gold bursts in his eyes bright among the green and brown flecks. His breath, too, was harsh, louder even than the crackle of flames in the fireplace. She pressed her fingers to her lips, against the need to kiss him again, and shook her head. She should not have allowed it. Such kisses were not possible in her life.

  “My apologies. That was inexcusable.” Clearing his throat, he stood up, long limbs decisive and efficient in their movements. “I should not have mauled you.”

  “I have been mauled before. This was not a mauling.” Such things had happened, but this was so much more. She could not hold this sweet feeling inside herself. “I must go, monsieur.”

  Vivienne started to back away. He reached for her, hands nearly brushing her coat, but she did not stop moving away from him. Could not.

  “The letter. Citron.” Scooping up her cap meant she could look away from the squared jaw and the lips that could cause such feeling in her. Gathering her hair, she shoved it under her cap with movements that matched the frantic rush of her blood. “I will discover what is happening.”

  “Lemon sauce. Yes. Good.”

  “Au revoir.” She was at the door now, groping for the handle. It was difficult to grasp with fingers numb with shock.

  “Good-bye.”

  The door opened, and she stepped through. She let herself have a final look at the monsieur, standing tall and straight in a room filled with books and learning. A final memory for tomorrow.

  She closed the door quietly and quickly, so that she would not step into that room again.

  Heart still thudding uncomfortably in her chest, Vivienne jogged away from Monsieur Westwood’s town house and hoped the dark would swallow her. She could not seem to think. Her brain had become like porridge.

  He had kissed her. Truly kissed her.

  Not in the fast, covert way some men did in quiet ballroom corners as they tried to hide it from Henri, or the bruising ways of others when they wanted her to leave him. Those she did not like. Such men saw not her, but another man’s mistress who might be persuaded to be purchased from him.

  Monsieur Westwood saw her.

  Her body had yielded, and something had blossomed in her belly when he’d kissed her. The shock of that remained, just as the feel of his lips on hers lingered.

  Running her fingers over her lips, she waited for the feel of her own touch to overpower the memory of Monsieur Westwood’s mouth. When they focused the sensation instead, she pushed the thought of him away. There was no time for a code breaker and the breathless moment when he had kissed her.

  Tomorrow, there could be nothing between them.

  Tonight, she had somewhere to be before her performance at the theater began.

  No one bothered her on the way to the town house she had trained in. She used the night to her advantage, merging with shadows as she walked. The dark could be a friend, hiding all manner of details. All manner of emotions.

  The door was locked, and she did not feel like knocking. This had been her refuge for too many years. Drawing out her picklocks, she worked quickly and quietly. The spy Angel would not mind. She had free rein in his house as she had years ago. Once, these rooms had been Angel’s bachelor quarters and were used to train spies during the war. To train her, when Henri had decreed she needed sparring partners.

  The tumbler clicked. A press on the latch, and the door opened. Slipping through the crack between door and jamb, she shut it as quietly as her body allowed and turned around to face the hall.

  And found herself confronting a pistol.

  The hammer cocking was a death knell in the dark. She froze, shoulder blades pressed against the solid door, and waited for the blast to tear through her.

  Nothing came.

  “Vivienne. Welcome. Please knock next time so I don’t shoot you.” Quiet and steady words belonging to Jones, the broad-shouldered, solemn man she had trained with as a girl, rather than his commander, Angel.

  She let out her breath, eyeing the small, narrow hole of the pistol. “Is Angel here?” she asked slowly, taking care not to move.

  “He and his wife are at their regular home.” After a long pause, Jones’s arm fell, taking the pistol with it. He was in his shirtsleeves, and the simple cotton fluttered with the movement. Gaze contemplative, he watched her steadily. “You may come in.”

  A sigh slipped from her lips, and she relaxed the shoulder blades pressed against the door. Jones stepped away to give her access to the hall.

  This place was not home, but it was the closest she could think of. Home was certainly not the town house Henri kept for her, where she pretended to be his mistress. Nor the theater, where she pretended to be a dancer. Sometimes it seemed this town house was the only place she could breathe. Here, at least, were those she could call friend.

  Jones led her through the hallways, footsteps as silent as her own. Shadows were deep, as no wall sconces were lit, nor any fires blazing in the rooms they passed. Only Jones, and occasionally Angel, lived here now.

  The training room was also empty, but it was brightly lit and warm, fires burning in the grates at both ends of the long room.

  “I was preparing for an assignment.” Jones stepped aside to let her into the room, inscrutable eyes watching every movement as she entered the space and looked around. Fencing jackets were stacked in the corner. Mounted on the nearest wall were pistols, foils, and knives, though three mounts were unoccupied. Corresponding knives of various lengths and thicknesses were laid out on a table, blades ruddy in the candlelight.

  She had not learned to kill a man in this room—Henri had taught her that in the room he used for such things—but she had perfected it in this room alongside Jones. Tears, sweat, even blood had spilled on these floors.

  “Is your assignment spying on the spies today?” she asked. It was often his mission to ensure British agents did not go astray and investigating them when they did.

  “Not today.” Jones slid the pistol into the waist of his breeches. He stepped toward the table where the knives lay blade to hilt in a row. “Why are you here, Vivienne?”

  “I have need of information.”

  Jones did not raise a brow or even flick an eyelash as he inspected the weapons. “I cannot reveal the details of internal investigations, Vivienne. Do not ask.”

  She shook her head, knowing he would never do so. “It is not one of your investigations.”

  He relaxed, the planes of his face smoothing out so he resembled the boy she remembered. “Is this a trade, then? Or a favor?”

  “A favor that may become a trade if I learn anything useful.”

  “Ah.” He touched a knife blade, as if to determine its solidity.

  Leaving him to the inspection of the weapons, she moved toward the pile of fencing jackets and ran a finger over the stitching on the topmost jacket. There was a time she’d lived in such a jacket, day in and day out. “Citron. Jean-Phillippe Citron. Do you know of
him?”

  “Yes.” A very long pause filled the air as he looked away from the knives to meet her gaze. “What information do you need?” Jones cocked his head but did not otherwise move.

  She hesitated, wanting to ask of Citron, but also of Manchester Square and any interesting persons who might reside there. Yet she could not risk Jones inquiring into her conduct, nor Henri discovering Anne.

  So she would remain silent about Manchester Square.

  “Is Citron part of a strategy?”

  Another very long pause. There was no inkling as to what Jones thought of Citron or strategies or anything else. His shoulders shifted beneath his coat. “Yes.”

  Ah. He would not provide details, and she should not disturb the strategy.

  “Why do you ask, Vivienne?”

  She must tread carefully now. There was much history between her and Jones, much friendship—yet he was not only a spy, but the check and balance of British agents. “Only a name I heard and wondered if it should be pursued. It seems not.”

  He nodded, sending his gaze once more to the weapons displayed before him. “Is that all?”

  “Yes.” Though her primary question had been answered, she discovered she was not ready to leave yet. There was more she wanted to know, and no one else to ask but another who had lived this life nearly from childhood.

  “Do you ever want out, Jones? Do you ever think of a little cottage with children and a wife?” He would think her weak for asking. Fingers gripped the fencing jacket, knuckles whitening. Deliberately, she straightened them and set the jacket down before turning to face Jones fully.

  The planes of his face were even and inexpressive, brown eyes pensive. He picked up a knife, tested the weight. She sensed he was biding his time choosing an answer and a weapon, waiting until she had finished her questions.

  “No,” he finally said, and took a very long breath. “I would be nothing without espionage, Vivienne. Nothing.”

  She understood—it was life in the rookeries. They could have lived and died there, and been nothing. “If you had the choice now of something more, would you take it?”