A Dance with Seduction

by Alyssa Alexander

  Monsieur Westwood’s gentleness burrowed into her heart and carved a space there.

  The heart was a dangerous organ for a spy.

  The door closed behind Monsieur Westwood. Daggett would tend to him, and she did not know how to tend well at any rate. She did not need to stay—and she had somewhere to be. But she lingered, watching the town house for one more minute.

  He’d trusted her, without question.

  She did not care for that any more than his need to see her safe. Too many people trusted her, to their detriment. Anne abducted. Mrs. Asher locked in a closet, injured. Monsieur Westwood with a nose that was almost broken.

  He had kissed her. Again. She had kissed him in return. It was more than pleasant, more than simple want. Or desire. This need for him—she should not have it. That little place inside her had unlocked again.

  She had almost forgotten her assignment.

  If she were not careful, she would do so again.

  After a last glance at the windows of Monsieur Westwood’s town house, a final wish for a good night, she spun on her heel and set her direction for Manchester Square. It was not far, as she was in the fashionable area of the West End.

  Exhaustion weighed on her limbs, from dancing and the assignment—but the night was not over, and Anne was still lost in the dark. Pushing everything out of her mind but her objective, Vivienne studied the square and tugged her cap lower. It did not cover her chilled ears, however, and chafing her hands together did not stop the frigid air biting at her fingers. It was much easier to keep watch in the pleasant spring and summer than near the end of October.

  She waited, as the last carriages of the night came and went, as ladies and gentleman laughed and conversed and whispered while scheduling assignations or returning from parties. Boys held horses’ reins, butlers opened doors. It was not the height of the Season, but there were always some aristocrats residing in Town, even in the late fall. They all required entertainment. Those distractions were ending now, and the ton was returning to their beds.

  Still, it was not the houses bursting with light and families and servants that she watched. It was the town houses with dark windows masquerading as empty. Marchand would not secrete Anne in a busy house, but one full of quiet spies.

  Assuming Anne was here, in this square. Marchand himself might be here instead, or the man she had seen in the hotel. But there was no other avenue for Vivienne to explore. She would continue until she found Anne, even if she had to break into each house, one by one, until she located the girl.

  Hunching her shoulders against the cold and the dark, she continued her watch.

  The arriving carriages slowed, and windows went dark. Silence filled the night more than sound. Still, she saw nothing. Despair tugged at her when she realized dawn was not far and it was nearly time to surrender the watch for the night.

  Then the man she watched for, the man from the hotel, stepped out of a carriage down the street. Casually, as though it were his home. She did not need more than a moment to recognize him, even in the faint light from the windows. The height and build, the jaw, the cheekbones. All of these she had memorized at the door of Room 12 at the Nelson Hotel.

  He bounded up the steps of a town house as the door opened, revealing the outline of another man, likely a butler. The first man hailed the butler with a raised hand as he reached the top step. Vivienne narrowed her eyes, reevaluating the scene. The other man was not a butler, as he wore no livery. They stepped inside together without a word, each moving fluidly and quietly.

  She had her answer, then. If Anne was not here, someone else useful was. Vivienne had somewhere to start searching, at least. If Anne was here, she would likely be a prisoner on a higher level. It was too easy to escape from the kitchens by way of the area, and too easy to sneak out a window on the ground floor or the first floor. The second or third floors—it was possible but more difficult to escape, especially for one untrained in such things.

  Vivienne carefully studied each window. Each brick and curtain flutter in the rooms above. Some were dark; others glowed with muted candlelight. Someone crossed in front of one curtain, their shadow a specter behind the fabric. Too big and broad to be Anne.

  It was another ten minutes before she noticed the movement in the topmost window. The curtain was pushed aside. She could not see a face, only the shift as white fabric revealed darkness beyond, then fell back into place. A minute later the curtain moved again.

  Someone was checking the street.

  They must have felt safe, as the curtain closed and a light flared. It was dim, as if shielded or only the stub of a candle. A figure flitted across the curtain, this one with small, narrow shoulders.

  Vivienne’s heartbeat galloped across her rib cage. Hope pummeled at her.

  It was Anne. She knew Anne’s shape. Every move of her body and angular line that hinted at womanhood. She had watched Anne since the moment of her sister’s birth.

  Wait. It could be another girl. A servant girl. Anyone. She must not make an assumption. It would be too devastating, too damaging to her heart if she were wrong.

  Her mind tried to battle back the hope, but it refused to obey her. She came out of the shadows without any plan. She should wait and observe, determine if it was Anne, then devise the best method for rescue.

  She could not wait.

  Vivienne loosened her body, hunched her shoulders. She was only a servant returning from a night off and not of importance. This she told herself to prepare her body. No one would notice the young man warding off the cold with a low cap and hands tucked into his coat pockets. They would not pay attention as the young man slipped across the street and into the dark on the other side.

  Standing with her back pressed against the wall, she splayed her hands on rough brick. It was frigid and chafed the skin there, but she gripped the surface with numb fingers. She must anchor herself, still her rampant heartbeat, and quiet the screaming in her mind.

  Training told her to wait.

  Her body moved as though it had no connection to her mind.

  Slinking along the front of the building, she passed the front door and around to the area. Skimming her hand along the fence ringing the area and stairs down to the kitchen, she crossed in front of the vertical iron bars and slipped to the other side, between it and the next town house.

  Setting her hand on the top of the fence, she fisted the iron spikes. They were always a hazard, but it was the easiest method of boosting herself up to the next floor. Bracing herself, muscles tensed to begin, she set her foot on the railing and used it to lift herself to reach the decorative stones that would allow her to climb the facade.

  The front door opened.

  Heart hammering against her ribs, fear clawing at her throat, Vivienne dropped to the ground. She tried to blend into the walkway, the fence, the dark. Anything. She imagined herself invisible.

  It was too late. The man pretending to be a butler was saying good-bye to the man from Room 12, but his gaze slid her way, and his shoulders tensed. The angle of his head—its curious tilt. She did not like it.

  Sliding her hand toward her boot, she slipped her fingers around the hilt of her knife. She would be ready. There was no move toward her. When one man had left in a carriage and the other went back inside, Vivienne finally breathed again. Air did not stop the horror and fear building inside her.

  Pressed against the walkway, waiting a few more minutes for safety, she knew she could not enter the house this night. The butler had seen her, or at least guessed at her presence, and would be on guard against intruders. It was too dangerous to bring Anne out tonight—but what would they do to Anne between now and tomorrow?

  Nothing. Not until they could prove Vivienne had found her and the incentive, Anne, was no longer useful.

  She could not decide what was worse—trying now and knowing she would fail them both,
or trying tomorrow when there was some hope of rescue but a world of danger in between. Both might result in death, but if she waited the opportunity was better.

  While her brain told her this, her heart screamed at her to storm the town house and take Anne now. She pressed her face into the wet fabric of her sleeve. Clutching the bottom of the cold iron fence, her fingers squeezed, released—accompanied by a stuttering breath.

  Tomorrow she would return and rescue Anne. The butler would be less on guard than he would be now.

  Tomorrow.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Move the girl.”

  How had the Flower found her? He’d thought it was clever to hide the girl in the heart of the aristocracy. They rarely looked beyond the end of their noses. After all, they had never suspected him, and he was right in front of them.

  The Vulture slung his outerwear over the back of his desk chair, but it was wet and might stain the beautiful wood. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the garment.

  “Yes, my lord.” The agent removed the dripping fabric from the chair and draped it over his arm. “My apologies for sending for you at this time of night.”

  The agent had no idea what he’d interrupted. Espionage, politics, money, and women. All of Marchand’s very favorite things. But the Flower was important, as was the girl. He had plans hinging on the Flower.

  “Where shall we move the girl?” the agent asked.

  Anywhere but Mayfair. The Flower was too close now. She would scour the West End looking for the girl. She was proving to be a worthy adversary. Quite clever, in fact—a pity he would not be able to keep her.

  “I know of a location.” Oh, yes. He had many ideas, but one in particular. “No one will ask questions.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Maximilian, you must stop Highchester.” The words were perilously close to a wail, being rather high-pitched and drawn out. They were also accompanied by the wringing of arthritic hands.

  “Mother, he won’t listen to me any more than he listens to you.” His brother never had, unless Maximilian had pounded the words into him with fists, and Maximilian didn’t believe fisticuffs solved anything. “Moreover, I haven’t the slightest inkling what you are talking about.”

  Nor did he want to know. The document in his hand needed translating, and he wanted his bed. It was late, and he’d lost sleep the night before while dealing with the Flower, her mission, and a nose that was bruised but thankfully not broken. Also thankfully, it bore little residual damage beyond a vague ache and slight bruising under one eye.

  “I would suggest an intervention of some type is necessary, Maximilian.” The brisk words issued from the downturned mouth of Bishop Carlisle. The very moral, very distinguished friend of the family who had witnessed Maximilian pretending to be intoxicated. “Assuming you are capable of such responsibility, of course.”

  Maximilian almost ducked his head as he would have done as a boy. As a man, however, he simply held the bishop’s gaze steadily. The bishop’s countenance was grave, the dignified planes of his face sober and full of import, which was why, instead of working, Maximilian was standing in his drawing room facing his almost hysterical mother and a stoic bishop at some time in the evening. Not that his mother was ever anything but almost hysterical.

  On the other hand, she rarely visited his bachelor quarters. Nor did Bishop Carlisle, come to think of it. Something truly was amiss, then.

  The Dowager Lady Highchester continued to wring her hands together, twisting them in the strings of her reticule. Little frilly things bobbed at the hem of her ball gown, and feathers poked out of her hair. They were drooping, as though exhausted after an evening of standing up straight between white curls.

  How late was it? He was certain he’d eaten luncheon not long ago. Reaching into his waistcoat for his pocket watch, he flipped open the plain gold lid to study the hands. Not yet midnight, but well past dinner. Well, that explained the gnawing hunger in his stomach.

  “I don’t know what to do!” His mother’s shoulders slumped, mirroring the drooping feathers. “Highchester will surely ruin the girl if he is not stopped.”

  Maximilian’s head snapped up, and he studied his mother’s harried face. “A girl?”

  “You should have seen him this evening.” She shook her head, nearly dislodging one of the feathers. “Strutting about the ballroom with that young chit on his arm. I don’t know what her parents are thinking.”

  Not that kind of girl, then. If she was in a ballroom, Highchester would be a bit more circumspect. Less chance of bastards and rumors, he though distastefully. Still, Maximilian did begin to pay attention now that he knew the subject matter.

  “Calm yourself, Agatha. We will sort this out.” Bishop Carlisle set his hand over the strings of the reticule, restricting her fingers’ harried movements. “His lordship can be brought to heel.”

  Maximilian wasn’t so sure, but the bishop’s low, steady voice seemed to help his mother. Her brows smoothed out and she smiled tremulously. “Yes, of course. You are right.”

  “Sit down, Mother, and tell me what has happened.” He gestured toward a delicate chair that had come from her attic. She perched restlessly on the edge, and the bishop came to stand behind her, leaning on the back of her chair. His chest puffed out as it did right before he delivered a thundering sermon.

  Maximilian sighed and sat down on the lumpy settee facing his guests in preparation for the sermon. Only it was his mother who delivered the sermon instead of the bishop.

  “The girl was considered the debutante of the Season this spring. Six proposals, Maximilian! Though her father is holding out for a better offer next Season. But your brother is married,” his mother continued in a voice a few registers below a wail. “She should not be seen in his company so often. It’s just not done.”

  “Who?” Maximilian knew few people in polite society, so this seemed a silly question. He wouldn’t recognize her name.

  “The Lawrence chit.”

  Well. Perhaps he would. “The Duke of Lawrence?”

  The wrinkles in his mother’s soft face deepened as she nodded. “The girl is an heiress and utterly lovely—which is why she’s caught Highchester’s eye. He’s making a cake of himself pursuing her, and she’s flattered enough to enjoy it, but he’ll ruin her marriage chances if he continues.”

  “Let the duke manage the girl,” Maximilian suggested. “I’m sure he’ll bring her to heel and then Highchester will follow suit.” Probably.

  “The duke has tried, but he’s in his dotage.” The bishop frowned, his mustache turning down as fiercely as his lips.

  “The duke married a girl less than half his age for an heir and ended up with naught but a daughter,” his dowager said, amid more wringing of hands. “He coddles her, and his wife is too busy with her own peccadilloes to notice. Maximilian, it is up to us. We must warn Highchester away from her.”

  Maximilian was certain that by us, his mother meant you. God’s teeth. He wanted to go to bed, not worry about some chit without enough sense to stay away from his brother.

  “It won’t do any good, Mother.” Maximilian sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. It was rough with stubble he’d forgotten to shave that morning. “He’ll go his own way.”

  “Maximilian.” The bishop stepped forward, expression as severe as the cut of the jacket and tight cravat he wore. “Highchester never obeyed your mother and barely obeyed your father. I have little authority, despite our long association and my position with the church.”

  “Highchester doesn’t attend church, my lord.” Maximilian couldn’t help the vaguely dry tone of his voice. Highchester hadn’t attended church since he was old enough to visit a willing barmaid instead.

  “Please.” The dowager’s eyes welled with tears, and Maximilian barely refrained from cursing aloud. “Please. He must not be allowed to ruin the f
amily, or the girl. Society would cast us all out.”

  Maximilian didn’t care a whit about the ton, but his mother did, and she was crying. It was the one weapon he couldn’t defend against. He supposed no gentleman could.

  “I shall speak with him tomorrow.” After he finished his latest translations and was able to sleep. Perhaps he’d even shave.

  “Tonight, please. I know it is late, but she was discussing Gunter’s and that she wanted to go tomorrow afternoon, and he offered to—” She pressed her lips together, breathed through her nose, then started again. “I told him it was improper. He’s married, she’s a young debutante. But he doesn’t care. It must be tonight, before any additional damage is done.”

  “Very well.” Maximilian pushed up from the settee and strode to the door. “I’ll go now.”

  “Good man,” the bishop said, as though Maximilian had redeemed himself from the previous evening’s mishap.

  “Mmm.” Redemption only meant Maximilian had to leave his house when he’d rather stay home.

  “Maximilian.” The bishop’s soft tone made him stop and turn. “Thank you. You’re the only one he ever listens to.”

  “Even then, it rarely happens, Bishop.”

  “Highchester is at his town house,” his mother said, waving her hand in the air as if to remind Maximilian what direction his brother lived in. “I heard him make plans with a couple of other lords.”

  Oh, hell. If Highchester was with his friends, there was no telling what debauched scene Maximilian was about to witness.

  It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be.

  It was worse.

  The gentlemen had brought their mistresses—or at least their women of choice for the night. He could hear feminine laughter echoing down the hall as Highchester’s butler led him to the salon.