When Maximilian opened the salon door, he realized half of the crowd was undressed—or mostly so. He was practically struck blind by a man prancing past, wearing nothing but his coat. A laughing woman trailed behind, breasts exposed over the man’s trousers. Beyond them was a sea of petticoats, unbound hair, and bared chests.
“A word with you, Highchester,” Maximilian said to the room in general, raising his voice to be heard over the laughter. He had no idea where Highchester was among the bodies sprawled on the floor, surrounded by brandy glasses and recently shed clothing.
“Why, little brother! What brings you to my party?”
Maximilian wheeled in the direction of the voice. Highchester lounged in a chair, cravat dangling around his neck. The woman on his lap wore nothing but a corset and a ruffled skirt rucked up to her knees. His brother’s hand sneaked beneath her skirt, and she giggled.
“A word, Highchester. In the hallway, please.”
“I think I’ll stay here.” A masculine chuckle followed the words, then another feminine giggle. “I’m quite comfortable.”
“Do you want our business aired in front of your…companions?” The amount of perfume in this room made his nose itch. Did they all wear a different scent? It was a battle of sweet versus sweeter.
“I don’t think any of your business would shock my companions,” Highchester drawled.
The room erupted in laughter—not the friendly sort. Maximilian let it wash over him as he met Highchester’s amused and maliciously satisfied eyes. “The Duke of Lawrence’s daughter,” Maximilian said brusquely. “Leave her be.”
“She’s a sweet little morsel.” No apology from his brother. No pretending he didn’t understand. “And spoiled enough to want some adventure. I thought to provide it for her.”
The girl on his lap pursed her lips into a pout. “My lord, aren’t I enough to play with?” She circled her arms about his neck and leaned in for a kiss.
“Indeed.” Highchester’s hand slid down her thigh, squeezed. “But one does like variety.”
“Let the Lawrence girl be.” Maximilian knew his words were hard and sharp, but he was finished with this display of debauchery.
Finished with his brother.
If Highchester wanted to betray his marriage vows and tup every willing woman he met, so be it. Young ladies of good family were out of the question.
“Leave her be.”
Highchester’s lashes flickered as his gaze roved over Maximilian’s face. What was he thinking? With his brother it could be anything. It was his actions one had to wait for.
Highchester’s eyes met Maximilian’s, held, then he broke the connection and glanced away.
Maximilian had his answer. Highchester would obey.
He hadn’t anticipated the next words from Highchester’s mouth.
“Have you noticed your new acquaintance over there in the corner? Mademoiselle La Fleur?”
Maximilian could not quite hear over the sudden roaring in his ears. Shock coursed through him, twining with bitter cynicism that she should be here. He turned in the direction Highchester gestured and saw her.
The Flower. She lay on a chaise longue, draped over it, her body as fluid as silk. A riot of dark curls fell about her face. Her gown slipped from her shoulders as though unlaced or unbuttoned, its skirt a mound of froth and silk and ruffles. He could not tell, exactly, where dress ended and petticoat began. But he could tell where that stunning face began. Strength showed in her pointed chin, red mouth curved in greeting, the widow’s peak raised over cheekbones and jaw and eyes.
Her eyes.
For a moment, all he saw were her eyes. The rest of her smiled, flirted. Her mouth was a complicated mixture of delight and amusement and humor, but her eyes were pleading. Those lovely, dark eyes held him. One moment. Two. Begging him not to reveal more than the public knew.
She was bound by the role she played, there in that room full of debauchery. As was he.
“Mademoiselle, it is good to see you again.” He bowed to the proper depth, as if they were meeting in the ballroom.
One corner of her lips tipped up. She inclined her head, just as properly. “Enchanté, Monsieur Westwood.” She shifted, and his gaze was drawn toward the ridiculously impractical lace stockings covering her dancer’s legs.
His mouth went dry.
The entire world became that sweep of leg. The curve of her calf, the way the muscle moved as she flexed her foot. Did all dancers have the slight indentation of lean muscle running the length of the thigh when candlelight played over their skin? Or did that only belong to a spy turned dancer?
His gaze traced the shape, then the froth of her gown, the tapered torso, her breasts and back to her face. Dark eyes no longer begged him. He could not quite read the emotion, but there was no pleading now. A slow, banked fired burned in their depths. Pupils dilated, the whites bright against the deep brown of her irises.
Were his own pupils as dilated? Was that slow, burning heat reflected in his own eyes? Because it was not slow in his body. It was a roaring fire starting deep in his belly and threatening to engulf him.
Maximilian did not notice her companion until the man stepped in front of her, blocking the Flower from Maximilian’s view.
Her protector.
Cold fury doused the desire blazing in him. The Flower had an arrangement with this man, and Maximilian was no better than his brother lusting after her.
“Mr. Westwood.” Lord Wycomb’s voice was smooth and cultured, and a little irritated. “We have not met.”
No enchanté from this man. He was as tall as Maximilian, with cold, cold eyes. His cravat was untied, his jacket and vest removed. He was otherwise dressed. And older, judging by the silver at his temples. Perhaps old enough to be the Flower’s father—though he was handsome and fit, Maximilian thought sourly.
What did a gentleman say to the protector of the woman he lusted after?
Chapter Twenty-Four
She had not expected Monsieur Westwood to arrive at his brother’s, nor had she expected that look in his eyes.
He had kissed her, but she had not seen that look in his eyes before. A fierce wanting that was more than a desire to kiss. More, she had not expected the same fierce tug inside her. A strange, warm pull that spread through her and made her come alive. She could not put a name to it and had not experienced it before. It felt different. More than the flutter, it was a bright, hot need running along her skin in a most delicious way.
Now Monsieur Westwood, the man who had kissed her, stood before Henri. This she most definitely did not like. Even a word breathed about Anne, of her association with Monsieur Westwood, and all might be lost.
“Sir.” Monsieur Westwood bowed to Henri, as he had to her. Most properly. “I must commend Mademoiselle La Fleur. She is an exceptional dancer.”
The noise around them lessened. She could feel the eyes of others in the room watching. Gauging. Henri was known to be possessive, which kept her safe from others’ advances. He protected her and her missions with this ruse.
Monsieur Westwood was once a code breaker for spies. Henri would know this. The monsieur did not know what Henri was. That left the monsieur at a disadvantage. She could not show this sudden dread that roiled inside her. She could only lie on the chaise, half of her body exposed and men measuring her reaction. She did nothing but continue to smile, to run her fingers idly along the edge of the chaise.
She had not a care in the world. Whatever exchange was to come, it did not concern her.
This was what she told herself so that the room would see these thoughts. She did not want them to see the pings of fire ricocheting through her body from Monsieur Westwood’s gaze, or the fear that pinged around with it. She did not want the guests to know she thought about the taste of Monsieur Westwood’s mouth, or that she wondered what was beneath his clothing.
“I agree. Vivienne is an exceptional dancer,” Henri said in his perfect English tones. “A fact I have known for many years.”
Henri stood between them, though he did not fully block her view of Monsieur Westwood’s face. She could see the monsieur’s frown, his brows drawing together in concentration. Was he searching for an insult? A hidden meaning?
Monsieur Westwood opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes flicked toward hers, quick as a butterfly’s wing. She couldn’t read what was in his gaze, but she knew she did not have to worry.
“I was just leaving,” he said. “My business is done.”
“Surely you would like to stay, brother?” Baron Highchester drawled. His voice, it did not sound nice just now, though he had been nauseatingly kind to her when they’d arrived. “After your private meeting with Mademoiselle La Fleur at Carleton House, I thought you would enjoy her company.”
Henri did not move. Neither did Monsieur Westwood. The room became very quiet, the tension thick and heavy as a slice of the rough bread she’d baked as a girl. But Henri, he would want no difficulty. It was all show. Monsieur Westwood, however, could not be predicted.
She stood, then. It was not acceptable to sit by with nothing to say. Stepping to Henri, she ran a hand over his shoulder. She did not often touch him by choice, and it sent an uncomfortable shudder through her body. It was worse, so much worse, to do so under the watchful gaze of Maximilian Westwood.
“Henri, Monsieur Westwood is a favorite of the prince.” She smiled at the monsieur, flirtatious as befit her position, but not inviting. That would not be suitable. “You are not often at Carleton House, are you, monsieur?”
“No.” Monsieur Westwood’s jaw was tight, the muscles rigid.
“A shame, no, Henri?” Speaking lightly, she hoped the others in the room would think she was mitigating a difficult situation. She could not decide what Henri and the monsieur would think. “Prinny has much respect for Monsieur Westwood.”
There, that should do. He would know enough to leave Monsieur Westwood be.
“Indeed?” Henri did not raise an eyebrow. He did not need to.
“Perhaps we shall see you again soon, Monsieur Westwood.” She smiled, then turned her back on her monsieur. It sent a pang through her. He was the only man in the room who knew who she was aside from Henri. The only one who did not want to use her in some way.
Her commander, too, turned away. Grabbing her waist as he had done a thousand times before, he pressed a kiss to her neck. It was a sign. He wanted to leave. Well, so did she. Henri’s quarry that night had not even arrived at the party, so time had been wasted.
“Good evening.” Monsieur Westwood’s farewell was hard and very cool.
She did not turn to look at him, as she did not want to show too much interest, but her heart felt his footsteps as though they were in her chest. Heard them as if they rang inside her.
But that could not be.
They could not be.
“Carleton House?” Henri did raise his brows now, many minutes later.
She stood before him in her breeches and boots in her own boudoir. It had been only a little while after Monsieur Westwood left that Henri said good-bye to their host.
Now he was curious, as he did not like her to act in any way outside his control.
“Prinny introduced us. Everyone saw that we walked the corridor.” She cocked her head, shrugged a shoulder. Near truth was more difficult to detect than an outright lie. “You know we had met during the war—I thought Westwood would reveal my identity tonight.”
Buttoning a black jacket over her shirt, she began to feel calmer. It was armor, this jacket and shirt—not that frivolous concoction she’d worn to the soiree at Baron Highchester’s.
“I am aware he knows who you are, though he does not know who I am.” Henri relaxed into the armchair she kept near the fire. Her armchair. The one she had asked to be set there. “Westwood is also considered above reproach by many in the government.”
“Yes, he is above reproach, as you say.” She pulled on black kidskin gloves. They were tight and thin, to allow as much feeling as possible. “Dawn will be closing in soon, Henri. What would you have me do yet this night? The little lordling with his father’s secrets did not arrive at Baron Highchester’s town house as we had hoped.”
“He did not.” Henri took a cheroot from his jacket pocket. With only a quick touch of flame from a nearby candle, it let out a cloud of smoke into her boudoir. Her boudoir, attached to her bedchamber. The space she considered her own—except that it was not hers, was it? It was his. When he was in her home, everything was his.
Except the little hollow beneath the floorboard. That space was hers.
“What do you direct, Henri?” she asked again.
“Nothing, at the moment.” Smoke curled from the cheroot to form a writhing gray snake that danced above his head. “If the young man does not look for me tomorrow, I’ll send you to find out why he was detained.”
Vivienne inclined her head in acknowledgment but did not unbutton the top button of the coat. She still had somewhere to be tonight, he just didn’t know of it.
Brows furrowing, his fingers tapped impatiently on the armchair.
“What is it, Henri?” she asked. “You appear troubled.”
“Marchand.”
Her heart stopped. Simply stopped. There was no air in her lungs, no blood pumping through her veins. She could not answer.
Henri did not seem to notice her lack of either air or answer. He continued, as though any words she might have spoken would not have been important. “There are whispers Marchand is active again. He’s been quiet the past year or so, and some thought he was dead.”
She should take off her coat. Henri would expect this now that she had no orders, but it was difficult to think while her body was numb. How much does Henri know? Still, she slipped the first button from its hole, then the second.
“Whispers?” It was the only word she could force past her thick tongue.
“A few. Nothing concrete.” He drew in a breath so the cheroot glowed red at the end. “Someone said he visited Lessard’s recently, though there was no visual confirmation.”
Her mind dredged up characteristics and evaluated possibilities in an amalgam of broken thoughts. Michel Lessard. A brothel owner. Nearly as big as a gorilla and as unattractive. Scarred face, brown hair and eyes. Preferred weapon was a pistol.
Lessard had long been linked to Marchand. It would be another location to look for Anne. Her stomach clutched at the idea of Anne in a brothel, but the idea could not be dismissed.
Manchester Square. Lessard’s. There would be other links from those locations, if she could find them.
“You have no need of me this night then?”
“No, my dear. You have no assignments this evening.” He looked to the end of his cheroot as if the glowing tip would reveal Marchand’s secrets. Then, slowly and quietly, “We have been searching for Marchand for many years.”
He did not seem to want an answer, so she did not speak. With a flick of his finger, ashes rained from the cheroot onto the rug beneath his chair. Fortunately, the carpet did not belong to her, or she might have coshed him on the head for such disrespect of her things.
Finally, he stood, but he did not look at her or say good-bye when he left. He simply walked out of her boudoir and into the hallway. A few minutes later, she heard him leave the town house.
Her fingers shook on her coat buttons as she hurriedly redid them. Henri must not know of Marchand and Anne. Not yet. Keeping silent might be a mark on her career, but it would be only until she found Anne. Once she did, she would give Marchand to her commander. She would bring the Vulture to the British.
Stepping to the window, she pushed back the pretty lace curtain. On the street below, Henri stepped into the carriage, and the driver f
olded up the steps, then hoisted himself to the box. A moment later the carriage moved down the street and around the corner.
She waited ten minutes, fifteen, lest he return, but he did not.
To Manchester Square then.
It could be simple to remove Anne, or it could be difficult. She was uncertain which it would be. Until she bumped into Monsieur Westwood on her front step.
So. It would be difficult.
“Oof!” Sound and breath wheezed from her. The muscles beneath his jacket were hard and nearly as solid as any stone wall she had climbed. He steadied her, arms about her elbows. A more proper hold than her waist, no? It made her smile in a way that felt very soft and sweet in her center.
He dipped his head down to see her face, perhaps to ensure the young man he’d bumped into was truly a young man and not an opera dancer.
When his mouth came so close to hers, it was not only something soft and sweet between them. It was more. A deluge of want, of breathlessness and longing.
“Pardon me, Mademoiselle La Fleur.” He set her carefully away from him, even after seeing her mostly undressed and looking at her as though she were as delicious as French brandy.
Breathing deep, Vivienne set aside every sensation reverberating in her body. He would only complicate her errand.
“You must go.” She looked up into the face shadowed by night. “Now.”
To make her point, she jogged down the steps, hoping he would go away and also hoping he would follow.
He followed.
Her heart bumped a little in her chest. Quickly, she walked down the street to lead him away from her town house, where either Marchand’s or Henri’s eyes might be watching them.
“Why did you come?” she asked.
“To apologize. For my brother and myself.” He kept pace with her, his long legs easily matching her stride. “I thought perhaps we caused difficulties with your…protector.” The word sounded sour on his tongue.
“No apology is required, as no harm has occurred.” Yet. She looked to the end of the street. Soon they would turn the corner, and she would not need to be quite so concerned if someone saw them.
A Dance with Seduction Page 15
