The barkeep was no different. After a minute of humming silence, he said, “Not good people.”
“Will you tell them where I am?”
Again, that humming silence as the rag wiped around and around the tankard. Around and around. It would not become more clean, that tankard, but the barkeep did not stop his attention to the vessel.
She could sense Maximilian’s impatience. He did not move, but she could hear it in the breath that was deeper than the last, the forceful exhale. She imagined his scowl was firmly in place.
Finally, into the silence, the barkeep said, “For a price, perhaps I’d tell them, but it would have to be a good price.”
So. She knew where she stood.
“What if my price is higher?” Maximilian interjected.
The rag stopped its circular pattern, paused, then started again. She wanted to hiss at Maximilian to stay silent, but the words were out. They could not be taken back.
The rag moved, around and around, though the tankard failed to shine. The barkeep pursed his lips, the whiskers on his chin shifting over skin and bone. It was a considering expression, and Vivienne stayed silent as she waited for him to speak.
“If it’s high enough, I’ll tell you where she is, milord,” the barkeep said, ceasing his movements with the rag to blow dust from inside the vessel.
“She? The girl?” Vivienne gripped the edge of the bar top. Hope burst to life inside her. “You know where she is?”
“Aye. Close enough.” He still did not look up. It was as though he were talking to the tankard. This was the way some transactions were conducted. If you did not look at the person, then it could be said it did not happen. “The gent, here.” He jerked his head at Maximilian. “He good for the blunt?”
Maximilian bristled. This she saw with her lover’s eyes. Shoulders lifted, the flare of nostrils. Then he tucked his anger away so all that could be seen was the twitch in his jaw. He reached into his pocket, then laid a coin on the bar top. A coin with a lot of value. Then he laid another. Then a third.
Coins she knew were dear to him, as he was not as wealthy as his brother.
She stared at her hands. She thought perhaps her knuckles were turning white. It was most difficult to tell through the sheen of tears, but blinking the moisture away was impossible. This man—this man who did not want to love a spy and could ill afford to part with such a large sum—was purchasing Anne’s life.
For Vivienne.
The barkeep used the rag to sweep the coins into the tankard. Each fell with a heavy tink into the bottom, gold onto pewter, then the tankard was set beneath the bar.
“She’s at St. Luke’s Church.” The barkeep stared straight at Vivienne now, with old eyes and craggy brows. “They know you’re near. She won’t be there come morning.”
…
Vivienne led him through the labyrinth of alleys. Maximilian was completely turned around in the maze of tight places. One cramped space led into another, then another. Occasionally they’d find larger streets, but she would dart between buildings and over mud and stone to cross them and enter another alleyway.
He’d call her a butterfly or some pretty flitting creature, darting between blossoms and blooms, if he wasn’t jumping over pools of sewage and listening to rats scratching in the dark—and half waiting for a knife to slide past his pistol and between his ribs.
He kept his eyes on the narrow shoulders and black-clad body dancing in front of him. He had no idea where they were—or where St. Luke’s Church was—but she seemed to know. This must have been where she spent her childhood.
His heart ached knowing she’d lived in squalor, with prostitutes in every doorway and thieves and criminals lurking in the corners. This was no place for a child to grow up. That so many children knew nothing better—and so many more died—tugged at him.
So he focused again on the woman in front of him as she set a comforting hand on the shoulder of a beggar, shook her head at a prostitute, and skirted around the light spilling from a pub window along with shouts and the sound of broken glass.
“There,” she said to him over her shoulder. She pointed ahead where the spire of a church speared high into the night sky. Maximilian noted in the dim light from the street that the brass weathervane on top pointed toward the east. Above it, clouds roiled, their color shifting from black to gray as distant lightning flashed.
It was not storming yet, but it would be soon enough.
Vivienne darted into the shadow of the iron-and-brick fence surrounding the church and its yard. She crouched low and Maximilian did the same, the muscles of his thighs tightening in protest after their jog through the rookeries. Her lips were pressed together as she studied the street, the church. No doubt her spy’s brain was analyzing the best method to infiltrate the building.
“I don’t know where in the church they would keep Anne.” She whispered it, perhaps to herself, but then she looked up at him. He couldn’t see her face clearly until lightning flashed over her firm, resolute chin. “There could be any number of hiding places.”
“Then there’s nothing to do but search.”
She stilled, and he sensed her gaze searching his face. “You can turn back, Maximilian.” Her words were nothing more than a whisper on the air, her eyes wide beneath furrowed brows. “You do not have to do this.”
“I’m right behind you, Vivienne,” he said, setting a hand on her shoulder. She was tense, her shoulder a thin point of anxiety. “I’d go in front of you, but I don’t know how the hell to pick a bloody lock.”
One second passed. Two.
Her shoulders lowered a touch, as the tension drained from her. She leaned up, nipped his bottom lip, kissed him hard, then spun on the balls of her feet in a graceful move that somehow or other resulted in her standing up.
By all that was holy, the Flower’s body was a marvelous bit of bone and muscle and elegance. And something about that kiss made him feel marvelous and strong and heroic.
Addled. He was addled.
And damnation. He was in love with her. No other way around it.
“Come.” She jerked her head toward the church. “As it happens, I can pick a bloody lock.”
He followed her through the dark churchyard, picking his way on uneven ground. Headstones rose like specters from the earth, so many ghoulish shadows surrounding them. And of course, it was foggy. It wasn’t London without some fog. If he were fanciful—and he wasn’t—he’d think there were spirits in the churchyard.
He suppressed a foolish shudder and kept his gaze on the Flower’s back. She slunk between the headstones, as much like fog and darkness as what floated in the air around her. He didn’t know how she found the rear entrance to the church, but she did. She crouched, running her hand over the lock.
“Keep watch,” she whispered.
“Quite.” He removed the pistol he’d tucked in his waistband while she retrieved her picklocks from some hidden pocket, and they both set to work. It came naturally, somehow. He scanned the churchyard looking for men or improbable shadows while she worked her magic with the locks.
She was as quiet as the fog, yet her fingers seemed to fly. He heard the lock open, a quiet snick that held promise and fear. The world stopped as he turned to look at her. Their eyes met in another flash of lightning as the first raindrop fell.
There was no turning back.
He nodded once, hard, to tell her it was time. He was there with her.
Her fingers fluttered over the handle, uncertain flickers of rounded nails and sensitive touch. With a sharp, indrawn breath, she pushed the door open a crack. Her picklocks returned to their hiding place, then a pistol appeared in one hand and a knife in the other. It was quite terrifying how comfortable she appeared. He should not be impressed by her weaponry.
Except he was.
Yes, addled. No other explanation.
Slowly, the Flower pushed the door open so they could slip through. The door led into darkness, a deeper darkness than what was outside. In the cemetery, at least, there had been a bit of lightning and some candlelight from windows and lamps in the surrounding street. Inside there was nothing but walls. He couldn’t see a blasted thing.
He heard the Flower shuffling ahead of him and hoped he wouldn’t have to use his pistol. He wouldn’t know where to aim.
A light flared, burning against his eyes and nearly blinding him. The bright flame illuminated her face, casting dancing shadows over her cheekbones and revealing her eyes. Those eyes darted around the room, cataloging every stone, every piece of furniture. His own eyes did the same. A table and chair. A stack of plates topped by a dull knife. An umbrella leaned against one wall. Above it were pegs with various garments hanging from them.
“The vestry,” she whispered.
“Anne wouldn’t be in here.” Not a logical place to hide a prisoner, if one considered it properly.
“No. She would be somewhere less regularly occupied.” Vivienne shielded the flame from any breeze and studied the room again. “There’s no sign of anything out of place here. No sign of Anne, or a prisoner, or—” She broke off, the last word ending in a choked moan. Clearly, despair had a sound.
“Wait, Flower, wait. She might be in another room. She might—”
“She might not be. Anne might already be gone, or the barkeep might have lied. She could be dead.” The candle flame wavered as her hands shook. “What if she isn’t even here? I only have a little time before Jones must come for me. I would have wasted it.”
“Then we’ll keep looking until we find her or they bring us in.” That seemed like an immutable fact now. He didn’t know Anne, but he did know Vivienne, and he wasn’t going to leave either of them to the Vulture or the spies of England.
“We— Did you hear that?” Her voice lowered to the lightest whisper.
“No.” Listening, Maximilian closed his eyes to better concentrate. He heard nothing but thunder and lightning and rain pattering on the roof. “Wait.” A clang sounded from somewhere below.
“Something is not right. That noise does not belong.” A quick puff of air followed her words, a fast exhale that sounded suspiciously like—
Maximilian opened his eyes to see nothing but pitch black, the candlelight only a whiff of smoke now.
“Come with me.” Her small, ungloved hand found his in the dark, gripped hard, and began to pull him forward.
“Are you a nocturnal creature? You must be, because I can’t see a bloody thing.”
She didn’t answer but tugged him along a dark passageway. He started to protest, but she could obviously see better than he in the dark. There was a measure of safety in that.
“Where are we going?” he whispered.
“Below.”
Very nondescript, that word. “Below where?”
Suddenly they stood before another door. It had risen from the dark, innocuous and silent—yet there was a small window with metal bars set into it.
And small iron spikes impaled in the planks.
Spiked doors did not represent enjoyable locations.
“The crypt,” she said softly. “There are dozens of places to hide in the crypt. Doors and vaults and tombs.” Vivienne’s voice caught on the last word, her swallow audible. Then he felt rather than saw her body straighten and strengthen, shoulders squaring and chest rising as she found her courage and assumed her dancer’s posture.
“Is this the main entry?” he asked. “Is there some sort of rear entrance?”
“Yes, there are a few different entrances.” She set a hand against the wooden slats of the door. “We should use one of those. They are not far—”
“Far enough. And they’d expect us to come in the rear door, wouldn’t they? Spies would sneak in from the rear. We should go in through the main entrance and surprise them.”
“Perhaps.” She spoke slowly, digesting his words, then cocked her head. “It is not a poor idea, except they might see us immediately. We wouldn’t have time to search for Anne.”
“We’ll figure out something.” Or die. Either way, it was a bit too late to turn back.
“I don’t have a plan.” She transferred one of her hands to his arm, squeezed hard.
He shrugged. “Then we devise the plan as we go.”
“This does not sound like you, Maximilian.”
No, it didn’t. She’d done this to him. Improvisation and lack of planning were not his strengths. “It does sound like you, Vivienne. Between the two of us, we’ll come up with something once we get down there.”
“You have your weapon, do you not? It is loaded?”
“Of course.” He had two, in fact. “A man doesn’t go around St. Giles defending his woman without some type of weapon.” He leaned down, touched his mouth to hers.
“Bon.” Her lips curved up beneath his, and he took this moment—perhaps his last kiss—to memorize every contour of her mouth. The scent, the taste of her. This might be the last for both of them. “Bon,” she said again.
He hoped they didn’t die tonight. He wanted more time with her. A lifetime, maybe.
And if it wasn’t love that gripped him, it was some kind of illness that made one’s heart hurt and one’s stomach a bundle of nerves. Influenza, perhaps, with a dollop of palpitations. He leaned his forehead against hers and simply stood there, one arm about her waist. He closed his eyes and breathed in. Her simple soap fought with sewage and rotting wood—and won.
It was how he felt about her. She’d come from these hellholes and had won. However it happened, whatever she did now, she’d won. It had forged her into the woman she was now.
“I love you, my Flower.” Not Sarah, not Vivienne. Whatever else she was called, she would always be the Flower. His Flower. The one who sneaked into his study and mocked his paper folding. “I don’t think I might love you. I’m not uncertain. I don’t know why I thought I was. Nor does it matter if you are a spy, or a dancer, or choose any other profession. I simply love you, whatever name you bear and whatever language you speak.”
He opened his eyes to find her staring at him.
“Right before we are likely to die, Maximilian, you choose to tell me this.”
“Seems as good a time as any. I muddled it up before.”
“You are becoming soft, my Maximilian.” She gave him a short, firm kiss, but he heard laughter behind her words, and it warmed him. “I love you as well, whether you are a scowling code breaker or an irritating translator. Now, let us go fight the Vulture and save Anne. Or die. Whichever happens first.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Creeping down a dark stairwell was not frightening, Vivienne thought. Unless Maximilian was behind you. Love made it infinitely frightening. What if Marchand killed him?
Maximilian’s death would be etched into her heart. But at the end of stairs, if the barkeep had been correct, would be Anne. For Anne, she must continue.
Vivienne trailed her hand along the wall, noting each brick and the mortar circling it. Rough. Square. There was no rail on either side of the stair descending into the crypt, only these brick walls. She could not see in front of her and dared not go back for a candle. She carefully set each foot on the step below, testing it. She could not go tumbling into the dark.
Behind her, Maximilian was doing his best to be quiet. He was quieter than usual and walked very slowly, as she heard from his footsteps. She counted his slow pace and careful feet as an asset. If he fell, she did not want to be squashed beneath him before she had found Anne.
Then they reached the bottom. There were no more steps. Vivienne paused, waiting for Maximilian to join her. She knew exactly where he stood, where his body was in the dark, and reached out a hand for his.
He jumped a foot. His breath wheezed out.
She nearly giggled, and perhaps she would have, if such a giggle did not mean the difference between life and death. But it did, so she slid her hand up his arm, then to his shoulder and pulled herself up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.
“Stay close, stay quiet.”
He did, as they traveled the length of the crypt. They were not hand in hand, or even touching. Her hands were busy with knives, his with the pistol, but they moved along the passage in tandem.
It was so very dark. Water dripped somewhere, a rhythmic ping onto rock. That sound melded with the scent of dank and murk and…something else. Like dirt, only not. Decay. Death. There were many dead buried here. A whisper wound through her mind. Anne might be one of them.
A soft glow began to lighten the darkness. She moved toward it, afraid of what she might find. They turned a corner, and Vivienne saw the glow of a single candle at the end of the next tunnel. It scalded her eyes, it was so brilliant against the black.
It was enough to see Anne lying on her side on the floor.
Vivienne jumped forward, heart in her throat. Was Anne well? Had they hurt her? Shackles encircled her ankles and rope bound her hands. Dirty fabric had been shoved into her mouth, the ends emerging from dry, cracked lips. Shorn and uneven hair brushed the edge of her jaw. But Anne’s eyes were wide with fear.
Alive! Triumph burst through Vivienne. So close, after so long. Anne was so close. Vivienne broke into a run, feet thudding on the stone floor, heart thudding in her chest. She breached the edge of the candlelight—and skid to a halt.
Anne was not alone. Vivienne should have known this. Before she ran, she should have prepared better for this, but she had not thought beyond Anne.
“Ah, the lovely Flower. I have been waiting for you.” The words were pleasant, friendly, even, which made the man’s voice more frightening than if he’d shouted. “I had hoped you would be alone.”
The man stepped from the shadows, the candlelight falling first on black shoes and gaiters, then black breeches and coat. Finally, his lined face, floating above Geneva bands.
A Dance with Seduction Page 29
