A Dance with Seduction

by Alyssa Alexander

  Behind her, Maximilian sucked in a breath. Held it. Then, furiously, he whispered, “Bishop Carlisle.”

  “Indeed, my boy. It’s a shame you followed the Flower tonight. Your mother will be distraught by your death.” The bishop raised his hand. Candlelight flickered on the intricate engravings on a pistol barrel. “And I did tell you not to become involved with the Flower, did I not?”

  “You are Marchand, the Vulture,” Vivienne said, studying her opponent. He was tall and very solid, but he was not old. Or, at least, he was very fit for his age. She had not particularly noticed this before, but she had not looked before. One did not evaluate a man of the cloth for his physical abilities.

  “Mais oui.” The bishop smiled, again, most friendly. “And so I have been for many years. Right under the nose of the British government.” His words moved seamlessly from French to English.

  Vivienne struggled to think, to formulate a plan. Anne lay on the floor at his feet, so thin, so small, in that little ball she had curled herself into. Chain snaked from the shackles on her ankles to a ring set into the brick wall so that she could not easily be moved. The iron bands had scraped the flesh raw at her ankles. The angry welts would be painful.

  “I don’t understand.” Maximilian’s pistol rose into the air to point at the bishop. “You were my father’s closest friend. My mother’s confidant. You bloody well stood there on the day of the funeral and promised to take care of our family.”

  “I did. That has nothing to do with the interests of France or England. Nor the Flower.”

  He made a little gesture. Two more men stepped from the shadows. Vivienne recognized one as the man from Manchester Square. The other was a stranger, so she cataloged his height, his features. Not as tall as Maximilian, but with a scarred face that would be memorable. She and Maximilian were at a disadvantage. Two against three. And Anne. Poor Anne.

  Perhaps, if they all died in this crypt, they would be buried with none the wiser. Still, she would not die without a fight.

  “Let them go, Marchand, and I will do whatever you ask. I shall spy for you, for France. Whatever you require.” She sounded desperate and did not care.

  “Whatever I require?” The bishop’s brows rose. “A very intriguing offer, Flower.”

  He began to circle them, his pistol relaxing slightly. It did not matter, as the scarred man held knives and the one from Manchester Square a knife and his own pistol. Whatever Marchand did or did not do, she could not move fast enough to protect Anne from them.

  On the floor, Anne shook her head. Above the cloth in her mouth, her eyes turned wild. She squeaked out a word—Vivienne understood no! despite the gag.

  “I must, regretfully, decline.” Marchand was almost directly behind her, and very close. The words were soft in her ear. “You have proven yourself untrustworthy, going to Lessard’s and searching Manchester Square. It is too late for your offer. I would have killed you earlier, if I had not needed you to deliver the note to Lynley.”

  Beside her, Maximilian tensed, but he did not move. She turned her head slightly and saw he was watching the other two men intently, but she did not want to draw attention to this.

  “And the girl?” she asked, speaking as softly as Marchand and turning her head to look at him. He was closer than she had thought. Only inches away. She could see each separate gray whisker dotting his chin. He was not so clean shaven after a long night.

  “She is useless to me.”

  “Bastard,” Maximilian ground out.

  “You are mistaken, I am not.” Marchand turned to look at him and began his slow, circling movements again. “I was born quite legitimately to French parents, dear boy, and was sent to live with English relatives when they died. Mais, je suis français. C’est aussi simple que ça.”

  What to do? Vivienne’s mind screamed the question. She could not see a way out. Anne was in shackles, Marchand’s men armed. Any fight would risk Anne. A quick glance revealed exits, tombs, stone passageways. And—

  Movement. Something in the shadows.

  She held her breath. Was it one of Marchand’s men? A member of the church? A rat? Any and all of these things were possible. Whatever it was, it moved behind Marchand’s men.

  “What do you propose, Marchand?” Maximilian asked.

  “Death, of course.” The Vulture sounded surprised, as though this were a foolish question. He crouched down to look at Anne. The girl skittered back as quickly as her bound hands and feet would allow. Whimpering erupted from her throat.

  Vivienne stepped forward, fear tearing at her heart, at her belly.

  Marchand lifted a hand. “Another step, and I shall kill her.”

  Vivienne froze, the fear building in her until it slicked her skin and filled all the places inside. He was so close to Anne. Too close. The fear tumbled inside her, becoming an aching pressure against her ribs.

  “The girl has been remarkably brave, Flower.” Marchand smiled at Anne, as if they had become friends. “You should be proud.”

  So she was. More, even, when temper filled Anne’s gaze. But, oh, her pride was bittersweet.

  “My sources indicate you delivered the note to Lynley.” Marchand turned to look up at her, then pushed to his feet.

  “Yes.” She swallowed hard.

  “Then your prince will be dead by supper.” His eyes lit up. He raised his pistol, aimed it at her heart. “And I have no more use for you.”

  …

  Maximilian leaped. He didn’t think about it, didn’t analyze the trajectory or proper alignment for effectiveness. He simply leaped at Carlisle—Marchand, the Vulture—and slammed into him.

  Marchand’s pistol discharged, leaving acrid smoke in the air and ringing in his ears. They tumbled to the stone floor of the crypt. Maximilian felt only the pain of his shoulder and hip where he landed. He decided he must not be hit by the pistol. A quick glance showed him Vivienne was not hurt. Thank all of God’s body parts.

  So he sprang up and braced for more, started to raise his own pistol, but some unknown man pelted out of the shadows and rammed into one of Marchand’s men. Maximilian started, leaping in front of Vivienne—and was immediately pushed aside as she went for the third man. It was the scarred one, approaching the girl Anne with knives drawn.

  Maximilian recognized the dark head of Jones as the unknown man from the shadows and felt a moment’s relief. Three to three, then.

  Well, that left Marchand to him for now. And damnation, Marchand had a knife, too. It glinted wickedly in the candlelight when he pulled it from inside his coat. Did everyone carry knives?

  Marchand took aim with the blade, and Maximilian dived away, skidding along the stone floor. His palms stung from scraping across the rough surface, and his knees would be bruised, but the flying knife pinged off the floor. At least Marchand had missed.

  Maximilian sprang up and spun around, anticipating the next attack. From one side he heard Jones grunt as fist met flesh. On the other side, he heard a quick intake of breath from Vivienne. A glance showed she’d felled her man and was spinning toward the shackled girl.

  Vivienne began to run, dancer’s legs pounding on the stone floor, but Marchand, too, was headed for the girl. For Anne.

  Marchand would get there first.

  Not on my bloody watch.

  He raised his pistol, aiming for the thigh. A small target, and in these circumstances, it would be difficult to get the shot right, but if the bullet managed to find any part of Marchand, it would at least slow him down.

  Marchand turned at the final second to look at Maximilian. He might have borne the face of an old friend, but his eyes were nothing of the sort. Nor was the second knife he now carried. The pistol fired, jerking in Maximilian’s hand and sending up another round of smoke. The sound echoed between the walls of the crypt, blasting off the tombs and stones. Marchand jerked as well, shock ri
ppling over his face. Then he crumpled as his leg slid out from under him.

  The girl, Anne, shrieked from behind her gag as Marchand tumbled toward her, knife still outstretched. He was just inches short of Anne’s belly. Inches.

  The Flower gripped his jacket and hauled him back, fingers clutched in fabric. Her strength in that moment was born of love, her face a mask of utter fury. She jerked Marchand away and slammed his wrist into the stone floor.

  “Non!” she shouted, before spinning again to see to the girl.

  Maximilian rushed forward, and together with Jones pulled Marchand back again. But the Vulture wasn’t done. Even as they shoved him against the floor, the knife arced out, wide, aiming for the Flower. Maximilian kicked it out of his hand and felt the crunch of bone beneath his boot.

  Jones pressed a foot on the Marchand’s bloodied leg, holding him in place with sheer pain. The bishop’s face went white, and he breathed hard through his teeth. Jones’s face was grim, his eyes impassive. He flicked that unreadable gaze up to Maximilian.

  “We need to bind them,” he said shortly. A groan echoed between the brick walls as one of the French agents rose to his knees. “All of them.”

  “Yes.” But he had to see Vivienne.

  She was crouched in front of Anne, her hands moving quickly with the picklocks on the shackles. The gag was out of the girl’s mouth, and her eyes—though still large and frightened—were focused only on her sister.

  “They fed me well.” Anne’s voice was thin and shaking, but Maximilian heard a comforting, reassuring tone he knew was for the Flower. “Don’t worry, Vivienne. I was never hungry.” She held her hands out as Vivienne shoved the shackles away and began sawing at the ropes with her knife. “I wasn’t hurt, either. I promise.”

  The rope fell away, and Vivienne sat back. Her small, competent hands rested lightly on her thighs, as though she didn’t quite know what to do with them now.

  Anne threw her arms around Vivienne’s neck. Clung there.

  “I missed you.” Vivienne’s voice was a croak, barely understandable. But her face. Her face. Raw emotion moved over her features as she buried her face in Anne’s neck, hands fisting in Anne’s clothing as the girl’s arms came around her. Deep, deep sobs racked her frame.

  That love, the overwhelming joy and terror of it, tore at Maximilian.

  Because he loved Vivienne in just that way.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “What now?” Rain sluiced down Maximilian’s head and face. He scowled at Vivienne, then up at the gray dawn sky, then at the town house Jones had just disappeared into. “It’s damn wet out here.”

  She wanted to smile, but it did not come. There was too much sadness and confusion and uncertainty in her, though all of it was tempered with joy for Anne. She was safe, ensconced in Jones’s town house after a hot bath, and was even now being provided nourishing food and a guard to watch her. Vivienne could not ask fate for more.

  Except, perhaps, she could ask for Maximilian.

  Only she could not have him. If Henri lived and she were not prosecuted for treason, she would never be permitted to be with Maximilian. Her assignment was to be an opera dancer mistress, and she could not be in love with another man.

  If Henri did not live, then she would be tried for murder.

  So she looked down the street because she did not know what else to do. The rows of houses were dreary and gray in the early-morning rain, their normally bright surfaces dull without the sunshine. It did not matter. She had business she must attend to. It was only hours ago the Vulture had been brought down, hours in which Anne had needed care and reports had been necessary.

  “Now, I speak with Henri’s spymaster, Sir Charles. My spymaster, also.” She was exhausted and heartsore and felt as gray as the row of houses. “Then, if I am allowed to continue in my position, I will bathe the catacombs and your liniment and the Queen’s Bathtub from my skin. I will go to rehearsals and performances as Vivienne La Fleur. And I will wait for instructions.” Rain blurred the street. Or perhaps it was tears.

  “And what of me? Of us?” Maximilian gripped her shoulders and spun her to face him. Through her wet jacket she felt the warmth and strength in his hands. His arms would be just as warm and strong. She wanted to step into those arms. To take comfort from him.

  “I don’t know.” Her heart ached because of it.

  “I’m not leaving you.” Very fierce words from her scholar, accompanied by even fiercer eyes. “I don’t care what your spymaster commands.”

  “I cannot—Maximilian.” She shook her head. Her heart beat frantically against her rib cage, a bird fighting to be free. “Gainsaying Sir Charles would be insubordination. More, he could take away my freedom. My life, even.”

  “Then run. Go away.” Desperation layered over his voice. It was a sound she had not heard before.

  “I cannot. If I leave without permission, I will be hunted for treason. And—I am a spy.” His desperation echoed in her own heart. She shivered inside her wet clothing and tugged her cap lower to shield her face from the cold rain. “I am the Flower, Maximilian.”

  “Confound it. Can’t you stop being a spy?” He leaned down, very close, to look at her with hazel eyes colored by rioting green and gold spears. He was a kiss away from her, and yet a world of obstacles stood between them. “We could go anywhere. I can find work. I can support you well enough.”

  “Support me?” Joy battered one side of her as she thought of lying beside him each night, living beside him each day. Confusion battered the other side of her. “It is not support. It is not money. I am a spy. I cannot be anything else—I do not even know how.”

  “Damnation. I know you can’t, but I want you to be something else.” Frustration growled out of him. Then, with a sigh, the frustration slipped into the rain and was gone. He leaned down, set his forehead against hers. “I want you to be something different so everything will be easy. Then you could be with me always and surprise me by sneaking into every room of my house.”

  You could be with me always…

  A great rush of deep love swamped her. Not just swamped her, engulfed her. Consumed her. His arms were around her—if they had not been, she might have fallen.

  “Yet, if you weren’t a spy,” he continued softly, “you wouldn’t be my Flower.”

  His lips seized hers. Possession and fury and despair, all of these melded together and became Maximilian’s mouth. He tasted so male, and his lips were cool from the rain. She met them hungrily. Hot tears that mingled with the cold rain on her cheeks.

  This might be their last kiss. She could not see the future and did not know what came next. But she could hold onto him and grip the shoulders that had become so dear to her. She could let her heart be overwhelmed by this man who always stood beside her and never in front, who knew all of her secrets.

  She could love him for whatever moments they had together.

  Someone cleared their throat.

  Vivienne sprang back as embarrassment filled her. Sir Charles stood on the front steps, greatcoat catching water droplets and his walking stick dull in the gray light. He was her spymaster—and he was not pleased. The coldness in his brown eyes was a look she knew. It did not mean good things would be happening.

  Often, this look meant someone died. Sometimes they died by the sword tucked into the walking stick he carried now.

  “Flower. Mr. Westwood. I expect you to come inside so we don’t have to stand in the rain during our discussion.” Sir Charles spun on his heel and disappeared into the hallway.

  She must follow. Even if her feet wanted to run in another direction. So, she followed. Maximilian’s hand slipped into hers as they mounted the steps. His hand was solid and strong. An anchor, just when she needed it.

  Except he was not invited into Sir Charles’s office.

  “I would like a private word with the
Flower first.” Sir Charles shed his greatcoat, then propped his walking stick in a corner of the hall.

  “Sir,” Maximilian began, running a hand through wet hair, heedless of water sprinkling onto the tiled floor or the spikes of russet and mahogany he created.

  “A moment, Westwood, to debrief my agent.” Sir Charles’s tone rose, as did the command in the words.

  “Maximilian.” Vivienne spoke softly, hoping that she conveyed confidence and not the nerves pinging inside her. If her spymaster asked for privacy, she was duty bound to obey. “A few minutes, please.”

  She imagined Maximilian’s teeth would suffer some from his frustration, but he nodded in agreement.

  “She’ll be safe enough.” Spinning on his heel, Sir Charles strode down the hall and toward his office, where Jones stood silent in the doorway. “When I call, send in Westwood,” he said as he passed Jones and disappeared into the room.

  Vivienne followed, because there was no choice. Jones shut the paneled door quietly as her boots found the thick rug in the center of the room.

  Alors. She was alone.

  “Sir.” Vivienne straightened her shoulders as she faced Sir Charles over his desk. She also raised her chin. Just a little. He might strip her of her position. Prison, even, was possible. Death—she hoped that was not in her future. Whatever her punishment, she would meet it on even ground.

  “I’ve had an interesting talk with Lord Henry Wycomb.”

  Ah. Then Henri was not dead. “Oui.” She did not know what else to say.

  “I also had a very brief conversation with Jones.” His eyes were colder, perhaps, than they had been before. He did not shift in his chair as he spoke, but regarded her with steady eyes.

  “Oui.” Her belly flip-flopped. A fish on the line and out of water.

  “It seems you’ve been working on your own these last weeks.”

  “Yes, sir.” This was not a good beginning to the conversation. It was very one-sided, this conversation.

  “Why did you not approach Wycomb about Marchand?”

  A blunt question, and perhaps it deserved a blunt answer. She would have to reveal her past in any event. “The girl Marchand abducted, Anne—”