Chapter Fifteen
“Hold the letter over the flame. Mon Dieu, not so close or it will catch fire.” Vivienne set her hand over Monsieur Westwood’s to guide Marchand’s note away from the flame. His hand was warm beneath the glove, and she quickly let go again. “There, just so.”
Vivienne glanced down at Monsieur Westwood as he sat at the squat wooden table. He was not looking at the letter or the flame, but up at her with a strange light in his eyes she could not identify.
“What is your perfume?” he asked, brows angling down in irritation.
“I do not wear perfume. Keep your eyes on the letter so we do not burn it.”
His gaze snapped back to the paper. Leaning closer, his frown deepened at the corners of his mouth. “The wax is softening already.”
“Good.” Vermilion wax had become translucent ruby. She would soon be able to pry up the seal, and with care, replace it.
“Does this method usually work?” He gestured with his free hand toward the scrap of paper he held over the flame.
“If the person melting the wax performs correctly.”
The paper paused in its path over the flame. “Perhaps you should perform this part of the operation.”
“I cannot. I must heat my knife in the other flame.” The monsieur’s eyes widened when she slipped the weapon from her muff. “If the knife, too, is warm, it will help the seal come away from the paper.”
The second candle sat beside the first in the dirty back room of the Goose and Gander Inn. It was not the most pleasant space to be in, but the proprietor never asked questions. He simply rented his secret room to whoever paid him the most.
Vivienne set the knife in the flame, counting the time carefully in her head. The metal could not be red-hot lest it mark the page, yet must easily melt the wax. Pulling it from the flame, she set her finger to the tip of her knife.
“Ouch,” she murmured, satisfied with the sharp, lingering sting.
“Are you hurt?” Westwood turned toward her, concern edging his words.
“Let me see the letter.”
He grumbled but gave it over to her. “You might answer and tell me if you are hurt.”
“I am not hurt.” She ignored the sting on her finger. It would cease eventually.
“Be careful.” He leaned over to watch her movements, and their shoulders touched, his coat brushing against her pelisse.
“Go away.” The seal was warm; she could see the edges were slightly darker. Softer. “You are looming.”
“I am not looming.”
She could not concentrate with his nearness. He smelled of sandalwood, of wood smoke. Of man. Concentrating on the heat where their shoulders touched, she let her skin sense it. Feel it. Listening to his breath, she matched her own to it, in and out.
She did not have to feel his body to know how he filled the space beside her. Where his wide shoulders were in relation to hers. How his large, strong hands were splayed on the tabletop. That the handsome jaw could tick as the muscle there clenched.
She sensed him looking at her. Skin prickling, she turned her head to find his eyes were very focused on hers, his breathing uneven though it matched her own. She did not want to think about kissing Monsieur Westwood.
It seemed her thoughts were wayward.
“Mademoiselle.” His voice sounded deeper than usual, becoming a rasping whisper that shivered along her skin. “You should proceed.”
It was a moment before the words made sense.
The letter. Marchand. Anne.
“Yes.” She focused on the paper, the wax, but pretending Monsieur Westwood was not beside her was like pretending not to think.
Vivienne set her warmed knife to the edge of the red seal. So carefully she did not breathe. Beside her, the monsieur held his breath as well. The blade slid beneath the wax, slowly, moving only the breadth of a hair each moment.
The seal released. Candle flames danced as their combined breath shuddered out.
Quickly, she unfolded the letter.
“Is it coded?” she asked, tilting the document toward him. It would take her too long to decipher it.
“No, but it’s in French.” Angling his head, he studied it with narrowed eyes. He’d forgotten his spectacles. “Very poor penmanship.”
“The penmanship I do not care about. What does it say?”
“Very innocuous, actually. Something about a dinner party. They ate roast duck and some sort of pudding with a lemon sauce. The author is going to bring the recipe for the lemon sauce back to France. That is all.”
“There is nothing more?” She peered down at the letter. Pudding with a lemon sauce? That was what Marchand wanted her to deliver? It did not make sense. “Who wrote the letter?”
“Georges St. Yves.”
“I do not know him.” Not at first hearing of his name, but she did not have time to search her memory. “I must complete the assignment. Soon. Can you quickly copy the letter? I must warm my knife again.”
Using the paper, ink, and quill she’d instructed him to bring, he quickly copied the letter. She watched his great hands move across the page, dip the quill delicately into the ink, then move again in his bold, flowing scrawl.
He was still too close. Too large and male. Vivienne could not focus on the words spreading across the paper.
“There. It’s done.” He shoved the letter aside to dry—they had not thought to pack blotting paper—and gave her the original.
She set her teeth, steadied her fingers, and touched the warm knife edge to the wax. Just enough to soften it. Then, quickly, because if she spared a thought to being careful it would cool, she pressed the softened seal to the paper.
“It is done.” Was it perfect? Was it set exactly right, so that Marchand would not know? Yes, it was good. “I must go. If I linger too long, they will suspect.”
But it was not Marchand that worried her—it was Monsieur Westwood. He was picking up her ribboned reticule, handing her the furred muff, as though she were any lady of the ton. It was most disconcerting.
“We must decide the intent behind the letter,” he said. “It cannot be simply about a recipe for pudding.”
“No. It is not.” Pudding was not worthy of cultivating a double agent.
“I don’t think we should deliver it until we know.” His voice was that of a man preparing to be difficult. She hoped he would not be unpleasant, though she was feeling the need to be unpleasant to counter this thought of kissing him.
“I must deliver it. If I do not, Anne will be at risk. We can discuss it later. I must go.”
Vivienne could feel his eyes on her as she walked out of the room, but she did not look back. Nor did she take the copy of the letter. If she were searched by whomever she was meeting, she could have nothing beyond the expected.
She must trust Monsieur Westwood would not turn the letter in to the government.
She was trusting him with Anne’s life.