Chapter Sixteen
The door to Room 12 of the Nelson Hotel seemed solid. It was made of light-colored wood, nearly gold in hue. Vivienne might have thought it pretty if she were not concerned with the letter tucked inside her muff. It was a very small letter, folded as it was. Yet in that moment, it seemed enormous.
She knocked, a quick rap on the pretty gold door, then waited. Twenty seconds. Thirty. There was no answer. So. She would knock again. When she had, Vivienne tucked her other hand into the muff and gripped her knife.
She did not like delivery instructions that did not include people to receive the delivery.
Was it a trap? The hair on the nape of her neck rose. Perhaps she was not alone in the hall. She sent a glance to the right. The left. Nothing but empty corridor punctuated by golden wood doors. Curtained windows guarded either end. There was ample room to hide in those heavy, elaborate curtains.
The faintest scratch met her ears. She whipped her gaze back to the door of Room 12. It opened wide, the yawning entrance to the unknown.
“I have a gift of jewelry for your mother,” she said to the man in the doorway. Marchand had not conveyed any password, so this must do. Very poor planning on Marchand’s part.
The man did not look French—but as with the butcher’s boy and the man on Bond Street, he would not look French. If he was in England, he would appear English.
Nor was he the butcher’s boy who had delivered the last note. The hair, perhaps, could match, but this man was decades older than Vivienne, with a nose not remotely beaky. He was tall, thin, and wearing the dark coat, light trousers, and high starched cravat of any fashionable man.
The movement of his body told her what he truly was. A man could not hide entitlement. This was no thief from the docks or the rookeries. A spy, most likely, but he was also very much an aristocrat.
“Merci.” His voice was low, with a hint of gravel to correspond with his age. He held out his hand for the letter.
She did not give it to him. Could not. Nerves dampened her palms, though she wore gloves so the letter was dry and would not reveal her fear.
“The girl.” It was a risk to ask. “She is well?” Holding her breath, she waited for the answer.
“Alive.” The man’s cool eyes watched her, cataloging every feature even as she cataloged his brow, his cheekbones, the shape of the nose, even the amount of stubble and the pattern in which it grew.
“Good.”
The letter was plucked from her fingers the moment she held it out, then the door closed with a sharp snap.
What now? Pressing an ear against the door, she listened for movements on the opposite side. Silence. Not a whisper or the patter of footsteps. He was quiet, this man of Marchand’s. Still, he would have to leave. For food, if not to deliver the letter or relay its contents.
Or act on them.
It occurred to her that he might be standing on the other side of the door, waiting to hear her walk away before leaving himself.
She made enough noise that he would hear, but not so much she did not sound like a spy. A rustle of clothing, but not footsteps. A loud intake of breath, but no words. She began to walk.
Her gaze focused on the curtains at the end of the hall. They were deep crimson and heavy. Brocade, perhaps? It did not matter. They were wide, heavy, and draped in large folds.
She was a very small person.
It was but a moment to ensure she was alone. Sliding behind the curtain, she shook it to cover her feet. It was hot behind the thick fabric. She could not see, nor barely breathe, but she stayed there. Listening.
A door opened. She twitched the curtain aside—a half second only, to see the hallway. A man and woman walked comfortably arm in arm, as if they had done so a hundred times before. They had not passed Room 12 yet and could not have come from there. Eventually they passed the room and moved into the stairwell, leaving her alone again in the hall.
It was stifling standing behind this woven fabric, but she was not ready to leave yet. Marchand’s man—or enemy, it could be either—was still here. The heat rose minute by minute until sweat gathered between her breasts, at her temples. The pelisse and muff became unbearable weights.
Perhaps this was not her best idea.
Another door opened. Another twitch of the curtain.
Room 12. The man was leaving Room 12.
She let the curtain fall closed. Her heartbeat accelerated, in that way it did when she was on the hunt. Only now it was not a mission, but a driving force. This man might lead her to Anne.
She gathered herself, her energy, before peeking out again. The man was walking away in long, confident strides. He did not look back as he turned into the doorway to the stairwell.
Darting from behind the curtain, Vivienne followed him. Swift feet, blood pounding in her ears. Frustration blossomed when she realized she was not as silent as usual in her slippers and gown. Pantaloons and boots would be better—she rustled with every step.
It was not difficult to slip down the stairs to the ground floor. The hotel lobby spread before her, not busy, but not empty. She kept her gaze on the toes of her walking half boots, like so, and crossed the room. If she stopped she would lose much ground between the spy and herself.
The man exited the hotel. The door started to swing closed, but she saw him turn left. Picking up her pace, she moved quickly through the lobby. The door was just there—
“Mademoiselle La Fleur?” It was a strange man’s voice, a young man’s voice. A guest at the hotel, perhaps one who recognized her from the stage.
She did not stop for the man. She did not even look. Instead, she slipped through the door and onto the street, pretending she had not heard. Bright sunlight blinded her. Blinking, she looked frantically to the left. The street and walkway were not crowded, but so many men wore the same blue coat and light trousers of a fashionable gentleman. It was not easy to pick out one from the others. Yet he must be here, somewhere.
She walked carefully, searching for him and refusing to panic. Letting panic take hold might cost her in clear thinking. Carriages moved along the street, as did men and women and street hawkers and boys sweeping the cobblestones and— There. Getting into a hackney was a man with the right height, the right clothing, the right hair.
She dashed forward, uncaring now what picture she might make, so she could hear his direction.
“To Manchester Square, please,” he told the driver.
Then Marchand’s man was inside the carriage. Whinnies filled the air as the driver encouraged the horses. Hooves began their rhythmic sound.
Raising her muff, she attempted to call a hack. She must follow, as quickly as possible.
A hand on her arm stayed any potential conveyance.
“Mademoiselle La Fleur!” The man from inside the hotel was young, handsome, and every bit a dandy. “I thought that was you in the lobby. I saw you on stage…”
Vivienne did not hear the dandy’s next words. Did not care what they were or who he was.
She was trapped on the street, unable to follow her quarry.