Chapter Thirty-Five
“You may not ascend the stairs, sir.”
The giant footman seemed quite adamant, and much wider than Maximilian, now that he looked properly.
From his seat in the middle of the brothel, Maximilian stared at the stairs to the second level, to Lessard’s chambers. Vivienne had been up there too long. Much too long. He shouldn’t have left her. He couldn’t think why he had, except he’d given her his word. It had seemed exceedingly important he stand by it, even if every part of him screamed out that he should just punch Lessard in the nose and be done with it.
Dash it all, did he have to choose now to make a promise to her?
Well, promise or no, he was going up there. Fear for her crawled beneath his skin, building and building as he watched people go up and down the stairs, none of them Vivienne. She could be hurt in a dozen ways up there, without anyone knowing. She could be waiting for him to save her, and he wouldn’t know. She could—
He was making himself crazy.
Maximilian stepped toward the footman and tried to look as large as he could in his greatcoat. “See here. The woman I came with, it’s my gentlemanly duty to see she returns home safely.”
He apparently didn’t look large enough, because the footman was unconcerned. “You’re not invited upstairs, sir, by order of the owner.”
It would have to be brute strength to get him up there. Well, he’d had rudimentary training with the spies. He knew a few things about fighting. Stepping back a bit, he raised his fists and assumed a proper pugilist position. He heard a prostitute or two gasp, heard a man shout, “Oi! A fight!”
He felt like doing just that. The Flower and her ilk were beginning to rub off on him.
“Step aside,” he said to the footman. “Or be prepared to defend yourself.”
The bloody man didn’t step aside. He shot out a fist Maximilian barely had time to dodge. Maximilian countered and made contact with the man’s belly. Then he took a blow to the cheekbone that sent stars hazing his vision.
Now there were squealing prostitutes. He didn’t particularly care, what with the throbbing pain and the need to get to Vivienne. He couldn’t see well enough to aim precisely, but his fist connected with something that felt like a jaw.
When the man’s head snapped back, Maximilian barreled forward, shoulder first, and hit the man square in the chest. They went down in a heap, tumbling onto the first step to the upper floors and sending patrons scrambling for safety. Dimly, Maximilian was grateful the footman was so large. The man was an excellent cushion against the floor.
“Stop!” The shout was feminine. Angry. Blessedly healthy.
A masculine bellow followed. “Enough!”
Relief could be as painful in his gut as a fist to the face. He rolled over and sat up, squinting at his Flower, who looked much taller than usual in her rage. Beside her stood Lessard, who clicked his fingers at the footman and jerked his thumb toward the stairs. In seconds, the footman was standing, then jogging up the steps to the second level without even a hitch in his stride.
The footman must be younger than himself. Maximilian’s shoulder was throbbing and his eye was already swelling, but he pushed to his feet and felt his body ache in a hundred small places.
“Mademoiselle.” Lessard’s irritated voice floated on the air. “Control your escort and get out before I change my mind regarding our association.”
They were shepherded out the front door in less time than it took Maximilian to begin to limp and were standing on the street staring at a building blazing with lights and spilling music out of the windows. The rowdy laughter had already resumed.
Apparently they were not missed.
“Idiot. You promised.” Her small hands were forceful as she ran them over his arms, his torso, checking for injuries. It warmed him and maddened him that she felt the need to take care of him.
That was the gentleman’s task. Not the lady’s.
“I kept my promise, for a bit,” he said, shrugging off her hands and feeling as though he’d failed because he’d kept that promise. He could think of ten thousand reasons why he should have gone with her, and only one why he left her alone: she’d asked. “You’re well? You’re unharmed?” Now it was his turn to touch her—arms, face, lips.
“Of course. You are not hurt? Not badly?” She was wrapping her cloak around her body to hide the ridiculously revealing gown she wore. Bloody thing was thinner than paper. She must be freezing.
“No.” He pulled her closer, thinking to warm her and wishing he could just scoop her up and carry her home. His home.
Her hands settled softly on his chest. She looked up at him, the light from the windows painting her face a lovely shade of gold. “Your eye will be quite bruised.”
“Probably. Vivienne—”
He broke off when the front door opened. Another exceedingly large footman stepped out to stand on the front step. Maximilian decided that was a message. “We should leave.”
He took her arm and started to pull her down the sidewalk. She hissed and tried to bat his hand away, but he tightened his grip. She was trotting along beside him, keeping up with his long strides well enough.
“Let go.”
He ignored her. He wasn’t about to lose her on the street, now that the worst of the danger lay behind them. “We should have brought my carriage.”
“A hack will do, just as it did when we arrived. Now, let go.”
He couldn’t. A footpad might attack them. Or Lessard’s men might come after them. The dangers were still infinite. The fear that had gripped him when he couldn’t get to her was still running through him. She could have been killed while he wandered through the lower levels of a brothel. But he released her, because again, she asked. It seemed he could not ignore her wishes, however much he should.
“A hack. Over there.” She hailed it, waving her arm in a way no delicate lady would do. She appeared unconcerned, this entanglement with the brothel owner of little meaning, their escape inconsequential—his fear for her unimportant.
It was bloody well important to him.
“What happened up there, Vivienne, between you and Lessard?” He jammed his hands into his coat pockets, wishing he could shove his promise and his fear there as well.
“It is complicated.” She didn’t turn to look at him, but he could see now she wasn’t unconcerned. Whatever she felt, she’d lost her dancer’s grace. Her shoulders were stiff beneath the heavy cloak, and the faint light from nearby windows shone on the grim set of her mouth.
“I trusted you and your training, Vivienne. I did as you asked and let you go off with Lessard.” The moment had probably stolen years of his life. “I deserve to know what happened.”
She didn’t answer him, as the hack rolled to a stop and let her escape his question. She climbed in among swirling wool and loose curls but did not speak.
He wasn’t about to let her avoid the question. Still, he was quiet in the hack, as was she. An unseen wall sat in the vehicle with them, crafted by her life and its many pockets of truth and lies. She did not object when he joined her at the front door of her darkened town house. Wycomb must be out, the servants asleep, or she likely would have turned him away.
Neither of them expected the gift on the step.
…
Anne’s hair had always been thick, Vivienne thought. Thick and shining. It was still braided.
But no longer attached to her head.
Or at least some of it wasn’t.
Vivienne stumbled into the town house, clutching the silky strands. Fear etched itself on her heart, though experience told her Anne was still well and whole. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes against the sight of the thick hank of hair.
“Bloody hell.” Maximilian’s oath was very loud in the quiet hall. He gently closed the front door. The night was blocked from her view, but not the darkness. There were shadows in this hall. More in her heart.
“It is the girl’s.” Vivienne licked dry lips with a tongue that had no moisture itself. “It is Anne’s.”
Vivienne set it carefully on the hall table and stared at it. It was the same black shade as her own hair. Dark and thick, with the bit of curl that made it unruly. She flexed her fingers, then fisted them to keep from touching it again.
“Do you think she’s—” Maximilian did not say the words. She was grateful for it.
“It is only a warning.” Blood had not been shed. It could be worse. Much, much worse. Hair would grow back. “Next time it will be a finger or an ear.”
“There’s a note.” Maximilian bent and scooped up a small paper blown into the house to lean haphazardly against the wall.
She had missed it. Stupid. Emotion was always distraction for a spy.
The note was folded and sealed, though not as precisely as Maximilian folded his notes. The corners did not match just so. She was beginning to find this sloppy instead of ordinary.
“What does it say?” She crowded him, hand on his arm and rising on tiptoe to see the paper as he unfolded it. There was little to be decoded here, and nothing she could not read herself.
DO NOT SEARCH FOR THE GIRL.
Beneath was Marchand’s mark: the vulture.
“How can I not look for her,” she snarled. Vivienne plucked the note from Maximilian’s hand, but it did not need reading again. She crumpled it. The action, the paper rasping against her fingers—both felt good in her hand. “I must find her.”
“Why?” Maximilian’s word was not a question, but a demand for an answer. He turned to look down at her, his scowl deep and considering. Not angry, but thoughtful.
“I must. There is no other option.” He did not need to know more. No one save Mrs. Asher knew the truth. No one. It had been so for more than a decade. “I must.” The balled note in her hand felt hot. A brand against her skin and her heart.
“Vivienne.” He set a hand on her shoulder, both heavy and comforting. Damn him. “Who is she to you? I’m not so foolish as to believe she’s only a servant.”
“No one!” She shouted it, hurling the crumpled note as far down the hall as she could. “She is no one.”
They hurt, these words she had told herself for so long. The pain struck her belly, her head. She had told herself these words time and again. Practice meant if she were caught by the enemy or Henri, they would be easy to say and would not reveal the truth.
“Go. Leave me here.” She could not look at Maximilian. If she did and saw pity, she would shatter into a thousand fragments she could never piece together again.
She did not say good-bye as she strode down the hall and up the stairs. In that moment, Maximilian’s gentleness and attentiveness would not help her. If she ignored him long enough, he would leave her. She could retreat to the confection of ridiculously feminine and flowery decor Henri had provided her.
There her sorrow would not be seen by another. Fear would have no witness, and she could be as she always was.
Alone.
Her room was dark when she pushed open the door. It was late. Mrs. Asher and Thomas had long since retired. Dawn was nearly here. She lit a candle—just a single one.
She would use the pitcher and basin to bathe. Yes. This was good. This was clean. It would not help Anne, but it would bring Vivienne back to where she needed to be.
It was but a moment to unfasten her cloak. The garment fell to the floor, and she did not pick it up. Later, when she knew what to do next, she would pick it up. When she knew how to rescue Anne. How to proceed. What to tell Henri. What to tell her Maximilian.
Her Maximilian.
The sob caught in her throat, stayed there. Perhaps it would choke her.
She refused to let it. There was work to be done. Routine to follow. Routine was important. But she could not unbutton the confounded buttons on the back of this ridiculous gown—and now she sounded like Maximilian. The gown was made for the bedroom, for a lover to remove. The buttons were tiny and behind her back and—
She ripped it. Ripped the buttons, the fabric. She tore silk and lace and the suggestive gown Maximilian had buttoned her into only hours before.
What was she doing? Rescuing Anne, or indulging in her own needs with Maximilian?
“Anne. I am for Anne,” she whispered as the gown finally fell to the floor, tattered fabric heaping at her feet. “I have forgotten this. There should be no one but Anne.”
A bar of plain soap lay beside the basin. The rough shape was solid in her hand when she scooped it up. It was the soap of her youth she’d insisted Mrs. Asher make for her. She did not want the scented and perfumed soap of the aristocracy. She did not want something soft and gentle upon her skin.
She was of the streets. Anne was of the streets. This soap reminded her of this. She could clean off the spy she had become and simply be herself—only the most important part of her was missing.
Anne was not in the house.
It was her fault Anne was missing and in danger. If she had not done those things so many years ago, if she had not been caught, if she had not joined Henri. If she had not traded her life for her freedom, then Anne would not be tied to Henri or Marchand. But she had done those things. All of those things. She had even enjoyed becoming a spy. Now she was forgetting Anne and losing herself in Maximilian.
Worse, she had crossed a line with Lessard she would never return from. She had allied herself with the enemy, however temporarily.
Vivienne stood naked before the basin, shivering in the chilled bedchamber. The soap was round and solid in her hand, but she could not move. She could not complete the routine she so rigidly adhered to.
“Let me help you.” The words were so thoughtful, so comforting, her knees buckled.
How long had Maximilian been there? He was behind her, somewhere in the cavernous bedroom she had earned by being a pretty dancer who could steal small items on behalf of His Majesty.
“You cannot help, Maximilian.” She turned to looked at him, at this gentle and handsome man whose scowl had become so dear to her, and held out the soap so he could see the round, pale, common shape of it. “You cannot help. The soap will not make me clean enough.”