Chapter Forty
Vivienne studied the bright flame illuminating her bedchamber as she performed her stretches. It focused her, that dancing gold light. She could imagine it as bright hope. A silly thing to pretend. Hope was an emotion a spy should never rely on.
Only she had nothing else to rely on now.
She must practice. She had never fallen in a performance. Never.
Henri, the conductor, the manager of the theater. All had been livid, though none as much as Henri. He had railed, and like a viper, she’d expected him to strike. He had not, but she had not forgotten that moment of fear.
She shifted from first position to fourth position, held, moved to fifth position, then lowered into a demi-plié, held, breathing in and out. She stayed there, testing herself, her strength, her balance. Thighs trembled, her stomach muscles shivered beneath her skin. Still she held it, pushing herself. Another second, just one more—
The door to the bedroom opened. She shot to her feet, the knife she’d lain on the floor gripped in her hand before she could think. Spinning, she faced the open door, poised to throw the knife and already aiming for the throat.
The throat belonged to Mrs. Asher.
The woman’s gasp was sharp on the air, her eyes on the knife. “Miss Vivienne, you put that down.”
“Mon Dieu.” Lowering the weapon, she sank to the floor, knees weak. What had she nearly done? Henri, Marchand, Lessard—they were all putting her on edge. “I am sorry, Mrs. Asher.”
“Miss Vivienne, you need to sleep. Just rest for a few hours.” The housekeeper closed the door quietly, leaned against it. Her gown was stained from the day’s work. “You’re making yourself sick with worry.”
“Perhaps.” But she could not sleep. She could not rest. Deliberately, she set the knife on the floor. “You do not come into my room at the end of the day for no reason, Mrs. Asher. What do you need?”
“I have a note.” The paper seemed very delicate in Mrs. Asher’s competent hands. “It was delivered not five minutes ago to the back door. I nearly missed the knock, as I was preparing for bed.”
Vivienne leaped across the room, snatching the note from her fingers. In but a moment, the seal was broken and she was scanning it. She recognized the words “viscount” and “deliver,” the usual “to” and “this.” It was not from the Vulture, as the telltale bird was missing. In its place was a large, ornate L. Lessard, of course.
There was a second note, folded into the first. This, too, was sealed, but she did not dare open it. Not until she knew what was to be delivered.
“I remember the boy who brought it, Miss Vivienne. That won’t escape me again.” Mrs. Asher’s eyes were determined. She crossed large, round arms over her equally large chest. “He was a child, barely seven or eight, and filthy. I could scarcely make out the color of his hair. Blue eyes, for whatever help that is. An orphan from the street, likely enough, paid to run an errand.” Her lips thinned out, flattened in that way Mrs. Asher had of showing sorrow. “I’ve known my fair share of those.”
“Yes,” Vivienne said softly. Meeting Mrs. Asher’s eyes was difficult, but she did it. “You have been kind to them. What did you give the boy before you sent him away?”
“Bread.” Mrs. Asher flushed, rosy circles blooming into her cheeks. “It was left from yesterday, so ’twasn’t fresh any longer.”
“I don’t begrudge the boy bread, spy or not.” His allegiance could still change, and a kind word and a loaf of bread from someone other than Lessard might make the difference between a future spy for France or some other life. “The note, Mrs. Asher. What does it say?”
She was not embarrassed with Mrs. Asher. There was no need, given their past.
“Is it in English?” Mrs. Asher leaned over. “Aye. Sure enough. The girl is being moved. Deliver this letter to Viscount Lynley before midnight, and I shall find out where.” The housekeeper’s head jerked up to stare with wide, round eyes. “That’s only a few hours away, Miss Vivienne. It’s already after dark.”
“It does not say more?” It was not enough information. Where would she find Lynley? What information would she be delivering to him? What if she failed? And Anne. Always was the threat to Anne in her mind. “What of the other note?”
“Miss Vivienne, you should take this to Mr. Westwood.”
The rip in her heart was large and very dark. “I cannot.” She shook her head and hoped the rip would stitch itself someday.
She studied the folded message Lessard intended her to deliver. There was little time to melt the seal, but the paper was thinner than the note she’d collected on Bond Street.
“Can you read through it?” she asked Mrs. Asher. “Here, like this.” She pulled Mrs. Asher over the candle on the bedside table, held the paper over the flame. It became a burnished gold, emphasizing the ink inside.
“It’s backward, but I can see it is about money.” Mrs. Asher peered at the paper. “Lynley owes Lessard, for gambling and women, it looks like.” She scoffed. “Men. Doesn’t matter if he’s a peer or poor, they fall victim to both.”
Not all men, thought Vivienne. Maximilian did not.
“I am going out, Mrs. Asher.” She spun toward the wardrobe, intent on the clothing there. In her mind, she was already dressing in breeches and boots. “I must locate Viscount Lynley somewhere in London.”
Lynley was ridiculously easy to find. She knew enough about him to know he would be at the most indecent, debauched soiree of the evening. For today, that was a masquerade. This was good, as it was easy to sidle into the ballroom unknown and unrecognized.
But one must have a costume at a masquerade. Her hair was piled high and powdered to hide its color, a mask was added to her breeches and boots, and she’d removed the linen shirt beneath her coat and waistcoat. With the scandalous deep V of a few open buttons and the tight-fitting breeches, it was only a few moments until the guests standing in front of her were intent on her body, not her face—which was as she wanted it.
“Hello, sir!” She sang it as if she did not know a masked Prinny was holding court on a mound of pillows in a ballroom decorated like a feast in ancient Rome. As if she had not noticed Lord Lynley was to his left, fondling the breast of Minerva—or perhaps Venus. “Your little group seems to be having the most fun at this party.” She cocked her head and bowed with a flourish. “I want to play, too.”
She used her most aristocratic English. It was more difficult than using the French, as Henri had taught her the sound and lilt of le français before the refinements of her native tongue.
The men and women around Prinny turned to look at her. Eyes behind masks blinked, even as lips curved in welcome. Men did so love women’s skin, did they not? The women with them were as drunk as the men and did not seem to mind another woman cavorting on the pillows.
It was early, yet, for a party such as this, and the guests were not as much in their cups as she would like.
“Welcome, my dear.” A familiar-looking man—not Lynley—held out a hand to pull her down to the pillows. No doubt he was one of Prinny’s regular hangers-on. “You did not dress correctly. This is ancient Rome, didn’t you know?”
She smiled at the man and picked a plump, ripe grape from the plate of food at her elbow. Setting the grape to her lips, she tapped it there as if thinking. “If we all looked like goddesses, a lady would never stand out.” Popping the grape into her mouth, she continued to smile coyly at him. “And a lady always wants to stand out, does she not?”
Down the line of the pillows and goddesses and Caesars, a masked Prinny laughed. “Not a shy one, are you?”
“What would be the point of bashfulness, sir?” She leaned back against the tasseled pillows. The coat buttons strained with the movement, so with one hand she unfastened the top button, then another. The waistcoat would cover her, but the hint of removal would entice.
“Indeed.” Prinny’s greedy eyes followed her fingers.
Ah. She had his attention now, if she had not before.
She must be careful. Prinny would know Vivienne La Fleur, so she would be certain not to be Vivienne. Instead, she would continue to be this English girl, a young lady out to play where she should not be.
For herself, her attention was to Prinny’s left. Lynley had barely noticed her, it seemed. This was good, she decided, flicking open the last coat button to leave only the waistcoat between her and Prinny’s gaze. Easier to slip the note into Lynley’s pocket if he did not notice her. Although he did not have pockets—he wore a toga. She studied the drape and fold of fabric. More difficult than pockets, but not impossible.
Prinny gestured for her to come forward, flicking his fingers at the pillows in front of him. Others shifted to make room for her near the regent—it was impossible to hide princeliness behind a mask and toga.
Sauntering toward him, she set her feet lightly between the pillows and glasses of wine and trays of food. Her mask seemed heavy on her face, and yet too thin. Her powdered hair, the male costume, the rouge and paint she wore on her face—none of it seemed enough. Yet there was no other way to disguise herself but costume and powder and mask.
Gathering her courage and sending an additional sway to her hips, an additional flutter to her lashes, she approached the prince and his companions. Blood hummed as she focused on the man to Prinny’s left. An easy matter to position herself just so. An easier matter to smile at Prinny and sense Lynley’s body. She was close. A shift, one way or the other, and she would be able to slip the note between the folds of his toga to sit inside the wide leather belt he wore. He would notice it later, as the toga was removed.
Gaze on the regent, she extended her legs and lazily picked up the nearest glass of wine. Through the slits of her mask, she eyed the rotund Julius Caesar before her, and while she did, she slipped the note from her pocket and tucked it into her palm.
“You’re holding court, it seems, Caesar. It is good the Prince Regent is not here, or you would lose your throne.” She drank deep from the cup. The wine was warm and robust and glowed red in the glass. She hoped it didn’t go to her head too quickly. She didn’t want to fumble the note.
“What makes you think I haven’t staged a Roman coup and overthrown him?” the prince pretending to be Caesar asked.
“Because the regent is too handsome and too powerful to be overthrown, of course,” she said, quite seriously.
The royal laughed, belly shaking beneath the toga as though it were a thick sauce being jiggled in its saucepan.
While she watched Prinny enjoy her flattery, her peripheral vision caught Lynley looking their way. The laugh had drawn his attention. Now, then. While Lynley was looking right at her—because he was looking at her face, not the hand tucked among the pillows, or the note she’d palmed.
The thrill of the hunt rose in her. Her fingers moved—
The regent leaned forward, cupped her chin in his plump hand. Fear tripped along her spine as he studied her masked face, turning it side to side. Her fingers stopped their movements. Too many eyes on her. The goddesses, the Romans, the masked faces surrounding them. All were watching.
“A wise lady, indeed, to think of the prince’s power,” Prinny murmured, breath pungent with the odor of wine. Greed and avarice brightened his eyes as his other hand played with the thick powdered curls she’d left loose to skim her shoulders and breasts. “But what is your costume?”
“A proper English lady who’s escaped the confines of her life and is looking for fun,” she responded. Coy words, a coquettish look. “What else would I be?”
“A flower, of course.” The sly voice pierced her consciousness, plunging an icy fist into her belly. She did not recognize the tones, the tenor. She only knew that voice belonged to a man—and it was not the prince.
The royal hand cupping her chin fell away. The royal face turned to look at the speaker.
“If I am not mistaken,” that sly, chilling voice continued, “this proper English lady is none other than the elusive Mademoiselle La Fleur.”
Raw terror scraped at her skin. She was discovered. Someone had seen through her costume. But how deeply? To the opera dancer, or the spy? The opera dancer was of no import, as she could play that role and still accomplish Henri’s mission. The other—Lessard’s note was becoming damp in her palm.
A pickpocket could not have damp palms. Mistakes were made this way. She angled her head to study her revealer, keeping that coy, coquettish look on her face. He was masked, but she did not need the mask removed to recognize him.
He was not Maximilian. The hair was not the same, nor was the deviousness in his bright-blue eyes, so different from Maximilian’s hazel ones. But she knew the shape of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders.
Not Maximilian, but his brother.
“Lord Highchester,” she said, slipping back into her French accent. “Monsieur. Are you still enamored of the opera?” She could barely think beyond the note in her hand.
Beyond discovery.
“Not as much as my brother.”
Ah. So, that was how the wind blew. It was not that he knew she was the spy, but only Vivienne La Fleur, the dancer, and the elder son envied the younger son. She could make use of that. She was not certain how, exactly, but knowledge was always a weapon.
“Your brother is not as enamored as it seems, my lord.” She sipped her wine, then she slid a gaze at Prinny. “It appears I have been discovered, Monsieur Le Roi.”
“That was a very convincing act, my dear.” The prince was watching her speculatively, eyes very much alert. It was a surprise. He often consumed casks of wine in much the same way a fish consumed water.
But she knew Prinny.
“How else was I to attend?” Stretching like a cat who’d eaten cream so her body was at its best advantage, she pouted at him. “I was not invited, Monsieur Le Roi.”
“A travesty.” His eyes glazed over, traveling along the length of her body. “Are you recovered from your illness?”
“A misstep, that is all.” She wiggled her fingers, dismissing her fall on stage.
Lynley had looked away again, his attention focused on the blond Roman goddess on his lap. He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. The woman pretended to be uninterested, but her giggle belied her actions.
“I could not allow my favorite men to play without me.” She included Lord Highchester with a glance, tipped her lips up on one side. A lure that was effective on most men.
Then her quarry, Lord Lynley, staggered to his feet, and alarm staggered its way into her chest. Lynley reached for the goddess’s hand. They were leaving, probably for a tryst in a shadowy alcove or an empty hallway.
She would fail.
If she did not deliver the note on this, her first mission, Lessard would dismiss her. There would be no more opportunities to gain information from him.
She rose to her feet, the note still folded into her hand. “Lord Lynley, have you tired of our company?”
He paused, an ingrained gentlemen no matter his profligate ways. “Never, mademoiselle.”
All eyes turned to Lynley, and then to his companion—who blushed prettily.
Vivienne slipped the note into Lynley’s toga.