Chapter Forty-Three
The rookeries stank.
They were ugly.
Maximilian was accustomed to the wide, mostly clean streets and graceful architecture in the West End. They weren’t perfect streets, but they were not…this.
“Why are we in St. Giles?” He was as conspicuous as a Sanskrit symbol in the middle of the Greek alphabet, even with the borrowed clothing Vivienne had found for him that afternoon. He could feel eyes on him, though half of the tiny windows above them appeared dark. He felt them on the back of his neck, and it set him on edge. Every shadow they passed made him want to reach for his pistol.
“No one asks questions here, Maximilian, particularly at night,” Vivienne said to him. She walked beside him, guiding him through the warren of alleys as though she were as accustomed to these streets as those in Mayfair.
She likely was.
“I don’t doubt it. This is worse than the docks.” He shuddered. The stench was the same, either way. “Which pub are we going to?”
“To the Queen’s Bathtub to visit an old friend. The barkeep serves a good, bitter ale. Just—do not be friendly, please.”
“Don’t be friendly with a friend?” He raised a brow and slid his gaze toward her.
She responded with a wry half smile. He liked seeing it, under the circumstances. “There are many nuances in the word ‘friend.’ In this case, the barkeep is not an enemy. So he is a friend, but one you must watch. It is like the dancer who happily dances beside you until she can push you down and become principal.”
“You dancers are a friendly lot.” He nodded toward a low, squat building just ahead and to the right. “Judging from the naked woman wearing a crown and sitting in a hip bath on the sign, this would be the place.” The woman’s crown was crooked, and her legs dangled out of the tub as though she were languidly enjoying her bath.
Vivienne paused to study the sign swinging above the door. Rain clung to her lashes like tiny diamonds. “Oui.”
Maximilian stopped walking. His feet were as heavy and useless as the cobblestones beneath them. That single word had twisted something inside him. It was vaguely painful, and made him furious.
“Don’t do that,” he said. Perhaps it was harsher than he’d planned, but he couldn’t help it.
“Do what, Maximilian? I do not understand.” The light from the pub windows shone over her face so that he could see her clearly. Wide eyes, confused brows.
How could she not understand?
“Don’t speak French to me.” He reached out, hand gripping her forearm to draw her close. He leaned forward so he spoke only to her. Invisible ears as well as eyes might be lurking in these alleys. “Don’t speak French. It’s bad enough I have to call you Vivienne when I know it isn’t your real name. Don’t speak with a French accent, or speak in French.” His muscles tightened beneath his skin. “It’s all a lie.”
“Yes. It is a lie.” She whispered it back, with no French words, no French accent. Hearing her voice that way soothed the fury clamoring in him. “I’m sorry for it, Maximilian. I wish I could stop, but stopping means I might lose all that I am.”
His hands roamed down her body, gathered her in, before he spun her into the alley and pressed her back against the pub wall. There, away from the windows where no light could reach them, he looked down at the various shadows that formed her face. “Now I don’t understand.”
She rose up a little, curving her hand around the back of his neck and lifting her face so her mouth was near his. They’d look like lovers to anyone passing on the street, which was the intent, he supposed—assuming the watcher didn’t notice they both wore pantaloons. Maybe a passerby wouldn’t in the dark.
“Explain,” he said. He couldn’t see more than a few contours of her features, but he could smell her. Still a little of that clean soap, though it was mixed with the liniment he’d rubbed into her skin.
“I have been Vivienne for so long, I do not know how to be only Sarah.”
Sarah. It was a simple, pretty name. One any number of women could claim.
“Sarah.” He needed to say the word aloud, test the sound and weight on his tongue.
“I am not Sarah any longer.” Her thumb slid to his jaw, rubbed there against the stubble, the movement soft and unbearably intimate. “Yet I am not Vivienne. The Flower is not only a spy, Maximilian. She is a dancer. A thief. She is not French, she is not English. She is a little of each. And she is a little Sarah, a little Vivienne. I am all of those things, and they are all me.”
“That’s very…abstract.” He couldn’t quite get his brain to think in such a way. The facts didn’t add up equally. “And philosophical.”
Her lips curved up, though her smile was edged with sorrow. “Your scowl, it is most ferocious.”
He wanted to kiss her. Even in the dark, in the rookeries of St. Giles, where he might end up with a knife between his ribs, he wanted to kiss her. Since he wanted to—her lips were there, sweet and curved, after all—he did.
Dear God in heaven. Her body pressed against his, and he could feel each curve of her. The hand on his neck threaded through his hair, gripped. Their tongues tangled, and for a moment, he forgot where he was. He could only taste and smell and feel Vivienne. Or Sarah. Or— He drew away.
“Damnation.” He loosened the fingers gripping her hips and let them fall to his sides. “I can’t understand it. I don’t want to be in love with a woman who doesn’t use her real name. Or her real language. It’s just too illogical.”
She froze, every lean muscle in her body going taut. Her eyes widened. Even in the dark he could see that. The whites of her eyes gave it away.
“Love?” The word was barely audible above the wind whistling through the alley. “Maximilian, did you say love?”
“Did I?” He thought back. God’s knees. “I suppose I did.”
“You love me?” She sounded terrified. Utterly and completely terrified.
Well, he felt terrified. “I don’t know. I don’t know who I love. Or what I love. Or—is this feeling even love? I can’t tell.” Not just terrified. Panicked. “It hurts. In my chest.”
“It hurts in my chest, too.” She sounded like she was breathing shallowly through her teeth. She gripped his shoulders, fingers digging into coat and muscle. “We’re in St. Giles. At the Queen’s Bathtub.”
“Not the best location to discuss love.” He pressed his face against the curve of her neck to suppress the laughter bubbling up. He was bordering on hysteria. Unfortunate that the Flower didn’t carry smelling salts. “This feeling can’t be love. It’s not possible. I don’t know who you are, or what you’re thinking. I don’t even know what language you think in. You’re a mysterious woman with a past I can’t fathom, a present consisting primarily of deception, and an occupation I abhor.”
She reared back as though he’d struck her. Guilt twined with panic and the huge, aching knot in his chest.
“‘Abhor’ is a strong word, Maximilian.” She slid out from beneath his arms, stepping out of the dark and onto the street. “Come. Into the pub.”
“Wait.” He put out a hand to stop her, but it was too late.
She had already slipped through the front door.
…
Vivienne heard him enter the pub after her, only a few paces behind. She could not decide if she wanted him there or not. He did not want to be in love with a spy. That was what all of his words meant.
He did not want to be in love with her.
Yet this did not make a man follow a woman into a sordid pub. Maximilian had done just that. He had stood in front of her to block Jones’s pistol, had shouldered her burden of finding Anne, and now, here in this pub, Maximilian was standing beside her facing the unknown.
She would not cry. Just because a man did what was right, what was necessary, even though he did not want to, did not mean she should cry.
The barkeep would find her soft.
Her old friend stood behind the bar, wiping a gray cloth over a tankard, almost exactly as he had before. Except this time the pub was closed. No patrons were swearing in the corner or playing dice or getting drunk and fondling the barmaids. Just a young boy methodically moving between the tables and sweeping up spilled food.
She stepped to the bar but did not take a stool. This was not a friendly visit.
Maximilian took a place beside her, but a half step behind. There, but not there. With her, but not in front of her.
She would not cry.
“Little girl.” The barkeep, he did not look up beyond the merest glance. “People are looking for you.”
Fear swirled in her so that her heart bumped inside her ribs, but she did not answer. Sometimes silence was one’s best weapon to gain information, as people felt compelled to fill it.
The barkeep was no different. After a minute of humming silence, he said, “Not good people.”
“Will you tell them where I am?”
Again, that humming silence as the rag wiped around and around the tankard. Around and around. It would not become more clean, that tankard, but the barkeep did not stop his attention to the vessel.
She could sense Maximilian’s impatience. He did not move, but she could hear it in the breath that was deeper than the last, the forceful exhale. She imagined his scowl was firmly in place.
Finally, into the silence, the barkeep said, “For a price, perhaps I’d tell them, but it would have to be a good price.”
So. She knew where she stood.
“What if my price is higher?” Maximilian interjected.
The rag stopped its circular pattern, paused, then started again. She wanted to hiss at Maximilian to stay silent, but the words were out. They could not be taken back.
The rag moved, around and around, though the tankard failed to shine. The barkeep pursed his lips, the whiskers on his chin shifting over skin and bone. It was a considering expression, and Vivienne stayed silent as she waited for him to speak.
“If it’s high enough, I’ll tell you where she is, milord,” the barkeep said, ceasing his movements with the rag to blow dust from inside the vessel.
“She? The girl?” Vivienne gripped the edge of the bar top. Hope burst to life inside her. “You know where she is?”
“Aye. Close enough.” He still did not look up. It was as though he were talking to the tankard. This was the way some transactions were conducted. If you did not look at the person, then it could be said it did not happen. “The gent, here.” He jerked his head at Maximilian. “He good for the blunt?”
Maximilian bristled. This she saw with her lover’s eyes. Shoulders lifted, the flare of nostrils. Then he tucked his anger away so all that could be seen was the twitch in his jaw. He reached into his pocket, then laid a coin on the bar top. A coin with a lot of value. Then he laid another. Then a third.
Coins she knew were dear to him, as he was not as wealthy as his brother.
She stared at her hands. She thought perhaps her knuckles were turning white. It was most difficult to tell through the sheen of tears, but blinking the moisture away was impossible. This man—this man who did not want to love a spy and could ill afford to part with such a large sum—was purchasing Anne’s life.
For Vivienne.
The barkeep used the rag to sweep the coins into the tankard. Each fell with a heavy tink into the bottom, gold onto pewter, then the tankard was set beneath the bar.
“She’s at St. Luke’s Church.” The barkeep stared straight at Vivienne now, with old eyes and craggy brows. “They know you’re near. She won’t be there come morning.”
…
Vivienne led him through the labyrinth of alleys. Maximilian was completely turned around in the maze of tight places. One cramped space led into another, then another. Occasionally they’d find larger streets, but she would dart between buildings and over mud and stone to cross them and enter another alleyway.
He’d call her a butterfly or some pretty flitting creature, darting between blossoms and blooms, if he wasn’t jumping over pools of sewage and listening to rats scratching in the dark—and half waiting for a knife to slide past his pistol and between his ribs.
He kept his eyes on the narrow shoulders and black-clad body dancing in front of him. He had no idea where they were—or where St. Luke’s Church was—but she seemed to know. This must have been where she spent her childhood.
His heart ached knowing she’d lived in squalor, with prostitutes in every doorway and thieves and criminals lurking in the corners. This was no place for a child to grow up. That so many children knew nothing better—and so many more died—tugged at him.
So he focused again on the woman in front of him as she set a comforting hand on the shoulder of a beggar, shook her head at a prostitute, and skirted around the light spilling from a pub window along with shouts and the sound of broken glass.
“There,” she said to him over her shoulder. She pointed ahead where the spire of a church speared high into the night sky. Maximilian noted in the dim light from the street that the brass weathervane on top pointed toward the east. Above it, clouds roiled, their color shifting from black to gray as distant lightning flashed.
It was not storming yet, but it would be soon enough.
Vivienne darted into the shadow of the iron-and-brick fence surrounding the church and its yard. She crouched low and Maximilian did the same, the muscles of his thighs tightening in protest after their jog through the rookeries. Her lips were pressed together as she studied the street, the church. No doubt her spy’s brain was analyzing the best method to infiltrate the building.
“I don’t know where in the church they would keep Anne.” She whispered it, perhaps to herself, but then she looked up at him. He couldn’t see her face clearly until lightning flashed over her firm, resolute chin. “There could be any number of hiding places.”
“Then there’s nothing to do but search.”
She stilled, and he sensed her gaze searching his face. “You can turn back, Maximilian.” Her words were nothing more than a whisper on the air, her eyes wide beneath furrowed brows. “You do not have to do this.”
“I’m right behind you, Vivienne,” he said, setting a hand on her shoulder. She was tense, her shoulder a thin point of anxiety. “I’d go in front of you, but I don’t know how the hell to pick a bloody lock.”
One second passed. Two.
Her shoulders lowered a touch, as the tension drained from her. She leaned up, nipped his bottom lip, kissed him hard, then spun on the balls of her feet in a graceful move that somehow or other resulted in her standing up.
By all that was holy, the Flower’s body was a marvelous bit of bone and muscle and elegance. And something about that kiss made him feel marvelous and strong and heroic.
Addled. He was addled.
And damnation. He was in love with her. No other way around it.
“Come.” She jerked her head toward the church. “As it happens, I can pick a bloody lock.”
He followed her through the dark churchyard, picking his way on uneven ground. Headstones rose like specters from the earth, so many ghoulish shadows surrounding them. And of course, it was foggy. It wasn’t London without some fog. If he were fanciful—and he wasn’t—he’d think there were spirits in the churchyard.
He suppressed a foolish shudder and kept his gaze on the Flower’s back. She slunk between the headstones, as much like fog and darkness as what floated in the air around her. He didn’t know how she found the rear entrance to the church, but she did. She crouched, running her hand over the lock.
“Keep watch,” she whispered.
“Quite.” He removed the pistol he’d tucked in his waistband while she retrieved her picklocks from some hidden pocket, and they both set to work. It came naturally, somehow. He scanned the churchyard looking for men or improbable shadows while she worked her magic with the locks.
She was as quiet as the fog, yet her fingers seemed to fly. He heard the lock open, a quiet snick that held promise and fear. The world stopped as he turned to look at her. Their eyes met in another flash of lightning as the first raindrop fell.
There was no turning back.
He nodded once, hard, to tell her it was time. He was there with her.
Her fingers fluttered over the handle, uncertain flickers of rounded nails and sensitive touch. With a sharp, indrawn breath, she pushed the door open a crack. Her picklocks returned to their hiding place, then a pistol appeared in one hand and a knife in the other. It was quite terrifying how comfortable she appeared. He should not be impressed by her weaponry.
Except he was.
Yes, addled. No other explanation.
Slowly, the Flower pushed the door open so they could slip through. The door led into darkness, a deeper darkness than what was outside. In the cemetery, at least, there had been a bit of lightning and some candlelight from windows and lamps in the surrounding street. Inside there was nothing but walls. He couldn’t see a blasted thing.
He heard the Flower shuffling ahead of him and hoped he wouldn’t have to use his pistol. He wouldn’t know where to aim.
A light flared, burning against his eyes and nearly blinding him. The bright flame illuminated her face, casting dancing shadows over her cheekbones and revealing her eyes. Those eyes darted around the room, cataloging every stone, every piece of furniture. His own eyes did the same. A table and chair. A stack of plates topped by a dull knife. An umbrella leaned against one wall. Above it were pegs with various garments hanging from them.
“The vestry,” she whispered.
“Anne wouldn’t be in here.” Not a logical place to hide a prisoner, if one considered it properly.
“No. She would be somewhere less regularly occupied.” Vivienne shielded the flame from any breeze and studied the room again. “There’s no sign of anything out of place here. No sign of Anne, or a prisoner, or—” She broke off, the last word ending in a choked moan. Clearly, despair had a sound.
“Wait, Flower, wait. She might be in another room. She might—”
“She might not be. Anne might already be gone, or the barkeep might have lied. She could be dead.” The candle flame wavered as her hands shook. “What if she isn’t even here? I only have a little time before Jones must come for me. I would have wasted it.”
“Then we’ll keep looking until we find her or they bring us in.” That seemed like an immutable fact now. He didn’t know Anne, but he did know Vivienne, and he wasn’t going to leave either of them to the Vulture or the spies of England.
“We— Did you hear that?” Her voice lowered to the lightest whisper.
“No.” Listening, Maximilian closed his eyes to better concentrate. He heard nothing but thunder and lightning and rain pattering on the roof. “Wait.” A clang sounded from somewhere below.
“Something is not right. That noise does not belong.” A quick puff of air followed her words, a fast exhale that sounded suspiciously like—
Maximilian opened his eyes to see nothing but pitch black, the candlelight only a whiff of smoke now.
“Come with me.” Her small, ungloved hand found his in the dark, gripped hard, and began to pull him forward.
“Are you a nocturnal creature? You must be, because I can’t see a bloody thing.”
She didn’t answer but tugged him along a dark passageway. He started to protest, but she could obviously see better than he in the dark. There was a measure of safety in that.
“Where are we going?” he whispered.
“Below.”
Very nondescript, that word. “Below where?”
Suddenly they stood before another door. It had risen from the dark, innocuous and silent—yet there was a small window with metal bars set into it.
And small iron spikes impaled in the planks.
Spiked doors did not represent enjoyable locations.
“The crypt,” she said softly. “There are dozens of places to hide in the crypt. Doors and vaults and tombs.” Vivienne’s voice caught on the last word, her swallow audible. Then he felt rather than saw her body straighten and strengthen, shoulders squaring and chest rising as she found her courage and assumed her dancer’s posture.
“Is this the main entry?” he asked. “Is there some sort of rear entrance?”
“Yes, there are a few different entrances.” She set a hand against the wooden slats of the door. “We should use one of those. They are not far—”
“Far enough. And they’d expect us to come in the rear door, wouldn’t they? Spies would sneak in from the rear. We should go in through the main entrance and surprise them.”
“Perhaps.” She spoke slowly, digesting his words, then cocked her head. “It is not a poor idea, except they might see us immediately. We wouldn’t have time to search for Anne.”
“We’ll figure out something.” Or die. Either way, it was a bit too late to turn back.
“I don’t have a plan.” She transferred one of her hands to his arm, squeezed hard.
He shrugged. “Then we devise the plan as we go.”
“This does not sound like you, Maximilian.”
No, it didn’t. She’d done this to him. Improvisation and lack of planning were not his strengths. “It does sound like you, Vivienne. Between the two of us, we’ll come up with something once we get down there.”
“You have your weapon, do you not? It is loaded?”
“Of course.” He had two, in fact. “A man doesn’t go around St. Giles defending his woman without some type of weapon.” He leaned down, touched his mouth to hers.
“Bon.” Her lips curved up beneath his, and he took this moment—perhaps his last kiss—to memorize every contour of her mouth. The scent, the taste of her. This might be the last for both of them. “Bon,” she said again.
He hoped they didn’t die tonight. He wanted more time with her. A lifetime, maybe.
And if it wasn’t love that gripped him, it was some kind of illness that made one’s heart hurt and one’s stomach a bundle of nerves. Influenza, perhaps, with a dollop of palpitations. He leaned his forehead against hers and simply stood there, one arm about her waist. He closed his eyes and breathed in. Her simple soap fought with sewage and rotting wood—and won.
It was how he felt about her. She’d come from these hellholes and had won. However it happened, whatever she did now, she’d won. It had forged her into the woman she was now.
“I love you, my Flower.” Not Sarah, not Vivienne. Whatever else she was called, she would always be the Flower. His Flower. The one who sneaked into his study and mocked his paper folding. “I don’t think I might love you. I’m not uncertain. I don’t know why I thought I was. Nor does it matter if you are a spy, or a dancer, or choose any other profession. I simply love you, whatever name you bear and whatever language you speak.”
He opened his eyes to find her staring at him.
“Right before we are likely to die, Maximilian, you choose to tell me this.”
“Seems as good a time as any. I muddled it up before.”
“You are becoming soft, my Maximilian.” She gave him a short, firm kiss, but he heard laughter behind her words, and it warmed him. “I love you as well, whether you are a scowling code breaker or an irritating translator. Now, let us go fight the Vulture and save Anne. Or die. Whichever happens first.”